Multiculturalism in Asia

Multiculturalism in Asia

This page intentionally left blank

Multiculturalism in Asia Edited by

WILL KYMLICKA and

BAOGANG HE

1

3

Great Clarendon Street, Oxford ox2 6dp Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide in Oxford New York Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto With offices in Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries Published in the United States by Oxford University Press Inc., New York ß the several contributors 2005 The moral rights of the authors have been asserted Database right Oxford University Press (maker) First published 2005 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose the same condition on any acquirer British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Data available Typeset by SPI Publisher Services, Pondicherry, India. Printed in Great Britain on acid-free paper by Biddles, King’s Lynn. ISBN 0–19–927762–1 ISBN 0–19–927763–X

978–0–19–927762–9 978–0–19–927763–X

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Acknowledgements

This book developed out of an international workshop on Western liberalism and Asian minorities in February 2003, organized by Baogang He and Will Kymlicka and supported by the Asia Research Institute, National University of Singapore (NUS). Many of the papers were originally presented there, as well as at three panels on Asian minority rights and democratization in the Third International Convention of Asia Scholars, August 19–22, 2003, funded by the Faculties of Social Sciences in NUS. We are deeply appreciative of the support from Professors Wang Gungwu, Anthony Reid, and Alan Chan. Baogang He also feels much indebted to the School of Government at the University of Tasmania, where he has been supported by Professor Anysley Kellow and Associate Professor Marcus Haward, and to both the Faculties of Social Sciences of the National University of Singapore and the Australian Research Council for grants relating to current developments in East Asia. Will Kymlicka’s work has been generously supported by a Killam Fellowship of the Canada Council, and by Queen’s University. We would like to thank Lynn Tan and Eilidh Campbell St John for their assistance, Dominic Byatt and Claire Croft for their support at Oxford University Press, and of course all the authors for their contributions and enthusiasm. On a more personal note, Baogang thanks his wife, Suxing, his daughter, Melinda, and his son, Andrew, for their daily support; and Will thanks Sue, as always.

This page intentionally left blank

Contents

Notes on Contributors 1. Introduction Baogang He and Will Kymlicka 2. Liberal Multiculturalism: Western Models, Global Trends, and Asian Debates Will Kymlicka 3. Minority Rights with Chinese Characteristics Baogang He 4. A Liberal Model of Minority Rights for an Illiberal Multiethnic State? The Case of Lao PDR Vatthana Pholsena

ix 1

22 56

80

5. Subjects of the Nation Without Citizenship: The Case of ‘Hill Tribes’ in Thailand Mika Toyota

110

6. Liberal and Structural Ethnic Political Accommodation in Malaysia N. Ganesan

136

7. Normative Pluralism in Indonesia: Regions, Religions, and Ethnicities John Bowen

152

8. The Cost of Membership in Ascribed Community Chua Beng Huat 9. Justice for Migrant Workers? The Case of Foreign Domestic Workers in Hong Kong and Singapore Daniel A. Bell and Nicola Piper 10. At the Margins of a Liberal-Democratic State: Ethnic Minorities in Japan Lam Peng-Er 11. Multination Federalism and Minority Rights in Sri Lanka Rohan Edrisinha

170

196

223 244

viii

contents

12. Burma/Myanmar: Struggle for Democracy and Ethnic Rights Alan Smith 13. Indian Exceptionalism or Indian Model: Negotiating Cultural Diversity and Minority Rights in a Democratic Nation-State Gurpreet Mahajan Bibliography Index

262

288

314 341

Notes on Contributors

Daniel A. Bell is Wei Lun Guest Professor of Philosophy, Tsinghua University (Beijing). His recent publications include East Meets West: Human Rights and Democracy in East Asia (Princeton University Press, 2000), and the edited volumes Confucianism for the Modern World, coedited with Hahm Chaibong (Cambridge University Press, 2003), and The East Asian Challenge for Human Rights, coedited with Joanne Bauer (Cambridge University Press, 1999). John Bowen is the Dunbar-Van Cleve Professor in Arts & Sciences at Washington University in St Louis. He studies problems of pluralism, law, and religion, and in particular contemporary efforts to rethink Islamic norms and law in Asia, Europe, and North America. His most recent book on Asia is Islam, Law and Equality in Indonesia: An Anthropology of Public Reasoning (Cambridge, 2003), and his forthcoming book from Princeton, Why the French Don’t Like Headscarves, concerns current debates in France on Islam and laı¨cite´. Beng Huat Chua is Professor in the Asia Research Institute and Department of Sociology, National University of Singapore. His research interests include comparative political development in Southeast Asia and housing and urban policies. He is the author of Communitarian Ideology and Democracy in Singapore (Routledge, 1995) and editor of Communitarian Politics in Asia (Routledge, 2004). He is founding coexecutive editor of Inter-Asia Cultural Studies journal. Rohan Edrisinha is a Lecturer at the Faculty of Law, University of Colombo, where he teaches courses in constitutional law. He is also Director of the Constitutional and Legal Unit of the Centre for Policy Alternatives, an independent public policy institute in Colombo, Sri Lanka. He is actively involved in the current peace process and constitutional negotiations in Sri Lanka, and has written extensively on different models of a federal Sri Lanka. Lam Peng-Er is a Senior Research Fellow at the East Asian Institute, National University of Singpaore. He obtained his Ph.D. from Columbia. He is the author of Green Politics in Japan (Routledge, 1999), and has published in journals such as Asian Survey, Pacific Affairs, and Japan Forum. Lam’s research

x

notes on contributors

interests include Japan’s peace-building diplomacy in Asia, and Japanese grassroots democracy. Dr N. Ganesan is an Associate Professor at the Hiroshima Peace Institute in Japan. Prior to his present appointment, he taught at the National University of Singapore from 1990 to 2003. His research interests are in Southeast Asian politics and foreign policy. His most recent book is Realism and Interdependence in Singapore’s Foreign Policy (RoutledgeCurzon, 2005). Baogang He is Chair in International Studies, in the School of Politics and International Studies, Deakin University, Australia. His books include The Democratization of China (Routledge, 1996), The Democratic Implication of Civil Society in China (Macmillan, 1997), and Nationalism, National Identity and Democratization in China (Ashgate, 2000, with Yingjie Guo). He has coauthored and cotranslated several books in Chinese (including John Rawls’s A Theory of Justice), and has published extensively on theoretical issues concerning minority rights, national identity questions, democratization, world citizenship, and transnational civil society. Will Kymlicka holds the Canada Research Chair in Political Philosophy at Queen’s University, Kingston. His books include Liberalism, Community, and Culture (OUP, 1989), Multicultural Citizenship (OUP, 1995), and Politics in the Vernacular (OUP, 2001). He is also the editor of The Rights of Minority Cultures (OUP, 1995), and co-editor of Ethnicity and Group Rights (NYU Press, 1997), Citizenship in Diverse Societies (OUP, 2000), Can Liberal Pluralism Be Exported? (OUP, 2001), and Language Rights and Political Theory (OUP, 2003). Gurpreet Mahajan is Professor at the Centre for Political Studies at Jawaharlal Nehru University, Delhi. She is the author of The Multicultural Path: Issues of Diversity and Discrimination (Sage, 2001), Identities and Rights: Aspects of Liberal Democracy in India (OUP, 1998), and editor of The Public and the Private: Issues of Democratic Citizenship in a Comparative Perspective (Sage, 2003). Vatthana Pholsena is an Assistant Professor at the Southeast Asian Studies Programme, National University of Singapore. Her current research interests include the comparative study of Lao, Thai, and Vietnamese historiographies, and the politics of memory, identity, and history among ethnic minorities in Southern Laos. Her book, Postwar Laos: the politics of culture, history and memory will be published soon (ISEAS/NIAS Press). Nicola Piper is currently Senior Research Fellow at the Asia Research Institute, National University of Singapore. She holds a Ph.D. in Sociology from the University of Sheffield. Her research has revolved around various

notes on contributors

xi

aspects of international labor migration. She is the author of Racism, Nationalism and Citizenship (Ashgate, 1998), and coeditor of Transnational Activism in Asia (Routledge, 2004), Wife or Worker? Asian Women and Migration (Rowman and Littlefield, 2003), and Women and Work in Globalizing Asia (Routledge, 2002). Her current project focuses on the intersection of international law (human rights and labor rights) and activism from the perspective of foreign migrant workers. Alan Smith completed his Ph.D. in 1991 at Monash University on the situation of West Papuan refugees in Papua New Guinea. Since 1993 he is based in Thailand, initially as a Research Fellow of the Asia Institute, Monash University, working with Burmese opposition groups mainly with regard to the situation of ethnic minority groups. In 2001 he joined the staff of the Friedrich Naumann Foundation Regional Project based in Bangkok and continues to be involved in political education, training, and documentation work with Burmese community and political groups. Mika Toyota is a Research Fellow in the Asia Research Institute, National University of Singapore. She received her Ph.D. from the University of Hull in 1999. She has published extensively in both English and Japanese on transnational networks, the geopolitics of borderlands and the impact of mobility on family in Asia. Her forthcoming book is The Akha: A Transnational Ethnic Minority in the Borderlands of Thailand, Burma and China (RoutledgeCurzon).

This page intentionally left blank

1 Introduction BAOGANG HE AND WILL KYMLICKA

The aim of this volume is to explore the varied and contradictory ways that issues of ethnocultural diversity are conceptualized and debated in South and East Asia. In the first few decades following decolonization, talk of multiculturalism and pluralism was often discouraged, as states attempted to consolidate themselves as unitary and homogenizing nation-states. Today, however, it is widely recognized that states in the region must come to terms with the enduring reality of ethnic and religious cleavages, and find new ways of accommodating and respecting diversity. The pursuit of national homogenization has led to resistance amongst ethnic and religious minorities—indeed to violence, secessionist movements, and even civil war—in countries like the Philippines, Papua New Guinea, China, Burma, Indonesia, India, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, to name a few. As a result, throughout South and East Asia, countries are now debating, and sometimes adopting, new policies to accommodate minorities, from the recognition of indigenous rights in the Philippines to regional autonomy in Indonesia and China, to multinational federalism in Sri Lanka and India. This is now often described as a key ingredient in any process of democratization in the region. One manifestation of this new ethos is the steady growth of the rhetoric of ‘multiculturalism’, often imported from the West. And indeed Western theories and examples of multiculturalism and minority rights have had an influence in many Asian countries, often promoted by Western academics, governments and international organizations. However, these Western models are often not well understood in the region, and may not suit the specific historical, cultural, demographic, and geopolitical circumstances of the region. Moreover, many Asian societies have their own traditions of peaceful coexistence amongst linguistic and religious groups, often dating to precolonial times. All of the major ethical and religious traditions in the region—from Confucian and Buddhist to Islamic and Hindu—have their own conceptions of the value of tolerance, and their own recipes for sustaining unity amidst diversity. These traditions continue to shape people’s beliefs and practices in the region. The legacies of colonialism and national liberation struggles also exercise a powerful influence on how issues of

2

baogang he and will kymlicka

ethnocultural diversity are understood. Even the distinctive conception of Marxism developed in China and then diffused to Vietnam and Laos provides a unique and influential perspective on these issues not found in the West. The rhetoric of ‘multiculturalism’ may now be ubiquitous around the world, but the word is being used to express quite different ideas, rooted in different traditions, both Western and non-Western. This volume explores the range of theoretical perspectives that shape debates over multiculturalism in the region. The various chapters identify the legacies of precolonial and colonial traditions for managing diversity, their reinterpretation under conditions of postcolonial independence and globalization, their relationship to Western liberal models of multiculturalism and to emerging international norms of human and minority rights, and their long-term prospects. As the chapters show, political actors draw on a range of intellectual resources and traditions when thinking through these questions. Appeals to international human rights instruments and Western policies of multiculturalism are interspersed with appeals to local traditions, national mythologies, regional practices, and religious doctrines. But while these different influences all play a role, their influence varies from country to country, and from actor to actor within each country. Moreover, the mutual compatibility of these different influences is contested, leading to an ongoing process of mutual adjustment and mutual influence. Any attempt to understand these debates, or to contribute productively to them, requires a nuanced understanding of the complex interaction between these different ways of conceptualizing diversity and citizenship. At the end of this introduction, we give a short overview of the twelve chapters. However, before doing so, we want to set the larger context, and explain why this issue has become more urgent in recent years, both for individual countries and for the international community.

1. The New Politics of Diversity in Asia For centuries, South and East Asia has been a region of incredible ethnic and cultural diversity. It is the most linguistically diverse area of the world. It is not uncommon for countries to have dozens, if not hundreds, of local vernaculars. Indeed, Papua New Guinea alone contains 850 distinct language groups, fully 15 percent of the world’s total. On top of this linguistic heterogeneity, all of the world’s major religions have found a home in the region, sometimes brought by traders, missionaries, or colonial settlers. Local rulers have variously adopted Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Christianity as a state religion, although religious diversity remains the norm within the population at large. And this ethnic and religious diversity continues to develop and

introduction

3

become more complex, as long-standing cleavages are supplemented with ongoing migration within and between countries. Managing diversity is therefore key to political stability in the region. The centralized, unitary ‘nation-state’ model adopted by postcolonial states appears increasingly unable to meet this challenge. For a brief moment at decolonization, it seemed that this model might in fact succeed. Most if not all ethnic groups were united by a desire to liberate themselves from colonial rule, and there was optimism that a new national state, and a new national identity, would gain the loyalty and support of all citizens. It is worth recalling, for example, that the Acehnese, many of whom now view the Indonesian national army as an occupying force, were amongst the earliest and most emphatic supporters of Indonesia’s national liberation struggle against the Dutch. Similarly, the Tamils in Sri Lanka, many of whom now support secession, were originally so confident that the new country emerging from British rule would fairly incorporate both Tamils and Sinhalese that they did not seek any form of self-government at independence. Very quickly, however, expressions of ethnic discontent arose. Indeed, several ethnic conflicts have become so rooted that it is difficult now to reconstruct the sense of unity that accompanied independence. The specific explanations for this vary from country to country. Moreover, these explanations are themselves matters of intense political contestation. According to some minority leaders, members of the dominant group betrayed a promise to share power, and have used the postcolonial nation-state as a tool to promote its particular identity, culture, and economic interests at the expense of other groups. According to some state officials, minority ethnic discontent is the artificial legacy of colonial divide-and-rule policies, or of communist subversion, or of other forms of external interference. Other commentators explain the rise of ethnic mobilization as the result of state weakness, with people falling back on ethnic ties when the state has proven unable to provide basic security or basic needs. Yet others suggest that democratization itself encourages ethnic mobilization, either because local politicians have an incentive to appeal to an ethnic constituency, and/or because democratization is linked to human rights, which in turn is linked to resistance to inherited ethnic and racial hierarchies. These and other factors are discussed in the various chapters that follow. Whatever the explanation, Asia is witnessing the rise of ‘identity politics’. People are mobilizing along ethnic, religious, racial, and cultural lines, and demanding recognition of their identity, acknowledgement of their legal rights and historic claims, and a commitment to the sharing of power. Here are just a few of the examples discussed in this volume: .

The Dalai Lama has been struggling for genuine autonomy for the Tibetan people in China.

4 . . . . . .

baogang he and will kymlicka The Acehnese have been seeking greater autonomy or an independent state in Indonesia. The Karen minority, excluded from the national government in Burma, is demanding a federal state. Ainus, Okinawans, and Burakumins have demanded recognition of their distinctive identity in opposition to the myth of a homogeneous Japan. Members of the Tamil minority in Sri Lanka have fought for a bilingual federation or even independence. Members of various ‘hill tribes’ who were traditionally regarded as second class (non)citizens have been pursuing equal citizenship in Thailand. Foreign domestic workers in Hong Kong have engaged in mass demonstrations against various forms of discrimination.

Our goal is not to provide a survey of the events/actors in these conflicts— there are several excellent surveys of state-minority relations in Asia1—but rather to try to better understand the ideas, concepts, and principles that motivate them. If minorities are contesting the nation-state, and looking for alternatives to it, how are these alternatives conceptualized, and where do these alternatives come from? Ethnic conflicts are not only conflicts of power and interests, but also of ideologies and norms about what people are rightfully entitled to, what is owed or deserved, and about the requirements of justice. How do the contending actors articulate ideals of citizenship, human rights, nationhood, homeland, sovereignty, history, tradition, and indigeneity to defend their claims? Some commentators may question whether it really matters what normative frameworks people use to justify their political claims. These normative principles, one could argue, are simply post facto rationalizations of selfinterested demands, and it is a mistake to suppose that people are either inspired or constrained by such moral principles. Yet, as the chapters show, it does matter how the actors involved articulate their claims. It matters whether the people in Aceh articulate their claims for autonomy as that of an oppressed ‘nation’ or as that of a marginalized ‘region’ or as that of a former sultanate seeking to regain its precolonial liberties. ‘Nationalist’ claims have a different logic than ‘regionalist’ claims, making certain options and potential alliances salient, while sidelining others. Similarly, it matters whether the ‘hill tribes’ in Thailand define themselves as ‘indigenous peoples’, ‘migrants’, or simply as ‘equal citizens’, and whether the state accepts or contests their self-definition. The importance of these ‘framing’ issues is increasingly recognized in the literature on ethnic politics (and indeed social movements more generally). 1

Good surveys of ethnic conflict in South and East Asia include Brown 1994; Myers 1995; Brown and Ganguly 1997, 2003; Barnes 1995; Hefner 2001; Duncan 2004; Pfaff-Czarnecka et al. 1999; Iredale et al. 2004; Henders 2004.

introduction

5

To take a classic case from the West, it used to be said that ‘The Troubles’ in Northern Ireland was a religious conflict, and then it was redescribed as a class conflict, and is now widely seen (at least within Northern Ireland itself ) as a nationalist conflict. Each way of framing the relationship has implications for how we evaluate the legitimacy of different claims, and for how we imagine overcoming the conflict.2 While these frames are contested and changing, they are not defined de novo. They are built out of whatever usable cultural meanings and narratives lie at hand, and will only take root if they resonate with the relevant actors. In a world of increasing globalization, these relevant actors are not just the state and local ethnic groups, but also regional and international organizations and powers, who may bring their own assumptions about how best to frame the issues. And so we see the increasing interpenetration of multiple discourses of multiculturalism, local and international, each influencing how the others are developed and articulated. Understanding state–minority relations in Asia requires attending to the sources of these frames, and how they are adopted and adapted to conceptualize and justify political demands.

2. Models of Multiculturalism: Local and Global As the model of a centralized and homogenizing nation-state loses its lustre in Asia, there is an intense search for new alternative ways of conceptualizing state–minority relations. And just as Asia is a region of great ethnocultural diversity, so too there is great diversity of intellectual traditions to draw upon. As the chapters in this volume show, public debates about diversity have been influenced by precolonial traditions of centre–periphery relations, often rooted in the distinctive beliefs and practices of the main religions of the region (e.g. Buddhist, Muslim; Hindu; Confucian); by European colonial practices of legal pluralism and indirect rule; by Soviet and Marxist theories of national liberation and national self-determination, and their various postcolonial derivatives; and by emerging norms of international law of human rights and minority rights. Each of these, in its own way, supports ideas of tolerance and coexistence, and in some cases of power-sharing. However, few of these provide a model for the democratic negotiation of diversity. They do not explain how to develop a democratic consensus on minority rights, or how to reconcile minority rights with majority rule. For this reason, amongst others, there is growing interest in the region in exploring the experience of the Western democracies, and their emerging models of multicultural citizenship. (These models are described in Chapter 2.) The consolidated Western democracies have adopted institutional arrangements 2

See McGarry and O’Leary 1995: 363; McGarry 1995.

6

baogang he and will kymlicka

for minorities that, while contested and imperfect, nonetheless seem to ‘work’, at least in the sense of managing ethnic diversity within the bounds of peaceful and democratic politics, and without jeopardizing the basic security and prosperity of the society. For those countries in Asia that are moving down the path of democratization, there are few other examples of how to manage ethnic diversity in a democratic framework. This interest in Western models is actively encouraged by Westerndominated intergovernmental organizations (like the World Bank) and nongovernmental organizations (like Minority Rights Group), often operating in conjunction with local minority advocacy groups. The rapid diffusion of liberal-democratic values and ideas is an important aspect of the larger globalization process, and it is increasingly a ‘multicultural’ understanding of liberal-democracy that is circulating through these international networks. International organizations increasingly link democratization, good governance, and the accommodation of minorities. A good example is the 2004 United Nations’ Human Development Report, which focuses on cultural liberty, minority rights and multiculturalism around the world. Various efforts are also being made to develop international standards of minority rights and indigenous rights, and countries around the world are increasingly being monitored, evaluated and sometimes sanctioned for the way they treat their minorities. Today, minority issues in Japan, China, Indonesia, and other Asian countries have become a matter of international concern and advocacy. Interest in Western models of liberal-democratic multiculturalism, therefore, is being driven by various factors, both internal and external. In many cases, however, it seems that the discourse of multiculturalism has penetrated more quickly and deeply than any actual practice of multiculturalism. Indeed, the appropriateness and desirability of Western models of multiculturalism are deeply controversial in many Asian countries. Discussions about whether ‘Western’ models apply in the ‘East’ inevitably raise the spectre of the ‘Asian values’ debate. According to proponents of the Asian values hypothesis, Western liberal-democratic political systems are grounded in ideas of individualism and competition, whereas Asian societies are grounded in ideas of ‘communitarianism’, with a greater emphasis on harmony, deference, and paternalism. This sort of talk has largely been discredited, in part because of the way it has been manipulated by political leaders such as Malaysia’s Mahathir Mohamad and Singapore’s Lee Kuan Yew to justify their authoritarian rule and suppression of political dissent. Yet we need to distinguish this ‘state communitarianism’ from what one of our contributors, Beng Huat Chua, aptly calls ‘vernacular communitarianism’. Vernacular communitarianism refers to the feelings of obligations many people have, not so much to the modern nation-state, but rather to their own local ethnic, religious or linguistic community. According to Chua, and several other contributors, these local understandings do differ from the sort

introduction

7

of attitude assumed in Western liberal theory, and lend support to a more communitarian form of multiculturalism, with less emphasis on individual choice and freedom to exit. It is important not to exaggerate this issue of ‘conflicting values’. There is no support in any of the chapters for a ‘clash of civilizations’ interpretation of relations between the West and Asia. On the contrary, all of our authors stress the mutual learning and cross-cultural influences that have shaped public debates in the region. Peoples in the region have historically been open to a wide variety of outside influences, incorporating aspects of the religion, law and culture that were brought by foreign traders, missionaries, colonial officials, and now international agencies and experts. This remains true today. The people of Asia show a strong desire to understand their local debates in the context of global trends and international norms. The main difficulty in implementing Western models of multiculturalism, therefore, is not incommensurable cultural values. There are, however, many other potential obstacles rooted in the specific historical, demographic, economic, and geopolitical circumstances of the region. Some of these circumstances are unique to a particular group or country, but there are also more general patterns that can be identified in the region. We can identify at least five types of difficulties or objections that recur in several of the following chapters. The Legacy of Colonialism: European imperial powers have often been described as adopting ‘divide and rule’ strategies in their colonies. Confronted with the task of ruling distant colonies containing large and potentially rebellious populations, colonial officials often looked for local allies who could be relied upon to help administer the colony. These local allies, in many cases, were ethnic minorities, who were given privileged access to education, civil service employment, and army positions, in return for which they were expected to support the imperial power against any local opposition. Colonial officials often deliberately encouraged distrust between minority and majority groups, so as to inhibit common struggle against the colonizer, and to encourage minorities to feel that they were more secure under European colonial administration than under the rule of some larger neighboring ethnic group. At the time of independence, therefore, majority groups sometimes saw these minority groups as illegitimately privileged at best, and disloyal collaborators at worst. Far from feeling generously disposed towards the claims of such minorities, there was often a sentiment to roll back the ‘privileges’ accorded to minorities under colonialism—for example, by abolishing their inherited forms of self-government, or by discriminating against them in education and civil service employment. This is an important difference from the Western democracies. In the West, insofar as there are feelings of historic injustice, it is almost always the

8

baogang he and will kymlicka

minority that feels it has been mistreated at the hands of the majority, and this helps legitimize their current claims. In Asia, as in Africa and even Eastern Europe, there are many cases where the majority group feels it has been mistreated at the hands of the minority in collaboration with foreign powers, and that some diminishing of minority rights is needed to remedy this historic injustice.3 The Legacy of Precolonial Hierarchies. Colonial officials are often rightly criticized for fostering this feeling of interethnic distrust. But one reason why colonial officials were able to recruit minorities as allies is that some of these minorities had a long history of being oppressed or excluded by locally dominant groups. The precolonial era in Asia was not an era of universal ethnic harmony and equality. On the contrary, many precolonial states and kingdoms operated on the basis of a strong ethnic hierarchy, with entrenched distinctions between the ‘civilized’ groups at the centre and the ‘backward’ groups at the periphery. Such hierarchies are found, for example, in virtually all of the precolonial Buddhist kingdoms, as well as in China. These hierarchies were periodically invoked to justify taking land away from minorities, and/or imposing the dominant group’s language, religion and culture, and/ or excluding them from political power. Not surprisingly, ethnic minorities were sometimes relieved when colonial administrators protected them from the predations of dominant groups.4 At the time of independence, aspects of these precolonial hierarchies were reasserted. This phenomenon of postcolonial regimes reasserting precolonial hierarchies is even found, paradoxically, in the revolutionary Communist regimes of China, Laos and Vietnam. Although they formally denounce all vestiges of precolonial hierarchies, and assert the equality of peoples and cultures, they in fact operate on the assumption that civilized groups at the center must exercise paternalistic control over backward minorities, to the exclusion of any meaningful form of minority self-government. Of course, one can find versions of this phenomenon in the West as well. Indeed it played an important role in state policies towards indigenous peoples up until at least the 1970s. Today, however, the idea that the state has a right or obligation to ‘civilize’ its indigenous peoples has essentially disappeared from official discourse, replaced with a commitment to a norm of indigenous self-government. In many countries in Asia, by contrast, the idea

3

For the way this plays out in Eastern Europe, see Kymlicka 2004a. Colonial officials did not necessarily dispute the premise that peripheral minorities were ‘backward’. Rather, they viewed this backwardness as a reason why their land and culture needed special protections from the dominant groups (and colonial settlers), whereas the precolonial ideologies invoked backwardness as a license for predation and assimilation. 4

introduction

9

of ‘civilizing the margins’ (Duncan 2004) remains alive and well, rooted in a mix of precolonial hierarchies and postcolonial developmentalist ideologies. Geopolitical Security: Another obstacle to robust forms of minority rights is the geopolitical insecurity that affects the region. Most countries perceive themselves as having neighboring enemies who would like to weaken them, and who might indeed have territorial ambitions. In this context, minorities can come to be seen as a potential ‘fifth-column’, prone to collaboration with a neighboring enemy, particularly in contexts where they are linked by religion, ethnicity or political ideology to the neighboring state. There are countless examples of this in the region: Muslims in Kashmir; ethnic Malays in Thailand; ethnic Chinese in Vietnam; ethnic Vietnamese in Cambodia; ethnic Tamils in Sri Lanka. Minorities have also been suspected of collaborating with former imperial powers, or with international movements that threaten the state, such as international Communism or, more recently, international Islamist movements. In all of these cases, minorities are seen (rightly or wrongly) as allies or collaborators with external powers that threaten the larger state.5 Recent experience around the world suggests that states will not voluntarily accord self-governing powers to minorities that are perceived as potential fifth-columns for external enemies. This perception is a powerful factor explaining ethnic conflict in post-Communist Europe (Kymlicka 2004a). And until recently, it was also found in the West. For example, there was historically great reluctance to accord rights to ethnic German minorities in Italy, Belgium, and Denmark, for fear that they would collaborate with potential German aggression. One of the most important effects of NATO, however, has been to ‘de-securitize’ state–minority relations in Western Europe. West European countries are now surrounded by allies, not potential enemies, and so the question of whether minorities would be loyal in the event of aggression by a neighboring enemy hardly arises.6 And so today these German minorities in these countries enjoy quite significant levels of minority language rights, political representation and even territorial autonomy. Sequencing Issues: In the West, the adoption of multiculturalism and minority rights has typically taken place after the adoption and consolidation of political democracy and market economies. Democratic stability and a prosperous economy were already in place when the state embarked on policies to ‘pluralize’ the state. 5

Indeed, some Asian countries view the very process of constructing international minority rights norms as a technique by Western powers to weaken Asian states. Chinese commentators have sometimes interpreted Western concern about Tibet in this light. 6 The major exception is Cyprus, where the Turkish minority is still seen as loyal to potentially hostile Turkey.

10

baogang he and will kymlicka

In Asia, by contrast, claims for multiculturalism are often coinciding with democratization: indeed, the latter is a driving force for the former. At the beginning of the 1980s only five of the twenty-six main political regimes in Asia were more or less democratic ( Japan, India, Sri Lanka, Malaysia, and Singapore). Nine were military dictatorships or regimes controlled by civilian parties beholden to the military (Pakistan, Bangladesh, Afghanistan, Burma, Thailand, Indonesia, Taiwan, the Philippines, and South Korea). Five were royal autocratic or colonial regimes (Brunei, Bhutan, the Maldives, Nepal, and Hong Kong). Six were Communist regimes (China, North Korea, Mongolia, Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia). Today, at least eight more countries have started on the road to democracy (Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal, the Philippines, Taiwan, South Korea, Indonesia, and Mongolia). Even China has introduced competitive village elections. However, these new ‘democracies’ are distinctly fragile and some of them hardly qualify as democracies at all. Nonetheless, as part of the process of democratization, the idea of human rights has come to dominate political debates, and this has helped inspire claims for minority rights. Empowered by human rights ideals and institutions, and increased democratic freedom, minorities have enthusiastically demanded their cultural identity and rights. Minority leaders openly criticize the state’s pursuit of cultural homogenization and domination, and assert the values of cultural liberty and diversity. In particular, many minorities who had historical experience of self-rule have been advocating and demanding a federal system in which the subunits are granted certain powers to control their own affairs. However, attempting to adopt multiculturalism in the midst of a democratic transition raises difficult issues that were not present in most Western cases.7 A democratizing country needs to set up institutions to ensure equal citizenship for all individuals. Where those are not present or functioning properly, minorities may use their group rights to deny equal rights and opportunities to members of other communities in their midst, or even to pressure them to leave. Without firm protection of individual civil and political rights, minority rights can create islands of tyranny, in which formerly oppressed minorities reproduce these patterns of exclusion at a more local level. This does not necessarily mean that minority rights issues should be deferred until individual rights are firmly in place: the refusal to address legitimate minority concerns can have its own negative impact on democra-

7 The major exception is Spain, where the process of pluralizing/federalizing the state occurred simultaneously with its democratization after the death of Franco. This decision to pursue both processes simultaneously, which was seen as risky at the time, is now widely viewed as sound, and indeed as pivotal to successful democratization.

introduction

11

tization. But it does suggest that the sequencing of various reforms is a crucial issue. Categorizing Minorities: Western models of multiculturalism and minority rights have been adopted in response to the demands of particular types of groups. In Western theories of multiculturalism, it is common to distinguish (a) indigenous peoples; (b) national minorities; and (c) immigrant groups. A similar distinction is found in the emerging international law of minority rights, with some international norms targeted at indigenous peoples (e.g. the UN Draft Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples), others targeted at national minorities (e.g. the Council of Europe’s Framework Convention for the Protection of National Minorities), and others applying to migrants (e.g. the UN’s Convention on the Rights of All Migrant Workers). These sorts of categories may make sense in the Western context, but are they applicable to Asia? Western scholars and international organizations have been quick to apply these categories to various minorities in Asia. For example, many ‘hill tribes’ in Thailand or Bangladesh have been labeled as ‘indigenous peoples’, in part because their traditional culture and their economic and political marginalization compares with that of indigenous peoples in the Americas. Similarly, many movements for regional autonomy, such as in Aceh or Tamil Nadu, have been labeled as forms of ‘minority nationalism’, in part because their claims seems comparable to those in, say, Catalonia or Scotland. Yet these labels may obscure as much as they reveal about the nature of the groups involved, and their aspirations. For example, whereas indigenous peoples in the Americas define themselves as the original occupants of their lands, many ‘hill tribes’ in South and East Asia may be relatively recent newcomers, and may not have the same conception of a historic link to a particular territory. Similarly, regionalist movements in Asia may not share the same ideologies of ‘national self-determination’ that underlie many Western cases, even where they have an ethnic, cultural, or linguistic basis. Even the term ‘migrant workers’ may carry with it connotations that do not apply in some Asian contexts, as discussed in the Chapter 9 by Bell and Piper. Insofar as the adoption of Western models requires that minorities in Asia can somehow be mapped onto the sorts of groups one finds in the West, this may seriously misrepresent the reality. These are just some of the more obvious and consequential differences between the West and Asia. The individual chapters below identify a number of other issues, often specific to individual countries. Taken together, these factors suggest that Western models may have limited relevance to several Asian contexts. Yet even as we recognize these obstacles, the question remains: what are the alternatives? Or at least, what are the democratic alternatives? Most of the alternatives that have been tried in the region

12

baogang he and will kymlicka

depend either on the suppression of minority political mobilization, or on the hope that minority mobilization will somehow disappear of its own accord as economic development and modernization takes place. The former is increasingly viewed as illegitimate, and the latter is increasingly difficult to sustain. Indeed, the evidence from around the world suggests that minority political mobilization tends to increase, not decrease, with democratic consolidation, economic development, and increased levels of education and literacy. It is precisely the absence of clear alternatives that underlies much of the attention to Western models. The difficulties confronting the adoption of these models are obvious, not least to the international organizations and NGOs that are promoting them. Yet in the absence of any other wellarticulated theories or models of the democratic management of diversity, Western models are invoked to fill the intellectual vacuum. This is undoubtedly leading Western organizations and international agencies to operate with an unduly narrow conception of the possibilities, and an urgent task is to articulate conceptions of multiculturalism that are more truly reflective of the circumstances in the region. This volume is intended as a contribution to that process. We have asked contributors to reflect on the complex and evolving relationship between local debates and global trends: to examine the local traditions and practices in the region, their relationship to emerging Western models and international norms of minority rights, the prospects for the development of new models of multiculturalism in the region, and the appropriate role of the international community in influencing those changes.

3. Overview of the Volume Since our aim in this volume is to explore the various ways that ethnocultural diversity is conceptualized and debated in the region, most of the chapters provide detailed case studies of individual countries. However, we begin in Chapter 2 with a broad comparative view of multiculturalism in Asia and the West, by Kymlicka. As we noted earlier, a certain Westernized rhetoric or discourse of ‘multiculturalism’ and ‘minority rights’ has become increasingly familiar in many Asian countries. But the actual developments regarding minority rights in the West are less well-known. Kymlicka provides a concise overview of recent developments, focusing in particular on three trends: (i) emerging models of multination federalism to accommodate national minorities; (ii) emerging models of self-government and land claims for indigenous peoples; and (iii) emerging models of multicultural citizenship for immigrant communities. He then identifies some of the conditions in the West that have underpinned these developments, including the consolidation

introduction

13

of democracy, which makes minority political mobilization safe; the human rights revolution, which has delegitimized older ideas of ethnic and racial hierarchy; and the construction of regional security, through NATO, which has reduced fears that minorities will be a fifth-column for neighboring enemies. These and other factors have reduced the risk, to both minorities and states, of pursuing more accommodating policies. He then compares these trends/conditions with developments in Asia, where issues of minority rights are often perceived as much riskier. We then turn to our case studies, starting with two Communist states— China and Laos. One might expect that such Communist regimes are unlikely to follow Western liberal-democratic models of multiculturalism. And indeed, they do not. However, the impact of Communism on ethnic relations in these two countries is a complex one, mediated by preexisting cultural and religious traditions that are shared with neighboring non-Communist countries. In Chapter 3, He shows how the current Chinese approach to minority questions emerges out of both a long-standing (and internally diverse) Confucian tradition, as well as various strands of Marxist thought. The Confucian tradition in China rests on a distinction between civilized core and uncivilized periphery, known as the Xia-Yi doctrine. In the Confucian order, Xia (the Han Chinese) are the rulers while Yi (barbarians, outsiders, or minorities) are the subjects; Xia is the center, while Yi are the peripheries; Xia consists of insiders and fellow countrymen, while Yi consists of outsiders and strangers; and Xia is superior while Yi is subordinate. While the Chinese Communist Party officially repudiated this doctrine, and replaced it with the idea of the equality of peoples and the self-determination of nations, its actual practices soon recapitulated aspects of this traditional hierarchy. The Han majority was assigned the paternalistic role of ‘older brothers’ to the ‘backward’ minorities, and earlier commitments to self-determination and federalism were replaced with more limited forms of local autonomy and cultural rights. To illustrate how China’s minority rights regime performs in reality, He discusses China’s policies on ethnic minorities in general, and examines the case of Tibet in particular. He also addresses the prospects that a more liberal model of minority rights might emerge as part of a broader democratization process in China, and suggests that even a democratizing China is likely to remain opposed to ideas of institutional separateness or selfdetermination for minorities, in favor of integration rooted in the historic idea of Rhonge or ethnic mixing. In Chapter 4, Pholsena focuses on the case of Laos. At first glance, Laos seems to adopt a generous policy of minority rights. Throughout the Constitution, reference is made to the multiethnic character of the population of Laos. Citizenship is granted to all, regardless of their ethnicity, and members of ethnic minority groups officially enjoy the same rights as the majority

14

baogang he and will kymlicka

ethnic Lao. However, in reality, she argues, this seemingly liberal approach conceals an illiberal framework of state policies. For the purpose of controlling ethnicity, the state in Laos defines what is ‘correct’ in terms of language, locality, and culture—regardless of a group’s subjective belief in its existence as a people or in the legitimacy of these state-defined cultural traditions. This is a politics of ‘misrecognition’ that prevents minority groups from expressing and claiming their cultural identity. This politics of misrecognition has multiple historical and ideological roots. At one level, the government’s policies are shaped by a Marxist-Leninist-inspired evolutionist ideology, which insists that certain groups break with their culture and traditions in order to become ‘modern’ and ‘developed’. But the roots go deeper. In fact, these revolutionary Marxist formulas have been adopted and maintained, at least in part, because (paradoxically) they reproduce many of the key features of the traditional, precolonial conception of social and cultural order in the region. The idea that there is a ‘civilizational’ gap between ‘advanced’ lowland and ‘backward’ highland populations—or to put it differently, between state and nonstate peoples—is deeply entrenched in both elite and popular beliefs. This conception of social order draws on both local traditional beliefs, including Buddhist cosmologies, and Marxist evolutionary beliefs, as well as more general postcolonial ideologies of nationalism and development. Under these circumstances, the prospects for a liberal conception of minority rights that is responsive to minorities’ own aspirations are minimal. Yet there are signs of change. In particular, the internationalization of minority issues—especially the diffusion of the concepts of ‘indigenous peoples’ and ‘indigenous rights’ through the work of NGOs, international organizations and academics inside and outside Laos—is starting, albeit very slowly, to produce some impact on the government’s discourse and policies towards minority groups. Unfortunately, Laos’ current authoritarian political environment, and its ‘securitized’ approach to state–minority relations, limits the extent to which minorities can take advantage of these changes. One might think that the prospects for liberal ideas of multiculturalism are more promising in anti-Communist states that have been allied with the West. Yet, this is not necessarily the case. Consider the case of the ‘hill tribes’ in Thailand, discussed by Toyota in Chapter 5. While Thailand, unlike Laos, has been staunchly anti-Communist and rejects Marxist ideologies of historical evolution, it shares some interesting similarities with its Communist neighbor in dealing with highland groups. According to Toyota, Thailand also practices a ‘politics of misrecognition’, using the legal categorization of highland ethnic groups as a tool of political control. While Thailand is generally seen as having peaceful and cooperative ethnic relations, in comparison with most of its neighbors, international concern and attention has recently focused on the situation of the ‘hill tribes’. Some Western academics

introduction

15

and international organizations have pushed for greater ‘recognition’ of these hill tribes, including their recognition as ‘indigenous peoples’, with the sorts of national rights accorded to indigenous peoples in the West. Toyota, however, argues, that this approach ignores the paradoxes and pitfalls associated with state policies of recognition. The category ‘hill tribes’ in Thailand was constructed in the 1950s and 1960s during a period when there were major concerns about security in the Thailand–Burma border zone. The creation of the category was intended to both provide a generic term for upland minorities, as well as a way of affirming Thais as the ‘core’ of the nation-state. This idea has deep roots in Thai culture, reflecting precolonial beliefs about the distinction between the ‘civilized’ core (muang) and the noncivilized others who live in the ‘backward’ peripheries (pa). The process of officially defining the identity and boundaries of the ‘hill tribes’ has been highly contested, for several reasons. Before the demarcation of national territory, people flowed freely across the border region and as a result they are now loosely dispersed across several states. Moreover, these minority migrants are ethnically diverse and culturally overlapping, interacting not only with the other ‘hill tribes’, but also with Tai-speaking and Chinesespeaking groups. This means that they are not easy to fit into officially designated ethnic classifications. Despite this, the idea of ‘hill tribes’ has served the ulterior motive of solidifying status and control by the Thai state. In other words, the ‘recognition’ of hill tribes in Thailand was not a benevolent or good-faith act of equal respect for cultural difference. Instead ‘hill tribe’ status has served to justify paternalistic intervention to ‘protect’ and ‘civilize’ backward tribal people and to provide grounds for discriminating against them and denying them full Thai citizenship. Western liberal theories may suggest that the ‘hill tribes’ should be designated as ‘indigenous people’. However, these people are highly mobile across national boundaries, have difficulty in identifying their ‘traditional’ homelands, and often lack official documents such as birth certificates. In consequence, with the recent tighter enforcement of border management measures, some of the ‘hill tribe’ people are now even categorized as ‘illegal migrants’. Given this mix of demographic fluidity, historic Thai ethnocentrism, and growing state security concerns, Toyota argues, any attempt to replicate Western models of minority rights is likely to have pernicious consequences in practice. The complaint that the state recognition of ethnic groups is a form of state control, rather than minority empowerment, has also been leveled against Malaysia. However, in Chapter 6, Ganesan offers a qualified defense of the Malaysian model of multiculturalism, which is a variant of consociational democracy. At independence in 1957, the Alliance government included elite representatives from the three major ethnic groups in the country (Malays, Chinese, and Indians), as well as guarantees of cultural and linguistic rights. However, the representation and powers allotted to the representatives of

16

baogang he and will kymlicka

these ethnic constituencies were not proportional to their actual size—the Malays were accorded preferential treatment. This preferential status was rooted in the earlier ideology of British colonial rule, which stated that the British held the country in administrative trusteeship for the indigenous Malays, and hence had a special duty to protect ‘Malay religion and customs’. This crude consociational model with Malay political hegemony worked well at the outset since preindependence leaders from all ethnic groups were anxious to secure postcolonial statehood and demonstrate their ability to work together peacefully. Since 1970, however, a new government, known as Barisan Nasional (National Front), has presided over the erosion of consociationalism and the previous liberal policies towards minorities. The global resurgence of Islam, demographic trends favoring Malays and the increased hegemony of the dominant Malay party UMNO within the Barisan government has led to a significant empowerment of the Muslim Malay majority community, and the hegemonic use of the Malay language for education and public transactions. Although some minority rights remain legally protected, it is now illegal to question the privileging of Malays or the position of the traditional Malay rulers (Sultans). Hence, minority rights are not guaranteed or exercised within a Western-style liberal constitutional framework, but rather within a context defined by the cultural norms of the dominant Malay Muslim community. Yet the results, according to Ganesan, while criticized by some Western commentators, provide a reasonable basis for both minority protection and political stability. Indeed he argues that the basic formula is likely to endure. Although Malaysia is a Muslim-majority country and UMNO is committed to protecting Islam, the eclectic Sunni variant that is practiced is relatively tolerant of minority cultures and religions. Additionally, the Malaysian government is anxious to preserve multiethnic harmony, and so brands Islamic fundamentalism as potentially extremist and dangerous. Nonetheless, divisions within the dominant Malay majority over the appropriate means of protecting Malay culture and Islamic religion may erode the current consensus, and potentially lead to ethnic conflict. Similar questions about the scope for minority rights within a Muslimmajority state arise in Indonesia, discussed by Bowen in Chapter 7. Like Ganesan, Bowen is optimistic that sufficient space can be carved out for ‘normative pluralism’ in Indonesia, despite pressures from some actors to enforce a more rigorous and repressive form of Muslim hegemony (e.g. by limiting religious intermarriage). The crucial issue, for Bowen, is how this normative pluralism is to be conceptualized. He distinguishes three broad (and partially overlapping) types of normative pluralism that post-Suharto Indonesia must negotiate and accommodate: (a) the claims of provinces, often corresponding to the territories of precolonial kingdoms, for greater autonomy; (b) the claims of ‘adat communities’, which are local communities, often ethnically mixed, bound together by traditional norms and

introduction

17

dispute-resolution mechanisms; and (c) religious diversity. In each case, Bowen argues that we must avoid the temptation to impose Western assumptions and categories on the local reality. For example, he worries that claims for provincial autonomy are often misdescribed by Western observers as demands by separate ‘peoples’ for ‘national’ self-determination; similarly, claims to restore adat are misdescribed by Western observers as the demands of ‘indigenous peoples’ for ‘customary law’. According to Bowen, these descriptions are not only inaccurate, and politically biased, but they blind us to the possibility that the Indonesian case may in fact offer us lessons that can help us better interpret the Western experience. An even stronger defense of nonliberal forms of multiculturalism in Asia is given by Chua in Chapter 8, focusing on the case of Singapore. The government of Singapore has been one of the most vocal champions of the idea that Western models of liberal-democratic citizenship are inappropriate for the region, and that nonliberal models of governance rooted in ‘Asian values’ are needed. While skeptical of much of the government rhetoric, particularly the way it is used to maintain one-party dominance, Chua expresses some support for the model of multiculturalism that the government has developed over the years. He describes Singapore’s attempt to define a distinctly ‘communitarian’ model of multiculturalism, and how it differs from more ‘individualistic’ Western models. Where an individual’s membership in a minority group is ascribed by birth, such as being born into an ethnic or religious community, the claims of the community on the individual may contradict the interests of individual members. In such situations, the liberal position is to argue for the privileging of individual rights and freedoms and thus, the right of the individual to exit the group. From a communitarian perspective, this liberal approach creates a ‘free rider’ problem: an individual will only remain in the group for as long as it is advantageous to himself or herself. As soon as it turns otherwise, one can opt out. This can erode the integrity and continuity of the group. The continuity of the group requires the ability to call on its members, either as individuals and/or as a collective, to sacrifice certain abstract or material advantages for the greater good of the group. In short, from a communitarian perspective, there is inevitably and legitimately a cost to group membership, and the state should not always seek to minimize this cost. Drawing on several public policies in Singapore, Chua shows how this sort of communitarian multiculturalism operates, and why it remains broadly accepted by the Singapore population. He argues that the sort of ‘state communitarianism’ underlying Singapore’s model of multiculturalism is accepted in part because it resonates with the ‘vernacular communitarianism’ that is common to the Chinese, Malay, and Indian ethnic groups in the city-state, deeply rooted in their religious and cultural traditions. While Western liberals may find this problematic, and while it has sometimes been institutionalized in inappropriate ways, it has not led to

18

baogang he and will kymlicka

social instability, and in some respects creates a moral basis for individual participation in social and political institutions. The focus of Singapore’s multiculturalism policy is the terms of coexistence amongst its three main ethnic groups—Chinese, Malay, and Indian. But Singapore, like several other Asian countries that have experienced high levels of economic growth, also is home to large numbers of migrant workers. In Chapter 9, Bell and Piper examine the status of migrant workers in East Asia, particularly in Singapore and Hong Kong. Western liberal theorists typically argue that all minority groups, including migrant workers, should be put on the road to national citizenship. After a certain time, say five or ten years, the state should give citizenship and equal rights to workers in its territory, regardless of their background. This argument reflects the emerging pattern of many Western liberal democracies. In contrast, East Asian territories such as Singapore and Hong Kong have enshrined the practice of permanent second-class status for migrant workers, denying them some of the most basic civil and political rights. Moreover, there seems to be very little political or cultural pressure for equal citizenship rights for migrant workers in East Asia. Drawing on extensive interviews with government officials, NGOs, and migrant workers in the East Asian region, Bell and Piper explore the main reasons for this resistance to Western norms regarding the ‘just’ treatment of migrant workers. They argue that Western conceptions of ‘rights’ do not necessarily reflect the cultural expectations of either workers or employers, and that more culturally appropriate standards for migrant workers might be found in Confucian ethics. While critical of some existing practices regarding the treatment of migrant workers in East Asia, they suggest that the sorts of reforms that are desirable need not, and perhaps should not, duplicate Western models of migrant rights. Many commentators have expressed the belief that the key to improved treatment of minority groups—migrant or long-standing—is democratization. On this view, the introduction of liberal-democratic constitutions will lead to more liberal minority rights policies. The case of Japan, discussed by Lam in Chapter 10, casts some doubt on this assumption. Japan is one of the most long-standing democratic countries in Asia, with a liberal constitution imposed by the Americans after World War II. Yet ethnic minorities remain marginalized almost to the point of invisibility. What explains this paradox? Lam argues that while the state in Japan is formally liberal democratic, Japanese society is illiberal and prejudiced against minorities—a legacy of earlier imperial ideologies of Japanese racial homogeneity and superiority. Public opinion polls show that many Japanese citizens are unaware of discrimination. Even those who acknowledge the existence of discrimination often think that the best solution is not to talk about it, let alone adopt any proactive state policies of recognition or multiculturalism. This means that minority groups face an uphill challenge in persuading cocitizens and state

introduction

19

officials to take their claims seriously. Focusing on four minority groups—the indigenous Ainus, lower-caste Burakumins, ‘foreigner’ Koreans, and national minority Okinawans—Lam examines how leaders of each group have formulated their claims, and the sorts of ideological resources each draws upon. As he shows, they often combine appeals to traditional Asian virtues with concepts drawn from socialism, Christianity, liberalism, and international law. While they have had little success to date, Lam identifies various factors that may be eroding traditional societal hostilities against minorities, and the prospects that more liberal policies may emerge, although here again he thinks it unlikely that they will replicate Western models of indigenous rights or national minority self-government. Similar doubts about the inherent tendency for democracy to improve state–minority relations are raised by the Sri Lankan case, discussed by Edrisinha in Chapter 11. At the time of independence, Sri Lanka was widely seen as one of the Asian countries most likely to become a stable and prosperous democracy. And it has had regular competitive elections since then. However, very quickly, ethnic relations turned sour, as the dominant Sinhalese used majority rule to pass a variety of laws that disadvantaged the minority Tamils, including exclusionary citizenship laws, ‘Sinhalese-only’ official language laws, and highly centralized administrative structures. In response, the Tamils have mobilized first in a peaceful way for federalism, and then in an armed struggle for secession, leading to decades of violence. Edrisinha explores the roots of this conflict, which includes traditional Buddhist ideologies of Sri Lanka as a sacred Buddhist island, British colonial practices that privileged the Tamils at the expense of the Sinhalese, geopolitical security considerations, and postcolonial theories of nationbuilding. He concludes with reflections on whether Western models of multination federalism might offer a viable outcome from the current peace process. The complex relationship between democracy and minority rights is also raised by the tragic case of Burma/Myanmar, discussed by Smith in Chapter 12. At the moment of independence in 1948, interethnic relations were already tense. The British colonial regime had administered the ethnic Burman heartland (or ‘Ministerial Burma’) separately from the frontier areas, dominated by minorities. Not all minorities wanted their frontier areas included within the territory of an independent Burma state, at least not without strong guarantees of federal autonomy. It is a matter of some dispute what guarantees were promised, either by the British or by the Burmese independence movement, but minority hopes were quickly dashed by an increasingly centralized state dominated by ethnic Burmans, leading to several minority insurgencies. The situation has become worse after the military coup of 1962, but violent state–minority conflicts had already arisen during the period of democratic rule. As a result, minorities are not

20

baogang he and will kymlicka

persuaded that democratization, in and of itself, is sufficient to ensure their fair treatment. Smith discusses the sources of these conflicts, which, as elsewhere in the region, have roots in precolonial hierarchies, colonial divide-and-rule strategies, and postcolonial ideologies, and considers the extent to which democratic multination federalism is a viable option. A more successful case of the reconciliation of democracy and minority rights can be found in India, discussed by Mahajan in Chapter 13. India was one of the few postcolonial states in Asia that, from independence, embarked on a ‘multicultural path’. This occurred despite strong pressure from some sectors to define India as a Hindu ethnonationalist state, partly in response to the partition and creation of Pakistan as an explicitly Muslim state. The Constitution guarantees minority rights for a wide range of minority groups, particularly religious, linguistic, and tribal. These policies have been deepened since independence, with many new and innovative forms of recognition, including ‘asymmetric’ and ‘multilevel’ federalism. Mahajan describes these developments, the thinking underlying them, their strengths and limits, and their areas of convergence and divergence from Western liberal models.

4. Conclusion The countries described in these chapters are confronting a remarkable range of ethnocultural challenges, and have responded to them in quite different ways. Under the circumstances, it is difficult to make any generalizations or predictions about the prospects for multiculturalism in Asia. What we can say, however, is that debates over multiculturalism in Asia are now part of a broader international debate, and cannot be understood outside that context. The question now is how to ensure that the interaction of the local and global occurs in a constructive way. As against Huntington’s idea of a ‘clash of civilizations’ (Huntington 1996), or Gray’s idea of ‘radical tolerance’ (Gray 2000), both of which abandon the hope of cross-cultural dialogue, we believe that issues of multiculturalism can be a site for cultural encounter and learning.8 Such a dialogue would aim to find out how the religious and political traditions found in many Asian countries—including Confucianism, Buddhism, Islam, Hinduism, and Maoist Communism—conceptualize issues of ethnocultural diversity, what room they can make for minority rights, how these Asian traditions of accommodating diversity differ from Western liberal models, and whether there is any prospect for a genuine consensus on international norms. No one can claim a monopoly on virtue on this issue. 8 For one vision of what such a global hermeneutic might look like, focusing on the conversation between the West and Asia, see Clark 1997.

introduction

21

The mistreatment of minorities is a sadly familiar refrain in all regions of the world, and emerging models of multiculturalism have their own blindspots and pitfalls. If we are to build a world that offers justice to all its peoples, majorities and minorities, we will need to build it together, drawing on all the wisdom and precedents we can find. We hope this volume is a step in that direction.

2 Liberal Multiculturalism: Western Models, Global Trends, and Asian Debates WILL KYMLICKA

Over the past fifteen years, ideas of multiculturalism and minority rights have been ‘internationalized’ in two distinct ways. First, a discourse of multiculturalism is circulating amongst elites who participate in international networks of activists, scholars, and policy-makers. Through these networks, a certain way of talking about ethnocultural diversity is being diffused around the world, premised on principles of tolerance and ideals of justice.1 Within this discourse, minorities are seen, not as a problem to be solved or a threat to be neutralized, but as legitimate members of the state whose identity and culture must be respected. Second, formal international standards of minority rights are being adopted by international organizations such as the United Nations (UN), the World Bank, and the International Labour Organization (ILO). These organizations have attempted to codify minimum standards for the behavior of states in relation to their minorities, and to establish mechanisms to monitor state compliance with them. Both the discourse and the international standards are beginning to play a role in Asian debates about state–minority relations, but their influence is contested. They are enthusiastically supported by some local actors, grudgingly acknowledged by others, and actively resisted by yet others. Critics often argue that the discourse of multiculturalism and the international norms reflect distinctively Western circumstances or preoccupations, disconnected from the needs and realities of Asia.2 This debate is an important one, and will only become more urgent. The ‘internationalization’ of state–minority relations is now essentially irreversible. The idea that the way states treat their minorities is purely a ‘domestic’ matter, of no concern to the international community, is effectively dead. The treatment of minorities in Asia will increasingly be the subject of international attention and scrutiny, and will be evaluated in light of global 1 2

See Gellner 2001 on the diffusion of Western ideas of multiculturalism in Nepal. For similar debates in post-Communist Europe, see Kymlicka and Opalski 2001.

liberal multiculturalism

23

discourses and international norms. It is of crucial importance, therefore, to determine whether the values and assumptions underlying these discourses and norms are truly applicable to Asia, or whether they falsely universalize the Western experience. This chapter attempts to clarify, though not resolve, this question. It outlines the main features of the Western experience, and how they relate to emerging international standards. It then turns to the Asian context, to consider some debates about the relevance of Western experiences and international norms to Asia.

1. Liberal Multiculturalism in the West What do we mean by Western models of multiculturalism and minority rights? There have been dramatic changes in the way Western democracies deal with ethnocultural diversity in the last thirty to forty years. There are four important trends. 1. Minority nationalisms: The first concerns the treatment of substate/ minority nationalisms, such as the Que´be´cois in Canada, the Scots and Welsh in Britain, the Catalans and Basques in Spain, the Flemish in Belgium, the Germans in South Tyrol in Italy, and Puerto Ricans in the United States.3 In all of these cases, we find a regionally concentrated group that conceives of itself as a nation within a larger state, and mobilizes behind nationalist political parties to achieve recognition of its nationhood, either in the form of an independent state or through territorial autonomy within the larger state. In the past, all these countries have attempted to suppress these forms of substate nationalism. To have a regional group with a sense of distinct nationhood was seen as a threat to the state. Various efforts were made to erode this sense of distinct nationhood, including restricting minority language rights, abolishing traditional forms of regional self-government, and encouraging members of the dominant group to settle in the minority group’s homeland so that the minority becomes outnumbered even in its traditional territory. However, there has been a dramatic reversal in the way Western countries deal with substate nationalisms. Today, all the countries just mentioned have accepted the principle that these substate national identities will endure into the indefinite future, and that their sense of nationhood and nationalist aspirations must be accommodated in some way or other. This accommodation has typically taken the form of what we can call ‘multination federalism’: that is, creating a federal or quasi-federal subunit in which the minority 3 We could also include the French- and Italian-speaking minorities in Switzerland, although some people dispute whether they manifest a ‘national’ consciousness.

24

will kymlicka

group forms a local majority, and so can exercise meaningful forms of selfgovernment. Moreover, the group’s language is typically recognized as an official state language, at least within their federal subunit, and perhaps throughout the country as a whole.4 At the beginning of the twentieth century, only Switzerland and Canada had adopted this combination of territorial autonomy and official language status for substate national groups. Since then, however, virtually all Western democracies that contain sizable substate nationalist movements have moved in this direction. The list includes the adoption of autonomy for the Swedishspeaking Aland Islands in Finland after World War I, autonomy for South Tyrol and Puerto Rico after World War II, federal autonomy for Catalonia and the Basque Country in Spain in the 1970s, for Flanders in the 1980s, and most recently for Scotland and Wales in the 1990s. Amongst the Western democracies with a sizable national minority, only France is an exception to this trend, in its refusal to grant autonomy to its main substate nationalist group in Corsica. However, legislation was recently adopted to accord autonomy to Corsica, and it was only a ruling of the Constitutional Court that prevented its implementation. 2. Indigenous peoples: The second trend concerns the treatment of indigenous peoples, such as the Indians and Inuit in Canada, the Aborigines of Australia, the Maori of New Zealand, the Sami of Scandinavia, the Inuit of Greenland, and Indian tribes in the United States. In the past, all these countries had the same goal and expectation that indigenous peoples would eventually disappear as distinct communities, as a result of dying out, or intermarriage, or assimilation. Various policies were adopted to speed up this process, such as stripping indigenous peoples of their lands, restricting the practice of their traditional culture, language, and religion, and undermining their institutions of self-government. However, there has been a dramatic reversal in these policies, starting in the early 1970s. Today, all of the countries just mentioned accept, at least in principle, the idea that indigenous peoples will exist into the indefinite future as distinct societies within the larger country, and that they must have the land claims, cultural rights (including recognition of customary law) and selfgovernment rights needed to sustain themselves as distinct societies.

4 It is important to distinguish such ‘multination’ federations from other federal systems where internal subunits are not designed to enable minority self-government, such as the United States, Germany, Australia, and Brazil. In these countries, none of the subunits was designed to enable a national minority to exercise self-government over its traditional territory, although that was certainly possible in the American case. Indeed, in the United States, internal boundaries were drawn in such a way as to precisely prevent the possibility of a minority-dominated subunit. For more on the difference between multination federalism and other forms of federalism, see Kymlicka 2001: ch. 5.

liberal multiculturalism

25

We see this pattern in all of the Western democracies. Consider the constitutional affirmation of Aboriginal rights in the 1982 Canadian constitution, along with the land claims commission and the signing of new treaties; the revival of treaty rights through the Treaty of Waitangi in New Zealand; the recognition of land rights for Aboriginal Australians in the Mabo decision; the creation of the Sami Parliament in Scandinavia, the evolution of ‘Home Rule’ for the Inuit of Greenland; and the laws and court cases upholding self-determination rights for American Indian tribes (not to mention the flood of legal and constitutional changes recognizing indigenous rights in Latin America). In all these countries there is a gradual but real process of decolonization taking place, as indigenous peoples regain their lands, customary law, and self-government. 3. Immigrant groups: A third trend concerns the treatment of immigrant groups. By immigrants, I mean groups formed by the decision of individuals and families to leave their original homeland and emigrate to another society, often leaving their friends and relatives behind. But it is essential to distinguish two categories of immigrants—those who have the right to become citizens, and those who do not. I will use the term ‘immigrant group’ only for the former case, and will discuss the latter case, which I will call ‘metics’, below. Immigrants, then, are people who arrive under an immigration policy which gives them the right to become citizens after a relatively short period of time—say, three to five years—subject only to minimal conditions (e.g. learning the official language, and knowing something about the country’s history and political institutions). This has been the traditional policy governing immigration in the four major ‘countries of immigration’ in the West— namely, the United States, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. In the past, these four countries had an assimilationist approach to immigration. Immigrants were encouraged and expected to assimilate to the preexisting society, with the hope that over time they would become indistinguishable from native-born citizens in their speech, dress, recreation, and way of life generally. Any groups that were seen as incapable of this sort of cultural assimilation were prohibited from immigrating in the first place, or from becoming citizens. This was reflected in laws that excluded Africans and Asians from entering these countries of immigration for much of the twentieth century, or from naturalizing. However, since the late 1960s, we have seen a dramatic change in this approach. There have been two related changes: first, the adoption of raceneutral admissions criteria, so that immigrants to these countries are increasingly from non-European (and often non-Christian) societies; and second, the adoption of a more ‘multicultural’ conception of integration, one which expects that many immigrants will visibly and proudly express their ethnic identity, and which accepts an obligation on the part of public institutions

26

will kymlicka

(like the police, schools, media, museums, etc.) to accommodate these ethnic identities. These twofold changes have occurred, to varying degrees, in all of the traditional countries of immigration. All of them have shifted from discriminatory to race-neutral admissions and naturalization policies. And all of them have shifted from an assimilationist to a more multicultural conception of integration. There are important differences in how official or formal this shift to multiculturalism has been. In Canada, Australia, and New Zealand this shift was formally marked by the declaration of an official multicultural policy by the central government. But even in the United States, we see similar changes on the ground. The United States does not have an official policy of multiculturalism at the federal level, but if we look at lower levels of government, such as states or cities, we often find a broad range of multiculturalist policies. If we look at state-level policies regarding the education curriculum, for example, or city-level policies regarding policing or hospitals, we often find that they are indistinguishable from the way provinces and cities in Canada or Australia deal with issues of immigrant ethnocultural diversity. As in Canada, they have their own diversity programs and/or equity officers. As Glazer (1997) puts it, ‘we are all multiculturalists now’. Similarly, in Britain, while there is no nationwide multiculturalist policy, the same basic ideas and principles are pursued through their race relations policy.5 All these countries have accepted the same twofold change: adopting a race-neutral admissions and naturalization policies, and imposing on public institutions a duty to accommodate immigrant ethnocultural diversity. This trend is now quite widespread in the West. Amongst countries which legally admit immigrants as permanent residents and future citizens, the main exception to this trend is France, which clings to an assimilationist conception of French republican citizenship, although even here the antimulticulturalist rhetoric of the government obscures as much as it reveals about the reality of accommodations on the ground (Schain 1999). 4. Metics: The fourth trend concerns those migrants who are not admitted as permanent residents and future citizens. This is a heterogeneous category, including people who enter a country illegally (e.g. North Africans in Italy), or as asylum-seekers (e.g. Kosovars in Switzerland), or as students or ‘guestworkers’ who have overstayed their initial visa (e.g. Turks in Germany). When they entered the country, these people were not conceived of as future citizens, or even as long-term residents, and indeed they would not have been allowed to enter in the first place if they were seen as permanent residents and future citizens. However, despite the official rules, they have settled more or less permanently. In principle, and to some extent in practice, many face the threat of deportation if they are detected by the authorities, or if they are 5

For the British model of multiculturalism through race relations, see Favell 2001.

liberal multiculturalism

27

convicted of a crime. But they nonetheless form sizable communities in certain countries, engage in some form of employment, legal or illegal, and may marry, and form a family. This is true, for example, of Mexicans in California, Turks in Germany, or North Africans in Italy or Spain. Borrowing a term from ancient Greece, Walzer calls these groups ‘metics’—that is, longterm residents who are nonetheless excluded from the polis (Walzer 1983). Since metics face enormous obstacles to integration—legal, political, economic, social, and psychological—they tend to exist in the margins of the larger society. Generally speaking, the most basic claim of metics is to regularize their status as permanent residents, and to gain access to citizenship. They want, in effect, to be able to follow the immigrant path to integration into the mainstream society, even though they were not initially admitted as immigrants. In the past, Western democracies have responded to this demand for access to citizenship in different ways. Some countries—particularly the traditional immigrant countries—have grudgingly accepted these demands. Asylum-seekers whose refugee claims are accepted are granted permanent residence and access to citizenship, and not required to return to their country of origin even when the danger of persecution has passed. Guestworkers who overstay their visa are often able to gain permanent residence. Periodic amnesties are offered for illegal immigrants, so that over time they become similar to immigrants in their legal status and social opportunities. But some countries—particularly those which do not think of themselves as immigrant countries—have resisted these demands. These countries often have no established process or infrastructure for integrating immigrants. Moreover, many of these metics have either broken the law to enter the country (illegal immigrants), or broken their promise to return to their country of origin (guest-workers), and so are not viewed as worthy of citizenship. Moreover, countries with no tradition of accepting newcomers are often more xenophobic, and prone to view all foreigners as potential security threats, or as potentially disloyal, or simply as unalterably ‘alien’. In these countries, of which Germany, Austria, and Switzerland are the best known examples, the official policy has not been to try to integrate metics into the national community, but to get them to leave the country, either through expulsion or voluntary return. In short, the hope was that if metics were denied citizenship, so that they only had a precarious legal status within the country, and if they were told repeatedly that their real home was in their country of origin, and that they were not wanted as members of the society, they would eventually go home. But it is increasingly recognized that this approach is not viable. Metics who have lived in a country for several years are unlikely to go home, even if they have only a precarious legal status. This is particularly true if the metics have married and had children in the country. At this point, it is their new

28

will kymlicka

country, not their country of origin, which has become their ‘home’. Indeed, it may be the only home that the metics’ children and grandchildren know. Once they have settled, founded a family, and started raising their children, nothing short of expulsion is likely to get metics to return to their country of origin. So a policy based on the hope of voluntary return is unrealistic. Moreover, it endangers the larger society. For the likely result of such a policy is to create a permanently disenfranchised, alienated, and racialized caste group. To avoid this, there is an increasing trend in Western democracies, even in nonimmigrant countries, towards adopting amnesty programs for illegal immigrants, and granting citizenship to long-settled refugees and guestworkers and their children. In effect, long-settled metics are increasingly viewed as if they were legal immigrants, and are allowed and encouraged to follow the immigrant path to integration. In all four of these contexts, then, we see shifts away from historic policies of assimilation or exclusion towards a more ‘multicultural’ approach that recognizes and accommodates diversity. For our purposes, the first two trends regarding national minorities and indigenous peoples are perhaps the most important, and deserve special highlighting. These two trends help illustrate the extent to which Western democracies have moved away from older models of unitary, centralized nation-states, and repudiated older ideologies of ‘one state, one nation, one language’. Today, virtually all western states that contain indigenous peoples and substate national groups have become ‘multination’ states, recognizing the existence of ‘peoples’ and ‘nations’ within the boundaries of the state. This recognition is manifested in a range of minority rights that includes regional autonomy and official language status for national minorities, and customary law, land claims, and selfgovernment for indigenous peoples.

2. Internationalizing the Western Experience? While all of these trends were, and are, controversial, they have gradually become institutionally embedded in Western societies, and in some cases even constitutionally entrenched. They have also, increasingly, become international points of reference. As noted earlier, this international influence has taken two broad forms. The first is at the level of intellectual discourse. In order to make sense of these trends, Western scholars have built up an impressive body of literature attempting to theorize these new models of nationhood, citizenship, and rights. Thus we see new theories of ‘differentiated citizenship’ (Young 1990), or ‘the politics of recognition’ (Taylor 1992), or ‘multicultural citizenship’

liberal multiculturalism

29

(Kymlicka 1995). According to some people, the aim of multiculturalism should be to create the conditions for a Habermasian ethic of intercultural dialogue (Benhabib 2002); others argue that multiculturalism should be founded on the idea of a ‘right to culture’ (Margalit and Halbertal 1994); others argue that multiculturalism should be premised on the Shklarian idea of the avoidance of cruelty (Levy 2000); or on the need of individuals for the recognition of their identities (Taylor 1992), or the autonomy of individuals (Tamir 1993; Raz 1994). Virtually all of this theorizing about multiculturalism has centered on developments in the Western democracies, and it is not clear which of these theorists, if any, intended their views to apply to non-Western contexts. Yet, whatever the intentions of the authors, these theories have quickly diffused around the world, at least in the form of catchphrases and pithy quotations, thereby providing the vocabulary and conceptual apparatus for the new global discourse of multiculturalism.6 Not surprisingly, given its Western origins, it is a fundamentally liberal discourse, situating ideas of multiculturalism and minority rights within a larger framework of human rights and liberal-democratic constitutionalism. Multiculturalism, in this discourse, is a further elaboration and evolution of liberal-democratic values, in the same way as earlier movements for women’s rights, gay rights, or racial desegregation. Partly for this reason, it has been picked up and promoted by human rights advocates and democratic reformers around the world, who view this sort of multiculturalism as an ally in their struggles. Liberal multiculturalism has not only provided the intellectual foundation of a new global discourse, it has also become codified in emerging international legal norms of minority rights. Many people have sought to build strong legal protections of minority rights, not just domestically but internationally as well, to ensure that the old models of suppression, exclusion, and assimilation are not repeated in the West, or replicated elsewhere in the world. The extent to which these trends have been codified in international law differs considerably. It has proceeded farthest in the case of indigenous peoples. Land claims, customary law, and self-government rights for indigenous peoples are all clearly affirmed in recent international documents, such as Convention 169 of the ILO, or the Draft Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples at the UN (Anaya 1996). Even the World Bank has said that respect for indigenous rights is a precondition for states to receive funding. Comparable developments are occurring at the regional level in 6 Taylor’s claim about the harm of ‘misrecognition’ has almost achieved the same iconic status around the world as Huntington’s claim about the ‘clash of civilizations’, or Putnam’s claim about the role of ‘social capital’. In all of these cases, a certain idea or buzzword has diffused around the world, and is cited widely, even by people who have not read the original.

30

will kymlicka

the Americas, through the declarations on indigenous rights of the Organization of American States. In short, emerging international law reflects some of the most advanced practices of Western countries in terms of accommodating indigenous peoples. By contrast, there are no worldwide international documents targeted specifically at the rights of substate national groups. National minorities are covered, along with all other minority groups, by the UN’s 1992 Declaration on the Rights of Persons Belonging to National or Ethnic, Religious or Linguistic Minorities. But this Declaration provides very few positive rights: it is essentially a guarantee of nondiscrimination. An attempt has been made in the European context to develop stronger international norms targeted at national minorities, including the Council of Europe’s 1995 Framework Convention for the Protection of National Minorities. However, this too provides only very modest rights, such as mother-tongue primary education. No international document has affirmed any principle of territorial autonomy or official language status for substate national groups. The few tentative attempts to formulate international norms of self-government for national minorities have been decisively rejected.7 In this case, international law lags far behind the emerging practices of Western democracies in terms of the rights accorded to substate national groups. To oversimplify, we might say that while international law attempts to codify ‘best practices’ in the case of indigenous peoples, it codifies the most ‘minimal standards’ or ‘lowest common denominator’ in the case of substate national groups. Efforts to codify Western trends in international law have been weakest in the case of immigrants and metics. In fact, there has been virtually no attempt to codify norms of multiculturalism for immigrants or metics. There are international norms obliging countries to provide safe haven to people fleeing persecution, and there is a UN Convention that seeks to uphold the human rights of migrant workers. However, there are no international standards obliging countries to provide citizenship to refugees, guest-workers, or immigrants, let alone to provide a specifically multicultural conception of citizenship that includes positive assistance regarding the maintenance of cultural practices or expression of cultural identities. In this sense, international law has barely been affected by the emerging trends in the West regarding immigrants and metics. So there are important variations in the extent to which emerging Western models of multiculturalism and minority rights have been enshrined or codified at the level of international law. It is strongest in the case of 7

The idea of a right to autonomy for national minorities was floated in Recommendation 1201 of the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe in 1993, but was quickly dropped in subsequent European declarations. For a discussion of attempts to formulate international standards for the rights of national minorities in Europe, and how these legal standards relate to Western models of multination federalism, see Kymlicka 2005.

liberal multiculturalism

31

indigenous peoples, weaker in the case of substate national groups, and virtually nonexistent in the case of immigrants and metics. Notwithstanding these variations, the general idea that international law can and should be used to protect minority rights has increasingly been accepted. Most of these international declarations on minority rights have been adopted within the last fifteen years, and there is no reason to assume that the process has stopped. Indeed, there are ongoing discussions and debates, both at the global and regional levels, about how to strengthen these international norms, and to improve coverage for groups that are currently falling through the cracks of international law. In short, the sorts of models that have emerged within the West are increasingly influential around the world, reflected in both the global diffusion of an intellectual discourse of multiculturalism, and in the codification of international norms. What is the impact of this influence outside the West, particularly in Asia? Has it provided constructive ideas and norms for thinking about state–minority relations in non-Western contexts, or is it generating inaccurate analyses and counterproductive recommendations?

3. Preconditions of the Western Models Before we can answer this question, we need to step back and try to understand why these models emerged in the West in the first place. In order to judge whether these models are applicable in the conditions of South and East Asia, we need to identify the conditions that enabled their adoption in the West. There are several important factors that have made these trends possible in the Western democracies. We can divide these into two sets of factors: (a) reasons why minorities have become more assertive of certain rights-claims; (b) reasons why dominant groups and state officials have become more willing to accept these claims. Why have minorities in the West become more assertive? I would highlight three factors: (i) Demographics: In the past, many governments had the hope or expectation that ethnic minorities would simply disappear, through dying out or assimilation, or intermarriage. It is now clear that this is not going to happen. Indigenous peoples are the fastest-growing segment of the population in the countries where they are found, with very high birthrates. The percentage of immigrants in the population is growing steadily in most Western countries, and most commentators agree that even more immigrants will be needed in the future to offset declining birth rates and an aging population. And substate national groups in the West are also growing in absolute numbers, even if they are staying the same or marginally declining as a percentage of

32

will kymlicka

the population. No one anymore can have the dream or delusion that minorities will disappear. The numbers count, particularly in a democracy, and the numbers are shifting in the direction of nondominant groups. (ii) Rights-Consciousness: A second factor is the human rights revolution and the resulting development of a ‘rights-consciousness’. Since 1948, we have an international order premised on the idea of the inherent equality of human beings, both as individuals and as peoples. The international order has decisively repudiated older ideas of a racial or ethnic hierarchy, according to which some peoples were superior to others, and thereby had the right to rule over them. It is important to remember how radical these ideas of human equality are. Assumptions about a hierarchy of peoples were widely accepted throughout the West up until World War II, when Hitler’s fanatical and murderous policies discredited them. Indeed, the whole system of European colonialism was premised on the assumption of a hierarchy of peoples, and this was the explicit basis of both domestic policies and international law throughout the nineteenth century and first half of the twentieth century. Today, however, we live in a world where the idea of human equality is unquestioned, at least officially. What matters here is not the change in international law per se, which has had little impact on most people’s everyday lives. The real change has been in people’s consciousness. Members of historically subordinated groups today demand equality, and demand it as a right. They believe they are entitled to equality, and entitled to it now, not in some millenarian future. This sort of rights-consciousness has become such a pervasive feature of modernity that we have trouble imagining that it did not always exist. But if we examine the historical records, we find that minorities in the past typically justified their claims, not by appeal to human rights or equality, but by appealing to the generosity of rulers in according ‘privileges’, often in return for past loyalty and services. Today, by contrast, groups have a powerful sense of entitlement to equality as a basic human right, not as a favor or charity, and are angrily impatient with what they perceive as lingering manifestations of older hierarchies. Of course, there is no consensus on what ‘equality’ means (and, conversely, no agreement on what sorts of actions or practices are evidence of ‘hierarchy’). People who agree on the general principle of the equality of peoples may disagree about whether or when this requires minority language rights, for example. But there can be no doubt that Western democracies historically privileged a particular national group over other groups who were subject to assimilation or exclusion. This historic hierarchy was reflected in a wide range of policies and institutions, from the schools and state symbols to policies regarding language, immigration, media, citizenship, the division of powers, and electoral systems. So long as minority leaders can identify

liberal multiculturalism

33

(or conjure up) manifestations of these historic hierarchies, they will be able to draw upon the powerful rights-consciousness of their members. (iii) Democracy: The third key factor, is democracy. Democracy is relevant for many reasons. At the simplest level, the consolidation of democracy limits the ability of elites to crush ethnic minority political movements. In many countries around the world, elites ban political movements of minority groups, or pay thugs or paramilitaries to beat up or kill minority leaders, or bribe police and judges to lock them up. The fear of this sort of repression often keeps minority groups from voicing even the most moderate claims. Keeping quiet is the safest option for minorities in many countries. In consolidated democracies, however, where democracy is the only game in town, there is no option but to allow minority groups to mobilize politically and advance their claims in public. As a result, members of minority groups are increasingly unafraid to speak out. They may not win the political debate, but they aren’t afraid of being killed, jailed, or fired for trying. It is this loss of fear, combined with rights-consciousness, which explains the remarkably vocal nature of ethnic politics in contemporary Western democracies. Moreover, democracy involves the availability of multiple access points to decision-making. If a group is blocked at one level by an unsympathetic government, it can pursue its claims at another level. Even if an unsympathetic right-wing political party were to win power at the central level, and attempted to cut back on the rights of minorities, these groups could shift their focus to the regional level, or to the municipal level. And even if all of these levels are blocked, they could pursue their claims through the courts, or even through international pressure. This is what democracy is all about: multiple and shifting points of access to power. These three factors help to explain the ‘push’ for policies of accommodation. Increasing numbers; increasing rights-consciousness; and increasing access to multiple arenas of safe political mobilization all help to explain the growing strength of ethnopolitical mobilization by ethnic groups in the West. But they do not yet explain why dominant groups have been willing to accept these demands. After all, most Western states have a dominant national group that forms a clear numerical majority, and in a democracy ‘majority rules’. So why have majority groups become more willing to consider these demands? Why not use the power of the state to suppress these demands, with force if necessary, as was the case in the past? There are two factors that help explain the growing tendency of dominant groups to accept (however reluctantly) these new models of accommodation. These two factors have helped reduce the perceived risks associated with multicultural reforms, and hence reduced the tendency of dominant groups to resist them:

34

will kymlicka

(iv) Desecuritization: The first factor is geopolitical security. Where states feel insecure in geopolitical terms, fearful of neighboring enemies, they are unlikely to treat fairly their own minorities. More specifically, states will never voluntarily accord self-governing powers to minorities that they view as potential collaborators with, or as fifth-coulmns for, neighboring enemies. In the past, this has sometimes been an issue in the West. For example, before World War II, Italy feared that the German-speaking minority in South Tyrol was more loyal to Austria or Germany than to Italy, and would therefore support any attempt by Germany/Austria to invade and annex South Tyrol. Similar fears were expressed about the German minority in Belgium or Denmark. These countries worried that Germany might invade in the name of ‘liberating’ their coethnic Germans, and that the German minority would collaborate with such an invasion. Today, however, this is essentially a nonissue throughout the established Western democracies with respect to national minorities and indigenous peoples.8 It is difficult to think of a single Western democracy where the state fears that a national minority would collaborate with a neighboring enemy and potential aggressor.9 Part of the reason for this is that western states do not have neighboring enemies who might invade them. NATO has been spectacularly successful in removing the possibility of one western country invading its neighbors. As a result, the question of whether national minorities and indigenous peoples would be loyal in the event of invasion by a neighboring state has been removed from the table. Of course, Western democracies do have more long-distance potential enemies—such as Soviet Communism in the past, Islamic fundamentalism today, and perhaps China in some future scenario. But in relation to these long-distance threats, there is no question that national minorities and indigenous peoples are on the same side as the state. If Quebec gains increased powers, or even independence, no one in the rest of Canada worries that Quebec will start collaborating with Al Qaeda or China to overthrow the Canadian state. Quebec nationalists may want to secede from Canada, but an independent Quebec would be an ally of Canada, not an enemy, and would cooperate together with Canada in NATO and other western defense and security arrangements. So too with Scotland, or Catalonia. 8 Since 9/11, there are security concerns in some Western states about their Muslim immigrants. But there is no comparable concern about their long-standing national minorities or indigenous peoples. 9 The closest case on the periphery of Europe would be in Cyprus, where the TurkishCypriot minority is seen by the Greek-Cypriot-dominated state as likely to collaborate with aggression/intervention by Turkey.

liberal multiculturalism

35

In the absence of any grounds for treating minority nationalism as a security threat, the politics of substate nationalism in the West is just that—normal day-to-day politics. Relations between the state and national minorities have been taken out of the ‘security’ box, and put in the ‘democratic politics’ box (Kymlicka 2004a). Under these circumstances, the three factors discussed earlier—demographics, rights-consciousness, multiple access points—operate freely, and the result is the trend towards accommodation of diversity. (v) Liberal-democratic consensus: A second factor concerns the security, not of the state, but of individuals who live on the territory of a group claiming self-government. States are unlikely to accept self-government if they fear it will lead to islands of local tyranny within a broader democratic state. In particular, states will not voluntarily grant self-governing powers to nondominant groups if they fear that members of the dominant group who live on the minority’s territory will be dispossessed of their property, fired from their jobs, stripped of their citizenship, or even expelled or killed. In the established Western democracies, this confidence arises from the existence of a deep consensus across ethnonational lines on basic values of liberal-democracy and human rights. As a result, it is taken for granted that any self-government powers that are accorded to national minorities or indigenous peoples will be exercised in conformity with shared standards of democracy and human rights. Everyone accepts that these substate autonomies will operate within the constraints of liberal-democratic constitutionalism, which firmly upholds individual rights. In virtually every case of multination federalism in the West, substate governments are subject to the same constitutional constraints as the central government, and so have no legal capacity to restrict individual freedoms in the name of maintaining cultural authenticity, religious orthodoxy or racial purity.10 In fact, these basic liberal freedoms and human rights are typically protected at multiple levels: regionally, nationally, and internationally. Not only is it legally impossible for national minorities in the West to establish illiberal regimes, but they typically have no wish to do so. On the contrary, the evidence suggests that members of national minorities are at least as strongly committed to liberal-democratic values as members of dominant groups, if not more so. This removes one of the central fears that dominant groups have about self-government. In many parts of the world, there is the fear that once national minorities or indigenous peoples acquire 10 The partial exception concerns Indian tribal governments in the United States, which are exempted from some provisions of the US Bill of Rights, and this exemption has allowed some tribes to adopt policies that violate liberal norms. But it is worth emphasizing that, while many tribal governments defend this partial exemption from the US Bill of Rights, they typically do not object to the idea that their self-government decisions should be subject to international human rights norms and international monitoring. See Kymlicka 2001: ch. 4

36

will kymlicka

self-governing power, they will use it to persecute, dispossess, or expel anyone who does not belong to the minority group. In the established Western democracies, however, this is a non-issue. Where there is a strong consensus across ethnic lines on liberal-democratic values, people feel confident that however issues of multiculturalism are settled, their own basic civil and political rights will be respected. No matter how the claims of ethnonational and indigenous groups are resolved—no matter what language rights, self-government rights, land rights, or multiculturalism policies are adopted—people can rest assured that they won’t be stripped of their citizenship, or subject to ethnic cleansing, or jailed without a fair trial, or denied their rights to free speech, association, and worship. Put simply, the consensus on liberal-democratic values ensures that debates over accommodating diversity are not a matter of life and death. As a result, dominant groups will not fight to the death to resist minority claims.11 This is the flip side of the human-rights revolution mentioned earlier. On the one hand, the global diffusion of a human-rights consciousness has inspired nondominant groups to resist inherited ethnic and racial hierarchies; on the other hand, it has also given confidence to dominant groups that the resulting multicultural reforms will operate within a framework that firmly protects the basic individual rights and security of all citizens. These are five key foundations of the Western trends towards accommodating diversity. Demographics, rights-consciousness, and multiple access points for safe political mobilization help to explain why nondominant groups have become more assertive of multicultural claims; and the desecuritization of ethnic relations and a consensus on human rights help to reduce the risk to dominant groups of accepting these claims. When these five conditions are in place, the trend towards greater accommodation of ethnocultural diversity is likely to arise.

4. National Minorities in Asia With this background, we can now turn to Asia, and ask whether Western models and international norms are relevant for thinking about state– minority relations in the region. The first question we need to address is 11 This is an important issue even in contexts where the dominant group does not itself respect liberal-democratic values and human rights. Indeed, it can be especially important in such contexts. In countries where the dominant group has habitually mistreated minorities, there is likely to be a particularly strong fear that the minority will take revenge on local members of the dominant group once it acquires self-government. (Think about the fate of the Serbs in Kosovo). In this context, it may be hypocritical for the dominant group to invoke ‘human rights’ as a ground for rejecting federalism, but fear about the treatment of their coethnics living on the minority’s self-governing territory is nonetheless a powerful factor.

liberal multiculturalism

37

whether the categories I have been using even make sense outside the Western democracies. Can we speak about ‘immigrants’, ‘indigenous peoples’, ‘substate national groups’, and ‘metics’ in the Asian context, or do we need an entirely different vocabulary? Some of these categories apply more readily to Asia than others. It is clear, for example, that the category of ‘immigrants’ as I have defined it is primarily applicable to the traditional western ‘countries of immigration’, such as the United States, Canada, and Australia. Few Asian countries (as indeed few European countries) have policies to admit immigrants with the right to gain citizenship. But there are examples of the other categories. Let me focus on the case of national minorities, before briefly discussing indigenous peoples and metics below. Cases of national minorities demanding greater autonomy in Asia include the Karens and Shans in Burma; the Baluchis in Afghanistan and Pakistan; the Tibetans and Uighurs in China; the Sikhs and Kashmiris in India; the Acehnese (and East Timorese, until recently) in Indonesia;12 the Bougainvilleans in Papua New Guinea; the Moros in Philippines; and the Tamils in Sri Lanka. There are strong parallels between these minority nationalisms and those in Western democracies, such as the Que´be´cois, Flemish, Scottish, or Catalans. In both contexts, these groups are seeking some form of regional autonomy; in both contexts, this mobilization was often triggered, or intensified, in response to the threat posed by majority nation-building (e.g. imposing the Sinhalese language on Tamils in Sri Lanka; eliminating political autonomy in Tibet); in both contexts, this has generated demands for the adoption of federalism as a mechanism for accommodating minority nationalisms; and in both contexts, there is the threat of secession if this desire for autonomy is not met. Indeed, as Connor notes, the phenomenon of minority nationalism is a truly universal one: countries affected by it are to be found in Africa (for example, Ethiopia), Asia (Sri Lanka), Eastern Europe (Romania), Western Europe (France), North America (Guatemala), South America (Guyana), and Oceania (New Zealand). The list includes countries that are old (United Kingdom) as well as new (Bangladesh), large (Indonesia) as well as small (Fiji), rich (Canada) as well as poor (Pakistan), authoritarian (Sudan) as well as democratic (Belgium), Marxist-Leninist (China) as well as militantly anti-Marxist (Turkey). The list also includes countries which are Buddhist (Burma), Christian (Spain), Moslem (Iran), Hindu (India), and Judaic (Israel). (Connor 1999: 163–4)

We need to think creatively about how to respond to these conflicts, which will continue to plague efforts at democratization, and to cause violence, around the world. 12 But see Chapter 7, which contests whether the Aceh situation should be interpreted through the lens of ‘substate nationalism’.

38

will kymlicka

In the Western experience, federal or quasi-federal forms of territorial autonomy are increasingly seen as the only or best solution to these conflicts. Where national minorities form clear majorities in their historic homeland, and particularly where they have some prior history of self-government, Western democracies have not found any alternative to territorial autonomy or multination federalism. Yet territorial autonomy is strongly resisted virtually everywhere outside the West, whether in Eastern Europe, the Mideast, Africa, or Asia. As Nandy puts it, ‘Any proposal to decentralize or to reconceptualize the state as a truly federal polity goes against the grain of most postcolonial states in the third world’ (Nandy 1992: 39). It also goes against the grain of most states in post-Communist Eastern Europe (Kymlicka and Opalski 2001). Around the world, territorial autonomy is typically only granted as a last-ditch effort to avoid civil war, or indeed as the outcome of civil war. Most states object to the very idea of empowering national minorities, particularly if they are seen as potentially disloyal and/or as culturally backward, and would rather suppress than accommodate minority nationalisms. We can see this dynamic in many countries of South and East Asia. Most Asian states have responded to minority nationalisms with suppression. Indeed, Asian countries have often used the same tools to suppress minority nationalism that Western countries historically adopted. These include settlement policies designed to swamp national minorities in their historic homeland with settlers from the dominant group (e.g. government policies to promote ethnic Bengali settlement in the Chittagong Hill Tracts of Bangladesh; or ethnic Javanese settlement of East Timor or the Aceh area of Indonesia; or Christian settlement of the Moro areas of the Philippines; or ethnic Han settlement of Tibet and Eastern Mongolia in China; or Viet settlement of the Champa and Montagnard areas of Vietnam). Minorities have also been stripped of their traditional self-government, either through the centralization of power or the redrawing of boundaries. As in the West, this disempowering of minorities has often occurred even where promises had been made to respect the autonomy of minorities, as in Baluchistan in Pakistan, Arakan and Kachinland in Burma/Myanmar, South Moluccas in Indonesia, East Turkestan in China, or Bougainville in Papua-New Guinea. We also find cases of oppressive language policies, such as the attempt to impose the majority Sinhalese language on the Tamils in Sri Lanka; the Persian language on the Arabistans in Iran; the Dzongkha language on the Nepalese in Bhutan; the Burmese language on the Mons in Burma; or the Urdu language on the Sindhi in Pakistan.13 13

It should be noted that many Asian countries have a ‘surprisingly good’ record on tolerating linguistic diversity, including India, PNG, Vanuatu, and the Federated States of Micronesia (Brown 1997: 563–4).

liberal multiculturalism

39

India stands out as an interesting exception to this trend. It is one of the few countries outside the West to have voluntarily federalized to accommodate minority nationalist claims for autonomy.14 The Indian National Congress endorsed the idea of a multination federalism organized along ethnolinguistic lines as early as 1920, and indeed the freedom movement was itself organized in this way.15 This preindependence promise of autonomy to ethnolinguistic minorities was not in itself unique or unusual. Many national liberation movements in Asia and Africa promised autonomy to minorities as a way of broadening the base of popular support for independence. However, in most cases, these promises were merely strategic, and were broken once in power.16 For a time immediately following independence, it appeared that India too would follow this pattern of backtracking on promises of autonomy. After independence, Nehru resisted the idea of reorganizing states along ethnolinguistic lines, and said that he preferred a more ‘rational’ (and highly centralized) form of federalism which would be purely territorial, like the American or German model, that is, where the borders of the states are drawn so as not to enable minorities to exercise territorial self-government.17 However, faced with increasing restlessness amongst many ethnolinguistic groups, the government of India accepted the linguistic reorganization of states in 1956. Further refining of the system has occurred since then—in 1960, 1962, 1966, and 1972—to accommodate groups left out of the original reorganization.18 Moreover, like many Western multination federations, India has accepted the requirement for some form of asymmetry in the federal system to accommodate different forms of minority self-government, for example, the special self-government provisions for Kashmir in Article 370 of the Constitution,19 the special provisions for other states in article 371, or the provisions in Schedule VI to the Constitution, which provide special protections for the administration and autonomy of tribal territories in Assam, 14 Other partial exceptions include Russia and, since 1986, the Federated States of Micronesia. 15 As Banarjee notes, for most people in the freedom movement, ‘no contradiction was perceived between mobilizing the nation for freedom and the mobilizing of the linguistic region for consolidation and autonomy’. Indeed, this was seen as a precondition for truly representative democracy (Banarjee 1992: 48, 51; cf. Mukarji and Arora 1992: 4–5). 16 For example, Baluchistan in Pakistan, Arakan and Kachinland in Burma, South Moluccas in Indonesia, East Turkestan in China, to name a few. 17 On Nehru’s reservations about the ethnolinguistic states, see Banerjee 1992: 56. For the shift amongst many Congress members away from earlier federalist ideas to a more unitarist ‘strong centre’ ideology at the time of the Constituent Assembly, see Bhattacharya 1992; Mukarji and Arora 1992: 5. 18 For an overview, see Patil 1998; Schwartzberg 1985. 19 On the special status of Kashmir, see Kohli 1997; Khan 1997a; Dabla 1998.

40

will kymlicka

Meghalaya, and Mizoram. Indeed, India seems to have had much less difficulty accepting the principle of asymmetry than many Western multination federations.20 Therefore India has many of the hallmarks of a genuinely multination federalism.21 And this experiment has been a success. Earlier fears that it would lead to the breakdown of the country have not materialized, and most commentators now argue that is has on the contrary helped to reduce violence and increase stability.22 Indeed, some commentators describe it as a ‘remarkable success’ (Schwartzberg 1985: 177). One might think that the success of the Indian model would have inspired other countries in Asia or the Pacific to also adopt federal or quasi-federal forms of territorial autonomy in response to the aspirations of national minorities. And indeed one can find many academic commentators who argue that federal or quasi-federal forms of territorial autonomy are the only viable solution for other states in the region facing the challenge of minority nationalisms, including Afghanistan (Thier 1999);23 Burma/Myanmar (A. Smith 1997; Silverstein 1997b); China (Yan 1996; Davis 1999); Sri Lanka (Shastri 1997; Krishna 1999; Edrisinha 2001); Pakistan (Ahmed 1997), and Indonesia (Anderson 2004), to name a few. Yet India (along with the Federated States of Micronesia) remains the exception in the region. In most countries, the idea of federal autonomy 20

I discuss the reasons why subunits dominated by national minorities typically need some form of asymmetric status within multination federations, and also the difficulty in getting public acceptance of it, in Kymlicka 2001: ch. 5. 21 There are aspects of federalism in India which qualify its operation as a truly multination federalism. For example, there is the frequent imposition of direct presidential rule on states by the central government, often for partisan reasons, or to suppress the expression of what are perceived to be inappropriate forms of minority nationalism. Also, there is no framework for dealing with as-yet-unfulfilled demands for the creation of new ethnolinguistic states, including demands for the creation of Gorkhaland in West Bengal; for Jharkhand in Bihar; for Bodoland in Assam; and for Uttarkhand in Uttar Pradesh. A third problem concerns the existence of exclusionary practices within these ethnolinguistic states favouring the ‘sons of the soil’ in the provision of public employment, sometimes accompanied by ‘street-level sanctions by way of harassment, intimidation, and violence’ against people perceived as ‘outsiders’ (Srinivasavaradan 1992: 148; cf. Krishna 1992: 74; Weiner 1998). For discussion of these aspects of Indian federalism, and their relation to Western models, see Kymlicka 2002b. 22 For examples of these early fears, see Harrison’s claim that with the reorganization of the states, ‘the odds are almost wholly against the survival of freedom . . . the issue is, in fact, whether any Indian state can survive at all’ (Harrison 1960: 338). See also L. P. Vidyarthi’s claim that the creation of linguistic states ‘has further generated hatred, conflict, and mutual suspicion among the various ethnolinguistic groups’ (Vidyarthi 1976: 130; cf. Das 1975: 175). More recent commentators, by contrast, argue that it has been ‘highly successful’ (Lijphart 1996: 263), and indeed that without it ‘India might well have disintegrated long ago’ (Sisk 1996: 52; cf. Srinivasavaradan 1992). 23 For doubts in the Afghanistan case, see Wimmer and Schetter 2002.

liberal multiculturalism

41

for national minorities remains a taboo. Many countries have preferred to engage in civil war than concede this sort of autonomy, and have only been prepared to contemplate multination federalism when a military solution has become too costly or protracted.24 What explains this striking opposition to a model which has worked well in the West, and in India? Why have people in Asian countries come to such different conclusions about its relative potential and pitfalls than in the West? There is a range of possible explanations. One set of explanations focuses on differences in values. Some commentators, like He, argue that Western liberal models of multination federalism are at odds with the more ‘communitarian’ Confucian heritage of East Asia, which stresses ideas of harmony and fusion (He 1998; 2004; and Chapter 3). Such contrasts between a ‘liberal West’ and a ‘communitarian East’ are intensely controversial (Inoue 1999), since they tend to exaggerate both the extent of agreement within each region, and the extent of disagreement across regions. But even if such contrasts can be sustained as broad generalizations, it is unclear how they explain the issue at hand: namely, differing attitudes towards multination federalism. It is not clear why Western liberals would be inherently inclined to support multination federalism, while Asian communitarians would be opposed. On the contrary, one might make just the opposite prediction. Historically, most liberals in the West have endorsed the idea of equal and undifferentiated citizenship within a unitary nation-state, and have viewed ideas of multination federalism as a regressive compromise with premodern ethnic allegiances. Conversely, one might expect that communitarians in Asia would be sympathetic to ideas of multination federalism, since they provide shelter for existing communities built around a sense of common history, language, and culture. Why would communitarians want to give a centralized state, often itself the product of artificial colonial boundaries, the power to suppress these actually existing communities in the name of some new political identity built around the postcolonial state?25 The link between philosophical values like ‘liberalism’ or ‘communitarianism’ and support for political institutions like ‘multination federalism’ is 24 As happened in the late 1980s in the Philippines, and as is happening at the moment with Sri Lanka, and may happen in Indonesia and Burma/Myanmar, all in response to inconclusive armed struggles. 25 I have elsewhere explored the puzzle that defenders of communitarianism in Asia support state policies that are profoundly anticommunitarian, making it impossible for individual members of minority groups to fulfil the communal obligations that these defenders say is at the heart of their value system. In most Asian countries, as elsewhere around the world, it is the central state, not minority political claims, that is eroding inherited ideals of community (Kymlicka 2004b).

42

will kymlicka

not direct or straightforward—it is mediated by many intervening assumptions and expectations. And it is differences in these intervening assumptions, not differences in foundational values, which explain differing attitudes towards multination federalism in the West and Asia. Consider the changing attitude amongst Western liberals towards multination federalism. Why have so many liberals in the West gone from being liberal nation-statists to liberal multination-federalists? The answer, in part at least, lies in the trend discussed earlier towards a consensus on liberal democratic norms across ethnonational lines. It is increasingly clear that accommodating minority nationalism can occur within the framework of liberal constitutionalism, including the firm protection of individual civil and political rights. In such a context, multination federalism involves a redistribution of powers, but does not affect the extent to which those powers are exercised within a liberal-democratic constitutional framework. In other regions of the world, by contrast, many liberals worry that substate autonomies will become petty tyrannies that flout the rule of law, deny human rights, and oppress internal minorities. There are indeed reports of such problems in the new regional governments of Indonesia (G. Bell 2001), and in the ethnolinguistic states of India (Weiner 1998). As a result, many liberals in Asia believe that substate autonomies for national minorities should be delayed until firmer protections of individual rights and the rule of law are in place.26 In other words, whether liberals are attracted to multination federalism depends in large part on empirical assumptions about the likely enforcement of individual rights. Differing empirical assumptions are similarly crucial in determining the attitude of communitarians towards multination federalism. In both the West and the East, communitarians have historically hoped that the political community could indeed be a unified ‘community’, untroubled by divisions along ethnic and linguistic lines. In the West, however, this dream has slowly been recognized as unrealistic in countries with strong minority nationalist movements. Attempts to preserve the ideology of ‘one language, one nation, one state’ through the assimilation or exclusion of national minorities have proven futile. National minorities are too numerous, and too politically conscious of their rights, to simply disappear. In Asia, by contrast, many communitarians still cling to the hope that minority nationalism will fade away. They believe that substate nationalism is really a transient by-product of some other problem that will disappear over time through the processes of modernization or democratic transition. Some people assume that minority nationalism will fade as the economy improves, or as democracy is consolidated, or as communications and media become globalized. On this view, if Asian states have the strength to hold out against 26

This raises what we called the ‘sequencing’ issue in the Introduction.

liberal multiculturalism

43

minority demagogues and ethnic entrepreneurs, then the problem will gradually solve itself. This, of course, is precisely the expectation that Westerners have gradually relinquished, since minority nationalisms have in fact strengthened rather than weakened as Western states have become more democratic, prosperous, and globalized. The expectation that minority nationalism will fade helps to explain not only the resistance to adopting the ‘Indian model’ of multination federalism, but also the popularity of the ‘Singapore model’ of unitary nation-building. For example, some of the commentators who oppose adopting federalism in Sri Lanka have suggested that Sri Lanka could instead follow Singapore’s model.27 But in so far as one thinks of the Singapore model as a success (and clearly it has been a success in terms of peace and prosperity), this success is predicated on the fact that all of the three major groups are predominantly formed through immigration to Singapore. None of the groups claim Singapore to be its historic homeland, and none claim historic rights of selfgovernment over it. In short, the typical problem of minority nationalism simply does not arise. Tamils in Singapore do not make the same kinds of claims as Tamils in Jaffna or Tamil Nadu. So too with the Malays and Chinese: they were all primarily brought to Singapore by the former imperial powers. Put another way, it would be inaccurate to say that Singapore has found an alternative way of successfully dealing with the problem of a national minority that has mobilized along nationalist lines to defend its homeland against encroachment by a larger state into which it was involuntarily incorporated. Singapore never faced that particular problem. As a result, to suppose that Singapore provides a model to other countries for dealing with minority nationalism is, in effect, to suppose that the distinctive demands associated with minority nationalism will disappear. For example, to hope that Tamils in the Jaffna peninsula of Sri Lanka would accept the same status as Tamils in Singapore is to suppose that the former would abandon all of the political aspirations and nationalist identities that have been built up around the ideas and myths of a historic Tamil homeland and of a historic Tamil kingdom. It is to suppose that Tamils in Sri Lanka would give up on the ideas that have inspired their political mobilization for over fifty years. This is the sort of hope that has long been given up by most people, including most communitarians, in the West. In comparing East and West, then, we see a curious set of contrasts. In Asia, many intellectuals and politicians are deeply pessimistic about the prospect that substate national groups can exercise territorial autonomy in accordance with liberal-democratic norms, yet are surprisingly optimistic about the possibility that substate nationalism will simply disappear. The former explains why liberals oppose multination federalism, and the latter 27

See the discussion in Krishna 1999: 46–7.

44

will kymlicka

explains why communitarians still dream of creating unified political communities. In the West, by contrast, public opinion is optimistic about the capacity of substate national groups to govern within liberal-democratic constraints, but pessimistic about the likelihood that substate nationalism will disappear as a result of processes of modernization, democratization, development, or globalization. The former explains why liberals have accepted the legitimacy of multination federalism, and the latter explains why communitarians have relinquished their dreams of unified polities. It is these differing forms of optimism and pessimism, rather than differences in values per se, which account for some of the differences between the West and the East. There are, however, other factors at work as well. One crucial factor concerns issues of security. As noted earlier, states will not accord greater powers or resources to groups that are perceived as disloyal, and therefore a threat to the security of the state. In particular, states will not accommodate groups which are seen as likely to collaborate with foreign enemies. Under these conditions, we are likely to witness what political scientists call the ‘securitization’ of ethnic relations (Waever 1995). Relations between states and minorities are seen, not as a matter of normal democratic politics to be negotiated and debated, but as a matter of state security, in which the state has to limit the normal democratic process in order to protect itself. Under conditions of securitization, minority self-organization may be legally limited (e.g. minority political parties banned), minority leaders may be subject to secret police surveillance, the raising of particular sorts of demands may be illegal (e.g. laws against promoting secession), and so on.28 Even if minority demands can be voiced, they will be flatly rejected by the larger society and the state. After all, how can groups that are disloyal have any legitimate claims against the state? So securitization of ethnic relations erodes both the democratic space to voice minority demands, and the likelihood that those demands will be accepted. This dynamic no longer applies to national minorities in the West, due mainly to the protective regional security umbrella created by NATO. In large parts of Asia, however, state–minority relations remain highly ‘securitized’. In several cases, security fears arise from the belief that the minority’s main loyalty is to a (potentially hostile) neighboring kin-state with whom it may collaborate: we see this in India regarding the Kashmiri minority (and the Muslim minority more generally); in Sri Lanka regarding the Tamil minority; in Afghanistan regarding the Uzbek minority; in Cambodia regarding the Vietnamese minority; in Pakistan and Bangladesh regarding the 28

For laws banning various forms of minority nationalist claims see Shastri 1997: 151–3 (banning advocacy of secession in Sri Lanka); Ganguly 1997: 257, 264 (prohibiting discussion of ‘sensitive issues’ in Malaysia);

liberal multiculturalism

45

Hindu minority; in Bangladesh regarding the Biharis; in Thailand regarding the ethnic Malays; and in Vietnam regarding the Chinese minority. In several of these cases, there have even been policies to encourage or force the allegedly disloyal minority to ‘return’ to their ‘home’ country. A related problem arises when a particular national group is found in two or more countries, divided by modern international boundaries, and who may have dreams of forming (or regaining) a common state. The classic case in the Mideast is the Kurds, divided between Iran, Iraq, Turkey, and Syria, who have longed to create an independent Kurdistan. A comparable situation in Asia concerns the Baluchis, spread across Afghanistan, Iran, and Pakistan, who have sometimes expressed the desire for an independent state. The Pashtuns (Pathans) who are divided by the Afghan/Pakistan border have also periodically expressed a desire to be unified in a single state. In both of these contexts, the state fears that the minority will collaborate with its kin across the border—whether it be a neighboring kin-state or just a neighboring kin-group. But there are other ways in which minorities can be suspected of collaborating with hostile external powers who threaten the state. In some cases, these external powers are former imperial powers (as with the South Moluccans in Indonesia who are seen as collaborators with the Dutch; or the Montagnards in Vietman who are seen as collaborators with the French and Americans). In other cases, minorities are seen as collaborating with international movements that threaten the state. In the past, this often involved the fear that minorities were part of an international Communist conspiracy set upon overthrowing capitalist countries.29 More recently, this has been replaced by the fear that minorities are part of an international movement of radical Islamists to overthrow secular states. For example, Muslim minorities in Aceh and Mindanao are said to have links with international networks of Islamic militants. In other cases, the concern is that minorities are serving as agents of foreign capital, fomenting rebellion to gain preferential access to natural resources: this is sometimes said to underlie the problems in West Papua. In all of these cases, minorities are seen (rightly or wrongly) as allies or collaborators with external powers that threaten the larger state.30 To an 29 Several minorities in Indonesia were suppressed on the grounds that they collaborated with China in the 1965 Communist coup. In some cases, assumptions about ethnic kinship and ideological kinship reinforce each other: for example, Chinese minorities in several Asian countries have been assumed to have both ethnic and ideological reasons for collaborating with China. 30 For discussions of this fifth-column view of minorities, see Ho 2000 (re Chinese minorities throughout the region); Ganguly 1997: 266 (re Chinese minorities throughout the region); Ganguly 1997: 269–70 (re Malays in Singapore); ICES 1995: 17–25 (re Vietnamese in Cambodia); Anderson 2004 (re Papuans in Indonesia); Krishna 1999: ch. 3; Shastri 1997: 155; Dharmadase 1992: 141, 230, 295–6; Nissan 1996: 34 (re the Tamils in Sri Lanka); MRG 1997: 579 re the Hindu minorities in Pakistan and Bangladesh.

46

will kymlicka

outside observer, these minority groups might appear to be weak and marginalized, with little power or resources to challenge the state. But from the state’s point of view, these minorities are the local agents for larger regional or international powers or networks that are very strong, and pose a credible threat to the state. In short, there are at least three major obstacles to multination federalism in Asia: (a) scepticism about the likelihood that substate autonomies will be liberal-democratic; (b) the belief that ethnic mobilization, including substate nationalism, will disappear over time as a result of modernization and development; and (c) the fear that minorities will collaborate with enemies of the state.31 By contrast, in the West most citizens are (a) optimistic about the liberal-democratic credentials of substate autonomies; (b) resigned to the long-term existence of ethnic politics and minority nationalist mobilization; and (c) confident that minorities will be allies not enemies in any larger regional or international security conflicts. As a result, multination federalism in Asia is typically resisted across the political spectrum, by liberals, communitarians, and statists alike. Under these conditions, the prospects for multination federalism in Asia seem limited, except as the outcome of violent struggle, or perhaps of international pressure.

5. Indigenous Peoples in Asia How does the treatment of indigenous peoples in Asia compare with the West? The first question we need to ask is whether we can even distinguish a separate subcategory of ‘indigenous peoples’ in the Asian context. Some Asian governments claim that the category of ‘indigenous peoples’ does not apply to minorities in Asia. For example, the People’s Republic of China has argued at the UN that the concept of ‘indigenous peoples’ only applies in the context of overseas European colonization. Hence all peoples living in Asian countries before the era of European colonization are equally ‘indigenous’, whether they are majority or minority. It makes no sense, on this view, to say that some of the minorities in China or India are ‘indigenous’ while the majority is not (Kingsbury 1995; 1999; Colchester 1998). This attempt to restrict the scope of ‘indigenous peoples’ to the context of European colonization rests on the so-called ‘saltwater thesis’. The term ‘indigenous peoples’ is connected to that of colonialism: indigenous peoples 31 Another factor in some of these cases, noted in the Introduction, is the perception that minorities have historically been privileged by colonial powers at the expense of the dominant group. In such circumstances, perceptions of historic injustice are invoked by the dominant group to reject demands for minority rights.

liberal multiculturalism

47

have had their lands conquered and settled by a colonizing society, and forcibly incorporated into a larger state dominated by this colonizing society. A glance at history would suggest that this sort of colonialism has occurred in many different forms throughout the world, but the saltwater thesis claims that the only ‘real’ form of colonialism involves colonizers coming from overseas (i.e. from Europe). The conquest and settling of Ainu lands by Japan cannot be called ‘colonialism’, on this view, since the conquering settlers did not come from overseas, so the Ainu cannot be called ‘indigenous’. Restricting the categories of colonialism and indigenous peoples to cases of overseas conquest is out of step with the usual usage of these terms. For example, it is almost universally accepted that the Sami in Scandinavia are an indigenous people, and I think there are good reasons for this. After all, the way in which their lands were claimed and settled was very similar to the way that the lands of the Inuit in Canada were claimed and settled, with the same disastrous results. It is not clear why the injustice of colonizing the lands of another culture changes when the colonizing settlers come by land (backed by an army), rather than by sea (backed by a navy). If we focus on this common experience of colonizing settlement, then we can find various groups in Asia—from the Ainu of Japan, to the Dayak of Indonesia, and the Chittagong Hill Tribes of Bangladesh—which would qualify as indigenous peoples.32 The way in which their lands have been colonized is similar to that of the Sami in Scandinavia or the Inuit in Canada, and was rationalized on similar grounds.33 And their claims today are also similar, including the protection of traditional lands, language rights, and political representation. Hence it is not surprising that many of the so-called ‘hill tribes’ are in fact adopting the international language of ‘indigenous peoples’, often with the encouragement of international organizations and advocacy networks (Colchester 1998: 4; Gellner 2001: 187–8).34 Not everyone is persuaded that importing the language of ‘indigeneity’ into Asia is helpful. As Toyota notes in Chapter 5, some of the ‘hill-tribes’ are in fact recent migrants, and so their relation to territory is different from that presupposed by the international discourse (and international law) of indigenous rights. Others worry that the discourse of ‘indigeneity’ will 32 According to Gurr, other indigenous peoples in Asia include the Kachins, Mons, Zomis, and Rohingya in Burma; the Assamese, Bodos, Mizos, Naga, Tripuras, and Scheduled Tribes in India; the Hmong in Laos; the Papuans in Indonesia; the Dayaks in Malaysia; the Igorots in the Philippines; the Aboriginals in Taiwan; the Northern Hill Tribes in Thailand, and Montagnards in Vietnam (Gurr 1993). 33 For the parallels between the treatment of the Ainu and North American indigenous peoples, including the racist/paternalist justifications given for their dispossession, see Siddle 1997. 34 We see a similar dynamic in Latin America, where groups increasingly adopt the label of ‘indigenous’, partly as a result of growing links with international movements of indigenous peoples (Brysk 2000).

48

will kymlicka

encourage pernicious struggles over ‘who was here first’, rather than focus on the common economic and political vulnerabilities that affect various groups living in a particular territory (Be´teille 2000). For this reason, some have proposed that the category of ‘indigenous people’ be replaced, at least in the Asian context, by a wider category of ‘vulnerable people’. The Western narrative about a clear hierarchical relationship between ‘colonizing settlers’ and ‘indigenous peoples’ breaks down in some Asian contexts (Bowen 2000). Indeed, it is said that when World Bank officials in Indonesia were told that they had to formulate specific policies regarding indigenous peoples in the country, estimates about how many people fell under this category ranged from 2 percent to 60 percent of the population (Evers 1995). Others argue, however, that the category of ‘indigenous peoples’ is relevant and helpful in the Asian context, so long as it is understood as denoting a ‘family resemblance’, based on a number of characteristics that typically coincide, including political exclusion, economic marginalization, cultural vulnerability, geographical isolation, and long-standing settlement (Kingsbury 1995, 1999). No single one of these criteria is necessary, but any group that displays most of them would qualify. As in the West, the dividing line between indigenous peoples and other national minorities is not clear or precise. One important distinguishing feature is the extent to which a group has played a role in the process of state formation. In the European context, the reason why the Sami are considered indigenous while the Catalans are not is that the latter were contenders but losers in the process of forming the state of Spain, whereas the Sami were isolated from the process of forming the state of Sweden. Using this criteria, we can say that what distinguishes the indigenous Dayaks or Ainu from other national minorities in Asia—such as the Kashmiris and Sikhs in India, or the Tamils in Sri Lanka—is that the latter have been active contenders in modern state-formation. Indeed, had the balance of power differed slightly, they could easily have consolidated themselves as independent states. But they lost, and now face many of the same issues as substate national groups in Europe. We can debate whether the term ‘indigenous people’ is the best one to mark this distinction. In one sense, the Catalans are just as ‘indigenous’ to Europe as the Sami, and the Tamils are just as indigenous to Asia as the Dayaks. But there surely is an important distinction between the Catalans and the Sami which needs to be marked. And I think that a similar sort of distinction is required between the Tamils and the Dayaks. For better or worse, the term ‘indigenous peoples’ has been used in international law to draw this distinction. Perhaps a better term could have been devised, but whatever the terminology, it seems to me that the basic distinction between indigenous peoples and substate national groups is as applicable in the Asian context as in the European context. And indeed some countries in Asia are accepting the usefulness and validity of the term, especially the Philippines

liberal multiculturalism

49

and Nepal. And while some other Asian countries continue to resist the term ‘indigenous peoples’, they recognize the need to create a distinct category for such groups, whether it is ‘aboriginal tribes’ (Taiwan), ‘aborigines’ (Malaysia), ‘hill tribes’ (Thailand), ‘isolated peoples’ (Indonesia), ‘natives’ (Borneo), or ‘scheduled tribes’ (India). In any event it would be a mistake to focus exclusively on the differences between indigenous peoples and substate national groups while neglecting their important similarities. Both types of group are likely to mobilize to resist assimilationist policies, and to maintain their own institutions, operating in their own language and culture, so that they can reproduce themselves as separate peoples within the larger state. Because of their historic isolation or fragile ecology, indigenous peoples may be more immediately threatened by state actions than other national minorities, and hence more urgently in need of minority rights protection. But the same principle that underpins their claims may also apply to the claims of substate national groups, and vice versa.35 Whatever the terminology, the crucial question is how these groups are treated. In the West, as we have seen, there has been a powerful trend towards greater self-government and land-rights for indigenous peoples. The situation in Asia is more complicated.36 There are comparable moves in some countries—or perhaps more accurately, in some parts of some countries. For example, there are relatively progressive laws in some parts of India, including self-government, collective land ownership, and affirmative action. India has accepted the need for quasi-federal forms of territorial autonomy for smaller indigenous peoples or hill tribes for whom full statehood may not be appropriate, particularly in the Northeast.37 There are other promising developments regarding land rights in Nepal, Taiwan, and New Caledonia, although much less progress regarding self-government. And even where good laws exist regarding land rights, the weak rule of law often means that settlers/businesses can simply ignore indigenous title.38 35 For more on the relationship between substate national groups and indigenous peoples, see Kymlicka 2001: ch. 6. In his account of indigenous rights in international law, Anaya argues that indigenous peoples have been singled out, not because they have greater rights than other national groups, but because the cultural and political rights they share with other national groups are more likely to have been violated, and the need to remedy these violations is more urgent. In other words, they differ not in the rights they can claim, but in the rights-violations that need remedying (Anaya 1996). See also Kingsbury 1999, who defends the applicability of the term indigenous peoples to Asia, but emphasizes that groups which do not qualify as indigenous may have similar claims. 36 For an overview of indigenous peoples in Asia, see Colchester 1998; Barnes 1995; Kingsbury and Gover. 37 For example, the recent creation of Bodo Autonomous Area in Assam, for the tribal Bodos. 38 For example, the case of the settlers in Kerala (India) who have been required by a 1985 law and by a 1996 court judgement to return land to tribals, but have consistently refused (Colchester 1998: 20).

50

will kymlicka

But the situation remains grim in most countries of the region. Indigenous peoples in several countries continue to suffer from state policies to swamp their lands with settlers, including Indonesia, Bangladesh, Malaysia, Nepal, and Vietnam. Their land rights often receive minimal or no legal protection, as in Malaysia, Indonesia, Bangladesh, and Laos, and there is no attempt to restore land that was wrongly taken from them historically. In several countries their lands have simply been unilaterally declared as national forests or national parks by the state, which then passes laws forbidding indigenous peoples to continue their traditional practices on ‘state land’. Indigenous peoples are also subject to assimilationist policies in several countries, including Thailand, Indonesia (e.g. ‘Operasi Koteka’ to ‘Indonesianize’ indigenous peoples in West Papua), and Malaysia (where indigenous peoples are pressured to convert to Islam). What explains this resistance to the recognition of indigenous rights to land and self-government? Some of the reasons are the same as for national minorities. For example, in some cases, there are security issues. Indigenous peoples often live in border areas, and governments worry that they will be used as pawns by neighboring states or armed movements.39 These sorts of security concerns regarding indigenous peoples were relevant in the past in the West, but rarely arise today in Western countries.40 There is also the widespread assumption that indigenous peoples, like national minorities, can be assimilated, and indeed would benefit from being assimilated. In the West, the long history of assimilationist policies towards indigenous peoples is now seen as having failed in practice, and as illiberal and paternalistic in principle. In several Asian countries, these policies are still seen as noble in intention, since they bring civilization to ‘backward’ peoples, and are as likely to succeed in practice (Duncan 2004).41 Another factor which partly explains the resistance to indigenous rights in Asia is the belief that they impede economic development, which is (or should be) the most urgent priority of developing states. The need for economic development was commonly invoked historically in the West as well to dispossess indigenous peoples of their lands and resources. But it may 39 In Thailand, for example, there has been the fear that tribal minorities would ally themselves with ethnic nationalist movements in Burma and Laos. These border security issues have also been a major obstacle to the recognition of indigenous rights in Latin America (Van Cott 1996). 40 Indigenous peoples were often used as pawns in the struggle between European colonial powers in the Americas, as the English, French, and Spanish recruited their own indigenous allies. More recently, there were cases in the 1940s and 1950s when indigenous peoples in the far north of Canada were relocated partly to strengthen Canada’s claim to sovereignty over parts of the north. 41 Anticolonial nationalist leaders who violently objected to the European discourse of ‘advanced’ and ‘backward’ cultures are quite happy to invoke the same discourse when discussing their own indigenous peoples.

liberal multiculturalism

51

be particularly relevant to Asia today, since there are indeed many cases where the homelands of indigenous peoples include substantial land and resources that could help alleviate poverty in the larger society. Protecting the rights of indigenous peoples may make it more difficult to ensure that the basic needs of the majority are met. This is a powerful argument in countries with high levels of poverty, although it is often invoked hypocritically to defend development projects that actually enrich the elite, rather than benefit the heartland poor. Even when well-intentioned, encouraging the settlement of indigenous territory often simply leads to environmental destruction rather than sustainable development. For example, turning rainforest into farms just doesn’t work—land clearance leads to soil damage, erosion and pollution, with soil exhaustion after one or two harvests, which leads to abandonment of the land and further deforestation.42 Given the poor track record of development projects on indigenous lands, international agencies like the World Bank are becoming more skeptical about them. Yet the idea that the resources on indigenous territories can help the heartland poor remains strong. Since much of the wealth of North American societies was built upon the dispossession of indigenous peoples, claims by Westerners that this is not a viable route to national economic development are viewed with understandable skepticism in many Asian countries. However, even if there are cases where resources on indigenous territories should be developed for the benefit of the heartland poor, there are just and unjust ways of gaining access to indigenous resources. Rather than the involuntary appropriation of their lands, the state could instead impose some form of a resource tax (Penz 1993: 121). It would be up to the indigenous peoples themselves to decide how to manage their resources to pay for this tax. Some communities may decide to sell some of their land, or lease it, or develop some of their mineral wealth, or invite outside people to develop the wealth for them. The point is that indigenous peoples must be actively involved in the process (e.g. through co-management), and the extraction of resources should seek to minimize cultural harm (e.g. through limitations on settlement).43 In short, there may indeed be valid arguments for states to insist that indigenous peoples share some of the natural resources on their traditional territories, but these are not valid justifications for either settlement policies or for denying indigenous peoples self-government. Unfortunately, however, many Asian countries have assumed that the former justifies the latter. Under those circumstances, the prospects for greater recognition of indigenous 42

For this argument in the Brazilian case, see Swaney and Olson 1992; de Onis 1992. For the Asian case, see Colchester 1998. 43 I develop this theme in more depth in Kymlicka 2001: ch. 6.

52

will kymlicka

rights remains bleak, except again as the outcome of violent struggle or international pressure. And indeed it appears that international pressure is increasing, particularly for countries that need financing from Western countries or the World Bank for their development projects.

6. Metics in Asia Finally, let me conclude with a brief examination of the case of metics in Asia. One prominent case is the Koreans in Japan, who were stripped of citizenship after World War II, since they did not fit into the conception of ‘nationhood’ being adopted and promoted by the Japanese state. Like the Turks in Germany, it was initially hoped that the Koreans would return to Korea, but it was quickly realized that they are in fact in Japan for good, and that Japan is the only home the children and grandchildren know. Like the Turks, the Koreans have fought for citizenship, which at first was only offered as a privilege, not a right, and only to those who had renounced their ethnic heritage and assimilated (e.g. by adopting Japanese names). And, like the Turks, many Koreans have refused to naturalize on these terms, which they see as a continuation, rather than repudiation, of the earlier attitude that anyone who is identifiably Korean cannot be a Japanese citizen.44 Other examples of groups that have had metic status in the Asian context include the ‘Indian Tamils’ or ‘Upcountry Tamils’ in Sri Lanka, brought by the British to work on plantations in the nineteenth century. They were stripped of their citizenship shortly after Sri Lankan independence. Similarly, the citizenship rules originally adopted in Indonesia and Malaysia excluded many long-settled Chinese residents, including many who were born in the country.45 In all of these cases, as with the western examples of metics discussed earlier, exclusionary citizenship laws were originally adopted in the hope that metics would return ‘home’. However, as in the West, it has become clear that these expectations were misguided, and citizenship rules have subsequently been liberalized to enable (some members of ) the metic group to gain (or regain) citizenship.

44

For an overview of the status of the Korean minority in Japan, see Onuma 1992; Hicks

1997. 45 For a comparison between Malaysian Chinese and Turks in Germany, see Gurr and Harff 1994: 106–14. Another form of de facto metics may be the peasants in China who have migrated to urban areas. Although they do not come from a foreign country, they are discriminated against on the basis of a politically sanctioned hereditary distinction between those born in rural areas and those born in urban households, and some commentators have argued that their status is similar to that of metics in Germany or Japan (Sollinger 1999).

liberal multiculturalism

53

However, there are other cases where states continue to resist any liberalization of citizenship laws. For example, the Rohingya Muslims in Burma remain essentially stigmatized as a metic group. The ethnic Chinese in Brunei remain effectively denied access to citizenship. The citizenship status of the ethnic Vietnamese in Cambodia remains contested. One reason why these cases have proven more difficult to resolve is, once again, the existence of security fears: that is, the metics are seen as a potential fifth-column for a neighboring power. Also, some metic groups, particularly the ethnic Chinese, are seen as unjustly wealthy, perhaps because of a privileged position in colonial times, and hence the denial of political rights is seen as compensating for their excessive economic power. By contrast, metics in the West are almost always less well-off than the majority society, so that the denial of political rights is seen as compounding their disadvantage, and creating the danger of a racialized caste group. Where these perceptions of security or unjust privilege exist, the trend towards liberalization of citizenship for metics is unlikely to take place, in the absence of international pressure.46 All of the metic groups mentioned so far are long-standing groups, often having arrived under colonial rule. But there are also much more recent groups of migrant workers, recruited under various temporary work programs, particularly in the ‘Asian tiger’ economies, such as Singapore and Hong Kong. In these cases, as Bell and Piper discuss in Chapter 9, Asian countries have been adamant in refusing to grant permanent residence or national citizenship. Moreover, Asian countries, unlike West European countries, are refusing to let their ‘guest-workers’ bring their families with them, making it much less likely that they will seek to stay permanently. In this case, Asian countries are indeed ‘learning’ from the European experience, but the lesson they are drawing is how to prevent new metic groups from gaining the foothold needed to mobilize for citizenship and multiculturalism.

7. Conclusion This chapter has tried to compare the trajectories of minority rights in Asia and the Western democracies, particularly in relation to national minorities, indigenous peoples, and metics. In each case, a few countries are identified in Asia where developments are broadly similar to the Western pattern, and many other countries where the trajectory is quite different.47 46 International pressure of the sort applied in the Cambodian context to gain citizenship for the Vietnamese minority. 47 Of course there are many ethnocultural groups in Asia which do not fit easily into these three categories. For example, Gurr mentions a category of group which is common in Asia (and Africa) but virtually unheard of in Europe or North America, which he calls ‘communal contenders’. These are groups which have a share of state power, and which have and cherish

54

will kymlicka

Talking about ‘patterns’ and ‘trajectories’ is obviously heavily stylized, and gives a misleading impression of solidity and predictability. The recent backlash against immigration and multiculturalism in the Netherlands, once seen as the most tolerant of West European countries, shows that attitudes can change quickly. These rapid changes are often for the worse, but sometimes for the better, as old fears and anxieties are put to rest in new circumstances. Predictions about ethnic relations are notoriously difficult. What we can safely predict is that debates over state–minority relations will continue to have a strong international dimension. This may take the form of the codification, monitoring, and enforcement of international legal norms on minority rights. As we have seen, there are some existing international standards, particularly regarding indigenous peoples, as well as proposals to strengthen the codification and enforcement of other types of minority rights. But even if international law remains quite weak, there is still the court of international public opinion. As noted earlier, the idea that the treatment of minorities is a purely ‘domestic’ matter is dead. State activities towards minorities are intensively monitored by a range of international nongovernmental organizations, such as Human Rights Watch, Cultural Survival, and the Minority Rights Group, and any perceived injustices are quickly publicized around the world. International campaigns regarding Tibet, or East Timor, are evidence of the capacity to mobilize public opinion on these issues. In that sense, there is no escaping the internationalization of minority rights debates. State policies towards minorities will be evaluated in a global context, using a global discourse, in light of global trends. And, for the moment at least, this global discourse is dominated by an idea, or ideology, of liberal multiculturalism. Countries around the world are being judged by the standards of liberal multiculturalism, and many are found wanting. Faced with such criticisms, many countries predictably respond that international observers do not truly understand the local situation. And indeed, as we’ve seen, there are local factors that make the adoption of liberal multiculturalism riskier in many Asian countries. But how should these factors be their own separate cultural institutions, but which do not seek territorial autonomy or independent statehood. They include the Hazars, Pashtuns, Tajiks, and Uzbeks in Afghanistan, the Mohajirs, Pushtuns, and Sindhis of Pakistan, and the Chinese and Indians in Malaysia. Unlike national minorities and indigenous peoples, they do not see themselves as distinct ‘nations’ with rights to self-government; unlike immigrants, they do not expect to integrate into the dominant nation; and unlike metics or racial caste groups, they share state power, rather than being excluded from it. The Western models discussed in this chapter do not cover this particular case. The most relevant Western model would be the sort of ‘consociationalism’ adopted historically to ensure peace between Catholics and Protestants in the Netherlands and Belgium, and adopted most recently as part of the peace agreement in Northern Ireland. For a defense of consociationalism, and its relevance to Asia, see Lijphart 1996.

liberal multiculturalism

55

taken into account in our international debates and global discourses? How should factors about colonial divide and rule strategies, regional geopolitical insecurity, or levels of national economic development, affect our sense of the legitimate entitlements of minorities? Some countries might prefer to simply opt out of these global debates, and to ignore international norms and expectations. This is not a viable option, except perhaps for the most isolationist political regimes. The question, rather, is how can Asian countries opt in to these discussions, and contribute to a more adequate formulation of international debates on minority rights. The question is not whether debates should be internationalized—the cat is already out of the bag—but rather how to make sure those international debates are inclusive, informed, and constructive. To date, Asian countries have been surprisingly absent from the global debate. We have seen a flurry of activity on minority and indigenous rights in virtually every region of the world except Asia. There have been important developments in the Americas through the Organization of American States, in Europe through the Council of Europe and the OSCE High Commissioner on National Minorities, and even in Africa, where the African Union has been discussing the idea of a regional charter of minority rights. In all these cases, it was recognized that the global debate and discourse did not adequately address certain regional specificities, and that it was important to formulate an alternative and supplementary regional framework, addressing their own needs. To date, however, we have seen nothing comparable in Asia (or the Mideast). As a result, Asian countries continue to be judged by standards that they had little role in formulating, and that may not be appropriate for them. I have tried in this chapter to outline some of the sources of this global discourse, and its roots in particular aspects of the Western experience, in the hope that this may at least clarify the terrain for a more inclusive global debate.

3 Minority Rights with Chinese Characteristics1 BAOGANG HE

Secessionist movements in Tibet and Xinjiang illustrate the serious challenge facing the new Chinese leadership in endeavoring to strike a balance between national unity and ethnic diversity so as to achieve their vision of a multicultural China. According to the 2000 census, China’s 54 officially recognized ethnic minorities totaled 106,456,300 people constituting 8.41 percent of China’s overall population. By contrast, the total area occupied by minority groups was 6,117,300 sq. km, constituting 63.72 percent of the total area of China. In the 1950s, autonomous regions were established to accommodate ethnic minority groups. By the end of 2002, there were 76 autonomous prefectures, 28 autonomous cities at prefecture level, 699 autonomous counties, and 68 autonomous cities at the county level (National Bureau of Statistics of China 2003: 43). China has a long history of dealing with minorities, and a long tradition of theorizing about ethnic relations, based largely on the Confucian tradition, supplemented with Marxist belief in the twentieth century. These two very different traditions are still influencing the Chinese practice of minority rights and multiculturalism. They both stand in some contrast with the Western liberal model of minority rights. With the growing influence of liberalism in China, it is important to see how traditional Chinese political thought will respond to Western liberal ideas of multicultural citizenship, and how the Western liberal model of minority rights will impact on China’s ethnic minority policy. This chapter begins with a discussion of the basic characteristics of the Confucian approach to minority questions and minority rights, followed by an examination of the diverse influences of Marxism on minority rights, in general, and on Chinese practice, in particular. To illustrate how China’s minority rights regime performs in reality, it discusses China’s minority policies on ethnic minorities in general, and examines the case of Tibet, in 1 The author would like to thank Will Kymlicka and Dr U. Bulag for their critical comments, and Deborah Ann Johnson for her help.

minority rights with chinese characteristics

57

particular. The last section addresses how current Chinese practices are convergent to some extent with a Western liberal model of minority rights, and how they are different on the crucial issue of nonassimilation.

1. Confucian Heritage The political philosophy of Confucianism has had a rich experience in dealing with minority issues. It accumulated a substantial knowledge about them, for, particularly during the Yuan and Qing dynasties, Confucianist China was invaded by minorities from the North and the West. The questions of how to effectively control minority areas and how to deal with minority rule over China had to be confronted. The Confucian doctrine of five relations (ruler–subject, parent–child, husband–wife, older–younger brother, and friend–friend) is useful in addressing the minority question even though it does not specifically aim to deal with the relationship between a majority and minorities. Within a Confucian culture, with its emphasis on family, minorities are seen as younger brothers, sometimes as occasionally disobedient ones. Confucian obedience involves minority groups conforming to Confucian norms, maintaining unity, and correct relations. The dominant framework within which Confucian scholars have dealt with the question of minorities is the Yi-Xia doctrine. In the Confucian order, Xia (Han Chinese, or Zhongyuan) are the rulers while Yi (barbarians, outsiders or minorities) are the subjects; Xia is the center, while Yi are the peripheries; Xia consists of insiders and fellow countrymen, while Yi consists of outsiders and strangers; and Xia is superior while Yi is subordinate. The idea of Yi-Xia presupposes the Middle Kingdom and the central power of China. Confucius’ approach to minorities is premised on the moral principle of Ren (compassion), or the assumption that Xia embodied this moral principle; if the minorities conform to it, all under Heaven can coexist peacefully. He expected that Yi would not disrupt Xia (Liu 1999: 98–102). Mencius held the view that Xia could cultivate or civilize Yi, but not the other way round. Writing after the fall of the Mongol Yuan dynasty, Fang Xiaoru (Fang Hsiao-ju), a great Confucian scholar, asserted: ‘[T]o elevate them [barbarians] to a position above the Chinese people would be to lead the world to animaldom. If a dog or a horse were to occupy a human’s seat, even small boys would be angry. . . . Why? Because the general order would be confused.’ Fang insisted on the importance of the distinction between Chinese and barbarians, and asserted that a barbarian should not hold the Chinese throne (cited in Fincher 1972: 59). Not all Confucian scholars agreed on how to interpret the Yi-Xia relationships. For example, Hao Jin, a Confucian scholar who lived in the Yuan

58

baogang he

dynasty, developed a new interpretation of the Yi-Xia doctrine. The essential argument of his interpretation was that Yi can rule China if they follow Confucianism. In this interpretation, Confucianism has gone beyond ethnicity, it does not necessarily belong to Han Chinese, and ethnic groups can also cherish and develop Confucianism. The rulers of China can be anyone committed to Confucianism regardless of their ethnic backgrounds. Through this interpretation, Han Jin recognized and legitimized minority rule, and the right of Mongols to rule China if Confucianism were followed (Liu 1996: 457–73). It can be inferred that minority groups should also enjoy autonomous rule if they followed Confucianism. Indeed, Song-Ming Confucianism, the doctrine of the Li minority group, became the official doctrine in the Yuan dynasty. While the Confucian Yi-Xia doctrine typically privileged the Han Chinese, in practice ethnic minorities enjoyed a degree of autonomy, institutionalized in the Tusi system. Tusi—the product of imperial expansion—was the official native system of appointing minority hereditary headmen during the Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties. In such a system a headman was appointed by, or inherited his position through the confirmation of, central authority. Headmen enjoyed a number of autonomous powers, such as the right to tax and the right to have their own culturally regulated laws ( Jiang 1990: 138–45). ‘[This] hereditary elite was responsible for the taking of censuses, the collection of taxes, and the keeping of the peace. The tendency was to avoid interfering with local affairs unless developments directly threatened imperial control of the area’ (Dreyer 1976: 10). These practices, which lasted for several hundred years, can be seen as customary rights. While customary rights are not absolute, they are important for safeguarding the right of minorities to defend their way of life. The Tusi system confronted a number of practical problems. Minority areas had witnessed internal struggles over the level of taxes and other issues. This led some minority people going to the Han area and asking for arbitration and justice. At the same time some Han criminals escaped to minority areas in order to benefit from minority laws. All this caused tension between minorities and the Han and raised questions concerning political and legal unity. Under Emperor Yongzheng’s rule, a debate took place over whether the Tusi system should be ended. Confucian scholars held the view that it should be continued while Yongzheng and his supporters initiated a reform of ‘Guiliu’ to end the autonomy system and to establish a unitary political system. Confucian scholars also preferred a moral persuasion approach to military force, and urged minorities themselves to demand the reform of the Tusi system. After a transformation from the Tusi system to the unitary system, Confucian schools were established, and minorities, who had been banned

minority rights with chinese characteristics

59

from taking examinations by their headmen, were encouraged to take examinations for official office. They had to learn the official language within eight years as a prerequisite for their imperial examination. Clearly, despite the initial opposition of Confucian scholars to the unitary system, Confucianism played a significant role in the process of assimilation. Yongzheng’s forced reform led to rebellion in Guizhou. As a result, when Qianlong became emperor, he granted tax exemptions for the Guizhou area and the right of the Miao minority to follow their traditional laws. It was no longer up to the central government to settle disputes taking place in the Miao community in accordance with central laws (Feng 1992: 386–99). Clearly, Confucianism has bequeathed a mixed legacy for China. It can be, and has been, employed to support minority rights. However, it is important to note that minority rights within a Confucian framework have specific features. For example, minority rights are interpreted by Confucians from a duty perspective. Confucianism is a duty-based theory that stresses love for others. Out of duty, one looks to others, and to serving families, and communities. According to Confucianism, a majority has the duty to look after minorities with brotherly love, the duty to protect younger minority ‘brothers’. Minority ‘bothers’ are entitled to such treatment, and they can be allowed to live separately with their own customary rights and cultural traditions. As Cheng points out, ‘The Confucian social duty of mutual respect and mutual help between friends (one of the cardinal relationships regarded as horizontally equal) may be a native source for an ethics of equal human rights with Chinese characteristics’ (Cheng 1998: 147). Tu (1998: 229) also warns: ‘The danger of using Confucian values was [that it could be] a cover for authoritarian practices’. ‘[T]he authentic possibility of dialogue, communication, and mutually beneficial exchange must be fully explored. The perceived Confucian preference for duty, harmony, consensus, network, ritual, trust, and sympathy need not be a threat to rights-consciousness at all.’ The Confucian idea of compassion (Ren) implies a paternalistic government whose duty is to look after the weak and the poor. Confucianism does not have a system of individual rights, although some Confucian ideas can be seen as compatible with human rights. To win the hearts of minorities, emperors have offered benefits to minorities, or adopted, in modern terminology, affirmative action. These affirmative policies were based on customary practices and minority people naturally expected them as entitlements to be enjoyed. A minority group might see their rights as flowing from their entitlement to consideration by the ruler who has the duty to look after all peoples, including disadvantaged minority groups. We could envision a just Confucian society, which has a duty of care to the benefit of minorities. Similarly, minorities would expect such duties to be performed for them so that these ‘duties’ could become recognized as minority ‘rights’. However, within a traditional Confucian framework, such paternalistic duties would

60

baogang he

not take the form of an explicit assertion of minority rights as a basis for their political recognition. In this regard, modern institutions, such as constitutional articles and the right to appeal, could address this problem. Confucian minority rights legacies are complex and diverse. Confucianism did recognize and promote the autonomy of minorities and their customary rights. Confucian scholar Han Jin’s interpretation of the Confucian Yi-Xia doctrine implicitly contained the idea of minority rule and minority rights, and transcended Confucianism beyond that just for the Han Chinese.2 Confucian-style minority rights include such Chinese characteristics as: the customary right of autonomy, duty-deriving minority rights, minorities’ entitlement to certain benefits, paternalistic affirmative traditions, communitarian support for collective rights, and above all, instrumental minority rights for the purpose of greater unity and harmony. All these constitute a basis for Confucianism to support and promote minority rights. Confucianism emphasizes the ‘Great Way’, the harmony of minorities with the majority, and the necessity for cultural assimilation. Confucianism stresses the idea that diverse minorities should merge into a unified harmony, coexisting peacefully in mutual respect and interdependence. It assumes that in the end all peoples should be unified and live under one ‘heaven’ as a harmonious organism. Confucianism is also opposed to forced assimilation, calling for ‘a policy of non-violent assimilation through the imposition of Han-Chinese values rather than through a policy of extermination’ (Heberer 1989: 18). Confucianism prefers assimilation through cultural diffusion rather than military force. It emphasizes unity and harmony. Confucianism has its internal limits, though. Confucian customary rights, ethnic autonomy, paternalistic affirmative policies, and minorities’ entitlements are often compromised in reality. Confucianism fails to recognize equality between different cultural communities and cannot guarantee full protection of minority rights. The Confucian approach towards the minority question has certain repressive, unequal, authoritarian, and logically inconsistent features. Confucian support for paternal authority ignores the serious problem of the question of power. In particular, the Confucian approach is very limited in and even irrelevant to the areas where Buddhism or Islam dominated and where Confucian cultural symbolism and ethos are not present.

2. The Marxist Heritage In the twentieth century, the Confucian tradition has been supplemented, and to some extent supplanted, by Marxist ideas. However, like Confucian2

For a contemporary example of Confucian transcendence, see Neville 2000.

minority rights with chinese characteristics

61

ism, Marxism has been interpreted in various ways in terms of the status of minority groups. For Marx and Engels, the historical forms of human identity, as expressed in inherited cultures, should not be viewed as authentic (Gray 1993: 159–60). They expressed a preference for strong, centralized states that assimilate smaller minorities. Marxist historical materialism justifies an assimilation policy. The upshot of the argument is that an interconnected world makes it difficult to resist assimilation, and that cultural change, caused by economic development, is a central human condition. All cultures have undergone great transformation. Some historical communities have been extinguished, while others have survived. The traditions and customs of those which have survived have been changed and for some partly lost. The Marxist tradition however has been developed in other directions. The Soviet model, developed by Lenin, endorsed the idea of national self-determination and multinational federalism. The Soviet Constitution even legitimated the right to secession by national minorities. In the beginning, the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) agreed with and supported Lenin’s policy on the right of self-determination by national minorities, as evident in motions passed by the First Chinese National Congress (Mao Zedong 1966: 1033). Article 14 of the Constitution of the Chinese Soviet Republic declared in November 1931: The Soviet government in China recognizes the right of self-determination of the national minorities in China; the Mongols, Moslems, Tibetans, Miao, Li, Koreans, and others inhabiting the territory of China enjoy the complete right to selfdetermination, that is, they may either join, or secede from, the Federation of Chinese Soviets, or form their own state as they may prefer. (Central Data Library 1991: 775–6)3

Later this policy of self-determination was completely abandoned by the CCP. Mao Zedong abandoned it on the following grounds: (a) Lenin’s theory of self-determination was used by Japan to support the independence of Mongolia; (b) The right to self-determination only properly applies to the case of oppressed nations casting off the rule of imperialism and colonialism to fight for independence, and hence does not apply to minorities within a socialist state; (c) The right to self-determination is not feasible in China where different nationalities overlap and are interdependent (Yang and Wang 1994); (d) The self-determination of China’s nationalities had been decided, once and for all, by their common revolutionary struggle and voluntary incorporation in the People’s Republic of China (PRC) (Smith 1990: 78). 3

In Louis’ (1979: 114–15) translation, he stresses ‘their (national minorities) right to complete separation from China, and to the formation of an independent state for each national minority’.

62

baogang he

The CCP not only rejected the principle of national self-determination, it also rejected the idea of federalism. Originally, Soviet-style multination federalism was favored by the CCP to accommodate the aspirations and needs of minorities. Nevertheless, Mao thought that federalism was not applicable in China because: (a) Marx, Engels, and Lenin all supported a unitary centralized system; and (b) China, as a unitary country in which many nationalities have lived together for centuries, is different from Europe in general, and Russia in particular, where federalism was adopted in the wake of Communist revolution (Ma and Zhong 1998: 29–38). In place of federalism, a weaker system of regional autonomy was established. It applies in areas where a minority nationality lives in a compact community. Article 30 of the 1982 Constitution states that the administrative division of the People’s Republic of China is as follows: (a) The country is divided into provinces, autonomous regions, and municipalities directly under the Central People’s Government. (b) Provinces and autonomous regions are divided into autonomous prefectures, counties, autonomous counties, and cities. (c) Counties and autonomous counties are divided into townships, minority townships, and towns. Autonomous prefectures are divided into counties, autonomous counties, and cities. All autonomous regions, autonomous prefectures, and autonomous counties are minority autonomous areas (Zhonghua renmin gongheguo xiafa 1997: 9). Marxism was also employed to reform so-called ‘feudal’ Tibet in the 1950s, thus disturbing the Confucian order in which minorities were left alone. Marxism was established as the official ideology while Confucianism was heavily criticized during the Cultural Revolution. Following the adoption of Marxism, Mao Zedong maintained the view that the nationality question is by nature a question of class and that nationality and ethnicity will wither away after the end of class conflict. Mao also held that class division is much more important than ethnic division, that the majority of any nationality are peasants and workers, and that working classes across different nationalities could and should be unified against their common enemy, the exploiting class (Chen et al. 1998: 33–8; Yang and Wang 1994: 1–8). To a large extent, Deng Xiaoping continued to follow Mao’s theory and practice in relation to the nationality question. Like Mao, Deng asserted that the autonomous ethnic minority system is suited to the Chinese situation and works much better than federalism. He claimed that the Chinese unitary system, comprising many autonomous minority regions, could not be given up, for it has many advantages (Deng 1993: 257). It is better than a federal system as demonstrated by the fact that the federal system of the former Soviet Union and Yugoslavia promoted localism and ethnonationalism and finally led to the collapse of the Socialist system. In Deng’s theory, a unitary system with autonomous regions for ethnic minorities is the best system to

minority rights with chinese characteristics

63

defend the unity of the nation-state against secessionism, and therefore works best for China (Chen and Wei 1998: 39–44, Sun 1998: 43–8). Deng emphasized the implementation of ‘genuine autonomy’ in terms of the rule of law. He said clearly that genuine autonomy involves putting into effect all self-governing rights according to the law, that is, all the autonomous rights as defined by the Constitution and the Autonomy Law (Guojia minwei zhengce yanjiushi 1997.) Traditional Marxist and Maoist class analysis of the ethnicity question and of the ‘vanishing’ of ethnicities had no place in Deng’s pragmatism. But he shared with traditional Marxism a form of economic determinism or reductionism regarding the minority question. While Deng repudiated the importance of class background, he emphasized the market and economic development as a way of dealing with the ethnicity question. For him, without economic development, autonomy is an empty word (Deng 1993: 167). Deng stressed the economic prosperity of ethnic minorities. For Deng, economic development is the way to prosperity, and prosperity will provide the ultimate resolution to the ethnic minority question. Deng said that, ‘Tibet is so big but has a small population. Developing Tibet only by Tibetans is not enough. It is not bad for Han Chinese to help them to speed up economic development’ (Wang and Huang 1995: 3). Accordingly, the influx of Han Chinese into Tibet’s minority areas was seen as a necessary step in economic development.4 Deng’s theory of modernization requires economic development to override any consideration of ethnic identity. Deng therefore highlighted the centrality of ‘stability’ (i.e. the absence of conflict) in the autonomous regions. For him, the maintenance of stability is a precondition for economic development and the improvement of the autonomy system (Guojia minwei zhengce yanjiushi 1997). In order to maintain this stability, any form of minority autonomy that might generate conflict was overriden. The former general secretary, Jiang Zeming, and the current general secretary, Hu Jingtao, have followed Deng’s economic approach to the minority question. Economic development is now making China more attractive to erstwhile secessionists on the peripheries. Many Mongols and Uigurs who left China and went to the Republic of Mongolia and to central Asian countries are now returning to China because of its high standard of living. During a visit to China by Tibetan exile officials in 2003, they were overwhelmed by China’s economic development, thus strengthening the idea that Tibet is better off staying in China than seeking independence. As the Dalai Lama said, ‘the best guarantee for Tibet’ is to ‘remain within the 4

For example, Deng Xiaoping (1993: 246–7) told the former President Carter that ‘it is not a bad thing if the number of Han population increases in minority areas; the key issue is whether the economy has developed there’. This is hardly a Confucian sentiment.

64

baogang he

People’s Republic of China,’ and ‘more union, more cooperation is in our best interest’ (Tibetan Bulletin Sept.–Oct. 2003: 24). Nevertheless, the minority question cannot be answered by economic development alone. Indeed, when the central government sponsored the affirmative economic policies directed towards ethnic minority groups, these groups did not consider their new and better economic situation as being due to the success of Chinese government policy, but rather the opposite was true. Consider the example of Tibet. To encourage economic development in Tibet, Beijing had exempted Tibet from the general rule that one must be a permanent resident of a given area to start a business there. The result was that Tibetan cities, Lhasa in particular, were inundated with a so-called ‘floating population’ of Han Chinese from other provinces. Typically possessed of better linguistic and technical skills than the locals, the Han Chinese tended to take business away from native Tibetans. There was also a widespread feeling that it was the Han Chinese, and not the local people, who profited from tourism (Dreyer 1989: 282). As Lobsang Sangay, an exile Tibetan and now a Ph.D. candidate in Harvard University, put it: ‘Tibetans have felt increasingly marginalized in their own territory and see themselves as mere observers of an economic development benefiting others. This has made the ethnic ‘‘us vs. them’’ sentiment all the more concrete, since it is usually the Han Chinese who reap the profits of change’ (Sangay 1999: 27). In short, the Marxist legacy, like the Confucian legacy, is a mixed one regarding minority issues. On the one hand, due to the influence of the Soviet model of multinational federalism, ideas of ‘minority autonomy’ have been a familiar and acceptable part of political discourse in China since the 1930s, long before they became popular in the West. On the other hand, these ideas of minority autonomy have clearly been subordinated to centralized Party rule and the imperatives of economic development.

3. Current Policies on Minority Nationalities in Relation to Western Models Current Chinese policies on ethnic minorities are called, in Chinese terminology, zhongguo minzu zhengce tixi (the Chinese system for ethnic minority groups). In so far as Confucianism and Marxism have shaped this minority system, with liberalism having only a minimal historical influence, one would expect China’s policies to differ significantly from those of the Western democracies. And indeed there are important differences, discussed below. But it is worth noting that there are also significant areas of overlap. According to Kymlicka, Western liberal democracies have recognized three broad categories of minority rights: (a) self-government rights; (b) special representation rights in the legislature or bureaucracy; and (c) accom-

minority rights with chinese characteristics

65

modation rights, providing legal recognition to particular customs or practices (Kymlicka 1995: 27–33). We can find elements of all three in contemporary China, although not in quite the same way as they are recognized in the West. I will briefly discuss each in turn. (a) Self-government: As noted earlier, Mao ultimately rejected the Soviet idea of multination federalism in favor of a system of regional autonomy. This system of regional autonomy comprises three elements: the Constitutional framework, laws governing autonomy, and government policies (Li 1997). The implementation of autonomy rights is a top-down process from the Constitution to laws and concrete policies, and from the central government to autonomous local governments. For the articulation of minority rights in the Chinese Constitution, autonomy rights flow from, and are subordinate to, state sovereignty, rather than reflecting any preexisting sovereignty on the part of minorities. The Preamble of the 1982 Constitution of the PRC recognizes the historical contribution of all nationalities to the PRC, and the responsibility of the unitary multinational state to promote the unity of nationalities (Zhonghua renmin gongheguo xiafa 1997: 1–4). Unlike the Soviet system, which nominally recognized the right of self-determination and the right to secede, China stresses that all territories of the national minorities are integral parts of the land of China. Article 4 of the 1982 Constitution states: ‘All the ethnic minority autonomous areas are inseparable parts of the People’s Republic of China’ (ibid: 5). Article 4 of the 1982 Constitution of PRC recognizes the equality of ethnic minorities, prohibits discrimination and oppression, and respects minorities’ customs and use of their own languages (ibid: 4–5). Articles 114, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 134 of the 1982 Constitution specify the following autonomous powers for minorities: local administrative leaders from their own ethnic group; financial autonomy; independent administration of economic development; independent administration of culture; use of a local public security force; use of their own language in government, and use of their own language in court. All nationalities have the freedom to use and develop their own spoken and written languages, and to preserve or reform their own customs and ways (ibid: 26–8). The Law on Regional Autonomy for Minority Nationalities (LRAMN) was adopted on May 31, 1984. It provides a wide range of autonomy rights. Administration must (or should) be in the hands of functionaries from the minority population. The regions can promulgate their own laws and regulations, draw up their own production plans (within the bounds of the central state plan), and choose their own path towards economic and cultural development (within the parameters of the constitution).5 The law allows 5 In fact, the proportion of taxes and profits retained in autonomous areas is higher than in nonautonomous areas, and banks are encouraged to extend credit to minority areas.

66

baogang he

autonomous regions to change or modify, or even stop the directives and policies from the central government if they find these are not suitable for the local situation (Zhou 1993: 37–8). For example, in Daili, minority law has softened the central government’s tough punishments against drugs and hunting wild animals. Furthermore, the autonomous regions can administer local finances themselves (within the framework of financial planning for the state as a whole), and have their own local security forces (Heberer 1989: 41). (b) Special representation rights: Article 59 of the 1982 Constitution requires appropriate representation in the National People’s Congress (NPC) and in the NPC standing committee. A quota system allocates 12 percent of the NPC seats to minorities, although the population of minorities constituted only 6.7 percent of the total population of China in the 1980s, 8.98 percent in 1995 and about 10 percent now. These national-level quotas are in addition to guarantees of representation within the minority’s autonomous region, discussed earlier. There are also various affirmative action programs in place to improve minority representation in the education system. For example, Tibetans can enter universities with lower points (210 for liberal arts and 170 for sciences) than their Han counterparts (250 points for admission) when they pass the entry examination. Hui applicants are given 10–20 added points as minorities. Yi applicants receive 40 added points for being minorities and have their score on the Yi language exam (50 points possible) added to their total score. Sautman concludes that ‘most beneficiaries of preferential admissions will become the professionally competent and politically loyal graduates that the policy is designed to produce. This alone may guarantee the future of affirmative action in higher education in China’ (Sautman 1997: 40). (c) Accommodation rights: The Chinese state has also provided legal protection for certain practices associated with particular ethnic or religious groups. For example, male or girl Muslim students are allowed to wear their white caps or headscarves in schools, although they are often discouraged and even discriminated against by a Han-dominated society. The State also adopts a differentiated preferential policy (youhui zhengce) for ethnic minorities with regard to birth control. Minorities are effectively exempted from the ‘one-child’ rule. The original purpose of the exemption was to win the loyalty of minorities in opposing foreign intrusion; nowadays it is to achieve national unity and stability. While Han Chinese are allowed to have only one child, Tibetan cadres, workers, and staff members are encouraged to give birth to only two children, but no limit is set for the broad masses of Tibetan farmers and herdsmen in the number of children they may raise (Luo Qun 1991: 20). In all of these respects, we see some important areas of convergence with liberal theories of minority rights. Moreover, it is worth emphasizing that the

minority rights with chinese characteristics

67

State’s policy on the identification of one’s ethnicity or ‘nationality’ is that it should be by free choice (Zhou 1998: 39–42). A couple in a mixed marriage can choose the ethnic identity of their children. Their children can make a choice again when they reach eighteen years old. Individuals also have the liberty to make a choice regarding their national identity.6 And yet there are also important areas of divergence between China’s current approach and Western models. One problem is that the actual practice of minority rights often fails to live up to the promises made in the Constitution and in laws pertaining to ethnic minorities. It seems that rights that are recognized on paper are sometimes ignored in practice. The question of whether legally mandated minority rights have been internalized as a part of Chinese culture and collective psychology remains to be seen. But even if we focus on the laws, and assume that they are being (or can be) implemented in practice, there are still four serious problems associated with the Chinese laws and constitutional provisions on minority rights. First, the Constitution and the LRAMN constrain autonomy rights in several ways. Autonomy should be under a unified state leadership. Selfgoverning organs must implement the laws and polices of the state (Art. 4 of LRAMN) and ‘place the interests of the state as a whole above anything else’ (Art. 7 of LRAMN). Article 118 of the Constitution defines the role of higher bodies such as the NPC to approve the statutes and regulations that govern the exercise of autonomy rights. For example, the standing committee of the Chinese NPC has ultimate power over interpretation of the Hong Kong Basic Law; and the substance and processes of democratization in Hong Kong have to be approved by the national government. Second, China lacks a democratic verification mechanism for minorities. An independent constitutional court is absent, and the Party has dominated the decision-making on minority policies. The chairperson of the autonomous region is chosen by Beijing, and the party secretaries and military commanders are usually Han Chinese. These practices have violated the true meaning of self-government in that leaders should be chosen by the people themselves through elections. Elected leaders should serve to represent the 6 As far back as the 1950s, the governments of China and Indonesia agreed that overseas Chinese in Indonesia could choose their national identity or citizenship, although dual citizenship was prohibited. It should be noted that this element of personal choice is controversial in China. Shih (2002: 255) points out: ‘The seeming fixation of ethnic identity in accordance with one’s parents’ blood in fact provides a foundation for cross-border ethnic solidarity.’ In contrast, Dr U. Bulag, an ethnic Mongolian from China and now teaching in the United States, holds a different view: ‘These people (who choose another ethnic identity) are breaking up the culture and yet enjoy the rights accorded to that group. This is a violation of the self-government principle, whose basic premise is to maintain external protection’ (U. Bulag’s written comments on my paper in 1996).

68

baogang he

interests of ethnic minority groups and to balance local minority interests with state and majority interests. No wonder the Tibetan government in exile has often accused the Chinese government of lacking sincerity—Beijing has never appointed a Tibetan as the party secretary for the Tibetan Autonomous Region. Similarly, the fact that 12 percent of the seats in the NPC are reserved for minorities does not guarantee the effective representation of national minorities, because in most cases, there are no competitive elections for people’s deputies and minority representatives are ‘hand-picked’ by the Party. Third, the economic power of minority groups is circumscribed in a very fundamental way. There is no concept of ‘ethnic’ land in China. The state has appropriated the historical lands of ethnic minorities, made them a common asset of the state, and denied any ethnic affiliation to them. Chinese minorities, as is the case for all Han people, only have usage not ownership rights; by contrast, Canadian Indians have their collective land rights constitutionally protected. Fourth, in social life, ethnic organizations with political agendas at the local grassroots level are forbidden, thus constraining ethnic people in being able to organize themselves and defend their minority rights when they are violated. This lack of the freedom of association casts doubt about the genuineness of the regional autonomy system. The political autonomy rights of ethnic minorities are seriously deficient due to the lack of basic political and civil rights. In all of these respects, the Chinese theory of autonomy is different from, and contrary to, current liberal theories of autonomy. For example, Kymlicka’s theory of minority rights emphasizes inviolable rights, in particular the right to self-government. International campaigners for Tibet and the International Human Rights Law Group (1994: 6–7) adopt Hurst Hannum’s liberal definition of autonomy, which denotes a locally elected legislative body, a locally elected chief executive, an independent local judiciary, and joint authority over matters of common concern. By contrast, the Chinese conception of autonomy plays down the role of local elections in autonomy, and sees autonomy as a product of political expediency (which can thus be changed when circumstances change) rather than as an inviolable right. In the view of the Chinese government, autonomy does not involve an ontologically privileged right to self-determination. Put another way, Western writers have typically analyzed autonomy from a human rights point of view, while Chinese writers have been preoccupied with national unity, as was acknowledged by Wang Tieya of the Commission on Ethnic Affairs under the State Council during the International Workshop on Regional Autonomy of Ethnic Minorities held in Beijing from June 22 to 25, 2001 (Shih 2002: 250).

minority rights with chinese characteristics

69

4. The Case of Tibet The limitations of the government’s model of minority rights, and the demand for a more robust model of autonomy, is perhaps most clearly illustrated in the case of Tibet. There have been several swings in China’s policy towards Tibet—sometimes more tolerant, sometimes more repressive—but the policy has consistently failed to recognize the sort of rights and autonomy that many Tibetans demand.

A Brief History of Tibet’s Autonomy From the CCP’s perspective, the agreement concerning the peaceful ‘liberation’ of Tibet, reached in 1951 between the Central Government and the Tibetan Government, established the sovereignty of China over Tibet. However, the Dalai Lama offers a view that Tibet was an independent state when the Communist Chinese army invaded in 1950/51, in direct violation of international law. It was the newly installed Communist government in Beijing that forced Tibetans to sign a treaty recognizing the ‘peaceful liberation of Tibet’ and which then proceeded to occupy Tibet (Tibet Press Watch 1995: 4). Article 3 of the Agreement stipulated that the Tibetan people have the right to establish regional autonomy under the guidance of the central government. The Agreement gave Tibet a high degree of autonomy: the position and authority of the Dalai Lama and Panchan Lama would be maintained, and the existing political system (the unity of politics and religion) would not be changed. In 1959, the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) clashed with what the CCP called a ‘rebellion led by the Dalai Lama’. In September 1965, the Tibet Autonomous Region (TAR) was formally founded. During the Cultural Revolution (1966–76), autonomy existed in name only. The 1975 Constitution deleted the provisions concerning minorities’ rights to develop their languages and maintain their cultural customs and tradition. China was even no longer regarded as a ‘multinational’ country and ethnic minority policy was no longer needed (Heberer 1989: 25). After 1978, the Chinese Government tried to reestablish and improve regional autonomy in Tibet. In the 1980s, the State Council abolished the people’s commune system and admitted that its policy of forcing Tibetans to raise wheat rather than the barley they preferred had been not only a cultural mistake, but an ecological disaster as well (Dreyer 1989: 281). With the arrival of Wu Jinghua as regional party secretary of the TAR, and with Dorje Tsering as regional government leader, a limited cultural liberalization took place between 1985–8 (Karmel 1995: 486). Since 1989, however, the CCP has reverted to a tough policy towards Tibetan secessionism. The breakup of the Soviet Union and ‘peaceful

70

baogang he

evolution’ in Eastern Europe were alarming precedents for China. Chen Kuiyuan, Party secretary of the TAR, explained changes in China’s policies toward Tibet by referring to international changes in the post-cold war era: ‘Especially under the influence of the international macro-environment, separatist activities have intensified in Tibet and the situation of the antiseparatist struggle has sharpened.’ (cited in Karmel 1995: 494)

Tibetan Autonomy in Practice These swings in government policy towards Tibet reflect a view of minority autonomy as a matter of expediency not principle, and also reflect the overriding concern with national security and the stability of Communist Party rule. We can see this more concretely in four main areas of autonomy in Tibet: politics, law, culture, and economy. First, in the area of political autonomy, according to official Chinese sources, the growing ranks of minority cadres constitute an important milestone in national autonomy (Luo 1991: 21). A large number of ex-serfs and their children have taken up leading posts at various levels of government in Tibet, including chief leaders of the people’s congresses, governments, and courts at various levels. In September 1994, Tibetan cadres were reported to account for 71.7 percent of all cadres at the regional level, 69.9 percent at prefectural (di) levels, and 74.8 percent at the county (xian) level (Luo 1991). In June 1956, only seven Tibetans were admitted into the CCP. The number increased to 3,000 in 1963, and 40,000 in 1988. By 1991, the CCP had over 57,000 Tibetans and other minority members. By the end of 1989, it is reported that there were about 1,000 Tibetan officers in leadership posts in the PLA, of whom 16 were commanders and 164 held the rank of major (Luo 1991). The official government position is that these statistics demonstrate selfrule by Tibetans. This is highly problematic as most high-ranking Tibetan cadres wield only titular power. Candidates for the role of chairperson of the TAR are chosen by central leaders, while TAR Party secretaries are appointed by central Party leaders and are non-Tibetans, such as Wu Jinghua (Yi nationality) (1985–88), Hu Jintao (Han Chinese) and Chen Kuiyuan (Han Chinese). Only regional government leaders are Tibetans, such as Dorje Tsering (1985–88) and Gyaincain Norbu (Karmel 1995: 494). Table 3.1 demonstrates how the percentage of Tibetan cadres varies in different areas. The percentage of Tibetans is lower in the most powerful institutions such as party and government, but higher in those with the least power such as culture and religion. Second, in the area of legal autonomy, Tibet has enacted seventy-two special sets of rules and regulations, local laws, and legal resolutions as at the end of June 1999 (People’s Daily, Overseas Edition June 21, 1999: 4). They

minority rights with chinese characteristics

71

Table 3.1 The percentage of Tibetan cadres in different areas Institution Tibetan Party Committee Tibetan People’s Congress Tibetan Government Tibetan Political Consultation Tibetan Nationality and Religion Committee Tibetan Buddhist Association Tibetan Institute of Social Science People’s Bank

Tibetan cadres (n)

Total cadres (n)

Tibetan cadres (%)

43 53 88 139 36 51 100 69

195 98 216 164 60 52 122 146

22 54 40 85 60 98 82 47

Source: Tibet Autonomous Region Bureau of Statistics 1990: 189–90, shortened by the author.

involve such areas as the structure of political power, social and economic development, marriage, education, written language, the legal system, natural resources, and environmental protection. The government issued regulations banning the presence of outsiders at the traditional Tibetan sky burial ritual when the Tibetans took offence at groups of tourists (Dreyer 1989: 281). Nevertheless, most local laws passed by local people’s parliaments are, as in the rest of China, formalistic in that they only repeat national laws. Local laws can modify national laws but cannot override the authority of national law which emanates from the center. Third, in the area of cultural autonomy, it became possible for Lamaist Buddhists to make the pilgrimage to Lhasa again since the 1980s. Monasteries and temples destroyed during the Cultural Revolution were rebuilt and expanded, and young men were again permitted to become monks if they so desired (Dreyer 1989). In September 1988, a committee established under the leadership of the late Panchen Lama called for ‘self-government of religion’ in Tibet in order to preclude administrative interference in the religious affairs of all Tibetans in China (Heberer 1989: 125–6). Ironically, when the Panchen Lama died, Beijing initiated its own search for his reincarnation while denying the Dalai Lama’s findings. The Central Government has placed limits on the number of people who may become monks (Dreyer 1989: 283). This is not only to limit the spread of the faith, but also to relieve the state’s financial burden, for Lamas would enjoy state subsidies for food just like any local urban residents (Dreyer 1989: 284). The Government also controlled pilgrimage through the regulation that one had to receive permission to travel from one’s work unit. Sometimes

72

baogang he

permission was denied for purely economic reasons: the absence of a large number of people at the same time could affect production. Other times, the motivation for refusal was connected with social control, as pilgrims had raised banners calling for independence, hoisted Tibet’s ‘snow mountain and lion’ flag (banned by government authorities), and distributed anti-Chinese leaflets in the past (Dreyer 1989: 283). In 1987, the Tibet Autonomous Regional People’s Congress adopted the Regulations on the Study, Use, and Development of the Written Tibetan Language (for a trial implementation). At the same time, it articulated the principle of attaching equal importance to both written Chinese and Tibetan languages (with the emphasis laid mainly on the latter), and established a committee in charge of the use and development of the written Tibetan language. The people’s government of the TAR promulgated, in October 1988, rules for the implementation of these regulations. These rules stipulate that all conferences of the autonomous regional government and all official documents should use both Tibetan and Chinese languages; all newspapers, radio, TV, and other mass media should use the two languages; all units, streets, roads, and public facilities should be marked in both Tibetan and Chinese languages; schools should gradually establish an educational system centred around Tibetan language education; and the judicial organs, while examining and trying cases, must guarantee that Tibetan citizens have the right to legal proceedings in their own language (Luo 1991: 20). By 1993, middle school texts had to be written entirely in Tibetan, and by 1997, most subjects in senior, middle, and technical schools were to be taught in Tibetan. After 2000, institutes of higher learning were to gradually start using Tibetan as well (Dreyer 1989: 284). However, this ambitious plan has been abandoned as part of the post-1989 crackdown on ‘separatism’, and almost all subjects are now taught in Chinese. This move seems to follow the trend identified by Kymlicka and Opalski (2001: 367) that ‘So long as all higher education is in the majority language, and so long as all legal and political institutions are centralized, then all avenues for economic advancement and political influence will require integrating into majority institutions’. By 1994, 7 newspapers and 11 magazines, and 231 books were produced in Tibetan (China’s Ethnic Statistical Yearbook 1995: 376–82), and every year, 25 Tibetan language films are made (Zhang 1995: 5–6). In 2002, 474 Tibetan books, 20 Tibetan journals and 8 Tibetan newspapers have been published, while there were 400 Chinese books, 14 Chinese journals and 11 Chinese newspapers (Tibet Autonomous Region Bureau of Statistics 2003: 279–80). By 1990, college-educated students in Tibet comprised 5.7 per thousand of population, compared to 4.2 per thousand in 1982. The figures for high school education were 21.2 per thousand in 1990 and 12.1 per thousand in 1982. The proportion of illiterates and semiliterates in the Tibetan popula-

minority rights with chinese characteristics

73

tion has dropped from more than 90 percent in the 1950s to 46 percent in 1982, and further to 44 percent at the end of 1994 (Liao 1995: 60–1; Luo 1991: 20–2). Fourth, the area of economic autonomy, Tibet has been permitted to make its own decisions concerning the development and exploitation of its resources, which are to be used to benefit the local population (Heberer 1989: 46). However, the economic powers of minority nationalities, as one Chinese scholar acknowledges, are very limited because the center does not want to give up its power. There is no legally defined boundary of economic power between Beijing and the autonomous regions. In all existing laws there is no provision for the financial aspects of autonomy rights (Dai 1997: 8–17). The Law on National Regional Autonomy stipulates that localities may, in accordance with state stipulations, carry out foreign trading activities and, with the approval of the State Council, they may open foreign trading ports. At the Second Session of the Fourth People’s Congress of the TAR in July 1985, Tibetan Government leaders issued a series of preferential policies on Tibet’s foreign trading activities. Tibet opened the Zham Port, abutting on Nepal for the development of border trade. In order to promote the development of Tibet’s foreign trading activities, the central government has adopted special policies which specify lower rates for import and export duties, and has allowed the autonomous region to retain all of its export earnings (100 percent for Tibet, 50 percent for other autonomous regions) (Luo 1991: 22; Li 1997: 91). Total exports from the TAR to Nepal, Bhutan, and India amounted to US$16 million in 1991, 45 million in 1996, 113 million in 2000, but dropped to 81 million in 2002 (Tibet Autonomous Region Bureau of Statistics 2003: 245).

Evaluation of Chinese Practice of Autonomy Varying judgements about the success or failure of Tibetan autonomy can be found. The Chinese propaganda department presents an official picture of the ‘great achievement’ of Chinese practice of minority autonomy. Most outside commentators argue, however, that the record has been unimpressive, especially if Chinese practice is compared with the practice of autonomy in other parts of the world (Herzer 1999). Some even claim that the practice of autonomy in Tibet has been merely a ‘paper autonomy’ and that ‘minority rights are suppressed’ in China (Washington Post, March 25, 1997). This may be an overstatement, although clearly minority rights are exercised and protected much more in the ‘soft’ areas such as the economy, health, and culture than in the ‘hard’ area of political rights. And even in the areas of culture and economy, autonomy has often been undermined whenever the party/state sees some practices threatening the unity of the Chinese nation-state.

74

baogang he

Part of the problem is that regional autonomy in China operates under a unitary state, rather than through federalism. Chinese autonomy lacks a federal division of powers, and an independent local judiciary with full responsibility for interpreting local laws and whose exercise of power is generally not subject to veto by the central government. As a result, whenever a perceived challenge to stability arises, autonomy is restricted or reduced. For example, in 1994, Beijing circulated a resolution reaffirming the leading position of Han Chinese cadres in the Tibetan Government and Party organization, and demanding that Tibetan cadres cut off their links with the Dalai Lama (Liao 1995: 59–60). In China, the concept of a unitary multinational state is underpinned by a consensus that stability overrides any other considerations. Yet it is clear that this sort of limited autonomy is not acceptable to many Tibetans, and to the Tibetan exile leadership. The Dalai Lama’s proposal for ‘genuine autonomy’ draws on liberal principles of autonomy and Buddhist traditions, and thus sidelines the role of the CCP. The proposal’s inclusion of a directly elected chief executive and independent judiciary represents a fundamental rupture in the current Chinese political system and makes no room for the CCP, implying an end to party leadership. Given its authoritarian system, Beijing will not accept a proposal of this kind (He 2001). The official Chinese conception of regional autonomy derives from Marxist principles and Confucian Ronghe traditions. Beijing has rejected the Dalai Lama’s proposal for fear it would create an internal boundary and an ‘independent kingdom’. For Beijing, Chinese autonomy is characterized by a combination of political ‘self-rule’, economic integration, cultural exchange, and ethnic intermingling. Beijing is also reluctant to accept the idea of the chief executive in Tibet being elected rather than appointed (He 2001). In his two visits to China in 2002 and 2003, Lodi Gyari, the delegation head appointed by the Dalai Lama, has confronted Chinese cultural and ideological bias against the Dalai Lama’s autonomy proposal. Many Chinese officials have consistently told him that China has already developed a sound system of autonomy, implying that China does not need the Dalai Lama’s autonomy proposal. Lodi Gyari would like the Chinese to revise their view of autonomy, taking autonomy as an intrinsic value and providing citizens with inalienable rights, rather than as an instrument for national unity and social control. He has also suggested that the Tibet Government in Exile recognize the reality of CCP leadership in Tibet and the role of the central government and the CCP in a transitional arrangement. While the central party organization would have the right to appoint a party secretary for Tibet, Tibet would have the right to elect its governor.7 7 The author’s interview with Lodi Gyari and Bhuchung Tseing in Washington on July 23, July 31, August 7, 2003, with Lodi Gyari in Singapore on March 25, 2004.

minority rights with chinese characteristics

75

5. Challenges to Liberal Multiculturalism in China Many scholars, inside and outside China, have argued that a new approach is needed for Tibet (and Xinjiang). But is Western-style liberal multiculturalism the only or best alternative to the status quo? The crucial issue concerns the role of assimilation, or more specifically the use of internal territorial boundaries to prevent or reduce the intermingling of different groups. According to Kymlicka’s model of liberal multiculturalism, the idea of assimilation should be rejected, at least for national minorities, who should be accorded the right to maintain themselves as distinct societies alongside the majority culture. This right includes, if necessary, defining internal political boundaries that enable a minority group to live and interact primarily amongst themselves, and reduce their need to interact with members of the larger society. However, it is important to remember that the liberal tradition is itself diverse. J. S. Mill, the great classical liberal thinker, favored an assimilationist policy for national minorities. A Breton or a Basque, he said, was better off becoming a member of the French nationality. The same applied to the Welshman or the Scottish Highlander in Britain. Mill praised the assimilation of Irish and English peoples: There is now next to nothing, except the memory of the past, and the difference in the predominant religion, to keep apart two races [Irish and English], perhaps the most fitted of any two in the world to be the completing counterpart of one another. (Mill 1947: 365)

Indeed, assimilation is a natural phenomenon. In human life, as Mill has pointed out, ‘experience proves that it is possible for one nationality to merge and be absorbed in another; and when it was originally an inferior and more backward portion of the human race the absorption is greater to its advantage’ (Mill 1947: 363). In modern China, Sun Yat-sen advocated an assimilationist policy to achieve national unity, using both the terms ronghe (intermingling) and tonghua (assimilation) (Yang et al. 1998: 11). In 1957, the then Chinese Prime Minister Zhou Enlai rejected ‘reactionary’ assimilation—where one group destroys another by force—and encouraged the ‘progressive’ assimilation or national merging of ethnic groups in advancing towards prosperity (Grunfeld 1996: 262). Today, leaders in Beijing prefer the word ronghe to the term tonghua. In the official Chinese theory of minority rights, the term minzu zizhuquan is used to express the right to self-government by the minority group, but such a term does not accept the idea of nonassimilation, nor does it tolerate the attempt to institutionalize an internal boundary through any sort of system of territorial reservations. China’s constitution says nothing about the right

76

baogang he

of minorities to not be assimilated. In fact, refusal to assimilate is usually interpreted as undermining national unity and the state’s stability. Elsewhere I have outlined reasons rooted in the Confucian tradition for rejecting Kymlicka’s idea of nonassimilation (He 2004). Here I would like to examine the reasons why Beijing leaders prefer ronghe (intermingling) to tonghua (assimilation). The former assumes equality between two parties, while the latter assumes a superior position of one party over the other. Ronghe is the fusion or amalgamation of majority and minorities in a process of Confucian cultural diffusion. In an ideal Confucian world, to harmonize the relations between different ethnic and cultural groups and communities is a top priority. This harmonization approach recognizes differences while not imposing conformity, and minimizes conflicts while not undermining autonomy. It stresses mutual respect and responsibility (Bodde 1967: 46–7). Under the umbrella of Ronghe, minorities are encouraged to maintain and develop their cultures in so far as they do not constitute a political threat to the unity of the state, and they contribute to diversity, aesthetics, and tourism. Ronghe is not equal to Sinicization, and it is different from absorption. Let us suppose A and B are ethnic groups. Absorption means that either A absorbs B, which then loses its identity, or B absorbs A, which loses its identity. By contrast, Ronghe has three patterns or processes of intermingling A and B. 1. A and B form a hybrid entity and create new properties. 2. A and B coexist and both of them maintain their crucial separate identities. 3. A and B coexist and some major properties of A and B are lost. There are numerous historical instances illustrating these three models that have provided cultural and historical grounds for Ronghe policy in China. These examples will help to explain the persistence of China’s Ronghe policy and will demonstrate the reasons for preferring it to the presence of internal boundaries for minority groups.8 An instance of the first model was the formation of Han ethnicity, which was the product of the intermingling of numerous ethnic groups in Chinese history. It is now difficult to make a distinction between A and B and others. An example of the second model was the relationship between the Han and Yi. The Yi ethnic group has lived in Yunan Province for around one thousand years. Today younger generations of the Yi know nothing about 8

At the same time, minority leaders from Tibet and Xinjiang feel overwhelmed by the encroachment of Han Chinese and they prefer an internal boundary against the influx of Han Chinese into minority areas. For example, Xinjiang regional governor, Abdulahat Abdurixit, voiced his opposition to a plan to move 100,000 people, most of them Han, from the Three Gorges Dam site to Xinjiang (Reuters, March 19, 1997).

minority rights with chinese characteristics

77

a huge tomb where 10,000 Han Chinese were buried. They were killed by the Yi in a battle that took place during the Tang dynasty. Intermingling and cultural assimilation has occurred and both Han and Yi now coexist while the Yi still maintain a distinctive cultural identity.9 Another example is the relationship between Buddhism and Confucianism. Buddhism was Sinicized when introduced into China, and was interpreted from a Confucian perspective. At the same time, neo-Confucian philosophy in the Song dynasty was deeply influenced by Buddhism. Nevertheless, both maintained their distinctive features and coexisted for more than 2000 years. An example of the third model is the intermingling of the Manchu and the Han. The Manchu used force to conquer Han areas and adopted Confucianism in order to rule the Han people. In 1723 Emperor Youzheng praised Confucius as the ‘ancestor king’. In 1727 he regarded the birthday of Confucius as equally sacrosanct as that of Emperor Kang Xi, a founding father of the Qing dynasty. When the Manchu established their empire, both Manchu and Chinese were official languages. After more than three hundred years, both ethnic groups were integrated. The Manchu language influenced Beijing’s vocabulary and pronunciation, but today only a few people can speak this language. It should be pointed out that the key elements of this successful intermingling include the ruling Manchu adopting Confucianism as an official ideology, and the Han Chinese, albeit subject to ‘foreign’ political rule, maintaining a cultural leadership role in sustaining and developing Confucianism. These historical precedents provided a strong incentive for the Chinese government to continue to support the Ronghe policy toward Tibet. Moreover, Han Chinese and Tibetans belong to the ‘yellow race’ (in Chinese discourse, the term ‘yellow race’ is not derogatory, but is used as a unifying term by Chinese nationalist ideology); Buddhism and Confucianism have coexisted for a long time; and Tibetan Buddhism has had close relations with other branches of Buddhism in the rest of China. In short, Confucian scholars would argue that Confucianism constitutes a counterbalance to Kymlicka’s nonassimilation policy, for the latter has practical problems such as the misuse of minority rights to maximize selfinterests, the institutionalization of separate communities, the violation of individual rights, and the intensification of ethnic conflicts, such as in India. In recent years, Chinese scholars Yang et al. (1998) have developed a ‘Chinese-style’ theory of minority rights shaped by the Chinese theory of collective rights. They argue that China has developed a model of protecting and guaranteeing minority rights, such as the rights to minority autonomy, to 9

This depends on how minorities see their belonging, and their perceptions of the relationship between national and minority identities. Ma Chunwei, an official cadre in charge of minority matters in Yunnan, whom I interviewed on January 23, 1996 in Kunmin, said he was clearly conscious of being a member of the Chinese community and a member of a minority when he was an undergraduate. He thought both could coexist.

78

baogang he

political consultation, to the use and development of minority languages, and to the preservation and development of minority cultures and customs, while avoiding the dangers of the liberal model of minority rights. Their underlying principle is ronghe, and their theory is an example of a model that is based on Confucian intermingling rather than the sort of separateness suggested by Kymlicka’s theory. However, these Confucian ideas are not uncontested within China. As we’ve seen, the Confucian rejection of nonassimilation constitutes a theoretical obstacle to the implementation of genuine autonomy in places like Tibet, and may therefore exacerbate the minority problem. Some scholars have argued that China needs a new framework for discussing relations amongst ethnic groups. For example, Ma recently argued strongly that the foundation of state unity and the harmony of all nationalities must be based on respect for human rights (2002: 103–11). State unity is not the highest goal if it does not promote human rights. This human rights discourse sets up an alternative framework in which Confucian terms such as ‘brotherly love’, ‘the family-like state’, and paternalism are displaced in public justification (He 2004, 1996: ch. 4). Nonetheless, I believe that the Confucian discourse of family or brotherly love will continue to play a role in the politics of minority issues, and that it will continue to push China in the direction of ethnic intermingling rather than nationalist separatism.

6. Conclusion Ethnic minority groups and multiculturalism are facing a number of major challenges in China. Significant among them is the commercialization of multiculturalism, which might lead to the vulgarization and fundamental alteration of minority cultures. While multiculturalism became the buzzword of the 1990s from boardroom to classroom throughout America, Europe, and Australia, it became an instrument of economic development in China. As Heim, a freelance writer based in Hong Kong observed: Distinct from the majority Han Chinese, ethnic minorities are now the main attractions in some of China’s most popular tourist sites. Their cultures—displayed through costumes, artifacts, performances, festivals and replica villages—have become valuable commodities in China’s growing market economy. (Heim 1995)

Economic globalization is also posing a considerable challenge to minority autonomy (Mackerras 2003a: 181–2). After China’s accession to the World Trade Organization, ‘it is expected that privileges autonomous regions are used to enjoying today will be cancelled. This includes the recruitment policy that privileges or exempts ethnic members as well as allotments for the ethnic

minority rights with chinese characteristics

79

enterprises’ (Shih 2002: 254). The globalization of modern casual daily clothes, especially as worn by young people influenced by the fashion industry, has undermined traditional dress—the cultural symbolism of ethnic identity. Due to the loss of distinctiveness of traditional dress, it becomes hard to tell Chinese from Korean and Japanese, and Han Chinese from Tibetans. China’s Ronghe policy encouraging intermingling is another major challenge. Beijing believes that Ronghe is workable in Tibet, and it will be more successful in the next few decades. Ronghe puts into question whether it makes sense to view certain multiethnic regions as having a specific ethnic identity. Chinese scholar Zhou Yong questions the usefulness of ethnic autonomy in situations where a region is multiethnic. It is unclear who is autonomous, and the term ‘ethnic’ in ‘ethnic autonomy’ loses relevance, for example, in Long Multi-Ethnic Autonomous County (Shih 2002: 254–5). Chinese-style multiculturalism is strictly limited to the soft area of cultural production, distribution, and symbol formation. As soon as we move to the political institutions of multiculturalism, national security considerations take precedence over consideration of minority rights. The Party-State allows cultural autonomy as long as it does not threaten the unity of China. The process of gaining political autonomy and self-government for ethnic minority groups is often compromised due to the priority given to the unity of the state and societal stability. While the overriding Chinese concern for national unity is, according to Mackerras (2003b: 43), ‘a legitimate one’, the overriding national security concern has blocked the development of a reasonable and healthy discussion forum on ethnic issues because those who even raise ethnic issues, for example, in Tibet, are under suspicion, and invite public security scrutiny. The sources of current Chinese policies on minority rights are a complex combination of various intellectual inheritances, combining echoes of Confucian ideas of paternalistic guardianship over backward groups or ‘younger brothers’ with echoes of Marxist/Leninist ideas of ethnic autonomy, mixed with echoes of liberal ideas of minority rights and affirmative action policies for minority groups. Chinese minority rights, indeed, have their own characteristics drawn from rich traditions. Under a Confucian framework, minority rights are customary practice with an outlook which emphasizes ‘duty’. Under Marxist ideology, minority rights are subordinated to, and revoked by, the revolutionary cause. With the influence of liberalism and liberal theories of minority rights, the long-term viability of current Chinese policies on minority rights and identity is unclear, as is the potential for adopting a more liberal approach. The impact of any Chinese democratization and of China’s entry into the World Trade Organization on minority rights, institutions, and policies remains to be seen.

4 A Liberal Model of Minority Rights for an Illiberal Multiethnic State? The Case of the Lao PDR VATTHANA P HOLSENA

Kymlicka’s liberal theory of minority rights rests upon the principle that respect for minorities’ cultures enhances individual freedom and autonomy by providing their members a context that gives them access to meaningful choice in ways of life, in both public and private spheres (Kymlicka and Marı´n 1999: 138). In this regard, his conception of minority rights relates to Taylor’s work on ‘the politics of recognition’, drawing on Hegelian notions. Taylor argues that recognition of one’s group identity is an action against oppression, ‘a vital human need’, inasmuch as ‘our identity is partly shaped by recognition or its absence, often by the misrecognition of others, and so a person or group of people can suffer real damage, real distortion, if the people or society around them mirror back a confining or demeaning or contemptible picture of themselves’ (Taylor 1995: 225). Kymlicka differs from Taylor in focusing less on recognition as an abstract human need, and more on recognition as a response to the injustices of modern nation-building. He rejects the distinction between ‘ethnic’ and ‘civic’ nations, which, he argues, is misleading for there are no such nationstates that define national membership purely in terms of adherence to principles of democracy and justice (Kymlicka 2001: 24). Western democracies have privileged the majority’s culture and identity through deliberate state policies by assuming that minority cultures would (and should) disappear with the process of political modernization and socioeconomic progress that would eventually assimilate all the ‘backward’ minorities into the ‘advanced’ majority’s culture. In other words, promoting integration into the culture of the majority has been part of the ‘nation-building’ project that all liberal democracies have adopted. The idea that liberal-democratic states are ethnoculturally neutral is therefore ‘misguided’ (Kymlicka 2000: 186). Accordingly, a theory of minority rights that would accommodate minority groups’ ethnic identities should not be viewed as a deviation from so-called ‘ethnocultural neutrality’, but as a response to the majority’s nation-building

the case of the lao pdr

81

project. As Kymlicka sums up: ‘since mainstream institutions privilege the majority’s culture and identity in so many ways, and since people’s interests in culture and identity are so important, the question we face is not whether to adopt multiculturalism, but rather which kind of multiculturalism to adopt’ (Kymlicka 2001: 35, emphasis in original). While I agree in principle with Kymlicka’s liberal theory of minority rights, attempts to apply his model to the case of Laos raises a number of questions, not least because the country has neither Western liberal traditions nor a democratic political system. This chapter discusses several reasons why Kymlicka’s liberal model of minority rights is not (or maybe, not yet) applicable in Laos. Nonetheless, Kymlicka’s arguments are not irrelevant to the search for a form of nation-building that would reconcile ethnic minority rights, national identity, and social unity in Laos, if and when a more democratic political environment prevails in the country. The fundamental idea that differentiated patterns of ethnocultural relations might instill more justice in a culturally diverse society is indeed worth considering. I will therefore conclude the paper by considering, in a tentative way, which kind of minority rights for which groups in Laos would be consistent with both state cohesion and security on the one hand, and justice and freedom for the members of minority groups on the other.

1. Lao Minority Policy in a Historical Perspective Conventionally, the population of the Lao People’s Democratic Republic (Lao PDR) is divided into four very broad categories, each of which corresponds to an ethnolinguistic family: the Tai–Kadai family, including the ethnic Lao, who account for about 66 percent of the total population; the Austroasiatic family, divided between Mon-Khmer and Viet-Muang speakers and accounting for about 23 percent, and the peoples from Tibeto-Burman (2.7 percent) and Sino-Tibetan (7.4 percent) ethnolinguistic families, who account for about 10 percent; the remaining 1 percent of the population is made up of ethnic Vietnamese and Chinese populations (Bounthavy and Taillard 2000). However, depending on the system of classification, the number of ethnic groups in Laos can greatly vary. Thus, while the latest Lao population census (1995) shows 47 groupings; another survey revealed 236 ethnic groups (Chamberlain et al. 1995). The ethnic Lao proper, the sociopolitically dominant group, does not constitute an overwhelming majority. They are distributed in the lowlands, primarily along the Mekong and Nam Ou rivers. Other lowland areas are inhabited by ethnic groups related to Lao who speak a variety of Tai–Kadai languages. Members of the Austroasiatic family, generally acknowledged to be the original inhabitants of the country, are found throughout the country in both upland and lowland

82

vatthana pholsena

environments. Tibeto–Burman speakers arrived recently from Southwest China, while the Hmong-Mien (Miao-Yao) peoples, likewise recent arrivals, came from South and Southeast China. These latter two families are confined primarily to highland areas in the northern provinces. Relations between the Lao majority and other groups have varied over time. We can distinguish three key eras—the precolonial kingdoms, colonialism and the struggle for national independence, and the post-1975 Communist regime—each of which continues to exert an influence on interethnic relations.

The Southeast Asian Premodern Kingdoms: The Mandalas The Lan Xang kingdom, the polity that occupied the present-day territory of Laos from the fourteenth to the eighteenth century, like the kingdoms of Lan Na or Ayutthaya, was influenced by the political and religious model of the Khmer empire of Angkor that existed between the ninth and the fifteenth century (Condominas 1980: 261), which had been itself influenced by Hindu magico-religious ideas. The Angkorean kings, claiming to be of divine essence, were the intermediary element that linked the cosmic order to the human world. Their task was to maintain harmony between the empire and the universe. To achieve this aim, they strove to replicate the former in the image of the latter. They were object of a cult, that of the Devaraja (the divine king), and placed at the centre of the world on earth (Keyes 1995: 73). Despite the decline of the Khmer empire of Angkor in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, there remained in the Theravada Buddhist polities of mainland Southeast Asia, including the kingdom of Lan Xang, this conception of the world being centered on a point; hence, the often-quoted Hindu and Buddhist concept of mandala1 to define the political system that governed the Southeast Asian prestates. The Tai2 leaders borrowed the concept and turned it into a political principle to organize and legitimate their rule. Thus, as a religious-cum-political image, the mandala was, in Wolters’ seminal definition: [ . . . ] a particular and often unstable political situation in a vaguely definable geographical area without fixed boundaries and where smaller centers tended to look in all directions for security. Mandalas would expand and contract in concertinalike fashion. Each one contained several tributary rulers, some of whom would 1 The word means ‘circle’ in Hindi and referred originally to a cosmological symbol. The mandala is thus a complex diagram in circular form that represents an image of the universe, a receptacle for gods. It is the place where the cosmic and psychic energies concentrate. As a sacred place, the mandala is a form of paradise (Rice 1980: 246). 2 By the term ‘Tai’, I refer to the language family and their speakers. It therefore includes the contemporary Lao, Thai, and Shan populations.

the case of the lao pdr

83

repudiate their vassal status when the opportunity arose and try to build up their own networks of vassals. (Wolters 1999: 27–8)

The mandala system was formed of several ‘circles of power’, the centre of which was dominated by a Buddhist king who ruled by right of (divine) descent and right of merit. He had, it was believed, accumulated enough merit in his previous lives to have deserved to be born as a king. The expansion or contraction of the mandala would depend on his ability to gain the allegiance of smaller political structures and lesser rulers. His power was not in fact measured in terms of territorial gains but rather determined by the size of the ruled population. The power status of the center was therefore highly variable in accordance with the resources available to the ruler from trade, tribute, and manpower, the latter mobilized through military conscription or slavery (Wolters 1999: 114). The impact of this mandala model on non-Lao ethnic minorities was complex. On the one hand, it served to legitimize relations of ethnic inequality. It provided an explanation to the subject population of their position in the merit-ranked social order. Each individual’s position corresponded to a social and political status as well as to a specific position in the production system to which were attached privileges and duties. The hierarchy was also justified by religious principles. Accordingly, the non-Tai-speaking peoples were believed to be condemned to the most degrading tasks because of their original exclusion from the religious (Buddhist) mainstream as recounted in the ethnic Lao myth of the origin of mankind. The earliest law code to have survived from the Lan Xang period, known as the Law of Khun Boˆrom and written in Xieng Khuang in 1422, refers in detail to the structure of early Lao society. The latter consisted of four categories: aristocracy, free peasants or commoners (phai), slaves (kha), and at the bottom, the nonethnic Lao (Stuart-Fox 1998: 47). In his study of Lao religious structures, the French anthropologist Archaimbault (1973) showed that the unequal relationship between the ethnic Lao and the nonethnic Lao peoples was inscribed in the ethnic Lao myth of the origin of mankind, known as the myth of Khun Boˆrom. This cosmology divided the world between the descendants of the deities (Khun Boˆrom was himself the son of the king of deities), called the then, and the human beings who were born to marrows that grew on earth. Originally, inside these vegetables, the ethnic Lao and nonethnic Lao were similar, but as soon as they came out from two different holes, they became distinct from one another. From then on, there were the ethnic Lao on one side and the ‘Kha’, that is, the nonethnic Lao, on the other (Archaimbault 1973: 77). This myth helped to give legitimacy to the existing social order by conflating the latter with a putative natural order. It asserted the right of the ethnic Lao to rule over the indigenous peoples. It also justified the

84

vatthana pholsena

politico-religious order by placing the Buddhist kings in the rank of deities, since they were the descendants of Khun Boˆrom whose seven sons went to establish different kingdoms in the northwestern region of Mainland Southeast Asia.3 Thus, Khun Loˆ, the eldest son of Khun Boˆrom, founded Meuang S’va, which would later become the kingdom of Luang Prabang (Archaimbault 1973: 105). On the other hand, Archaimbault also showed a more complex relationship between the ethnic Lao and the nonethnic Lao peoples. He noted that the rites of Luang Prabang were also charged with the right of the aborigines to the soil, as they were its first occupants. He wrote: The fight that opposed the conquering Lao to the indigenous peoples, which remained outside cultural boundaries, was replaced—at least, according to the texts—by an agonal4 game, the function of which was to reintroduce temporarily the barbarians into the community, and to trace back the evolution of an exclusive right on land (Archaimbault 1973: 79)5

Despite the overarching ethnic hierarchy, ethnic minorities were often able to maintain control over their lands and society. As long as the chieftains of the meuang6 complied with the king’s requirements, they had a rather wide margin of freedom (Stuart-Fox 1997: 11). In fact, the further the subject population were located from the center, the less control the king could exercise over them. Taillard described these spatial patterns as a ‘model of concentric halos with decreasing control’ (Taillard 1989: 44). The smaller political entities even switched their allegiance completely as a result of wars and shifting power relationships, or avowed loyalty to several different kings contemporaneously. Unlike the Chinese empire, the Buddhist polities therefore lacked the centralized and bureaucratic organization to control the margins. Moreover, their rulers never sought to civilize the ‘savages’ living on the frontiers of their empires (Keyes 2002: 1172–3). Accordingly, the frontiers of the kingdom were relatively fluid, their definition and spatial extent depending upon the power of the monarch at the center. This model remained dominant until the period of French colonialism. 3 The kingdoms of Annam, Nyuen, Siam, and P’uon, the lattermost corresponding to the present-day province of Xieng Khuang in Northwestern Laos. 4 For the meaning of the game played in Luang Prabang, Archaimbault refers the reader to another of his writings, ‘Une ce´re´monie en l’honneur des ge´nies de la mine de sel de Ban Boˆ’ in La Feˆte du T’at (1970) (Archaimbault 1970: 87). 5 ‘Au combat qui opposa les conque´rants lao et les aborige`nes, combat qui demeura en dehors des bornes de la culture, fut substitue´—du moins selon les textes—un jeu agonal charge´ de re´introduire momentane´ment les barbares au sein de la communaute´, et de retracer l’e´volution d’un droit exclusivement foncier’ (Archaimbault 1973: 79). 6 A meuang was the political unit above the village level comprising several villages, ‘usually connected by common descent and forming a defined geographical unity along the floor of an upland valley’ (Stuart-Fox 1998: 28).

the case of the lao pdr

85

Early Lao Nationalism The early Lao nationalism that developed during World War II was built against other nationalist visions, real or potential, that is, the pan-Thai ideology and a Vietnamese-dominated Indochina political project. Lao nationalism therefore was defined primarily by the majority Lao, so as to justify claims to a separate and viable nation-state at the international level.7 However, the politics of national culture and identity during the war and in the immediate postwar period were not deliberately assimilationist—it was more an outward-looking claim of national distinctiveness (vis-a`-vis Thais and Vietnamese) than an inward-looking attempt at national homogenization. In any case, the newly independent state would have been unable to enforce integrationist policies given the weakness of the central government. Equal citizenship was granted in the 1947 Constitution to all the races of Laos, including the upland minority groups, the Vietnamese, and the Chinese. As Lockhart notes, ‘It can be argued that education [before 1975] never succeeded in broadening its vision to build a Lao nation because it failed to incorporate the various ethnic groups whose position—though strategically important—was psychologically and culturally peripheral from the perspective of the ruling e´lite in Vientiane and Luang Phabang’ (Lockhart 2002: 9). The lowland Lao e´lite and leadership were in effect less concerned about assimilating the upland and highland population than strengthening the process of cultural and linguistic Laocization in their own backyard, that is, among the lowland Lao population themselves. Lockhart acutely remarks that the hierarchy between the ethnic Lao and the highlanders, pejoratively named after kha or Meo—kha is commonly translated as ‘slave’—was not defined along cultural lines or by civilizational degrees, but rather in terms of ethnicity and socioeconomic ranking. In his view, accordingly, ‘[e]ducation, then, was perceived mainly in the context of socioeconomic development (and thus of nation-building) rather than as part of a top-down mission civilisatrice’ (Lockhart 2002: 19). The pre-Communist Laotian government, in fact, perpetuated the political system and society based on the centre– periphery dichotomy. Put differently, it is reasonable to presume that the lowland Lao leaders in the mid-twentieth century were still guided by the traditional Buddhist concept and taxonomy that defined the relationships 7 Except for the 1941–6 period, the outer borders of Laos have remained essentially unchanged since the Siamese–French treaties at the turn of the twentieth century. (In 1941, the Phibunsongkram regime of Thailand forced French Indochina to cede to it the southern territory of Champassak and, in the north, the Sayaboury region of the Luang Prabang kingdom. These territories were returned to Laos after the end of the war in November 1946.) Given the durability of external borders, the Lao nationalists had not been forced, unlike the Siamese e´lite in the late nineteenth century facing the threat of French colonial expansion, to legitimize the country either territorially or racially.

86

vatthana pholsena

between rulers and ruled in terms of center and periphery, on one hand, and class and status (more than race), on the other. The modern ideology of a territorial nation-state, endorsed for international purposes, coexisted with premodern ideologies in which weakly controlled peripheries were left to their own devices.

Minority policies in Communist Laos The Communist leadership took power in 1975 and changed the discourse and policies on ethnicity. They substituted a majoritarian logic built around the Lao culture with a policy of equality dominated by the class issue and the diktat of progress. During the first years of the Communist rule, the Socialist Revolution attempted to create a loyalty to the new state greater than loyalties to particular ethnic identities. The ultimate goal for the Lao Communists, as it was for their Soviet, Chinese, and Vietnamese counterparts, guided by a historicist and evolutionist vision, was to eradicate the ‘old’ identities and replace them by a ‘Socialist’ one (Pholsena 2002: 191). In other words, these regimes’ ultimate objective was not to build a society based on ethnic/national consciousness: the concept of class was thought to be the new society’s main axis of identification. However, antagonisms and mistrust between ethnic groups were to be dissipated by a period of national equality first. This policy came to be known as ‘the flourishing of the nations’. It was predicated upon the belief that ‘nationalities’ (i.e. ethnic minorities) would naturally move closer together, a process described in the official Marxist vocabulary as the ‘rapprochement’ or ‘coming together’.8 The programme of promoting ‘national equality’ followed historicist and universalistic goals; it was only a prerequisite for a higher stage in the movement towards assimilation that Lenin perceived as progressive and inevitable.9 This vision of the achievement of historical progress became the landmark of the early Communist projects in China, Vietnam, and Laos.

8 Lenin’s apprehension about the risk of ethnic awareness in the Soviet Union led him to initially promote the policy of ‘national equality’; so too did the Lao PDR, as had previously the People’s Republic of China (PRC) and the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (DRV). Although for Lenin nationalism was a secondary problem, it was essential to keep it under control. His strategy for neutralizing the national question was guided by his perception of nationalism as the result of past discrimination and oppression. 9 While the work of Marx and Engels centres on a critique of capitalism and includes analyses of societies characterized by slavery and feudalism (the stages thought to be the immediate predecessors of capitalism on the evolutionary scale), they drew heavily on the work of Lewis Henry Morgan when they turned to analyze ‘primitive’ societies. Morgan’s theory of social evolution outlined three main stages: savagery, barbarism, and civilization (Morgan, Ancient Society. New York: Holt, 1877).

the case of the lao pdr

87

The new Communist regime in Laos, accordingly, explicitly recognized the ‘the hill-tribe question’ from the early years of its leadership. Kaysone Phomvihane, the late President of the Lao PDR, called for greater attention to be paid to promoting education among ethnic groups, improving their living conditions, and increasing production in remote minority areas. Furthermore, he insisted on respect being paid to the ‘psychology, aspirations, customs, and beliefs of each ethnic group’ (Kaysone 1980: 233). The principle was to give every constituent group of the multiethnic state official recognition on an equal footing. In speeches, policies, and textbooks, the Communists promoted a new image of the nation: from an apparent monoethnic portrait, reproduced under the ‘old regime’, to a multiethnic representation of the national community in which equality, diversity, and unity were now the new key parameters and propaganda tools. Ethnic diversity in the East and Southeast Asian Communist regimes was no longer overlooked. On the contrary, it became a national trademark. The Chinese, Vietnamese, and Lao governments subsequently sent their cadres to the highland areas to list the populations and to collect data dealing with the material aspects of their lifestyle in order to promote their ethnic groups. Throughout the Constitution of the Lao PDR (1991) reference is therefore made to the multiethnicity of the population of Laos. It should be stressed that citizenship is granted to all regardless of their ethnicity. The Party’s belief in the construction of a polyethnic society is clearly emphasized in the preamble, which opens thus: ‘The multiethnic Lao people have existed and developed on this beloved land for thousands of years’. Nevertheless, only a single article specifically comments on the ethnic minorities. Article 8 commits the state to promoting ‘unity and equality’ among all ethnic groups, which have the right ‘to protect, preserve, and promote the fine customs and cultures of their own tribes and of the nation’. The state is also committed ‘to gradually develop and upgrade’ the socioeconomic conditions of minority groups and ‘[a]ll acts of creating division and discrimination among ethnic groups are prohibited’. Apart from these provisions, no special constitutional status is granted to ethnic groups with regard to their parliamentary representation. Indeed, the Lao government’s minority policy has consistently been not to differentiate between ethnic groups. For example, the creation of nationality minority zones was neither promised nor realized in Laos, unlike in China; rather, the long-standing principle is that of ‘unity on the basis of equality’ with the integration of the minorities into the political, social, and economic life of the country. In 1992, the Minority Policy, entitled Resolution of the Party Central Organization Concerning Ethnic Minority Affairs in the New Era, was recast to include all of the ethnic minorities in the country. This is the foundation of ethnic minority policy today. The overall policy concerning ethnic minorities focuses on the following:

88 . . . . . .

vatthana pholsena The strengthening of national sentiment. The realization of equality between ethnic minorities. Increasing the level of solidarity among ethnic minorities as members of the greater Lao nation. The resolution of problems of inflexible and vengeful thinking, as well as economic and cultural inequality. Gradually improving the living conditions of the ethnic minorities. Expanding, to the greatest extent possible, the cultural heritage and ethnic identity of each group as well as their capacity to participate in the affairs of the nation.

With respect to education, that same Resolution stressed that the network of formal primary education should be expanded to guarantee that all children of school age attend school. In addition, the policy calls for a revival of the ‘ethnic youth’ schools in mountainous areas, which were in place in liberated zones during the war, with the condition that quality should be emphasized. It is pointed out that minority children have the same rights to education as other children in the lowlands and cities. A detailed plan for teacher training is called for, directed at the ethnic minorities in remote areas, together with a policy and the personnel for its realization. Here, most importantly, the mandate is given for the relevant organization to urgently research the writing systems of the Hmong and the Khmou using the Lao alphabet as was formerly used in the old liberated zones for use in areas occupied by these ethnic minorities, to be studied together with the Lao language and alphabet. The reality still lags behind these objectives. The Lao PDR lies 143rd (out of 173) in UNDP’s 2002 Human Development Index (HDI), ranking it among the world’s least developed nations. A recent participatory poverty assessment states that the poor in Laos are primarily ethnic minority swidden cultivators, located throughout the country (ADB/NSC 2001: 79). In addition, the 1995 Census data show that education rates vary enormously between ethnic groups. Whereas only 23 percent of the majority Lao never went to school, the rates for minorities are much higher: 34 percent for the Phu Thay, 56 percent for the Khmu, and 67 percent of the Hmong. Among two of the smallest ethnic groups, 94 percent of the Akha and 96 percent of the Lahu never attended school. Approximately 50 percent of the population speak Lao as their first language. Data provided in Annual Bulletins report enrolments by geographical (lowland, foothill, mountains) distribution rather than by ethnic or linguistic grouping. Thus, it is difficult to determine access and equity by ethnicity using the Ministry of Education statistical data. However, since many ethnic minority populations live in remote mountainous regions where provision of schools and teachers is more difficult, one can assume that ethnic minorities have reduced access to schooling partly

the case of the lao pdr

89

because of their geographical location. Another important deterrent to education is the need for children to work with the family. Topography and livelihood are not the only factors that explain the very low ethnic minority children’s school attendance; language and cultural barriers also put constraint on these children’s opportunities to have access to formal school curriculum.

2. Obstacles to Liberal Minority Rights in the Lao PDR While the Communist regime has formally endorsed the idea of multiethnicity, and the value of minority cultures, there are serious limits on the possibility of recognizing the sorts of rights envisaged in contemporary liberal theories of minority rights. This section, discusses three of these obstacles: (a) state definitions of ethnicity; (b) the securitization of ethnic relations; and (c) the reemergence of majoritarian nationalism, built around state-sponsored Buddhist rituals.

State control of ethnicity The Marxist-Leninist concept of diversity involves a high degree of state monitoring and state control, and this severely reduces the sort of freedom and justice that the members of minority rights might hope to gain from official recognition. This is perhaps clearest in recent developments regarding the census in Laos. Data collection for the 2000 census was driven by the constant imperative to list and to identify the exact number of ethnic groups, an obsession that Lao officials share with their Chinese and Vietnamese counterparts. But in Laos the issue is particularly acute, as in contrast to China and Vietnam the figure has been subject to several revisions. It was not until 1985 that the Party approved an official estimate of forty-seven ethnic groups, and yet, even after the publication of the 1985 population census, the deliberations continued (Goudineau 2000: 22). The 1999 data collection campaign conducted by the Lao Front for National Construction (LFNC), the principal statecontrolled mass-organization, aimed once again to clarify uncertainties and to dispel confusion. After five years of apparent stability, a new figure emerged—which has yet to be adopted: forty-nine, instead of forty-seven, ethnic groups, which are distributed between four, instead of the previous six, ethnolinguistic categories. This may seem like a minor and merely technical change in taxonomy. In reality, the changes in the census went far beyond the addition of two new ethnic groups. In fact, the first assessment of the provincial censuses gave a list of fifty-five ethnic groups, which was whittled down to forty-nine.

90

vatthana pholsena

The central government was not happy with the data provided by the provincial LFNC organizations. Indeed, the authorities were alarmed by the confusion that was reigning throughout the country and among the officials themselves, and they placed a high priority on keeping the proliferation of ethnic groups under control. An official report states: According to the data of the Committee on Population Census, the population amounts to 4,574,848 inhabitants, among whom 24,084 have not specified their ethnic affiliation and 10,201 do not appear on the list of 47 ethnic groups. Many problems, however, occurred after the population census’ [of 1995] documents were sent to the Party-State’s provincial organizations. The Statistical Department has received letters and phone calls from the Central Committee’s offices and ethnic groups’ representatives in the provinces, pointing out the absence of ethnic groups’ names as well as names that did not satisfy ethnic groups.10

Finally, thirteen new ethnic groups, which were not listed on the national census, appeared in the provincial data.11 In total, five new ethnic groups were officially recognized for inclusion in the national census at the LFNC meeting held on August 13–14, 2000, though only two of these had been listed in the provincial data (these were the ‘The`n’, separated out from the ‘Khmmu’ group, and the ‘Thai Neua’, separated out from the ‘Phuthai’ group, the latter being listed in no less than three provinces).12 Two of the other groups, the ‘Tai’ and the ‘Idou’, seem to have been proposed at the central level, as neither of them appeared in the provincial data at all. The fifth ethnic group, the ‘Lahu’, was a new name in the official list.13 It encompassed the ‘Kui’ and ‘Mousseu’ peoples, which disappeared from the census by becoming subcategories.14 The construction of the 2000 census was also probably inspired in some ways by the Vietnamese census’ names. Indeed, in total eleven names (some of them attributed supposedly to the French colonizers and/or perceived as derogatory in the authorities’ eyes) were replaced by ‘correct’ ones, among which four were already listed in the Vietnamese census.15 That similarity could also possibly explain the appar-

10 Lao Front for National Construction, Meeting’s Report on the Research and Study of the Ethnic Groups’ Names in the Lao PDR, Vientiane, unpublished report, pp. 4 and 5. 11 Kado, Kanay, Tong, Ine, Yang, Meuang, Kayong, Thai Rat, Khoumma, Bri/Labri, Kinh, Thai Neua, Then. 12 Phongsaly, Luang Namtha, and Bokeo. 13 The Lahu ethnic group is also listed in the Thai, Vietnamese, and Chinese population censuses. 14 A third group, the Khir, was simply suppressed for an unknown reason. 15 The ‘correct’ ethnic groups are as follows, with their former names in parenthesis: Khmmu (Khammu), Y’ru (Lave`n), Triang (Talieng), Brao (Lave`), Kriang (Nge`), Arak (Alak), Iumie`n (Yao), Akha (Kor), Singsili (Phounoy), Lahu (Kui and Mousseu), Sila (Sida). The four Vietnamese ethnic groups are: Kho-mu (Khmmu), Braˆu (Brao), La Hu (Lahu), Si La` (Sila).

the case of the lao pdr

91

ition of a ‘Tai’ group (extracted from the ‘Phutai’), which is found among the fifty-four Vietnamese official ethnic groups. The statistical stability will probably remain the authorities’ imperative, however. In Handler’s acute observation, nationalist discourses are ‘attempts to construct bounded cultural objects’ (Handler 1988: 27). Consequently, too dramatic a change (in one way or another) of the census would undoubtedly disrupt the whole picture of the nation. As Eriksen (1993: 103) notes: ‘(N)ationalism reifies culture in the sense that it enables people to talk about their culture as though it were constant.’ Until now, the Lao PDR’s authorities are still in search of the symbol of national identity in the form of an almost sacred figure, that is, that of the total of ethnic groups. In order to keep the number of forty-seven ethnic groups—the latest official population census published in the Lao Census 1995 has retained the figure of fortyseven ethnic groups—they could have turned their back on the claims discussed above. But we suspect that pressures for clarity and order were too strong to be ignored. This cultural objectification is most unlikely, however, to have any short-term impact on the population, all the more so as the names still remain subject to possible revisions, depending on whether they will fit the evolving standard of ‘correctness’. For instance, the change of name of a Tibeto-Burmese language-speaking group of northern Laos, the Phu Noy, was initiated by a LFNC high-ranking official, himself of Phu Noy origins. The ethnic group is now named after ‘Singsili’. Most of its members are still unaware of the adoption of this new ethnonym, however. The decision in effect was made at the central level and without consulting the population concerned.16 In other words, the pattern of the Lao PDR population census parallels the creation of a population. The State, as a vector of ethnicity, actively manipulates, creates, suppresses (or maintains) ethnic boundaries, the ultimate objective being the definition, categorization, and classification of a population out of real heterogeneity. As in China and in Vietnam, the classification had ‘the effect of officially reducing [and] fixing diversity’ in Laos (Keyes 2002: 1187, speaking of Vietnam and China). This top-down process of defining, categorizing, and classifying the population in Laos greatly hampers the applicability of a liberal model of minority rights. These politics of misrecognition prevent minority groups from expressing and claiming their cultural identity. For the purpose of controlling ethnicity, the state in Laos defines what is ‘correct’ in terms of language, locality, and culture—with little consideration given to a group’s subjective belief in its existence as a people or in the legitimacy of these state-defined cultural traditions. Put differently, Laos’ current political environment is neither conducive to the formation of rights-consciousness, nor to a process of democratization. Yet, they are two 16

We thank Vanina Boute´ for this information.

92

vatthana pholsena

of the preconditions for the emergence and the applicability of a liberal model of minority rights (Kymlicka, Chapter 2 above).

Securitization and national development Because of the top-down system of categorization in Laos, it is difficult to discern how people would define themselves ethnically, if given the choice, or which self-defined ethnic groups would mobilize for minority rights. However, this may be changing. Although the political system in Laos is, for the time being, nondemocratic, some minority groups have begun, albeit cautiously, to express their frustration, especially among those who took part in the war effort and the reconstruction of the country afterwards, but who nonetheless feel they have been left out socially and economically (Evans 2003: 221–2). We may be witnessing the beginning of ethnic minority’s expression of discontent outside the tight bounds defined by the existing system of state classifications. However, two additional factors aggravate the illiberal treatment of ethnic minorities in Laos, namely, the ‘securitization’ of ethnic policies and the state developmental strategy that often gives priority to ‘national’ interests over people’s livelihood. For example, as discussed below, the Hmong in Laos are still perceived as not being entirely trustworthy and lacking somewhat of ‘national’ consciousness. More generally, the intervention of the Vietnamese troops in Laos in 2000 should not only be seen as a sign of solidarity between two very close regimes, but also as an imperative for these governments to quell any rebellion that could spread, or at least inspire other minority groups, on both sides of the borders.17 The future of the relations between the Lao authorities, the ethnic Lao, and the highland population, especially the Hmong, will depend heavily on the Lao government’s choice of strategy towards the highlanders, and its degree of politicization. With regard to the country’s national development strategy, natural resources constitute the major sources of export incomes. Timber, despite shifting farming and illegal exploitation, is an important source of foreign 17 In February and March 2001, an unexpected and well-coordinated series of demonstrations and uprisings took place in the Central Highlands of Vietnam, taking the authorities of Vietnam and international observers alike by surprise. Access roads to some of the major provincial and district towns like Buon Ma Thuot and Pleiku were blocked by large groups of people belonging to the indigenous minorities of the region, and local leaders of the Communist Party of Vietnam were chased by groups of minority people in the cities themselves. Riot police responded with force, but apart from such skirmishes, few people were reported injured during the relatively nonviolent protests. As a consequence of these events, the Vietnamese authorities may prioritize a security approach that seeks to punish the protesters, although for the time being, it is not clear whether this strategy will prevail over a more development-leaning approach focusing on the roots of the protests.

the case of the lao pdr

93

exchange earnings.18 But it is energy in the form of hydroelectricity that seems likely to become the country’s leading export in the near future, and as such, a major vector of its industrial development. Indeed, Laos expects to become one of the region’s major suppliers of electricity, with a potential of approximately 17,000 MW. For now, the country exports electricity to Thailand from two plants, the 150-MW Nam Ngum dam in north of Vientiane, completed in 1971, and a 40-MW dam at Xeset, in the southern province of Saravane. The construction of dams, however, requires the inundation of vast areas of land and forest to provide power and irrigation opportunities to lowlands and urban areas. This often entails the displacement of villagers, mostly of ethnic minority origins since the dams are located in peripheral zones. Thus, dams embody the appropriation of local resources (land, water, forests) in the name of national development. In some ways, the politics of dams illustrates the prioritizing of national over local interests (Hirsch 1998). Laos’ hydropower policy is also a good example of external intervention into the country’s national development strategy. Increase in hydroelectric potential requires huge investments. As government revenue hardly covers expenditure, it depends entirely on foreign financing. In addition, the country lacks experts and equipment. Thailand is by far the main market for Lao electricity, and so it plays an active role in Laos’ policymaking. With the Electricity Generating Authority of Thailand (EGAT) as a monopoly buyer, Laos’ bargaining power is weak. Financed by the World Bank and completed in 1968, the Nam Ngum station has always been owned and run by a Government agency, Electricite´ du Laos (EDL).19 Most of the new dams, however, will be built on a build-own-operate and transfer (BOOT) basis. According to this arrangement, groups of investors finance, build, and operate a dam for a period of two to three decades, after which the government takes over or the deal is renegotiated. The BOOT concept would, in theory, lessen the financial burdens for Laos as the private sector assumes the risk of investing. However, the BOOT scheme could, on the other hand, threaten Laos’ sovereignty as the country rents its rivers on this basis. In addition, subsidies and guarantees from multilateral lending agencies may encourage foreign investors to develop projects without an adequate assessment of the risks or potential negative returns (Bakker 1999: 225). Indeed, international organizations, like the Asian Development Bank (ADB), 18 Laos has increased exports of wood and wood products to the point where it was the primary source of foreign exchange in 1998, accounting for $115.4 million (34.3% of total exports), followed by garment exports ($70.2 million or 20.8% of total exports) and sales of hydrolectricity power ($60.7 million or 18% of total exports) (The Economist Intelligence Unit Country Profile 2001. Cambodia; Laos: 73). 19 The Xeset plant was built in the late 1980s and was cofinanced by the United Nations Development Programme, the Asian Development Bank, and the Swedish Government. Like Nam Ngum, it is controlled by EDL.

94

vatthana pholsena

encourage Southeast Asian countries to develop a large-scale development strategy. Through its Greater Mekong Sub-region (GMS) initiative, the ADB estimates that the GMS countries (Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, Thailand, Myanmar, and China) will require US$40 billion in the next twenty-five years to finance more than 100 projects, the majority of which are in the transport, energy, and telecommunications sectors. Of this amount, US$20 billion will come from the private sector. Hydrodevelopment projects will mobilize between US$5 billion and $8 billion (Bakker 1999: 224). A recent ADB report on the East–West Economic Corridors (EWEC), a regionally based transport project under the GMS scheme,20 claims: ‘the long-term development vision for the EWEC is to stimulate the growth of the participating areas and raise the incomes of their residents. This will be achieved by. . . developing a range of competitive advantages that will enhance the overall competitiveness of the EWEC, and realizing the vision of the EWEC as a single, unified geographical and economic unit’ (ADB 2001: ii–iii). As Bakker observes, ‘the regional geopolitical imagination embodied in the depiction of the Mekong as a bioregion is neither uncontested nor universally accepted, but publicized and popularized through the work of a few key organizations: biand multilateral lending organizations, and international consulting and engineering groups from traditional dam-building nations’ (Bakker 1999: 221). In short, Laos’ national development appears to be only one element of a much greater scheme, that is, the redrawing of regional boundaries through a compelling, yet misleading, logic, that is, of a borderless free trade zone. There are, of course, no laws or policies that overtly or directly seek to prevent economic development for ethnic minorities in the Lao PDR. There are, nonetheless, indirect or unforeseen problems which have emerged as a result of government programs and policies. Laos is fundamentally a rural and subsistence agrarian society. Since the Fourth Party Congress in 1986, the reduction of shifting cultivation has been one of the government’s major priority programs, and most of the country’s ethnic minorities live in upland areas and practice some form of shifting cultivation. The practice of shifting cultivation, both pioneering and rotational, is sustainable when demographic density is low.21 But with the increased population pressure and the transition 20 The EWEC involves cities and provinces of 4 GMS countries: Myanmar (Mawlamyine, Myawaddy), Thailand (Mae Sot, Tak, Sukothai, Kalasin, Phitsanulok, Khon Kaen, Yasothon, Mukdahan), Laos (Savannakhet), Vietnam (Lao Bao, Quang Tri, Thua Thien Hue, Da Nang). 21 The rotational shifting cultivation system involves rotating the fields that belong to the village territory rather than moving the villages. After a few years of cropping (generally one to three years) the fields are left fallow for long periods, during which the villagers will clear a new field that will be in time ‘abandoned’ as well. This clearing process will continue until the farmers return to the original field whose regeneration has been completed, and a rotational

the case of the lao pdr

95

to the market economy, this form of agricultural system appears increasingly unsustainable. Clearly, the program for reduction/stabilization of shifting cultivation partly derives from the concern for preservation due to perceived ecological and economic problems arising from shifting cultivation activities. In addition, increased pressure on potential swidden land also stem from a demand for exportable timber. The restrictions on swidden agriculture have not been imposed purely in response to ecological concerns but also because of the government’s immediate need to export timber products and to preserve existing forest for eventual exploitation. Likewise, resettlement is the government response to the conflict between swidden farming and the state’s interest in forest resources. It is promoted as a means for general economic development and is also used (though not acknowledged) as a mechanism for control or surveillance of politically suspect minority groups. The policy also clearly has an ideological purpose, that is, to integrate ethnic minorities into the national culture. The Iresons, thus, bitterly concluded as early as 1991 that ‘the resettlement becomes another means by which ethnic minorities are Laoized as they are ‘‘developed’’ ’ (Ireson and Ireson 1991: 935–6). Resettlement to the lowland areas leads upland families to break with their natural environment and cultural habits. While swiddening is a sustainable way of livelihood in a context of low population density, these biocultural complex systems are extremely fragile in the face of economic, social, and cultural changes. The policies of landallocation and resettlement in Laos have had severe effects upon ethnic minority communities. A 1997 report on the impacts of the resettlement policy on ethnic minority villages warned: Resettlement appears to be one of the major causes of cultural rupture in Laos today. It might be said that this is the best way of integrating ethnic groups into the national culture, without which they will remain marginalized. It must be remembered however that the Lao national culture is a multiethnic culture [ . . . ] and that it is necessary to safeguard the cultural heritage of the diverse ethnic groups which form the Lao nation. [ . . . ] What must be avoided is any dramatic damage to the cultural symbolic fabric as this can always engender movements of a protest nature able to endanger integration itself. (Goudineau 1997: 36) cycle is thus achieved. The pioneering type of shifting cultivation requires that the highlands (e.g. tops of mountains, upper watersheds, and uplands) are clear-cut and cultivated for several seasons until the soils are depleted. Unlike secondary forest swiddeners, pioneering or mobile farmers never return to previously cultivated fields and seek out either primary forest or relatively long secondary growth forest for the next cycle. Rotational shifting cultivation with a proper fallow period of ten to twenty years even ensures higher yields than many cases of lowland production. It has been estimated that for densities of between twelve and fifteen persons/km2, the practice of shifting cultivation is durable, that is, no significant degradation of the soil/yields and regrowth of forest cover—for a density up to twelve persons/km2 in the latter case (Chaze´e 1994).

96

vatthana pholsena

Under increasing foreign criticisms and donors’ reluctance to support the relocation program, the Lao government has recently decelerated its resettlement projects. Villages are still being relocated to lowland areas, but it is believed on a much smaller scale.

State-staged Buddhism Another disturbing trend, from the perspective of state–minority relations, is the government’s growing tendency to invoke Buddhism as a marker of national identity. For example, the concurrence of the parade marking Visit Laos Year with the That Luang festival in Laos in November 1999 was not coincidental. The religious Buddhist monument, which was the centerpiece of a tribute ceremony to royalty under the former regime, has replaced the hammer and sickle as national symbol. The That Luang festival has become the locus of the State’s representational project of the nation, a crossroads between socialist ideals, Buddhist rituals, exhibition of the multiethnic national culture, and the politics of opening to the world. The conflation of Buddhism and Socialism is openly celebrated and benefits from extensive media coverage.22 As Kertzer (1988: 6) puts it, ‘the nation itself has no palpable existence outside the symbolism through which it is envisioned. . . . Far from being window dressing on the reality that is the nation, symbolism is the stuff of which nations are made’. Symbols of nationhood are required to engender social cohesion by arousing a deeply felt sense of a shared community. They encompass the unique and distinctive values, or at least those that are claimed to be, of the society. Smith stresses that ‘in many ways national symbols, customs, and ceremonies are the most potent and durable aspects of nationalism. They embody its basic concepts, making them visible and distinct for every member, communicating the tenets of an abstract ideology in palpable, concrete terms that evoke instant emotional responses from all strata of the community’ (Smith 1991: 77). Functioning as collective representations, they aim at producing homogeneity from heterogeneity and integrating what is fragmented. Southeast Asian states have been forced to some extent to embrace Buddhism, and to attempt to control its public manifestations, in order to counteract a popular source of authority that transcends that of the state. The Lao government, in effect, still keeps the Sangha, the Buddhist clergy, under its control and although the latter has regained its popularity, links with the Party remain close. Buddhism may have been granted a new

22 The example usually quoted is the picture taken of the Party’s senior members making merit during major Buddhist festivals.

the case of the lao pdr

97

political role in Laos, but its newly reformulated function is nowhere near the type of strong alliance with the state which is maintained in Thailand. With respect to majority–minority relationships, the revival of a Buddhistorientated polity may widen the gap between the dominant Tai-Lao ethnolinguistic group (who are, in their vast majority, Buddhist followers) and the ethnic minorities (most of whom are non-Buddhist). The distinction is not solely religious: it also encompasses social organization and worldview. As we saw earlier, the politico-religious order embodied in the Lao mandala and promoted by the premodern Lao state served to legitimize relations of ethnic inequality, condemning nonethnic Lao to positions of subservience and degradation because they were excluded from the original Buddhist society. This is not to say that Buddhism as a moral theory is incompatible with the framework of a political system and a society based on democratic values and principles. A distinction needs to be drawn between a historically constructed politico–religious model, the Lao Mandala, further legitimized by a myth (i.e. the origins of mankind), and Buddhism as a doctrine. The Dalai Lama has consistently argued that Buddhist teaching and the concept and practice of democracy share commonalities, such as the recognition of equality among all human beings and the need for consensus inspired by a ‘sense of universal responsibility’ (Dalai Lama 1999: 3). Some authors, in fact, believe that the best route to the achievement of Buddhist conception of social good (maximizing happiness and minimizing suffering, equity in distribution and opportunity, nonviolence, etc.), which find its equivalent in democratic values (e.g. liberal-democratic societies are, in general, less violent compared to totalitarian regimes), is represented by social structures and institutions conceived by liberal democracy (Garfield 2001: 217). However, from the perspective of non-Lao minorities, the resurgence of state-sponsored Buddhist rituals as markers of national identity is troubling.

3. The Road Forward: Theoretical Reflection on Liberal Multiculturalism in Laos So far, some of the influences that have shaped state–minority relations in Laos, and some of the obstacles to the adoption of a liberal minority rights approach under the current Communist regime, have been identified. The legacy of precolonial Buddhist ideologies of ethnic hierarchy, combined with the current regime’s obsession with state control of ethnic identity and its approach to national development and national identity, do not provide propitious conditions for the emergence of a liberal conception of multiculturalism. However, these factors are not carved in stone. They may change. Indeed, they already are changing. The global discourse of cultural diversity is slowly

98

vatthana pholsena

beginning to circulate in Laos, and it may well grow stronger if and when Laos democratizes. As conditions change, the potential for the adoption of liberal multiculturalism in Laos may grow. In the rest of the chapter, therefore, I would like to step back and ask more theoretical questions about the desirability of the liberal multicultural approach for a country like Laos. While I am broadly sympathetic to liberal theories of minority rights, I think there are nonetheless important issues that remain to be addressed. I will focus on three such concerns: (a) the question of how to categorize minority groups; (b) the danger of cultural essentialism; and (c) the definition of ‘nation’.

(a)

Problems of categorization

According to Kymlicka, different types of minorities require different types of minority rights. In the Western context, he identifies two main categories of self-defined minority groups: ‘national minorities’ (including both substate nations and indigenous peoples) and legal ‘immigrants’. These two types of groups have different expectations and needs, and so require distinctive policies and rights. The former includes groups whose homelands have been incorporated through conquest, colonization, or federation. These groups assert inherent rights of self-government in order to maintain their linguistic, historical, and institutional distinctiveness. By contrast, immigrants’ demands for polyethnic rights and representation right are primarily motivated by a desire for inclusion and full membership in the larger society. In Laos, however, no such distinctions are drawn by the government. At present, the population of Laos is composed of ‘ethnic groups’ (so`n phaw). The term ‘ethnic minorities’ is not applied officially. Instead, the term ‘ethnic group’ or ‘ethnic people’ is used in official documents.23 In reality, the Lao term ‘ethnic people’ implicitly refers to those who are nonethnic Lao (so`n phaw lao), although the ethnic Lao are also officially listed as an ‘ethnic group’ in the national census. The key question therefore is: Can Kymlicka’s categories be transplanted to Laos? Would his categorization of minority groups and his definition of their respective rights (multicultural policies for immigrants, territorial autonomy and language rights for national minorities, land and resource claims for indigenous peoples) make sense if a more liberal political environment existed in Laos? It is difficult to know whether minorities in Laos object to the use of the single category ‘ethnic group’, and whether some would prefer to identify 23

The term ‘ethnic people’, so`n phaw, is used on an official basis in Laos today. So`n generally means ‘man’, ‘people’, ‘subject’ (e.g. pa`saso`n means ‘citizen’, ‘people’), and phaw sometimes is translated as ‘tribe’—the word, however, is no longer applied on its own in official parlance.

the case of the lao pdr

99

themselves under other labels, such as ‘substate nations’, ‘indigenous peoples’ or ‘immigrants’. Under the present political system, there is little space for self-defined ethnic identities and self-formulated claims to protect one’s group identity. But we can at least speculate about the sorts of categories that might emerge under conditions of freer political mobilization. Let us start with Kymlicka’s first category of substate national groups who define themselves as a people with a distinctive sense of nationhood and who occupy a territorially bounded area within a larger state. These national minorities would have remained a self-governing majority in their traditional territory had they not been conquered and outnumbered by their rival nations. Are there any such ‘national minorities’ in Laos? Arguably not, because none of the historic minority groups form a local majority within a welldefined territory, and, more importantly, none of them manifest a ‘national’ consciousness. For example, although they belong to the same ethnolinguistic category, the Mon-Khmer speaking minority groups are too dispersed throughout the country and diverse in size, culture, history, and even, language, to be included within a single ‘national’ identity. Hence western models of federal territorial autonomy for substate national groups seems out of place. By contrast, the category of ‘indigenous people’ (paw deum) may be more suitable to define these minority groups. But that term has been opposed by the Lao government, which apparently feels it is too broad in its implications and could just as well be applied to ethnic Lao people. These objections have not been officially promulgated, however, and donor agencies such as the World Bank or the ADB continue to use the term in their own documentation with respect to Laos. The refusal of the Lao government to use the term ‘indigenous’ might be motivated by one primary reason, that is, the potential political consequences in terms of land rights and access to natural resources. As we saw earlier, any official recognition of indigenous land rights and resource rights might undermine the government’s timber and hydro-based strategy of economic development. International models of ‘the rights of indigenous peoples’ are therefore likely to remain hotly contested. Finally, the urban minorities fit to a certain extent the category of immigrants. The Chinese and the Vietnamese are the two most important groups of migrants who historically have settled in the major towns of Laos, in particular in Vientiane, and in the South, such as Thakek and Pakse (mostly Vietnamese immigrants). They established themselves during the French colonial period working as traders (mainly Chinese) or in the French colonial administration (Vietnamese). These urban minorities are often overlooked in discussions on ethnicity in Laos, and it is difficult to say whether Western models of immigrant multiculturalism are relevant here. Although the

100

vatthana pholsena

Constitution stipulates that Lao is the official language, the Lao state does not forbid the teaching of other languages. Both the Vietnamese and Chinese run separate schools in Vientiane that teach their respective languages, although since 1975 they are required to follow the central curriculum. Little information is available on these communities’ ritual and religious practices in the capital. Both communities maintain separate temples but a shared Buddhist tradition also facilitates exchanges with the Lao temples (Evans 2003: 216). On the other hand, there are no explicit policies that impose a duty on the Lao institutions (schools, government offices, etc.) to accommodate Vietnamese or Chinese ethnic identities.24 Towns in Laos have only begun to develop again economically since the mid-1990s, and there is still little data on the complex processes of social, cultural, and ethnic changes that are occurring at a growing pace in these areas. It is, thus, probably early to discern whether the patterns of change will be towards more assimilation, or instead towards increasing demands for a more multicultural type of integration. Finally, Tibeto-Burman speaking peoples might also be theoretically defined as immigrants. They arrived in Laos from the late nineteenth century and mostly dwell in rural and remote areas in the north of the country. Nonetheless, their demands for rights, if explicitly expressed, would likely be similar to those of indigenous peoples, such as rights over land, access to natural resources, and freedom to practice their traditional culture, language, and religion. In short, the problem of categorization is unresolved, and highly speculative. Laos is one of the most ethnically diverse countries in mainland Southeast Asia. While categorization such as Kymlicka’s fit some ethnocultural patterns, they may be too restrictive to embrace all the various types of interethnic relations in the country. The Hmong ethnic minority in Laos, for instance, presents an interesting case where internal linguistic and cultural differences, political divisions, social distinctions, and external influences contribute to a complex picture, which can hardly be reduced to a single category of minority group (whether it be ‘national minority’, ‘indigenous people’, or ‘immigrants’), or to a definitive set of distinctive rights. The Hmong belong to the broader linguistic subfamily of the Miao-Yao. They originally migrated from southern China starting in the second half of the nineteenth century25 fleeing political turmoil provoked by the central government’s increasingly oppressive rule 24

Evans notes that the Chinese have only manifested their ethnic identity in public since the 1990s, after a decade of repression due to the tense relations between the Lao PDR and the People’s Republic of China (PRC) (Evans 2003: 217). 25 Although there is some evidence indicating that some Hmong arrived in those areas as early as in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries (Culas and Michaud 1997: 224–5).

the case of the lao pdr

101

and the ruthless competition between the Chinese and Europeans over the control of the production and sale of opium, in which the Hmong were also involved. Their migration was also led by the search for better living conditions with vast areas of fertile forest lands accessible in the highlands of the Indo-Chinese Peninsula. They subsequently dwelled in the remote and scarcely populated parts of the Southeast Asian Massif in the present-day territories of Burma/Myanmar, Thailand, Laos, and Vietnam (Culas and Michaud 1997: 217–24). The Hmong have often been presented as a population with a strong sense of separate identity and cultural homogeneity, underlined by a closely knit kinship organization (the patrilineal clan system) and whose traditional practice of swidden cultivation differentiates them as an ethnic group from the lowland wet-rice farmers. One may, thus, argue that the Hmong fit the definition of a ‘national minority’ with their fierce sentiment of independence towards the authority of the state. But the variety in dialects and local cultural features disturb this model of a separate and homogeneous identity. As Nicholas Tapp, an anthropologist and long-term specialist of the Hmong, comments: It may therefore be more valid to view the Hmong as a peasant farming population, a part of whom were broken off owing to the expansion of the Han population and dispersed into inaccessible settlements at high altitudes where, by comparison with their lowland neighbours, they took on an artificial appearance of segmentary solidarity and autonomy. (Tapp 2000: 87)

It is not clear whether Tapp is referring here to the Hmong in China or in Southeast Asia, or both, since he also notes in the same article that distinctive cultural identities still exist in Southeast Asia within the Hmong population, in particular between the ‘White’ and the ‘Green’ Hmong who maintain their differences in language, costumes, housing-structures, and customs. Given their history, the category of ‘immigrants’ might be more appropriate to define the Hmong in Southeast Asia, in order to reconcile their potential claims for a specific cultural identity and their would-be integration within the larger society. As far as Laos is concerned, however, the relations between members of the Hmong ethnic minority and the state remain tainted by the bitter legacy of the Indochina Wars. It is commonly acknowledged that the highland populations in Laos were caught between the propaganda of the French, on the one hand, and that of the Viet Minh and the Pathet Lao (respectively, the Vietnamese and the Lao Communists) on the other, both sides being eager to obtain their loyalty in the aftermath of World War II. The ‘choice’ between the two sides was contingent and, above all, guided by survival imperatives. Even for those who did not want to get involved in the conflict, in order to survive under extremely difficult

102

vatthana pholsena

conditions, they had to seek help from one side or the other. And, in case they did not, they were suspected of sympathizing with the enemy. According to Culas and Michaud’s estimation, several thousand Hmong participated in the fighting with the French, and then the Americans, while perhaps an equal number of Hmong rallied behind the People’s Liberation Army, the Lao Communist armed forces (Culas and Michaud 1997: 232). The political split among the Hmong population during the Indochina Wars was rooted in their traditional social division, in particular between members of the Lo (Lauj) and Ly (Lis) clans in the province of Xieng Khouang in northern Laos. Their rivalry worsened during World War II, with the former collaborating with the Japanese and the latter supporting the French. Their enmity led to devastating consequences for Hmong participation in the Wars as the feuds between the two clans grew in dramatic proportions, affecting those who were connected with them by kinship or marriage and economically or ritually. The latter were subsequently also forced to take sides in the military conflicts (Culas and Michaud 1997: 232). After the Communists took power in 1975 and despite the withdrawal of US support, some of the pro-American Hmong continued their resistance while others fled for their lives and sought refuge in Thailand. The remaining Hmong opposition was crushed by the late 1970s, and the brutal repression left enduring resentment among the minority population. Intensive fighting erupted again in early 2000 in Xieng Khouang between the Hmong and the ethnic Lao, however this time mostly due to land disputes and resettlement programmes, which saw the recall of Vietnamese armed forces into Laos (for the first time since the late 1980s) to help suppress the insurgency (Evans 2003: 221). The troubled relation between the state and the Hmong ethnic minority may take another turn with the return for short visits of the exiled Hmong since the 1990s in Laos. The overseas Hmong have nurtured vivid memories of their recent traumatic past, and the exposure to Western political ideas and ethnic policies (especially in the United States) has, if anything strengthened their collective self-consciousness and their desire for autonomy. Nonetheless, although it should not be underestimated, the impact of these visits on the Hmong community in Laos still remains unclear. Last but not least, it is also important to stress that the integration of members of the Hmong minority group into the Lao society is a daily reality, which Southeast Asian states cannot all claim. They occupy official positions at all government levels; practice socially respected (if not economically rewarding) professions such as doctors or teachers, as well as run successful businesses, in particular in the North, with the support of substantial remittances sent by their overseas relatives (Evans 2003). It is difficult to see how this complex Hmong reality could be captured in the usual categories of Western liberal minority rights theories.

the case of the lao pdr

103

(b) The Danger of Cultural Essentialism At a more conceptual level, Kymlicka’s principle of categorization (i.e. ‘each type of group has specific needs that require distinctive rights’)26 appears to reify the cultural essences of ethnic minority identity. Are ethnic groups immutable entities enclosed in ascribed categories? Since Moerman’s seminal essay (1965), the answer is clearly no. Moerman in the mid-1960s introduced a way of delineating ethnic groups based on a relative, relational, and subjective definition of one’s ethnic identity. In his work, the anthropologist tried to define who the Lue27 were—in which ways they were distinctive from other ethnic groups—but faced great difficulties in doing so. After listing a number of criteria commonly used by anthropologists to demarcate cultural groups, such as language, political organization, and territorial contiguity, he eventually admitted that . . . [d]ialect divisions and traits distributions, the conventional tools of cultural area analysis, are of limited usefulness for demarcating and identifying the Lue and other Thai ‘tribes’. Between each village, each district, each valley system and its neighbors there is a pattern of continuous and trivial local diversity within a large area of essential ethnolinguistic homogeneity. (Moerman 1965: 1218)

When Moerman asked the Lue what their typical characteristics were, they would mention cultural traits they in fact shared with other neighboring groups. They lived in close interaction with other groups, and had no exclusive livelihood, language, customs, and religion. After describing these problems, Moerman was forced to conclude that ‘[s]omeone is Lue by virtue of believing and calling himself Lue and of acting in ways that validate his Lueness’ (Moerman 1965: 1222). Since this ‘Lueness’ cannot be defined with reference to objective cultural features or clear-cut boundaries, Moerman defined it as an emic category of ascription.28 Anthropological theories on ethnicity have consequently moved away since the late 1960s from primordial explanations towards a more dynamic perspective which stresses change and contextuality. Keyes recently reexamined the Lue ethnic identity as conceptualized by Moerman (Keyes 1992), and offered a more complex framework for analyzing it. The term ‘Lue’, Keyes argues, has ‘a number of different meanings, each of which illustrate a different aspect of ethnicity’ (Keyes 1992: 29). While he agrees with Moerman’s proposition that ‘Lueness’ should not be reduced to ‘objective’ cultural and linguistics characteristics, he also points out two other distinct 26

Kymlicka and Opalski 2001: 6. The Lue, also spelled Lu and Lu¨, are Tai-speaking people. They live in northern Thailand, northern Laos and southern China. 28 In the anthropological literature, the term emic refers to ‘the native’s point of view’. It is contrasted with etic, which refers to the analyst’s concepts, descriptions, and analyses. 27

104

vatthana pholsena

dimensions of the Lue identity: the ‘marketable’ and the ‘transnational’. He introduces two elements that play a central role in the variations of the Lue ethnic identity within the nation-state and across the borders, and which Moerman either underestimated or was not able to take into consideration forty years ago; namely, the ethnic policies of the nation-state, in particular the cultural packaging of ethnicity—further modeled by international tourism; and the interactions and exchanges across national boundaries between these people who refer to themselves as Lue in Thailand, China, and Laos. In this context, it is difficult to see how we can identify a (singular) distinctive ‘Lue culture’ to be protected by minority rights. Of course, the aim of a liberal model of minority rights is not to promote cultural isolationism or to freeze an ‘authentic’ culture. Rather, the aim is to preserve culturally distinct groups which, while adapting and transforming their cultures, also resist assimilation into the larger society. Yet, this flexibility is only possible when the community already possesses a ‘societal culture’, that is, ‘a territorially concentrated culture, centered on [a shared past] and a shared language which is used in a wide range of societal institutions’ (Kymlicka and Marı´n 1999: 138). This is not the case for any minority groups in Laos. A greater effort of imagination, understanding, and flexibility is therefore necessary to avoid the risk of reifying identities by imagining categories and creating fixed boundaries between those ethnic groups whose identities rest more upon subjective identification nurtured by their interactions with others than objective features. The creative abilities of human beings should not be neglected. The opposite is also valid: the power of ethnic-descent identity should not be overlooked, which is perhaps what Kymlicka does by assuming that individuals always have the option to leave the group, to reject the community values and traditions (Kymlicka and Marı´n 1999: 138). This fundamentally individualist perspective may not correspond with some ethnocultural patterns in Laos. In his highly original study on the Khmu in Laos, for example, Proschan argues that it is possible to have within the same ethnic group the coexistence of two competing models of ethnicity and identity: a primordialist one based on descent and a constructivist one based on behavior. In his own words, for the Khmu people ‘ethnic groups are simultaneously primordial and imagined, ethnic boundaries exist but are permeable, and ethnic identities are both stable and flexible’. The Khmu’s ethnic naming system is flexible enough to include a broad range of individuals in their community, being recognized as ‘us’. Thus, Khmu people employ the word tmoi, which is used in all the highland languages of Indochina, to refer to comembers of an ethnic or cultural group. Proschan explains that tmoi implies ‘us-ness’ as opposed to ‘them-ness’, but it also implies some degree of distance, referring nevertheless to people who are clearly people ‘like us’ (Proschan 1997: 98). In fact, any individual or group who speaks ‘our’

the case of the lao pdr

105

language, ‘just like us’, or at least can still be understood are considered as ‘Khmu’. More generally, even though they do not share ‘our’ language, people are still viewed as Khmu if they share enough cultural traits to be clearly more ‘like us’ than ‘different from us’. In fact, the Khmu’s system of naming people is ‘multivalent’: they use the word ‘Khmu’ to include themselves and people taken to constitute the Khmu ethnicity, but also to refer to people of a given class or type and to distinguish humans from nonhumans. According to Proschan, the two interdependent factors that provide Khmu ethnic identity with a primordialist basis are (a) the feelings of connection to a common descent, which (b) involve social obligations towards fellow members. The way that sentiment is rooted in a shared genealogy is noticeable in the way Khmu talk about their own ethnic group. For example, they use the Lao word sia for ‘ethnic group’ which can be defined as family, race, kinship, progeny, line, stock, lineage, clan, origin, source, blood relationship, or ancestry, depending on the sources (Proschan 1997: 103). Although the mutual obligations among the Khmu community are not as strong as those among the Hmong clans, for instance, they still have a coercive social influence. As Proschan notes, Khmu ‘boast a strong tradition that one should help one’s fellow to the fullest extent possible, and to fail to do so may jeopardize one’s claim to membership in the shared community’ (Proschan 1997: 103). However, although they invoke this genealogical, descent-based model, Khmu have, on the other hand, no difficulty in conceiving an alternative model of ethnicity as being situational and socially constructed. In other words, their ethnic identity is also fungible: ‘Kmhmu explicitly recognize that one may be both Kmhmu and Lao, or Kmhmu and American, or Kmhmu and Lamet’ (Proschan 1997: 103).29 For instance, an individual who has a correct command of Khmu language or at least can produce the utterance ‘I am Khmu’ or ‘we Khmu’ using the Khmu language, is effectively a member of the Khmu ethnicity: they are ‘Khmu just the same’. In the situational model, competence in language is effectively all that is needed to enter Khmu ethnic community, without regard to birth, parentage, or cultural competence more broadly. By contrast, in the descent-based model, one is born Khmu and remains so, and cultural or linguistic competence is not assumed or required; even those who abandon being Khmu and take on another identity are still inescapably Khmu (Proschan 1997: 105). In this case, the identities overlap and people do not seem to be particularly affected by the fluidity of their ethnic identity. Any theory of minority rights that required repudiating either of these two understandings of membership—whether in the name of objective cultural difference or individual freedom of choice—would do violence to the nature of Khmu identity and culture. 29

In his book, Proschan uses ‘Kmhmu’ rather than the more common ‘Khmu’.

106

vatthana pholsena

A Different Modular Form of Nation? Kymlicka’s account of nationalism (whether state nationalism or substate minority nationalism) is a very ‘modernist’ one, defining nationalism in terms of typically modern characteristics and institutions. For example, Kymlicka argues that for a culture to survive in the modern world it must be a ‘societal culture’, which not only encompasses all the characteristics of ‘a nation’ (shared language and history, territorially concentrated culture) but also involves common institutions and practices; in other words, it must be institutionally embodied in both public and private spheres (Kymlicka 1995: 76). In short, ‘a societal culture’ (or ‘a nation’ or ‘a people’) is culturally homogeneous, socially cohesive, institutionally self-contained, and modern. Kymlicka’s conception of the modern nation-state (in the sense of the expansion of the majority’s culture throughout the country) draws on Gellner’s theory of nationalism, which views the creation of such societal cultures as ‘intimately linked with the process of modernization’ (Kymlicka 1995: 76). For Gellner (as for Kymlicka), nations are products of modernity. As modernists, they both argue that nationalism (or in Kymlicka’s words, the process of building a dominant societal culture) is determined by social and economic development. It is the inevitable result of industrial and capitalist growth, while the nation represents the only viable political framework able to sustain the newly homogeneous population. Gellner’s arguments are essentially functionalist, in the sense that they portray nationalism as ‘an ideological means, following the collapse of feudalism and absolutism, for the modern incorporation of e´lites and masses into the same political space, the nation-state’ ( Jenkins 1998: 144). His model of nationalism is thus ‘a modern replacement for, or a supersession of, ethnicity, appropriate to the demands of the industrialized social world of nation-state’ ( Jenkins 1998: 144). The same can be said of Kymlicka’s thesis that the diffusion of a common culture is a ‘functional requirement of a modern economy, with its need for a mobile, educated, and literate workforce’ (Kymlicka 1995: 77). It would take us too far afield to evaluate the general strengths and weaknesses of such functionalist/modernist accounts of nationalism. However, it is important to note that these accounts do not say much about the power of national feelings. The fact that modernization brings culture to the fore as a basis for defining a modern polity cannot by itself explain the emergence of powerful national sentiments, including the willingness of many people to sacrifice their lives for their nation. Kymlicka recognizes that such national sentiments cannot be based solely on functional requirements. He suggests that national sentiments are based on a shared identity that is engendered, or ‘at least facilitated’, by a common

the case of the lao pdr

107

language and history (Kymlicka 1995: 77). But this reference to the importance of ‘common identity’ and ‘shared history’ fits oddly with the modernist account of nationalism. After all, in pursuit of their modernizing and nationbuilding projects, governments attempted to create a secular identity within a rationalized society. Far from developing strong national sentiments, one could argue that this modernist state project failed to generate feelings of belonging while creating new problems, such as social anomie. If people have strong national identities, it is arguably in spite of, not because of, the modernizing secular nation-state. For example, Keyes et al. assert that the ‘crisis of authority’ has led to the resurgence of religion because it fills people’s need for commitment and sharing. They suggest that the nation as an imagined community is itself imbued with a ‘primordial’ identity that is, in their definition, the intrinsic feelings of belonging to the same community: the ‘spiritual essence’ of the nation, which the Western model of the nationstate is unable to generate (Keyes et al. 1994: 5). One may therefore argue that the revival of Buddhism in Laos is a sign of, in Chatterjee’s words, the ‘[spiritual] ‘‘inner’’ domain of national culture . . . bearing the ‘‘essential’’ marks of cultural identity’ (Chatterjee 1993b: 6). Chatterjee disputes the claim that the Western nation-state is a universal concept, and argues that postcolonial nations of Africa and Asia are constituted on a principle of difference, founded on a construction of their cultural particularity rather than as an adaptation of their form of nation to the universal form. Thought of in this way, the nation situates itself within universal history (as the history of the nation’s coming to self-awareness) while preserving its ‘spiritual essence’ as an identification with a primordial (hence timeless) culture that becomes enframed as the national ‘tradition’. If Laos is indeed building a different sort of nation from that of the West, then the premises of liberal theories of minority rights may not be applicable. Of course, as Chatterjee acknowledges, the ‘spiritual essence’ of postcolonial nationalist discourse can also be oppressive and hegemonic, particularly once statehood is achieved (Chatterjee 1993a: 51). Indeed, as noted earlier, the linking of Buddhism and national identity in Laos is viewed with suspicion by some minorities. But in thinking about how to remedy these potential injustices or exclusions, we should not assume that the only alternative is the Western model of a secular nation-state. From a pessimistic point of view, the political instrumentalization of Buddhism may well reinforce an illiberal nationalism by restricting access to national membership to those of a particular religion. (Although in the country’s present Constitution, Buddhism is no longer the official religion and religious freedom is, in principle, guaranteed.) The liberal response, endorsed by Kymlicka, is to have a clear separation between the State and the Sangha—that is, no conspicuous official religious displays in discourse and rituals. Kymlicka argues this is preferable to ensure a thinner conception

108

vatthana pholsena

of national identity that would be centered on a minimal basis, that is, a shared language and institutions, rather than on religion, ethnicity, or race (Kymlicka 2000: 197). But it is not clear that this secular modernist approach can sustain solidarities and feelings of belonging. Moreover, would this measure not infringe on the ideal of authenticity, which Taylor describes as the ‘original way of being . . . that cannot be socially derived, but must be inwardly generated’? (Taylor 1995: 229) In a politics of difference that accepts the ideal of authenticity, human beings and culture-bearing peoples want to be recognized as unique, in terms of their identities. To be sure, it is an ethnic Lao-dominated postcolonial nation that claims to be constituted on a principle of difference by promoting Buddhism. What we have therefore is the challenge for recognition for minority groups of Laos, on one hand, and the claim to authenticity in the process of nation-differentiation, on the other. We have yet to find an answer that would give justice to both demands.

Conclusion This chapter has discussed various factors that explain why the adoption of a liberal model of minority rights is not (or maybe, not yet) applicable in Laos. These obstacles may be classified into two categories: ‘material’ factors that are specifically linked to the social, economic, and political conditions in Laos; and ‘conceptual’ issues related to Kymlicka’s theory. Regarding the former, Laos’ current political system is conducive neither to the awakening of rights-consciousness nor to a process of democratization—two preconditions for the emergence and the applicability of a liberal model of minority rights. A politics of misrecognition prevents minority peoples from expressing and claiming their cultural identity. For the purpose of controlling ethnicity, the state in Laos defines what is ‘correct’ in terms of language, locality, and culture—with insufficient consideration for a group’s subjective belief in its existence as a people or for the legitimacy of these state-defined cultural traditions. In addition, the Lao government’s politics of misrecognition, tainted by a Marxist-Leninist-inspired evolutionist ideology, pressures the upland ethnic minority groups to break with their culture and traditions through assimilationist and so-called development policies. Two other factors aggravate the illiberal treatment against the ethnic minorities, namely, the ‘securitization’ of ethnic policies and the state developmental strategy that often gives priority to ‘national’ interests over people’s livelihood. Put in cruder terms, traditional subsistence patterns in the highlands (i.e. all forms of shifting cultivation), are considered as backward, wasteful, and damaging for the environment and the national economy.

the case of the lao pdr

109

Nonetheless, the internationalization of minority issues through the work of non governmental organizations (NGOs), international organizations, and academics inside and outside Laos are starting, albeit very slowly and at an uneven pace, to effect the government’s discourse and policies towards minority groups. What form a liberal politics of recognition would take in Laos, however, and whether its effects would necessarily be beneficial, remains to be seen. Our criticism of Kymlicka’s principles of minority rights focus on the kind of multiculturalism to adopt, and more precisely on the types of ethnocultural patterns that would be the most relevant concepts to ensure norms of freedom and equality among all the citizens of the Lao society. One set of issues concerns the categories we use to describe minorities and minority rights. Even in the case of the Hmong minority, who have maintained a distinctive culture and identity, it is unclear which type of ethnocultural group rights would be the most appropriate, given their social distinctions (from poor farmers to educated and influential members) and political divisions (anti- and pro-Communists), added to their troubled relation with the state that tends to adopt a security approach while dealing with some of their members. To be sure, Kymlicka agrees that any typology of minorities and of minority rights ‘would inevitably fail to reflect all the complexities of the concrete cases one can find across different countries’ (Kymlicka 2000: 187). His more general distinction between groups seeking only accommodation within the larger society and those whose demands include selfgovernment and the maintenance of a separate ‘societal culture’ leaves more room for flexibility. In principle, the categories of ‘immigrants’ (in particular, with regard to the Vietnamese and the Chinese) and of ‘indigenous people’ may be applied in Laos in a (yet) foreseeable future, provided that a more favorable political context arises. But considerable imagination and flexibility will be required to envision workable models that are likely to differ in important respects from those applied in Western democracies, such as, perhaps, certain kinds of land rights or self-government rights at the local village level. A second set of issues, equally important, concerns the normative premises that underlie any conception of minority rights. Kymlicka’s account is both individualistic and secular/modernist. The evidence we have discussed from the Laotian context—whether it concerns the bivalent identity of minority groups such as the Lue and Khmu, or the increasingly Buddhist connotations of majority Lao identity—suggests that even in a more open and democratic Laos, multiculturalism is unlikely to be grounded upon secular liberal individualism.

5 Subjects of the Nation Without Citizenship: The Case of ‘Hill Tribes’ in Thailand M I K A TOYOTA

The concept ‘hill tribe’ denotes people mainly residing in the border highland zone between China, Burma, Laos, and Thailand, and whom anthropologists refer to as upland people or highlanders. Those who are officially categorized as ‘hill tribe’ (chao khao in Tai) by the Thai authorities normally consist of nine ethnic groups—Karen, Meo (Miao/Hmong), Lahu, Lisu, Yao (Mien), Akha, Lua (Lawa), H’Tin, and Khamu. According to a recent official Tribal Population Survey the number of hill tribes was 914,755 (in 2002),1 which amounts to around 1.4 percent of the total population of Thailand (61.81 million). The term ‘hill tribe’ was devised in order to identify the peripheral population at the borderland when the Thai government set up the Hill Tribe Welfare Committee in 1959. Since then the term ‘hill tribe’ has been officially used to label the marginal non-Tai-speaking upland population. Although they are collectively called hill tribes, there are many differences between them. For example, following a linguistic classification the category includes Sino-Tibetan groups (Karen) and Tibeto-Burman groups (Lahu, Lisu, and Akha), Mon-Khmer groups (H’Tin and Khamu) and Austro-Thai groups (Meo and Yao). With regard to arrivals in Thai territory the Karen are said to have ‘resided in the vicinity of the ancient city of Chiang Mai as early as the eighth century a.d.’ (Coedes 1925: 12–13). Other groups such as Lahu, Lisu, Akha, Yao, and Meo are said to have moved down from Burma since the middle of the nineteenth century. In terms of agricultural practice, the Karen and Lua are wet rice cultivators, while others employ shifting cultivation. This chapter argues that the invention and use of the term ‘hill tribe’ tells us a great deal about the nature of the relationship between the state and the peripheral population. It also reflects a paradox of the modern nation-state in its ambiguous relationship with non- or semi-integrated ethnic minorities. 1

The breakdown of the hill tribe population is: Karen (438,450), Meo/Miao/Hmong (151,080), Lahu (102,371), Lisu (37,916), Yao/Mien (44,017), Akha (65,826), Lua/Lawa (21,794), H’Tin (42,782) and Khamu (10,519).

the case of ‘hill tribes’ in thailand

111

The highland development project aimed to integrate hill tribe people as new members of the nation. Yet at the same time these groups were seen as not being fully Thai, and hence more subjects than members of the nation. And because they could easily be seen as a threat to the nation’s integrity and to the authority of the state, they were not regarded as entitled to full Thai citizenship. Currently 40–60 percent of hill tribe people who have a legitimate claim to Thai citizenship remain without it. As a consequence of being denied Thai citizenship, hill tribe people are deprived of many rights, such as freedom to travel between provinces and access to government health care schemes. Some may not get an official certificate after finishing school, which deprives them of opportunities for higher education and a chance at better forms of employment. They are also unable to vote and buy land. The problems they encounter became more severe after the economic crisis of 1997 when Thai authorities tried to eliminate ‘non-Thai workers’ to preserve jobs for Thais.2 The process of tackling the surplus labor problem and securitizing against non-Thai workers severely disturbed not only the livelihoods of ‘alien migrant workers’ but also unauthorized non-Thai hill tribe people. Hill tribe cardholders are prohibited from leaving the district in which they are registered without permission. A ‘hill tribe’ person caught at one of the many police check points outside his area without a pass can be arrested and detained, facing both fines and imprisonment. This means that many hill tribe people working outside their district without permission are regarded as ‘illegal non-Thai workers’ and can come under threat of deportation. Not only is their freedom of mobility to seek employment restricted, their right of residence within their own district is also subject to threat. Since the 1990s, following the Western model of forest management, the Thai government has stepped up efforts to forcibly evict hill tribe people from upland forest areas in the name of forest conservation. This has greatly added to the problems of the peoples here. Now the threat of eviction has been added to denial of citizenship as part of their woes—and all of this was greatly exacerbated by the national economic crisis. They have been evicted from their homelands, and without official identification documents they are prevented from legally registering their land. As a result, they not only have to tolerate lower wages and poorer working conditions than fellow Thai simply because of their ‘non-Thai’ status, but they are often harassed, arrested as ‘illegal encroachers’ in forest conservation zones (in effect, within their own home villages), or even deported (from the country in which they were born) as ‘illegal foreign workers’ by the authorities. Without citizenship they are in a double bind: they can neither secure land rights nor move elsewhere to find desirable working conditions. This severe situation has pushed hill tribe people into taking direct action for the first time in Thai history. 2 According to statistics of the National Security Council (NSC) the number of ‘illegal alien workers’ arrested in 1998 was 298,480, 319,629 in 1999 and was 444,636 in the following year.

112

mika toyota

In April–May 1999, thousands of hill tribe peoples carrying Thai flags and pictures of the Thai king gathered in front of the provincial office of Chiang Mai in a massive demonstration, demanding proper citizenship and land rights. They demanded too that the forestry laws be amended to allow them to stay in their home villages and participate in community resource management schemes. Negotiations began on May 2nd. The government agreed to set up a committee to study the problems of land rights and citizenship for hill tribe people. However, the original agreement was not honored and representatives of the hill tribe people were excluded from taking part in the committee. In response, over 10,000 northerners and hill tribe people protested against the government’s betrayal (Bangkok Post May 16, 1999). The government replied with armed force. On the night of May 18, the nonviolent protesters were stirred up by progovernment agitators, giving an excuse for what had been a peaceful rally to be broken up by force. But while their protest may have come to an end, their peculiar legal status, ‘subjects of the nation without citizenship’, drew both national and international attention. Some commentators suggest that the ‘hill tribes’ should be designated as ‘indigenous people’ and as such should be accorded rights to land and to selfgovernment, in accordance with Western liberal models of minority rights and international norms. Kymlicka suggests as much in Chapter 2. While this may seem desirable in theory, simply adopting a Western ‘indigenous’ model may not be appropriate in practice. This chapter examines state–hill tribes relations in Thailand in order to identify potential obstacles in applying such Western liberal theories of minority rights. I begin by examining how the upland/lowland dichotomy has been (re)constructed in the process of modern state-building, how it was reinforced in the 1950s and 1960s during a period of geopolitical insecurity, and how the concept of hill tribes provided a convenient scapegoat for the Thai government when dealing with border issues in the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s. In light of this history, I then examine how people categorized as ‘hill tribes’ themselves articulate their claims in order to overcome the current predicaments associated with ‘hill tribes’ status in Thailand, and whether the model of ‘indigenous people’ provides a feasible alternative. There are two key aspects of the indigenous rights model that need to be critically questioned in the Thai context: firstly, the notions of ‘territoriality’ and ‘homeland’, and the inherent dilemma posed by the attempt to achieve a territorially bounded nation-state in the context of a shifting population base; secondly, the sociopolitical construction of a sharp cultural division and the problem of essentializing ‘minority/indigenous’ culture in the process of ethnic classification by creating arbitrary ethnic ‘differences’.

the case of ‘hill tribes’ in thailand

113

1. Territoriality and the Discourses of Upland/Lowland Dichotomy In premodern mainland Southeast Asia, land was plentiful but people were scarce. The critical element of sovereignty was the people, not the territorial entity. Any group of people was welcome to join the polity and enlarge its power. These premodern states have been described as ‘galactic polities’, with a strong sense of the center, but with ‘porous and indistinct’ borders (Tambiah 1976). Groups at the margins of these galactic policies were under the ‘indirect rule’ of the Thai authority (Marlowe 1969). For example, the upland local authority of the Karen and Lua used to pay tribute to the princes of Chiang Mai, and the princes in turn recognized the legitimacy of these local authorities (Marlowe 1969: 2). The princes extended local authorities their protection but permitted them to take control over their land and people, and enjoy a degree of semi-autonomy. Thus, at the overlapping margins of Siam and its adjacent kingdoms, the coexistence of multiple loyalties to several overlords of the peripheral minorities was common and was accepted by the ruling state (Thongchai 1994: 97). Through this tributary relationship, the peripheral population acknowledged the suzerainty of two or even three other strong centers and was linked with the major lowland kingdom in a loose, symbolic relationship (Keyes 1979; Lehman 1979). Loyalty at the border area had always been fluid and fluctuating according to shifts in power within the autonomous tributary relationship. As Jørgensen notes, during the early colonial encounter, Thai rulers appointed feudal chiefs (chao muang) among frontier peoples such as the Mon, Lawa, and Karen at the border ( Jørgensen 1979: 84). The relationship was not always one of subordination to the dominant group, but often involved an element of interdependence. For example, Karen leaders enjoyed appointment by the Siamese king as regional chiefs, and in the ongoing skirmishes with the Burmese after the fall of Ayutthaya in 1767, Karen subjects served as spies for the court because of their interstitial position between Burma and Siam (Renard 2000). These relations between center and periphery were not defined primarily in terms of nationality or ethnicity (Renard 2000). To be sure, there had always been a clear ecological difference between upland and lowland, and this was associated with a political hierarchy as well. The idea of a hierarchy between the ‘civilized’ core (muang) and the noncivilized others who live in the ‘backward’ peripheries (pa), was part of the traditional ideology of Buddhist polities in the region and existed long before European contact. However, the boundaries between upland and lowland people traditionally were quite blurred. The historical realities of constant interactions between two different ecological-cultural adaptations complicate the

114

mika toyota

picture of a simple binary dichotomy. As local oral history reveals, the peripheral upland people had long established relations with lowland Taispeaking people. Historically, trading with the uplanders for forest products was essential to the well-being of the lowlands ( Jonsson 1998: 20). There have always been mixed-marriages, adoption, day-to-day trade, and labor exchanges among different ethnic groups. The adaptation of the superordinate culture was not necessarily forced but a voluntary option for the subordinate or even a tactic for raising one’s social status, as Evans (2003: 279) has suggested. Moreover, recent detailed genealogical studies reveal that lowland ethnic groups can be an integral part of the kinship system of upland people. For example, Geusau’s genealogical study of the Akha (one of the upland hill tribes) clearly demonstrates the dynamic nature and adaptability of their ethnic identification. Von Geusau’s work has done much to show how flexible and open Akhaness can be: Several originally non-Akha groups entered the Akha ‘ethnic alliance system’ . . . these include poor marginalized Tai and Chinese, ‘mountain people’ such as the Lahu, and ‘forest people’ such as the Wa. These became Akha through attaching themselves to the ancestor system and accepting Akha customary law. The Akha call this padaw-eu, or ‘adoption’ of a group or person into the Akha alliance system by intermarriage or in the past, as jakh’a (bonded servant). This did not happen in a ‘class’ context, however, but in a ‘family’ context, leading to integration. There are particular places in the genealogical system where a group or person can attach him/herself (von Geusau 2000: 134).

In this way the ethnic subgroups could change affiliation and become members of a different ethnic system (von Geusau 2000: 122). Furthermore, as Reynolds suggests, the geographical spacing of muang (core centers) and pa (wild) can be a relative gradation rather than clearcut binary: In the Thai inscription of King Ramakhamheng (Inscription I) pa is the term for ‘grove’ of coconut, jackfruit, areca and tamarind, surely sustenance for the nearby muang and not its nemesis. In northern Zhuang, one of the Tai languages, pa is scrub land where cows graze. In this Tai language, a ‘real’ jungle with wild animals and tall trees would be dong, not pa. . . . Muang and pa are best seen as the outer limits of a continuum along which stretch gradations of wildness, from jungle to scrub to rice field. (Reynolds: 2003: 117)

It is reasonable to suppose that some so-called ‘upland’ people might not have actually lived in the ‘uplands’, possibly for generations. In fact, these populations are in a constant state of flux, not only moving across national boundaries but also across ethnic boundaries, and blurring upland/lowland territoriality. Several recent studies of the historic links and mobility between upland and lowland disprove essentialized and ahistorical notions of ‘the upland’ (Toyota forthcoming).

the case of ‘hill tribes’ in thailand

115

However, this fluid upland/lowland relationship, characteristic of the premodern period, has now been dramatically altered. The change started with the rise of the modern nation-state. The emergence of Siam as a ‘buffer state’ at the Franco–British encounters and the use of western-style political mapping techniques gave substance to the notion of a territorially bounded nation-state. This altered the structure of the upland/lowland relationship fundamentally. Frontier people were forced to cease the practice of multiple loyalties and geographical mobility between the two domains. The discourse of an exclusive upland/lowland dichotomy was constructed. In the process of Thai nation-building, following the pattern of the modern European nationstate, a clear distinction was produced by constructing a new identification category—Thai versus non-Thai—and this in turn affected the way the Thai saw themselves in relation to ‘others’. This idea of ‘upland people’ as ‘nonThai others’ was sharply defined with geographical territorial markers, in part as a way of affirming ‘lowland Thais’ as the ‘core’ of the nation-state. Bangkok officials classified the population at the periphery as ‘Khon Pa’ (the wild people). This implied that they shared little or nothing with their fellow Thai. They were depicted as ‘strange’, ‘filthy’, ‘wild’, and ‘uncivilized’ in contrast with the civilized Thai. (The realm of ‘pa’ implies the dangerous ‘wild frontier’.) In the process of creating ‘Thai-ness’ the dichotomy of muang/pa (lowland Thai/upland ‘jungle people’) was constructed and became a useful tool to identify ‘Thai-ness’ in contrast with the ‘wild non-Thai others’ (Stott 1991; Thongchai 1993, 2000). In effect, a Darwinian-style theory of human evolutionary development served as the basis of the distinction between muang and pa. Pa was seen as the historical past of the muang, and was represented as ‘backward’, and thus an object of contempt to the Bangkok elite. This new idea of ethnospatial ordering justified Bangkok officials in looking down on ‘non-Thai others’. They were perceived as primitives of the forest, ‘isolated remnants’, living ‘in the absence of the later civilizing influences’, retaining ‘the original inhabitants’ (khon dangdoem) (Pracha Khadikit 1885: 164, cited by Laungaramsri 2003).

2. Security Issues and the Creation of the ‘Hill Tribe’ Category in the 1950s and 1960s Since the number of Khon Pa was fairly insignificant, the Thai central government was relatively indifferent to them, and a relationship of noninterference prevailed for most of the first half of the twentieth century. In the late 1950s, however, the marginal upland population at the edge of the Thai nation-state became a concern for the Thai government. Following the emergence of the People’s Republic of China (PRC) in 1949 and the associated Indochina conflict, the Thai government under the influence of the

116

mika toyota

United States became increasingly alarmed about the possibility of communism encroaching across the border. Subsequently, the Khon Pa at the border zone were no longer simply seen as ‘wild others’ but as ‘threats and problems’ to Thai nationhood (Toyota 1999: 239). The Border Patrol Police (BPP) was established in 1953. Then in 1955 the US Operation Mission (USOM) came into being to provide substantial financial support to establish an uplands Tai-language school program run by the BPP. Through this program some upland people were trained as village guards to form border security volunteer teams in conjunction with the Communist Suppression Operation Command (CSOC) (Tapp 1989: 32, 1990: 154). As part of this program, photographs of the Thai king were distributed to the border villages and instructional speeches on Thai nationalism were delivered in order to raise awareness among the villagers (Kunstadter 1967). The Thai king became symbolically a bridge, integrating upland people into the Thai nation-state. Loyalty to the king was to mean loyalty to the Thai nation. The Thai king’s personal patronage was emphasized in the Royal Highland Development Project, justified by a projection of the upland people as ‘innocent, helpless, and pitiful’ subjects: in need of Royal protection. In 1959, the official classification of hill tribes (chao khao in Tai) to identify upland population was established. According to McKinnon (1989: 307), the term chao khao was derived from a British colonial term used in Burma where upland people were called hill tribes. Thai officials translated this English term, ‘hill tribes’ into Tai ‘chao khao’ (chao means people, khao means hill) to indicate the non-Tai-speaking population of the upland periphery who had yet to be assimilated into the Thai nation-state. Although people classified as ‘mountain Thai’ and ‘haw’ (Yunnanese Chinese) were initially included in the hill tribe population surveys in 1962 and 1965/66, they were excluded from the category of hill tribes in the 1984 survey, in spite of the fact that they had established trade links and mixed-marriages with upland people (Toyota 2000).3 This indicates that the term hill tribes does not simply refer to the minority people who live in the uplands, but has specific political implications in terms of making a distinction between those who can be included as Thai citizens and those who cannot. The creation of the official category hill tribe intensified the pa (nonThai)/muang (Thai) ideology with its rigid geographical territoriality of hill/ valley. In this way, in the process of confirming the boundary of the integrated Thai nation-state, the category of hill tribe came to be applied to the area where historically ethnic identifications had been ambiguous and porous. In the drive to secure a territorially bounded modern Thai nation-state, and to achieve national integration, the ambiguity of transferable identities 3

See details for Table 5.2 ‘Hill tribe’ Population Survey.

the case of ‘hill tribes’ in thailand

117

could no longer be allowed. The impact of the creation of the concept ‘hill tribe’ has been threefold: first, the practice of physically moving back and forth across the national borders and lowland/upland boundary becomes a ‘problem’ from the government’s view of sovereignty; second, the symbolic mobility across ethnic boundaries can no longer be accepted; third, the politicization of space (that is, the lowland/highland division) becomes a marker in differentiating Thai from non-Thai citizen. The shifting character of the hill tribes lifestyle was seen as ‘problematic’, and their mobility was considered as ‘illegal activity’. In order to control the movement of hill tribes by stabilizing residency and encouraging a settled lifestyle, cash crop agriculture and the Land Settlement Project (Nikhom) were introduced. Although the project itself failed due to the poor conditions for cultivation, the underlying idea of fixing upland people to a permanent village continued to feature as an aim of the hill tribe development project. When the ‘community development’ program was implemented in the hill area, the notion of ‘village identity’ as a ‘homeland’ was particularly emphasized, in defiance of the reality that the membership of village communities could be porous and mobile. In the 1960s several American institutions provided significant financial support for research into hill tribes in Thailand. But not all was for pure research. Agar (1980: 55) revealed that there were close contacts between various senior American anthropologists and the US Defense Department. There was evidence of the Defense Department’s Advanced Research Projects Agency and the American Institute for Research hiring anthropologists as consultants and advisors for their research in Thailand (Wakin 1992: 5–7). Meanwhile, the tribal Research Centre was established in Chiang Mai, Thailand to coordinate research on the hill tribes under the oversight of Western anthropologists. The Sydney-based Australian anthroplogist W. R. Geddes was appointed in 1964 to offer guidance on the organization of the Center and the planning of its research. Then Peter Hinton took over Geddes’ position. Their involvement was supported by Australian funds through the aid programme of the Southeast Asia Treaty Organization. Both Geddes and Hinton were opposed to the political involvement with the US security and military interests. Nevertheless, their accumulated data and knowledge were utilized to counter Communist subversion of the hill tribes (Toyota 1999: 241–2). At the request of the Thai government, the United Nations assisted the first socioeconomic survey of the hill tribes in northern Thailand between October 1961 and March 1962 (Bhruksasri 1989: 14). This survey was initiated by an Australian anthropologist, Hans Mannorff. Another well-known example of US donor research was conducted by Cornell University for USAID in northern Thailand in 1963. This was specially designed to assist Thai and US officials in formulating hill tribes development policies (Hanks et al.

118

mika toyota

1964). While the Hill Tribes Welfare Division was also established in 1963 under the Social Welfare Department of the Ministry of Interior, it was these Western academics who studied the peripheral region and identified the peoples. Their endeavors bore fruit in the form of two classic books: Ethnic Groups of Mainland Southeast Asia (1964) and Southeast Asian Tribes, Minorities and Nations (1967). These are considered canonical works on the peoples and ethnicity of the region. In particular, the concepts of ‘scientific’ ethnic categorization with clearcut boundaries associating an ethnic group with a culture employed in these books are still utilized as a reference when applying hill tribe development policy today.

3. The Legal Status of Hill Tribe in Thailand: Subjects of the State Without Citizenship Several development programs were adopted to improve social welfare among hill tribes, including Thai elementary school education, primary health care service, and occupational training. While these were officially designed to encourage and support hill tribes to integrate into Thai society, the reality is that hill tribes were never viewed as Thai citizens, and citizenship rights continued to be denied them. In 1956 when the government conducted a survey to register ‘all’ households in the country, the hill tribe population was excluded. This reflects a fundamental confusion in positioning hill tribes within the Thai state. From the security angle the Thai authority had to consider all individuals within the Thai territory as subjects who should be under the control of the state. Nevertheless, the concept of hill tribes represents non-Thai others. This resulted in a peculiarly ambiguous legal status, making them in effect subjects of the state without citizenship. The range of legal statuses that exist for upland peoples, and the rules under which they can acquire citizenship, are staggeringly complex. At the village level, for the members of a village to be eligible for citizenship, the village must be settled permanently and be officially recognized by the Department of Local Administration (DOLA). For villages to be registered in the Village Directory of the DOLA, it must have a village number, a village name, and a village committee. By 1993, the DOLA had officially recognized 1,178 upland villages as ‘core’ villages and the remaining smaller settlements called ‘satellites’, or unofficial communities were said to be 2,187 (National Security Council 1993 Directory of Highland Communities and Population). While the most recent tribal population survey counted the total number of tribal villages as 3,444 (2002), considering the fluid nature of hill tribe villages, the accuracy of census data is not certain. The problem is that significant numbers of highland minority villages are still not recognized as national administrative hamlets and a great number of hill tribes remain outside

the case of ‘hill tribes’ in thailand

119

national counts and are omitted altogether from the population census data. If the home village is not officially recognized by the state, there is no way for the villagers to be acknowledged by the state even as hill tribes which is a prerequirement in applying for ‘Thai citizenship’. The 1965 Nationality Act granted Thai citizenship to people belonging to ethnic minority groups who were born in the kingdom, providing both their parents were Thai nationals. Withdrawal or cancellation of citizenship was possible when a parent was proved to be an alien. The preconditions required for obtaining Thai nationality were first instituted by the Ministry of Interior’s Regulation on Consideration for Granting Thai Nationality to the hill tribes issued in 1974. However, many hill tribes people could not prove that they had lived in Thailand for any length of time and hence were regarded as ‘illegal migrants’. This barrier to acquiring citizenship became more severe following the end of the Indochina war in 1975, when more refugees, both highlanders and lowlanders, from neighboring countries came into Thailand. The presence of such new refugees was used to justify the continuation of policies that precluded undocumented hill tribe people from becoming Thai, no matter how long they had been living in the country (Keyes 2002: 1181). In 1976 a Cabinet memorandum called for the acceleration of the registration of ethnic minorities who had entered Thailand before 1976, with the ultimate aim of enabling them to become Thai citizens. Meanwhile, Thai authorities provided a ‘Pink Card’ to political refugees coming from Burma before 1976— Mon, Karenni, Tai-yai, Lawa, Burman, Laotian etc. The distinction between pre-1976 refugees (with the right in principle to become citizens) and those who entered Thailand after 1976 (and who are thus not entitled to citizenship) remains in effect.4 These complex legal restrictions have kept the majority of hill tribe people from acquiring Thai citizenship. Before applying for citizenship a Thai birth certificate is required to prove their identity as belonging to the hill tribe in Thailand. However, many of them never had their birth registered, although they were born within Thai territory. In some cases parents did not know where to go to register, or even did not know they should register. Neither did they know how to fill in the registration form as they could not read or write in Thai. These problems slowed or blocked the road to citizenship. Lack of sufficient legal procedures and documents has meant that many hill tribe people living in Thailand even for the second or third generation have been stuck in a tediously slow process which while nominally leading to citizenship seems to get nowhere.

4 Those who entered Thailand after 1976 are categorized as ‘illegal immigrant’ by the authorities.

120

mika toyota

Between 1985 and 1988, the Social Welfare Department of the Ministry of Interior conducted a survey to register hill tribe people in order to provide the ‘Light Blue Card’ (issued in 1990–1) to indicate hill tribe status. It functions not as a road to citizenship but as one component of a broader regime of population control. It serves as a marker used by the state in its attempt to regulate the movement of people across borders. Light Blue Card holders are required to ask for special permission before leaving the district of their registered residence. If they are caught outside the district without a ‘pass’ they will be arrested, detained, and fined, or imprisoned. Thus the census serves as a primary political tool for reifying the system of classification in determining the ‘differences’ of legal status among the population by dividing persons into discrete subpopulations. In this way the classification generated a system of discrimination between peoples within the state’s territory. In 1990, The Central Registration Order was instructed to specify preconditions for citizenship application. The following directive was issued by the Ministry on September 15, 1993 (Aguettant 1996, Dhiravegin 1991: 97–8): A hill tribe individual wishing to be considered eligible to become a Thai national must: 1. be under the supervision of a government office such as the Public Welfare Department, BPP, Internal Security Department or the Army; 2. have been verified and registered during the period 1969–70; 3. have been registered on a house registration certificate by the ID Project approved by the Cabinet on July 20, 1982; 4. have been registered during the period March–August 1985 by one of the projects approved by the Cabinet on April 24, 1984; 5. have been eligible during the period 1985–8 for the Survey of the Hilltribe People in Thailand, approved by the Cabinet on April 24, 1984; or 6. have been registered during the period 1990–1 and been issued an ID card for highlanders by the project approved on June 5, 1990. For those meeting the eligibility criteria above who want to become citizens, they will be granted citizenship and their names included in a household registration certificate, if they have been 1. born in Thailand and reached the age of maturity, or are legally married; 2. occupying a permanent residence with their name on a household registration certificate, or have maintained their status regarding one item of evidence in Rule 5 for more than five years in the same district, or if having moved to a new permanent residence because of marriage but legally informed the authorities of the move and the total duration of stay at both places is not less than five years; 3. earning a living honestly and are harmless to society and the nation; and 4. not growing any narcotic plants, or have given up such a practice.

the case of ‘hill tribes’ in thailand

121

Given these complex rules and arcane restrictions, it is not surprising that many upland people remain without citizenship. According to official data in 1993, the percentage of the upland population with Thai citizenship was only 24 percent. Hill tribe ID holders were 31 percent, whereas people without any ID numbered 45 percent.5 In order to keep track of the legal status of various minority people at the Thai–Burma border, different colours of minority ID cards were produced in the 1990s.6 There was a ‘Light Blue Card’ (issued in 1990–1) indicating hill tribe status; a ‘Pink Card’ for political refugees from Burma before 1976 (issued in 1979, 1986, and 1994); an ‘Orange Card’ for those from Burma who came after 1976 as ‘illegal immigrants’ who have their own residence (issued in 1993–4); a ‘Purple Card’ for those coming from Burma after 1976 as ‘illegal immigrants’ who do not have their own residence but live with their employer (issued in 1993–4); a different ‘Orange Card’ for members of the Tai Lue group (issued in 1994); a ‘Yellow with blue frame’ Card for displaced Thai people who reside in the area which used to be under the rule of King Chulalornkorn (1868–1910) but became Myanmar territory after the new demarcation of the Thai–Burma border (issued in 1997). In 1999, Japanese funds helped finance another survey on hill tribe peoples especially aimed at those without official documents. Those surveyed were then given a ‘Green Card with Red Frame’. Along with this measure an illegal alien work permit was issued in 1992, 1996, 1998, 1999, and 2000. These different ways of classifying people confused both the hill tribe people and government officials, and did little to clarify their legal status. Despite various efforts and international support, the speed of the procedures for granting Thai citizenship has hardly improved. In order to address the problem and improve the efficiency of the legal procedure a new directive was introduced in June 2000 whereby the Local Administration Department permitted district chiefs in twenty provinces to grant citizenship to hill tribe people (whereas previously only provincial governors could do this). The Department of Local Administration in the Ministry of the Interior even produced a new regulation handbook on how to categorize and register the status of persons living in upland areas. This still did not make the process easy. What the district officials find confusing is the fact that a hill tribe person can have several statuses and different coloured ID cards. They also find that documents are contradictory. Furthermore the laws pertaining to citizenship regulations are sometimes contradictory. This has added further confusion and slowed down 5 The number of people holding Thai citizenship was 191,899, the number with hill tribe ID was 247,775, and those without any ID numbered 365,052, out of the total upland population of 804,726. 6 See Table 5.1 for full details of classification of minority ID card in Thailand.

122

mika toyota

Table 5.1 Classification of minority ID in Thailand Colour of ID card Description

Year of issue

1 White with blue frame

Refugees from Vietnam in 1945 and 1946

1989 Thai ID for offspring in 1992

2 White

Ex-Kuomintang arrived between 1950–4

1978 Thai ID for offspring in 1984

3 Yellow 4 Orange

Cin-Haw refugees arrived between 1950–61 Cin-Haw who claim to be relatives of ex-Kuomintang or Cin-Haw refugees arrived between 1962–79

1984 1988 Thai ID for descendants in 2000

5 Green

Ex-Malaya Chinese communists who surrendered in 1987

1989–90

6 Orange 7 Light blue

Tai Lue Laotian refugees arrived after 1974

1994 1991 Thai ID for those married to Thai in 1992

8 Green

Refugees from Nepal (displaced persons with Myanmar nationality)

9 Pink

Political refugees from Burma before 1976 consisting of Mon, Karenni, Taiyai, Lawa Burman, Laotian, etc.

1987 Thai ID for descendants in 2000 Thai ID for descendants who were born between 1972 and 1992 in 2000

10(a) Orange

Illegal immigrants from Burma after 1976 who have own residence

1993–4

10(b) Purple

Illegal immigrants from Burma after 1976 who work and stay with employer

1993–4

11 Yellow with blue frame

Displaced Thai people/race left behind in Myanmar territories after the new demarcation of the border

1997 Thai ID

12 Light blue

Persons living in upland area who are categorized as ‘hill tribes’

1990–1

13 Green

Displaced Thai refugees from Ko Kong province, Cambodia, arrived after 1977

1983, 1984, 1991

Continued

the case of ‘hill tribes’ in thailand

123

Table 5.1 cont’d Colour of ID card

Description

Year of issue

14 White with red frame

Cambodian illegal immigrants arrived after November 15, 1977

15 Light blue

Mlabri, indigenous people living in Phrae and Nan province

1990–1

16 Green with red frame 17 Orange

Upland persons who have never been issued any other status Illegal alien labour work permit

August 29, 2000 1992, 1996, 1998, 1999, 2000

Source: Handbook of status identification for persons living in upland area, vol. 2 (ID card for ethnic minorities), Department of Local Administration, Ministry of Interior of Thailand (in Tai).

Table 5.2 ‘Hill tribes’ population survey 1961 (20 groups) Meo

Karen

Yao Akha Lisu Lahu

1965/66 1984 1988 1996 2002 (8 groups) (8 groups) (9 groups) (10 groups) (9 groups) Blue Meo White Meo Gua M’ba Meo Skaw Karen P’wo Karen B’ghwe Karen

Lahu Nyi Lahu Na Lahu Shehleh Lahu Shi

Kha Mu Kha H’tin Lawa * Yumbri Taungthu Kha Haw Haw Phi Tong Luang

Meo

Hmong

Hmong

Hmong

Meo

Karen

Karen

Karen

Karen

Karen

Yao Akha Lisu Lahu

Yao Akha Lisu Lahu

Yao Akha Lisu Lahu

Mien Akha Lisu Lahu

Yao Akha Lisu Lahu

Khamu H’tin

Khamu H’tin

Khamu H’tin

Haw Mlabri Others

Mountain Thai 200,000 275,249

460,328

Others Lua

Lua

Lua

554,172

793,186

914,755

Lua

124

mika toyota

procedures, for officials do not want to take responsibility for mistakes and this makes them reluctant to take decisions. In all, the state’s attempt to impose ‘classifications’ in order to manage the diversity of subjects does not seem successful. There was an underlying assumption that ‘differences’ between different categories—for example, between groups composed of longtime residents and groups composed of recent immigrants—can be objectively determined. However, in reality, they cannot be determined with certainty and as a result corruption has become rampant. After United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) research on ‘Trafficking’ identified lack of citizenship as the single greatest risk for border minority women and children in Thailand, both domestic and international pressures for granting them citizenship have increased. As a result the Thai cabinet (on August 29, 2000) granted Thai citizenship to the descendants of three refugee groups: (1) ‘Pink card’ holders (i.e. political refugees from Burma who had entered Thailand before March 1976); (2) ‘Green card’ holders (refugees from Nepal, displaced persons with Myanmar nationality); and (3) ‘Orange card’ holders, Yunnanese Chinese (Cin-Haw) who are relatives of ex-Kuomintang or Cin-Haw refugees who entered Thailand 1962– 79, and to hill tribe children who were born between December 14, 1972 and February 25, 1992. In the process of ‘categorization’ it has not been uncommon for members of the same family to be divided into different categories. For example, the father might be classed as an ‘illegal migrant worker’, the mother as a ‘refugee’, the son as a ‘Thai citizen’, the daughter as of the hill tribe, and the grandmother might never have been granted any status at all. On August 28, 2001, the Thaksin government decided to grant Thai citizenship to hill tribe children whose parents were registered as ‘alien’ with permanent residence, regardless of when they were born. Granting citizenship was no longer a domestic matter but became an international concern. This is not only because UNESCO’s citizenship registration project was conducted with the Thai government office and international NGOs, and sponsored by the Japan Foundation, but also because the right to citizenship has become a universal human right and respect for it a requirement on all states (Hindess 2002). States failing to live up to this requirement fail the test to participate in the international community as civilized and democratic states. Hence the Thaksin government ordered specific state agencies to speed up the cabinet resolution’s implementation to grant ‘stay permits’ to all upland population who came to Thailand before October 3, 1985. Granting citizenship to these stateless people is now generally recognized as a fair idea from the perspective both of national security and stability, and of international civil society. However, the road to clarifying their status has been, and still is, a nightmare for both provincial authorities and hill tribe people alike. A report on the problem was recently compiled by the Commission on Civil Status and a Working Committee on Tribal People and

the case of ‘hill tribes’ in thailand

125

Ethnic Groups. According to the report, the total number of upland people who went through the status verification process in 2002 was 377,677. They are divided into three groups: the first group comprises hill tribe people who previously applied for Thai citizenship. Verification has been made for 90,731 persons. The second group comprises hill tribe people entering Thailand before October 3, 1985, who are eligible to apply for alien status to live in Thailand and will be able to seek Thai citizenship later. 37,296 persons have submitted requests to the Minister of the Interior for legal status. The third group comprises hill tribe people entering Thailand after October 3, 1985, who are considered illegal residents not eligible for any status and thus who would face deportation. 220,527 people were classified in this third category and cannot seek any other status but that of ‘illegal immigrants’. This third group was 58 percent of the total upland population who applied for the verification process in the year 2002. The Cabinet, during its meeting on August 26, 2003, decided to allow these 377,677 hill tribe people who applied for verification to stay in Thailand for another year, pending steps to finalize the verification of their legal status. Based on field interviews conducted by the author in December 2003 and February 2004, it was clear that many hill tribe people are discontented with the procedures and with the amount of corruption they encounter at different levels of the process. According to an informant, ‘It is not as easy as before due to the computerization of the information’. An informant paid 20,000 baht (about US$500) for his Thai ID in 1987, whereas 50,000 baht (about US$1266) per head was charged in 2002. Another informant who has been involved in the process said: ‘It was quite simple in the end because those who have means (connections and money) received First group status and those have not the means received only Third group status.’ In short, the attempt to define a distinct legal category of hill tribe in the Thai context, and to distinguish ‘genuine’ hill tribe people from other recent or long-standing residents of the uplands, has been fraught with difficulties. Similar difficulties are likely to affect any attempt to adopt the ‘indigenous peoples’ framework in Thailand. However, it is important to look more closely at how the concept of hill tribes is actually used in Thai political discourse, and what functions it serves.

4. Hill Tribes as ‘Opium Cultivators’, ‘Forest Destroyers’, and ‘Illegal Migrants’ As noted earlier, when the term hill tribe was first adopted, they were described as innocent and helpless people in need of the king’s personal protection. In reality, however, the term ‘hill tribe’ has been conveniently utilized by the Thai government to scapegoat minorities, and to portray

126

mika toyota

problems with the upland population as ‘hill tribe problems’. I would like to briefly illustrate how this is done, firstly in calling them ‘opium cultivators’, secondly in the indictment that they are ‘forest destroyers’, and thirdly in the accusation that they are ‘illegal migrants’.

‘Opium Cultivators’ It was in the reign of King Mongkut (1851–68) that opium revenue by tax-farmers and the Royal Opium Monopoly was set up (Supaporn 1980: 39–42). The operation of opium trading as a legal government monopoly cut down the profits of opium trading on the black market (McCoy 1972: 66–7). Because of the considerable profit derived from opium trading the Thai government did not ban the sale and consumption of opium until 1959. As a result of US pressure, the Thai government then changed its policy on opium trading. Cross-border opium trading was made illegal and condemned as ‘smuggling’. Significant support in the form of substantial cash flows from international aid agencies, including the United Nations and the United States, were promised. Hill Tribe Development projects were then introduced which aimed to replace opium with other cash crops, and a series of ‘antinarcotic’ campaigns were organized by the government. When opium production continued, hill tribes were then targeted as ‘problem peoples’ who produced opium. This conveniently ignored the fact that they were not alone, that there were also landless northern Thai peasants moving up into the hill area to produce opium and that some government officials were taking pivotal roles in opium trading in Thailand.

‘Forest Destroyers’ As part of the establishment of the territorially bounded modern Thai nationstate, the Royal Forest Department (RFD) claimed control over the forest resources, about 75 percent of the total land area, in 1896 (Vandergeest 1996: 161). In practice, however, territorial control was neither of interest nor feasible for a long period of time. Commercial exploitation of forest resources only really started in the 1960s and 1970s, but quickly resulted in rapid deforestation. It is officially estimated that in the early 1950s almost twothirds of the country was still covered with forest, but by the early 1980s, it was less than one-third (Buergin 2003: 48). By the middle of the 1980s, deforestation was perceived as a problem for the first time by the wider public in Thailand. This was partly due to the influence of growing international awareness of a global environmental crisis, and partly due to the heavy floods and landslides in the south in November 1988. Here again, a scapegoat was needed, and hill tribes who practice shifting cultivation were accused of destroying the forest. In 1989 the RFD consented

the case of ‘hill tribes’ in thailand

127

to a nationwide ‘logging ban’ that precluded traditional forms of shifting cultivation. The view that shifting cultivation was a dangerous form of agriculture owed much to international opinion. It was not until the emergence of international prejudices against it that shifting cultivation come to be perceived locally as a ‘problem’ and a prime cause of forest destruction. As Kunstadter and Chapman note (1978: 3) shifting cultivation used to be practiced by both Thai and hill people in both the lowlands as well as the highlands of the region. However, since international institutes such as the FAO pronounced in the 1960s that ‘shifting cultivation destroys critical watershed and poses a serious threat to the water and soil resources of the lowlands upon which the nation’s future welfare depends’ (Ruhle 1964, cited by Laungaramsri 2001: 184), shifting cultivation has come to be viewed as a destructive and harmful mode of cultivation and the hill tribes who live in the forest area have been particularly blamed for destroying the natural resources of the country. The concept of the Protected Area System (PAS) became a new instrument of forest conservation, defined in the Thai Forestry Sector Master Plan of 1993. This zoning approach gives priority to conservation forestry by ejecting and prohibiting human settlement in these areas. The FAO’s evaluation justified the Hill Tribe Resettlement Project which aimed to remove hill tribe people from the forest area. The resettlement policy, removing hill tribes from these areas and protecting the watersheds against encroachment by hill tribes was perceived as the most important task of the RFD. As the Protected Areas were extended from about 10 percent to more than 17 percent in 1999, the survival of hill tribes people in the forest area became more and more problematic—their land use being restricted, they were charged with being ‘illegal encroachers’, and forced resettlement policy was imposed. In this process, the view of hill tribes as non-Thai ‘others’ has revived in the RFD’s discourse, projecting them as a threat to the state’s welfare by destroying its forests. In May 1998, the Director General of the RFD signed an agreement with the Supreme Commander of the Army, specifying the cooperation of the RFD and the Army to protect Thailand’s remaining forests. In this agreement, the Army was given far reaching authority as well as financial support for operations in forest areas (Nation May 9, 1998). From April 18 to May 12, 1999, under this operation a pilot project involving an alliance between the military and the RFD was created. This involved soldiers and forest rangers going to the Karen villages in the wildlife sanctuary and demanding that they stop growing rice, demolishing huts and destroying personal belongings (Bangkok Post May 13, 15, 16, 1999). A Cabinet Resolution of June 30, 1998 stated that those who fail to prove that they have lived in the forest before the Forestry Department declared the area a conservation zone will be forced to move out. A way of life was made ‘illegal’ and free movement was now blocked by territorial borders, immigration controls, and other forms of legal restriction. An eruption of

128

mika toyota

the military into the daily lives of hill tribes people is now observable. Emerging nationalistic sentiment to protect the forest against ‘forest destroyers’ justifies the tough handling of hill tribes. For example, the Director General of the RFD laments that the territory of Thailand is gradually being given away to ‘non-Thai’ (Nation September 18, 2000). Given such official viewpoints, it is not surprising that ‘hill tribe’ people’s voices were totally ignored when the ‘Master Plan for Community Development, Environment and Control of Narcotics in Highland Areas’—a plan to relocate upland communities to lowland area—was prepared.

‘Illegal Migrants’ As the influx of refugees, transnational illegal migrant workers, and human trafficking from neighboring countries increased in the 1970s and 1990s, the issue of granting citizenship to hill tribe people became problematic for Thai officials. The concept of hill tribe could no longer simply represent the general category of ‘non-Thai others’. A clear classification as to who belonged to the hill tribe, as opposed to ‘illegal foreign migrant worker’ or ‘refugee’, had to be established at the individual level. This situation made Thai officials even more restrictive in granting citizenship—although admittedly it was no easy task for them to distinguish and separate hill tribe people from ‘refugees’ or ‘illegal migrants’ from neighboring countries. The Immigration Police classified illegal workers into three groups: (a) those who are suspected of trafficking workers into Thailand; (b) those who enter and exit the country frequently, causing a disturbance; and (c) those coming to Thailand illegally to take up employment. Vulnerable hill tribe people could easily end up in any of these categories. The fact that many of these foreign workers/refugees from Burma are themselves ethnic minorities who share ethnic and kinship networks closely with the upland minority in Thailand makes a clear distinction almost impossible and consequently both have been put in the same category of being ‘illegal migrants’. Unauthorised workers are often treated as a reserve of flexible labor, being used as a source of low cost labor provision in the agricultural sector, the fishery industry, domestic service, and the sex industry. The ‘miracle’ economic development in Thailand in the 1980s and 1990s could not have been achieved without the cheap labor force provided by illegal foreign migrants from neighboring countries and hill tribe people. Even so they are not protected by government standards regarding workplace safety, health, minimum wage, and other standards, and are easily deportable. The issue of identifying and classifying non-Thai people in Thailand became salient after the economic crisis, when the average unemployment rate jumped from 1.5 percent in 1997 to 4.1 percent in 1998 (Chalamwong 2001: 306). At this point, law enforcement against ‘illegal workers’ was stepped up. The

the case of ‘hill tribes’ in thailand

129

estimated figure of undocumented workers in 1998 was 932,200, equivalent to almost 70 percent of Thai unemployed. ‘It has therefore been suggested that if the government could get rid of all the illegal immigrants off the soil, the employment situation of Thais would improve considerably’ (Chalamwong 2001: 306). Given their lack of legal recognition, Thailand’s ‘illegal migrants’ become a target for deportation when domestic unemployment rises. As a result of the measures taken in 1999, not only have illegal migrants been arrested and deported, but also more than 1,000 employers who continued to hire undocumented workers were arrested and sentenced. From the national security perspective, it is important to be able to determine to which state people ‘belong’. In the process of ‘solving the problem of illegal migrants’ those people categorized as non-Thai in Thailand have been severely harmed, causing the further marginalizing of those who were already marginalized in the first place. In this process, the livelihoods of the irregulars among the marginalized minority people of the Burma–Thai borderlands have been ‘criminalized’ and those who were located in the interstices of the nationstates were recategorized as ‘illegal migrants’ and/or became ‘stateless’ persons. The issue of the right to citizenship, to work, to study, and settlement now intrudes into the concerns of people who in the past were free from such burdens. The result is that there is now a distinction that never existed historically between those who are living somewhere legally and those who are not. Those who do not enjoy official acceptance are technically ‘illegal’ and are likely to end up being harassed, fined, and generally bullied by the authorities. The modern state’s attempt at population control by making legal distinctions between peoples who otherwise may be all one is creating divisions that have no historical validity. Being perceived as ‘non-Thai’ people, the public images imposed both on ‘foreign workers’ and on hill tribes are identical: (a) they are the source of contagious diseases such HIV/AIDs; (b) they are the source of increasing crime; and (c) they produce stateless babies. Furthermore, without the legal recognition as Thai citizen, both are excluded from basic human rights such as (a) access to public health services; (b) educational attainment; (c) land rights; (d) occupational options (employers will pay lower wages to hill tribe ID holders, or nonholders, than to Thai citizens, and certain professions are open only to Thai nationals); and (e) freedom of mobility (both hill tribe ID holders and registered illegal workers are prohibited from leaving the district in which they are registered without permission). It is estimated that over two to three million ‘illegal migrants’ from Burma alone are currently working in Thailand. The strategy of eliminating such ‘illegal migrants’ severely disrupts the daily life not only of foreign migrant workers but also of hill tribe people who are subjects of the nation but still waiting for appropriate legal recognition from the Thai authority.

130

mika toyota

5. The Liberal Alternative? So far, I have discussed the historical roots of the hill tribe concept, and the multiple confusions, abuses, and discriminations it has created in Thailand. But what is the alternative? Do international norms and/or Western liberal models of minority rights provide us with a remedy for these problems? One option, promoted by various international organizations and endorsed by liberal theorists like Kymlicka, is to categorize a group as ‘indigenous’ (or as ‘tribal’) to bring rights and powers to them, in particular, the right to control the use of land and its resources, and the right to exercise selfgovernment and maintain customary law. Kymlicka argues that democratic institutions should include minority rights—in particular, the right of national minorities not to be assimilated into a larger community. In his words: ‘A comprehensive theory of justice in a multicultural state will include both universal rights, assigned to individuals regardless of group membership, and certain group-differentiated rights or ‘‘special status’’ for minority cultures’ (Kymlicka 1995: 6). Using the term ‘group differentiated rights’, he argues for the primary good of cultural membership, saying that individuals should be viewed as ‘members of a particular cultural community, for whom cultural membership is an important good’ (Kymlicka 1989: 162). The value of cultural diversity lies in the context of choice that the cultural structure provides; individual choice is dependent on the presence of a societal culture, defined by language and history (Kymlicka 1995: 8). In short, his theory justifies and defends the institutionalization of internal boundaries between communities within a nation-state in order to protect and preserve ‘difference’ and the way of life of minority people.

The Notion of Territory, Homeland, and ‘Indigeneity’ I wish to raise two questions about this alternative approach. First, the ‘indigenous rights model’ endorsed by Kymlicka and the UN is tied to territory. Kymlicka starts with a conceptual clarification of the forms of culturally plural societies. He makes a distinction between cultural and political communities. Political community grants citizenship to individuals and cultural community provides individuals with cultural membership. In the modern nation-state system a single political community could include various coexisting cultural communities. He argues that it is important to distinguish national minorities (distinct and potentially self-governing societies incorporated within a larger state) from ethnic groups (immigrants who have left their national community to enter another society). The presence of national minorities creates a ‘multination’ state; the presence of immigrant groups creates a ‘polyethnic’ state.

the case of ‘hill tribes’ in thailand

131

This distinction between the ‘multination’ state and the ‘polyethnic’ state is based on the assumption of people being sedentary and the existence of a bounded territorial homeland for each group of people. This assumption may not be feasible in the context of mainland Southeast Asia. What makes the issue complex is the fact that the entire mainland Southeast Asia region was constructed through a process of conquests, extensions, and migration. The Thai people who established the Siamese empire were ‘migrants’ themselves, and their ‘homeland’ territoriality can accordingly be seen as contingent. If we look at recent Thai history, overseas ‘Chinese’ can be seen to have played a prominent role in nation-building. The percentage of immigrants and descendants of migrants from southeast China grew from 6.2 percent in 1870 to 12 percent in 1947 of the total (Skinner 1957: 79, 183). An assimilation policy was exercised by the government and overseas Chinese became ‘Thai citizens’ though intermarriage with locals. It is now estimated that more than two-thirds of the members of parliament are of Chinese descent and three of the last four prime ministers of Thailand identify themselves as being of Chinese descent. What constitutes being a ‘Thai citizen’ can be broad and indistinct. While the international agenda of ‘indigenous rights’ focus on ‘indigeneity’, the concept of ‘indigeneity’ may not be appropriate in reasoning about ‘citizenship’ and land rights in the context of Thailand. In the case of hill tribes a particular moment in their history was fixed upon by Thai authorities to determine their ‘homeland’. The year 1976 became a fixing point for determining whether a person is classified as ‘illegal immigrant’ or as hill tribe population. Those who could afford to prove that they entered Thai territory before 1976 would be entitled to Thai citizenship. Those who could not manage to so prove would not be entitled to legal status either as ‘refugees’ or as hill tribe, and hence would not be eligible for Thai citizenship. This decision to use the cut-off date of 1976 in order to provide ‘legal status’ created arbitrary distinctions within the upland population. Observing the incredibly slow process of granting ‘citizenship’ to the hill tribe people in Thailand, it is clear that the obstacles are not simply the limitation of government budget and manpower but the more fundamental confusion and contradiction in the citizenship registration process. Given the high level of population mobility at the border area virtually any cut-off date for distinguishing ‘indigenous’ hill tribes from ‘immigrants’ would result in arbitrary distinctions. Furthermore, applying a precise date in an area which lacks reliable records and certificates only promotes forging and/or divides families in terms of their legal status. Common sense says that public policy should aim to grant the same legal status to everyone in the same family. While granting the status of ‘indigenous people’ and securing lands traditionally held by them may help protect and promote the interests of the members of a minority under the condition of consolidated democracy,

132

mika toyota

in the case of Thailand what marginalizes the hill tribes people is the idea that hill tribes are different from ‘us’, civilized Thai, and the prejudices associated with that. ‘Upland’ not only implies geographical and ecological elevation but social spaces which entail a hierarchical relationship. The peripherality of the upland community is vital to the legitimacy and power of the center. The paradigm of muang (center/civilized)/pa (periphery/primitive) not only justifies the sense of superiority of Thai officials but is also pervasive at the level of daily interaction between ordinary people. In this case, even if the Thai government was willing to grant genuine land rights and divide national geographical space between non-Thai upland hill tribes and Thai lowland people, this would not automatically solve the problem of social differentiation. It may even further reinforce the preoccupation with ‘othering’, sharpen the distinction between upland/lowland, and the subordination of people in the forest rather than leading to greater equality. By the late 1990s many hill tribe people no longer lived in the upland area. They had left in order to attend school or to search for jobs. The recent forced resettlement policy associated with reforestation projects also intensified upland–lowland migration. While some may wish for land rights in the upland area, others may wish to secure land rights in the lowland area. The critical issue here is their rights to participate in decision-making processes as a citizen instead of being forced into a relocation programme as a subject to be evacuated either from the upland or lowland. The crucial issue is, then, recognition of equal citizenship, not recognition of some distinctive hill tribe (or ‘indigenous people’) status. It would be naı¨ve to suppose that the decision to grant the status of ‘citizenship’ would solve the multiple problems currently affecting uplands peoples. Nevertheless, citizenship has now become a matter of legal definition which can be used to challenge the ethnically differentiated upland/lowland hierarchy entrenched in existing legal categories. It is understandable, therefore, that the common hill tribe population today seeks Thai citizenship instead of seeking ‘indigenous hill tribe’ recognition. It would be a useful exercise to question to what extent the upland people really are different from lowland Thai in terms of geographical mobility. In this regard the rediscovery of the Tai world in Burma and southern China is an important stepping stone in the path to reconfiguring the definition of ‘Thainess’ beyond the geographical boundary, as it demonstrates the fact that the lowland people are also ‘immigrants’ just like upland people. The upland minority as well as lowland Thai people are scattered across national borders. It would be useful to liberate ‘Thainess’ from geographically bounded nationality. Historically Siam has always been an ethnically plural entity. As Reynolds pointed out, ‘Central Siam in the nineteenth century was accustomed to a polyethnic population long before the term ‘‘multiculturalism’’ was invented’ (Reynolds 1998: 121). Applying the existing model of exclusive

the case of ‘hill tribes’ in thailand

133

‘scientific’ ethnic classification into the context of contemporary Thailand is only likely to result in arbitrary memberships, including ‘stateless’ status, to the detriment of the upland minority.

A People, an Identity and a Cultural Community? My second question about Kymlicka’s alternative, concerns the underlying idea of culture and community. Classic communitarian arguments see cultural membership as a fundamental value because it defines the shared understanding of social groups in a given culture (Walzer 1983). The problem with Walzer’s argument, Kymlicka points out, is in regarding the community as the bearer of cultural membership. The communitarian argument holds that the cultural community shapes the identity of individuals within it, providing their sense of self. The cultural community also assumes a common perspective and attitude, thereby establishing social norms and standards. These norms and standards will be internalized so that we can expect similar behavior from members of the community. Kymlicka rejects the above argument. He defends an individualist position and rejects the cultural determinist view. A community has no moral claim to well-being, independent of its members. Kymlicka emphasizes the value of secure cultural membership in its role in sustaining personal feelings of self-respect and thereby the capacity for autonomous agency. He makes a distinction between ‘internal restrictions’ and ‘external protections’. Internal restrictions involve the claim of a group against its own members. Such restrictions are intended to protect the group from the destabilizing impact of internal dissent (e.g. the decision of individual members not to follow traditional practice or customs). Kymlicka rejects such internal restrictions. External protections, by contrast, involve the claim of a group against the larger society. Such protections are intended to protect the group from the impact of external decisions (e.g. the economic or political decisions of the larger society) (Kymlicka 1995: 35). Kymlicka endorses such external protections, where they are needed by minorities. Consequently, Kymlicka’s liberal view requires individual freedom within the minority group, and equality between the minority and majority groups (Kymlicka 1995: 152–3). In this way, Kymlicka combines respect for both personal autonomy and cultural engagement. The problem, however, concerns how ‘a cultural community’ is ‘institutionalized’. Kymlicka’s argument is based on the idea that the term ‘cultural community’ can be used as synonymous with ‘a group of people’, without taking into consideration the shifting nature of its boundary and/or its multilayered character. Kymlicka seems to perceive a minority group and its culture as a primordially bounded entity through their ‘sharing a distinct language and history’, and hence he assumes that it is possible to define and separate one cultural community from another, and that such ‘difference’ has

134

mika toyota

remained the same from one generation to the next, in spite of the fact that culture is in practice multifaced, dynamic, essentially overlapping, interactive, and internally negotiated. It used to be assumed that an ‘ethnic group’ is an entity having an independent existence of its own. An ‘ethnic group’ has been perceived as a culturebearing unit. The task of the classic anthropologist was to classify them scientifically. However, current debate sees such ethnic classifications as ‘a technology of power by the modern state’ (Keyes 2002: 1174). What we need to examine is how discourses of ‘ethnic minority’ are sociopolitically created through state-making imperatives, and how the boundaries between them are made. The questions to be asked are: Who establishes and authorizes the ‘difference’? Who defines the group boundary? How is ‘difference’ legitimized? What kinds of discourses are developed to explain the origin and persistence of ethnic boundaries? Who needs the ethnic category and for what purpose? It is critical to recognize the eminent role of the state in determining what differences are significant for the peoples within their territory. The ‘difference’ is a product of the politics of modern nation-states. And inevitably ‘power’ will be involved in the process of defining separate communities. The expansion of the dominant group over the periphery’s population has been under way for centuries, even before state boundaries were created. No ‘indigenous community’ has ever been either ‘isolated’ or ‘intact’ but has always been influenced through interactions—trade, intermarriage, military conquest, etc. Nevertheless much of the rhetoric of the indigenous rights movement evokes a romantic view of indigenous cultures as timeless, holistic, and in harmony with nature. Kymlicka (2001) has criticized this rhetoric and emphasized the need for a conception of indigenous difference that recognizes their relations of cultural and economic interdependence with the larger society. However, Kymlicka’s notion of categorizing ‘indigenous people’ seems to overlook the fact that the relationship between dominator and dominated cannot simply be reduced to one of exploitation and resistance. It is possible for the peripheral population to shift ‘voluntarily’ into the dominant group in order to acquire the status that comes with membership of the dominant group. Ethnicity can be an important indicator for creating the distinction between dominator and dominated but it is just one of many possible identities. This is why the assumption that sharing a distinctive common language, social structure, and cultural patterns can be a basis for separating an ‘indigenous minority’ from the majority is fundamentally flawed. In order to resist the involuntary resettlement policy, hill tribes people learned to claim that their lifestyle is harmonious with nature and that they are not destroyers of the forest but are protecting ‘community forest’. This discourse became popular along with the nationwide ‘community development’ movement in the 1990s. In their struggle for territorial rights and

the case of ‘hill tribes’ in thailand

135

cultural rights it is understandable why the indigenous activists often utilize this romantic rhetoric that ‘shifting cultivation is ecologically friendly’ in spite of the fact that in reality not many are still engaged in such a ‘traditional ecological life’, but are involved in nonrotational cash cropping of flowers, carrots, cabbage, and potatoes, etc. In order to secure their needs and rights they have no choice but to project their ‘distinctive culture’, often in a sentimentalized way. While romanticizing the ‘native culture’ as ‘the sacred’ and ‘spiritual’ may provides a basis for positively revaluing their own cultures that have been denigrated by the larger society, and also helps secure alliances with domestic and international environmental movements, it can be problematic as the images entail segregating and discriminating, and reinforce the mentality of dividing ‘us’ from ‘them’. Although the way some Karen leaders refer to the poetic ‘imagined’ ideal past itself is beautiful and sometimes strategically useful for cultivating pride in their people, this sort of essentialization of ‘culture’ justifies the rhetoric of ethnic distinctions and can potentially trap minorities in the representation of ‘the isolated noble savage’, something that is far from the reality of the people who are categorized as hill tribes. What should be emphasized instead is the possibility of open and voluntary interactions and integration between upland and lowland population by ensuring that they have enough control over their lands and have some control over the speed and direction of this integration.

Conclusion Defenders of multiculturalism argue that democratic institutions should include minority rights, and in particular, the right of national minorities not to be assimilated into a large community. In this chapter, I have argued that ‘recognition’ of hill tribes in Thailand was not a benevolent or good faith act of equal respect for cultural differences. Instead hill tribe status has served to reinforce the perception that ethnic Thais are the ‘core’ of the nation-state, and also to justify paternalism and state control of the upland population, and to provide grounds for discriminating against them and denying them full Thai citizenship. I have also suggested that adopting the currently fashionable discourse of ‘indigenous rights’ is unlikely to significantly improve this situation. Upland peoples are highly mobile across national boundaries, have difficulty in identifying their ‘traditional’ homelands, and often lack official documents such as birth certificates. Because of this, and as a result of the recent tighter enforcement of border management measures, some of the hill tribe people have found themselves relegated to the twilight zone of ‘illegal migrants’. For them ‘recognition’ based on ‘indigeneity’ is likely to reproduce the pernicious consequences in practice associated with the current hill tribe status.

6 Liberal and Structural Ethnic Political Accommodation in Malaysia N. GANESAN

The federal state of Malaysia, located in maritime Southeast Asia, is divided into two distinct parts. West or peninsular Malaysia protrudes from mainland Southeast Asia south of Thailand while East Malaysia comprises the two states of Sabah and Sarawak in the island of Borneo. West Malaysia itself is divided into nine contiguous states and the two territories of Malacca and Penang. The country has a total population of approximately twenty-three million people, and it is a multicultural state, albeit with a clear MalayMuslim indigenous majority approximating almost two-thirds of the entire population, along with substantial Chinese (25%) and Indian (7%) minorities. From the time of the country’s initial political independence from British colonization in 1957 (the states of Sabah and Sarawak were added to the federation in 1963), Malaysia practiced a form of consociational democracy. This practice, involving the elite accommodation of major ethnic groups within the framework of political parties and coalition governments, continues to exist, albeit in a more adulterated form. Minority rights at the individual level are constitutionally guaranteed. Dominant political and cultural norms have allowed minority communities group representation. Additionally, minority communities have also sought group recognition through interest groups and clan and guild associations. The ruling coalition government has continued to articulate its desire to protect minority groups although political and economic developments in the last three decades have significantly empowered the Malay-Muslim majority community. This chapter examines the political evolution of Malaysia in specific relation to minority communities. It is also aimed at comparing the Malaysian experience to Western liberal theories of multiculturalism. The Malaysian experience exhibits an interesting and unique mix of Western influences and local accommodations. Organizationally, the chapter is divided into four major sections. The first three sections deal with various important eras in the political history of the Malaysian model. These are colonization and migration, political independence, and the 1969 ethnic riots and policy initiatives arising from it. The

ethnic political accommodation in malaysia

137

fourth section examines the constitutional and structural opportunities and constraints facing minority groups, and how these in turn relate to Western liberal theories.

1. Colonization and Immigration The British colonization of Malaysia occurred in stages, mostly in the nineteenth century (Gullick 1987; Shamsul 1986). The British, who had already colonized India, extended their empire outward into Southeast Asia and added Burma and Malaya to their territories. British presence was initially established in the Federated Malay States in the lower half of the peninsula and in a string of trading ports that came to be collectively referred to as the Straits Settlements. Over time, the British acquired discrete control over the entire peninsula by wresting control of the northern Unfederated Malay States from Thailand under the terms of the Anglo–French Treaty of 1896. Similarly, by obtaining trading leases at the outset, the British also exerted control over the states of Sabah and Sarawak in the 1880s (Payne 1960; Runciman 1960; Tregonning 1958). As with the other major European colonizers in Southeast Asia—the French in the Indo-Chinese peninsula and the Dutch in Indonesia—the primary aim of the British in expanding their dominion was to further imperial economic interests. Accordingly, early representatives of Great Britain were trading companies with royal monopolies like the English East India Company and the British North Borneo Company. Over time, however, economic interests became intertwined with political control and administration of the territories. In order to facilitate colonization with minimal conflict, the British ingeniously devised the Residential System. This system provided for a number of British Residents who advised the sultans (traditional hereditary Malay rulers) on matters of politics and administration.1 Naturally, the advice was supported by the implicit threat of the use of force. Through this approach, the British managed to subjugate the local population with little military outlay and violence, compared to the French ‘gunboat diplomacy’ in Indochina. In exchange for accepting British Residents, the Sultans were allowed to retain residual ceremonial powers over their subjects, especially in matters pertaining to ‘Malay custom and religion.’ In fact, in order to rationalize their presence, the British went so far as to offer such protection for ‘Malay custom and religion’ in general. A number of subsequent political developments 1

The Pangkor Agreement that the British signed with the Sultan of Perak in 1874 is generally regarded as instrumental in the evolution of the Residential System. All of Malaya became subjected to this system by 1915.

138

n. ganesan

arose as a result of this rationalization. Firstly the British conveyed the impression to the native Malay population and the Sultans that the country was held in administrative trusteeship on their behalf. Secondly, in policy terms, the British unveiled a series of policies that were meant to protect and further the interests of the Malays in relation to the growing Indian and Chinese minorities (Means 1972: 29–61). These included preferential treatment and quotas in education and civil service job placements. Land reservations were also set aside for specific Malay use. Thirdly, arising from this policy, at the time of political independence, the British tended to deal with the Malay political elite more favorably and intensively. Naturally, an unintended consequence of this policy was that Malaysia’s domestic politics became calibrated in majority–minority and ethnic terms from very early on. This majority–minority distinction in turn led to a number of other consequences given the nature of Malay cultural identity. Malays are defined legally as practitioners of adat (traditional customs) and agama (religion). The religious definition is a clear reference to Islam. Hence, the majority–minority distinction acquired significant religious overtones from very early on. Accordingly, the Malay/others distinction also implied a Muslim/others distinction. This distinction was easily observed since Muslims were in the main overwhelmingly Malay. This political and administrative empowerment of Malay-Muslims again determined the trajectory of postindependence developments. Whereas early Malay political elites were not particularly zealous practitioners of Islam, the religious dimension of Malay ethnicity was eventually successfully appropriated for political contestation by an opposition party. Another important development associated with British colonization of Malaysia was the influx of large numbers of migrants into the country to enhance economic activities and surplus extraction. While the British gave politically preferential treatment to the Malay majority, they also encouraged large-scale migration of ethnic Chinese and Indians particularly in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, so that these two ethnic groups became the most significant minority communities in percentage terms (Arasaratnam 1970; Pan 1998; Sandhu 1969). The Chinese were admitted in large numbers to facilitate tin mining while Indians were recruited in large numbers, often as indentured labor, to work on the rubber plantations. Both rubber and tin figured prominently in the British economic exploitation of Malaysia and these commodities were in turn obtained through migrant labor. Naturally, over time, migrant communities dispersed from their original settlements and settled all over the country, becoming involved in the professions, retail trade, and other sectors of the economy. Whereas the Chinese tended to gravitate more towards urban areas, exhibiting a greater penchant for commerce and industry, Indians were significantly less mobile and many continue to be embedded in the plantation sector.

ethnic political accommodation in malaysia

139

In short, by the end of the colonial era, British rule in Malaysia had created a clearly defined Malay-Muslim majority, for whom the British had held the country in administrative trust, combined with significant Indian and Chinese minorities who had moved into some of the favored positions in the economy.

2. Independence and Enlargement of the Federation Agitation for political independence from the British began shortly after World War II and coincided with similar movements in the other Britishadministered countries like Burma and India. Whereas the British were quite prepared to grant independence after the War, the devil lay in the details. By this time, the Malay community had become politically organized under the banner of a nationalist party—the United Malays National Organization (UMNO)—that was formed in 1946 (Funston 1980). Initial British attempts to grant independence to the country under the Malayan Union scheme (1946–8) were rebuffed by UMNO for its liberal citizenship rights to nonMalays, in particular Chinese migrants. The second reason for opposition was the political marginalization of the sultans who represented the epitome of Malay culture (Lau 1990). As the postwar political situation unfolded, the British became involved in the suppression of an essentially Chinese-inspired Communist insurgency movement. The Malayan Peoples’ Anti-Japanese Army (MPAJA), an underground guerilla army that collaborated with the British against the Japanese Occupation, joined ranks with the Communist Party of Malaya (CPM) to begin insurgency operations against the British. Alarmed at the deteriorating security situation, the British imposed a state of emergency that lasted from 1948 to 1960 (Short 1975; Stubbs 1989). During this period, the movement of persons, food, fuel, and other controlled items was closely monitored by the British. Areas that were deemed as Communist strongholds were subjected to dusk to dawn curfew and entire villages were often relocated to deprive the insurgency movement of nourishment. Eventually, by the late 1950s, the security situation had stabilized. In the meantime, the dominant ethnic minority communities also set up their own political parties to represent their legitimate interests. Accordingly, the Chinese established the Malaysian Chinese Association (MCA) and the Indians formed the Malaysian Indian Congress (MIC). In 1954, with British sponsorship, these two political parties joined with the previously established ethnic Malay party, UMNO, to form a multiethnic coalition party called the Alliance and successfully contested local elections to form the government (Means 1970; Milne 1967; Crouch 1996). However, from the Alliance’s inception, UMNO remained primus inter pares and had the largest share of

140

n. ganesan

seats as well as political power. Additionally, the president and deputy president of UMNO were automatically made Prime Minister and Deputy Prime Minister respectively. Hence, whereas there was ethnic political accommodation at the elite level, Malay political supremacy was established from very early on. In recognition of the contributions of the minority parties, UMNO typically awarded ministerial appointments to the leaders of these parties. Additionally, constituencies where the minorities maintained a significant presence were traditionally contested by the lesser parties. The communal calibration of domestic politics was aided by a number of other developments. Opposition parties, with rare exceptions, were also communally oriented. So for example, the Parti Islam se-Malaysia (PAS— Pan Malaysian Islamic Party), UMNO’s dominant challenger, is a Malaybased political party that campaigns on an Islamic religious platform. Traditionally, PAS has been successful with the religious and rural Malays in the states of Kelantan and Terengganu. The dominant Chinese opposition political party is the Democratic Action Party (DAP) that has traditionally been anchored in the more developed urban constituencies in Penang, Perak, and Selangor, where the federal capital, Kuala Lumpur, is located. Both before and after political independence, there have been a number of political parties that have attempted to break the communal mold but with little success. The DAP, for example, has in the past had a fair share of Indians in prominent positions who were also electorally successful. Similarly, Gerakan (Movement) was another political party with a multiethnic mandate at the outset. In fact, the founder of UMNO, Dato Onn bin Jaffar, was so disillusioned with the party’s communal gravitation that he subsequently resigned as party president to set up the Independence of Malaya Party (IMP) in 1951. The communal calibration of politics was moderated by the liberal disposition of Tunku Abdul Rahman who headed the Alliance government and became the first Prime Minister of Malaysia in 1957. The Tunku, a Malay aristocrat by birth and upbringing, was educated in the United Kingdom, and was often regarded as a fine English gentleman for his tolerant liberal ways. In the period immediately after independence, his charismatic personality and liberal disposition provided protection for minority communities and political parties. Such protection to minority communities included the right of citizenship, state sponsorship and funding for the more significant minority languages like Mandarin and Tamil up to the secondary school level, the use of major minority languages with public funding for radio and television programes, and the observance of public holidays for the major minority ethnoreligious groups. The Tunku’s imprint on the Malaysian political landscape, in particular the politics of elite minority accommodation and displacement, has been a recurring feature of Malaysian politics. Nonetheless, the standing of the

ethnic political accommodation in malaysia

141

minority communities and associated parties has become weaker over time as a result of stronger Malay nationalism and religiosity, demographic changes, affirmative policies, and developments in education and language. At the time of Malaysia’s initial political independence in 1957, the Alliance government was in power with the Tunku as Prime Minister. In 1963, the British decided to enlarge the Malayan federation by adding on the territories of Sabah and Sarawak in the island of Borneo and the island of Singapore located south of Malaya. This newly enlarged federation was renamed the Federation of Malaysia (Means 1963; Milne 1963). The creation of the new federation added new and distant territories and also altered the national communal profile. The inclusion of two million ethnic Chinese from Singapore into Malaysia was at least partly precipitated by the British perception that Singapore would be unable to survive as an independent island state without a hinterland. It was also motivated by an increasingly leftward drift in Singapore’s domestic politics—a situation that could be dealt with by the Tunku who was staunchly anti-Communist. However, this newly created federation was not to be and in 1965, after barely two years within the Malaysian federation, Singapore was unceremoniously ejected from the federation. Major differences between the UMNO-led government and Singapore’s People’s Action Party (PAP) government centered on elite interpersonal differences, federal-state tensions, intrafederation political contestation, ethnoreligious differences as well as differences obtaining from developmental designs in general (Milne 1966; Lau 1990). Singapore’s exit from the federation reestablished the ethnic equilibrium in Malaysia while the sparsely populated and distant Borneo territories exerted little political influence on developments in the peninsula.

3. The 1969 Riots and Their Aftermath The consociational model of interethnic elite accommodation was disrupted and became untenable in the wake of communal riots in 1969 (von Vorys 1976). The immediate reason for the riots was that the ruling UMNO-led Alliance coalition government suffered its first major electoral defeat in the post-independence period. The coalition secured less than the 50 percent simple majority of votes. Aggravating the situation was significant victories by ethnic Chinese opposition political parties. The DAP as well as the Gerakan scored major victories in urban constituencies. Additionally, both parties held ‘provocative’ victory parades that eventually deteriorated into communal violence in May 1969 (Gagliano 1970; Goh 1971). The outbreak of the riots had a major impact on the structural calibration of Malaysian politics. For the first time in its post-independence history, the government declared a state of emergency and suspended parliament and

142

n. ganesan

civil liberties. For the next eighteen months, the country was ruled by a National Operations Council (NOC) before power was returned to parliament. The head of the NOC and the Tunku’s deputy subsequently assumed the prime ministership, leading to a spillover effect on UMNO as well as the government’s corporate culture. By this time, the Malay majority community had already become extremely critical of the Tunku’s liberal accommodative policies towards minorities. Many Malays believed that the Tunku had gone too far in soliciting the views and concerns of the minority communities, and in accommodating them constitutionally and through structural power-sharing arrangements within the framework of a multiethnic coalition government.2 Hence, there was great clamor not only for leadership change, but also for greater empowerment of the Malay majority community. A Royal Commission of Enquiry established to identify the causes of the 1969 riots concluded that one of the major reasons for Malay disenchantment was the convergence between poverty and ethnicity. In other words, a perceived state of relative deprivation had begun to affect the Malays. In order to rectify this situation, the government announced the implementation of a New Economic Policy (NEP), beginning in 1970, and spanning a period of twenty years till 1990, in order to upgrade the economic status of the Malays. In essence, the plan called for public affirmative action policies to help the Malays secure a 30 percent equity and employment stake in the national economy (Means 1991). At the same time, when the policy eventually expired after its tenure in 1990, the government argued that the 30 percent target had not been achieved and that the policy required continued implementation. However, in order for the extension to be decoupled from the 1969 riots, the extended policy came to be called the National Development Policy (NDP) and continues to be in effect. Both the NEP and the NDP have allowed the Malay community to acquire a far greater national economic stake than the period before 1970. There has been spectacular growth in Malay involvement in economic entrepreneurship and corporate development. However, since both policies were premised on affirmative action, there has also been wastage and corruption. The immediate reason for these negative effects was that it was the same Malay majority through UMNO that attended to its constituency’s needs. State economic policies therefore became tied to politics and by the 1980s, UMNO emerged as both a political party and a trustee for large holding companies with diversified economic portfolios (Gomez 1990; Gomez and Jomo 1999). While both the MCA and MIC had similar holding companies, they were not on the same scale of involvement and largesse. Hence, from 1970, the majority Malay community 2

One of the most critical Malay political activists against the Tunku in 1969 was Dr Mahathir Mohamad, the current Prime Minister of Malaysia who was subsequently expelled from UMNO before his rehabilitation and reentry into politics under the Razak government.

ethnic political accommodation in malaysia

143

that was always significantly involved in politics and administration, also eked out an economic niche for itself—a domain that had previously been controlled primarily by the Chinese minority. As a result of this twinning of economic and political power, the majority Malays and UMNO became significantly stronger and were able to exert far greater influence and pressure on the domestic political economy. There were a number of other developments associated with the 1969 riots that both legally and constitutionally empowered the Malays. Beginning from 1970, the constitution was amended to make it a seditious criminal offence to challenge the terms of the affirmative action policy and the special status of the Malays. Similarly, it also became an offence to question the standing of the sultans, since they in turn represented the epitome of Malay culture and community ( Jesudason 1995; Singh 1998, 2000). In fact, as Milner correctly points out, the Malay word for citizenry (kerajaan) is a derivative of the Malay word for aristocratic ruler (raja) (Milner 1977). Despite these restrictions, the constitutional provisions affirming multicultural and minority rights, especially those pertaining to citizenship, language, educational policies, and public holidays, has continued to obtain. The previous consociational calibration of the UMNO-led Alliance government also underwent significant change. From 1970, the Alliance absorbed a larger number of political parties to represent a better crosssection of the national constituency, including parties from the east Malaysian states of Sabah and Sarawak. It was also renamed Barisan Nasional (National Front) to better represent the new plurality of interests. Since then, various parties both from peninsular and east Malaysia have joined and withdrawn from the Barisan government, and the number of parties represented by the government has been well over a dozen. The most notable opposition political parties that have joined Barisan are Gerakan and those that have had shorter association are PAS and Parti Bersatu Sabah (PBS— Sabah United Party). Typically, such parties have their own constituencies and charismatic leaders that have disagreed with the UMNO leadership on the distribution of political power and developmental designs. The post-1970 Malaysian coalition government has strengthened UMNO while weakening the MCA and MIC. UMNO, despite the larger number of parties involved in government, has retained its primus inter pares status. In fact, the enlargement and/or diminution of the coalition have typically been an UMNO decision. The larger membership has also eroded the influence of the MCA and MIC since they are now part of a significantly larger coalition with correspondingly lesser bargaining power. The Gerakan’s predominantly Chinese electoral constituency has undercut the MCA’s monopoly on ethnic representation. Since both the MCA and MIC are dependent on UMNO for political recognition and representation, they are vulnerable to structural weakening of their power as well as reduced dispensation and patronage,

144

n. ganesan

both of which have occurred since 1970. Elite factionalism and rivalry within these two parties have also added to their woes. Hence, ironically, although both the MCA and MIC represent dominant ethnic minorities, their representation and clout has been increasingly determined by the ethnic majority. Especially significant in this regard is UMNO’s willingness to recognize minority elites and broker leadership disputes. It would however be wrong to conclude that UMNO’s enhanced leverage within the coalition government has not come at some expense to the party and its own elite. UMNO’s extensive involvement in business has led to much higher levels of cronyism and corruption than previously existed. The party also underwent a series of high-profile elite dissent in the late 1980s and 1990s that exposed its excesses publicly and led to moral outrage both within the majority Malay community and the country. This tarnished image and elite challenges led to a number of fissures and defections, beginning in 1987 with the formation of the secular Malay splinter Parti Semangat ’46 (Spirit of ’46) led by Tengku Razaleigh Hamzah before its subsequent reabsoprtion into UMNO in 1996. Elite rivalry between Prime Minster Mahathir and his Deputy, Anwar Ibrahim in 1998, also led to the formation of a new political party Keadilan ( Justice Party) led by Anwar’s wife. Significantly, both parties have also been able to appropriate sufficient opposition support to mount broad-based coalition challenges to UMNO and the Barisan government. In fact, Keadilan’s coalition that tapped on Malay political and economic disenchantment and subsequent clamor for reformasi (reforms) was thoughtfully named Barisan Alternatif (Alternative Front).3 Hence, UMNO itself has metamorphosed since 1970. To plug the structural windows for elite challenges from within, Mahathir has skillfully altered the rules for contestation at the lower levels of the party. Additionally, he has also introduced rules that bar contestation for the top two positions in UMNO. Finally, through the 1980s and 1990s, he has severely emasculated other traditional competitors/claimants to power, notably the Conference of Rulers that collectively comprise the sultans and the judiciary that had retained a measure of independence from the political executive (Singh 1995). Perhaps the greatest beneficiary of recent elite factionalism in UMNO is PAS, the Malay opposition party with a religious platform. Its puritanical image and charismatic leadership capitalized on Malay disenchantment and scored significant political victories in the last national election held in 1999.4 3 The clamor for reform centred on the perceived ills of UMNO—korupsi, kronyisma, nepotisma (KKN—corruption, cronyism, and nepotism). 4 In the 1999 national and state elections, PAS secured a clear majority in Kelantan and Terengganu, extending its traditional control beyond Kelantan. It also made inroads into Kedah. In the former two states, the support for the political opposition increased by 18 percent compared to the 1995 elections.

ethnic political accommodation in malaysia

145

PAS, as the most credible single opposition party, is also in the enviable position of constantly being approached for electoral and political coalitions. However, its sometimes militant push for implementation of hudud (Islamic) laws makes it appear uncompromising to secular Malays and minority communities. PAS-controlled governments in Kelantan and Terengganu regularly publicize the virtues of Islam and have introduced numerous policies within this spirit. Such policies include gender segregation and very conservative dress codes in public places and especially beaches and movie theatres and strict enforcement of the religious code of conduct for Muslims. There have also been numerous attempts to implement hudud laws for criminal offences that have regularly been challenged by the UMNO-led Barisan government in the federal courts. The PAS discourse typically downplays multiculturalism and this policy is conveniently revised during election time to garner support. PAS’s seemingly illiberal views on multiculturalism have often led the party into major squabbles with the Chinese opposition party, DAP. Additionally, UMNO has been eager to associate PAS with Islamic terrorist activities that have occurred in Malaysia in the last few years.5 The political culture of Malaysia has also undergone significant change in the last three decades. As a result of UMNO’s political and economic strengthening, Malay political hegemony has become more deeply entrenched. Similarly, as a result of the global resurgence of Islam, domestic revivalist groups (dakwah), political and economic corruption, and PAS’s popularity, the national culture has also acquired a significant religious overtone (Nagata 1984). UMNO has capitalized on the opportunity to project itself as supportive of Islam as well as Malay ethnicity and undertaken a number of symbolic gestures in expression of such support (Milne and Mauzy 1983–4). These include the construction of an International Islamic University, the hosting of annual Koran reading competitions, the introduction of Islamic banking, and the banning of alcohol for public functions. Hence the country’s political culture has gravitated in favor of Malay-Muslim hegemony. Apart from structural and cultural changes, demographic developments have also strengthened the Malay majority vis-a`-vis the minorities.6 Malay-Muslim hegemony in Malaysia is justified in a number of ways. The British colonial policy of preferential treatment serves as the historical justification. The leadership role provided by the Malay nationalist 5 The most recent of such attempts is the arrest and imprisonment of Nik Adli, the son of Nik Aziz, the ex-Menteri Besar (Chief Minister) of Kelantan and President of PAS under the ISA. Nik Adli was detained for his involvement with the Kumpulan Militan Malaysia (KMM— Malaysian Militant Group) and for having received military training in Afghanistan. 6 According to the recent demographic profile, the Malay majority, together with certain indigenous groups, now accounts for approximately 60 percent of the population in peninsula Malaysia. The Chinese minority has slipped from 34 to 25 percent while the Indian minority now stands at about 7 percent, having dropped from the previous 10 percent.

146

n. ganesan

movement through UMNO in the struggle for political independence serves as the second justification. The third justification that is historically embedded is the ‘bargain’ made at the time of political independence that the Malay community would dominate the political process. This arrangement was given concrete expression in the Alliance government and UMNO’s lead role within it as well as the monopoly over the two highest executive power positions within the country. More recent justifications have included the relative economic deprivation of the Malay community and the enhanced structural strength of UMNO within the framework of an enlarged coalition government. And finally, Malay-Muslim hegemony is merely a reflection of demographic changes. Malay-Muslims, according to the most recent census, account for two-thirds of the total population of the country. Hence, the hegemony is simply thought to reflect realities at the ground level.

4. Malaysian Minority Policy and Western Liberalism Western theories of liberalism have traditionally advocated the protection and advancement of individual rights. To the extent that cultural articulations of identity are a function of voluntary choices, liberalism assumed that minority communities did not require special assistance. Cultural rights could therefore be exercised through freedom of association—a fundamental liberty inherent within the liberal rights of citizenship. Hence, giving political recognition or support to a particular cultural practice was considered unnecessary since freedom of choice and association was available. It was also thought to be unfair within a multicultural context since it privileged one cultural community over another. Whereas liberalism traditionally ignored the issue of minority rights and the cultural and structural context of daily life, more recent theorists like Kymlicka and Taylor have acknowledged the utility and higher value of cultural and communal membership (Kymlicka 1995: 121–3; 1992: 33–56; Taylor 1992). This acknowledgement has in turn spawned a debate on the rights and privileges of minority communities. Kymlicka, for example, describes two situations that can justify the appropriation of such rights. The first of these is an equality-based argument that leverages culturally disadvantaged minorities. Where the language of a minority community is not available for public transactions and education, there is an equality-based claim for minority rights (Kymlicka 1995: 110–13). The second situation that permits the exercise of minority rights is the existence of a historical agreement that recognizes the protection of minority communities. Examining the Malaysian situation in light of these liberal arguments, one may conclude that there is no basis for additional rights on behalf of the

ethnic political accommodation in malaysia

147

Chinese and Indian communities in West Malaysia, although liberal arguments may be utilized to protect minority tribal communities in East Malaysia. The reasons for this assessment are simple and straightforward. Both Chinese and Indian medium schools exist in Malaysia with public support up to the secondary level. Although the languages of both communities are not used for public transactions, they are accepted within the confines of the respective communities and there are no legal hindrances to such practices. There is also public support for Mandarin and Tamil in the print and broadcast media. In fact, within the ruling Barisan coalition, it is expected that elites representing particular cultural communities will be able to mobilize their constituencies along communal lines, including the utilization of their languages and cultural practices. Both by historical agreement and constitutional and legal provisions, minority rights are recognized at the individual level. The historical arrangements dating from the formation of the Alliance government in 1954 and the terms of initial independence in 1957 also explicitly endorsed minority communities and their political parties and elite representatives. There is some dispute whether the historical agreement provided for the dominance of the Malay majority. Nonetheless, the British privileging of the indigenous Malays and the dominant role of UMNO within the Alliance coalition and monopoly of executive power at the highest rungs of government is indicative of a certain historical dominance. Hence, in the Malaysian case, the evidence quite clearly points in the direction of the exercise of minority rights within the framework of Malay dominance or inequality. In any event, Kymlicka himself acknowledges that the complete separation of the state from ethnic considerations is impossible and that dominant cultural norms always prevail (Kymlicka 1995: 115). On the basis of the evidence presented thus far, one could argue that minority rights in Malaysia are protected within a legal and cultural framework at the individual level and a structural-functional framework at the group level. However, the situation is more complicated than that. There are a number of developments that have both strengthened and weakened minority articulations. Developments that have favored minority articulations at the group level are associated with interest groups that are explicitly or implicitly framed in cultural terms. Within the Chinese community, some of the most dominant of such organizations pertain to the highly organized and vocal Chinese education and school lobby.7 There are also clan and guild associations specifically catering to the Chinese community. The former are based on different dialects spoken by the Chinese, while the latter are usually 7 The most prominent Chinese education lobby is the Dong Jiao Zong (DJZ–Chinese Education Association).

148

n. ganesan

functional, trade, or skill associations. There are also fairly strong consumer lobby groups. A good case in point is the one in Penang that is located within a predominantly Chinese constituency. The Chinese community, as the single largest minority group, has been the most vocal about the retention of its cultural rights. The contestation is primarily framed within a historical context of rights that was appropriated in the early stage of statehood. It is also framed within the Western liberal model of constitutional and legal guarantees to the exercise of minority rights embedded within the Constitution. A select group of better-educated and informed literati sometimes articulates minority rights in relation to Western models or countries. The Indian community, on the other hand, is much less united and organized. The community itself is fractured along language, class, and occupational lines. The MIC attempts to appropriate most opportunities for organized and visible communal articulations. Nonetheless, there exist interest groups to further subcultural, religious, and labor rights. The comparative relative deprivation and poverty of the Indian community, especially those that work in the plantation industry, has received much publicity lately. Unlike the ethnic Chinese, the Indians are a much smaller and considerably less vocal minority. They tend to be more concerned with immediate socioeconomic and infrastructural issues rather than minority rights per se. In this sense, the Indians exhibit greater comfort with Malay-Muslim hegemony compared to their Chinese counterparts and a greater tendency to take their rights for granted. Nonetheless, the Indian community is also home to a number of outspoken lawyers, teachers, and labor activists. Of all the minority communities, the indigenous peoples (orang asli) are perhaps the most disadvantaged. The Malaysian government interacts with these people through a Government department. Although they were originally included in the category of natives or bumiputeras, the privileges that accrued to Malays from affirmative action policies did not benefit them. Rather, in peninsular Malaysia, the relationship between the Malays and the aborigines has often been tense and sometimes deteriorates into violence. Such peoples either live in their own settlements or government-constructed ones or sometimes simply roam the rain forests. In the East Malaysian states of Sabah and Sarawak, such indigenous peoples are in the majority and much better organized for political representation. The Dayaks and the Kadazans in particular, have their own political parties. Malay-Muslim hegemony has in the past created conflicts with the predominantly Christian Kadazan community in Sabah. After UMNO inroads into Sabah in the 1990s, the federal government has introduced rotational power-sharing arrangements among the dominant communities to keep the political peace.

ethnic political accommodation in malaysia

149

As for developments that work against the minority communities, the most significant are those that have considerably privileged the majority Malay-Muslim communities since 1970. These include structural changes that have empowered UMNO within the Barisan coalition government. They also include the economic strengthening of the Malay community. At the level of the dominant culture, it is arguable that Malaysia has gravitated towards a greater religious awareness and practice that has further reinforced the cultural divide and hegemony. Some of these developments are domestically derived while others derive inspiration from larger regional and international developments. The consolidation and corresponding power of the Malay-Muslim identity is however subject to intraethnic and religious tensions, both at the communal and political level. Communally, class and rural–urban divides have increased significantly. Politically, events associated with the humiliation and imprisonment of Anwar Ibrahim have sapped UMNO’s Malay power base. The opposition political parties PAS and Keadilan have made inroads into UMNO’s Malay constituency and the latter has recently been forced to turn more towards the minority communities for political support. The danger associated with a fractious Malay communal and political identity is that it has the potential to rigidify communal boundary markers, placing the minority communities on the defensive. The Malaysian model of minority rights therefore derives from an admixture of the Western liberal model and domestic structural refinements. The constitutional and legal protection of minority rights at the individual level derives from the liberal precedent. The formation and articulation of interest groups and clan and guild associations is also congruent with the liberal conception of citizenship. These rights are practiced within the framework of a dominant but tolerant Malay-Muslim superculture. Whereas the consociational coalition model of government that was sanctioned by the British has metamorphosed into something substantially larger and more representative of the domestic political context since 1970, the structural accommodation of minority communities has continued, albeit the new framework has reduced their power and ensuing leverage considerably (Lijphart 1977: 25).8 Ascriptive policies favoring the Malay majority introduced by the British have also continued. However, these have also been reworked and more 8 In light of the structural calibration of both the Alliance and the Barisan governments, it is arguable that Malaysia’s consociational model does not fulfill all the classic criteria associated with coalescent consociationalism. These are the existence of a ‘grand coalition of the political leaders of all significant segments of the plural society’, the mutual veto or ‘concurrent majority’ rule to further protect minority interests, political representation on the basis of proportionality, and a ‘high degree of autonomy for each segment to run its own internal affairs’.

150

n. ganesan

vigorously implemented since 1970. By now, they have become an accepted political and economic practice. The policy has however been identified as a source of complacency within the Malay community, leading to the emergence of a cargo cult mentality. The widespread use of the Malay language alongside English for public transactions and education, while strengthening and empowering the Malay community, has also had the negative effect of making Malays weaker in the English language, mathematics, and science. More recently, the Mahathir administration has publicly toyed with the idea of the selective and gradual removal of affirmative action policies. The ostensible reason for this idea was to introduce greater meritocracy and competitiveness within the Malay community. It is also meant to lead to a much more level playing field for the minority communities. Notwithstanding the government’s public articulation of such a desire, it will be a difficult policy to implement, not least for UMNO, the political party meant to represent Malay interests and one that is rapidly losing its Malay political support base. Similarly, the Malaysian government has announced plans to introduce English education at the elementary and secondary school levels (Ganesan 2002: 51). The greatest resistance to this policy is actually an educational lobby representing Chinese-medium schools. Nonetheless, the government appears resolute in its decision while offering to implement it at a slower pace and allowing for some exclusions to protect minority education rights. As for Islam, the structural imperatives of the Malaysian political landscape limit the extent to which the state can privilege Muslims over others. There are constitutional and legal safeguards for freedom of worship. Additionally, Malaysia, despite being a Muslim-majority state, is unlikely to become a theocratic state any time soon. In fact, UMNO leaders have regularly and publicly committed themselves to multiculturalism and freedom of worship. If anything, the government has consciously and actively sought out and broken up deviationist and militant Islamic groups. These include the Darum Arqam (House of Arqam) in 1994, the Kumpulan Militan Malaysia (Malaysian Militant Group) in 2000, and most recently, the regional terrorist network, the Jemaah Islamiyah (Islamic Group). Adherents of these groups have been detained and often held indefinitely under the Internal Security Act (ISA) that provides for detention without trial. There are two other reasons why an Islamic state will not eventuate in Malaysia. Firstly, the Malays practice a sufi variant of Sunni Islam that is eclectic and tolerant as well as absorptive of preIslamic rituals and beliefs. Secondly, UMNO’s political elite realize that they would not only lose minority support in pushing for greater implementation of Islamic law but cannot hope to trump the Islamic credentials of the opposition political party PAS.

ethnic political accommodation in malaysia

151

Conclusion Malaysia practices minority rights within the framework of Western liberalism. Legal and constitutional rights for freedom of practice of cultural and religious identities derive from the liberal framework. Interest group articulation is also within a liberal proviso. The structural imperatives of coalition government allow for minority political representation within government. Similarly, owing to the communal nature of the political process in general, minority groups are also able to form opposition parties, as is the Malay majority. There is little evidence thus far to support the suggestion that Malaysia will become an Islamic state. The communal nature of the Malaysian political process is both a boon and a bane for minority communities. It is a boon to the extent that their status and standing is assured of articulation and representation at the cultural and political levels. However, it is also a bane to the extent that the current structural-functional calibration of the Barisan coalition government entrenches Malay-Muslim hegemony. Structural adjustments to the domestic political and economic process since 1970 have further refined and entrenched this hegemony, it is likely to continue and probably become more pervasive in the future. At the same time, there are stirrings within UMNO to introduce policies that will blunt the negative consequences of affirmative action policies on the Malay community that may in turn free up greater space for minority communities.

7 Normative Pluralism in Indonesia: Regions, Religions, and Ethnicities JOHN R. BOWEN

A number of prominent political theorists recently have tried to expand the reach of their approaches beyond Western liberalism and beyond Western democracies by critically examining notions of justice, multiculturalism, and what Parekh (2000) calls ‘moral monism.’ In his late writings, John Rawls (Rawls 1999) asked, albeit in a footnote, whether Islamic norms could enter into political debates about justice (he said they would have to be translated into universalistic norms). Parekh (2000) has presented a normative framework for immigration situations (such as in Britain) that would not pretend that Western liberal ideas of autonomy were universal. In Chapter 2, Kymlicka asks whether Western trends toward recognition of minorities have found or will find a purchase in Asian societies; he suggests that they have only to a limited degree. These studies start from a Western liberal framework, asking whether it is suitable for other societies. I would like to proceed the other way around. After noting Kymlicka’s observations on Asian societies, I explore claims and practices regarding normative and legal pluralism that have emerged in Indonesia. I find debates and conflicts over the very units for thinking about pluralism and that, specifically, using the broadly analytic categories of political theory such as ‘minority’, ‘culture’, and ‘people’ to characterize the positions taken in Indonesia would highlight, and thus favor, one set of political positions over others. I then ask if this case might not allow us to reexamine the language we use for describing cases in Europe and North America. Kymlicka points out that western countries have moved towards policies of ‘multination federalism’, in which minorities are granted a degree of selfgovernance in defined territories, as well as increasing degrees of ‘multiculturalism’ towards immigrants, in the form of rights to preserve their language and culture. The concept of multination federalism covers a wide range of arrangements, from devolution of legislative powers, as in Scotland and Catalonia, to the formal recognition of indigenous peoples’ rights in Australia and the Americas. Even France, stated by Kymlicka as the major exception to this trend, continues to recognize the special status of a number of regions,

normative pluralism in indonesia

153

from Alsace to the Reunion islands, and in practice, thought not yet officially, has begun to follow European dictates on minority language rights. That said, Kymlicka observes that with the exception of India, Asian states have opposed multination federalism for a number of reasons: they see some minorities as fifth columns and potential allies of the state’s enemies; they want to impose uniform laws and property rights; they believe that in any case minorities will assimilate in time. Kymlicka also notes that there are exceptions (such as India) and there are situations that do not fit the Western categories of national minorities, indigenous peoples, and immigrants, despite the increasing tendency of actors in each Asian country to adopt, via Non Governmental Organizations (NGOs), the United Nations (UN), or other international conduits, the Western conceptual framework. The question for the future will be whether such international efforts to guarantee minority rights can succeed. But what if we reversed the line of inquiry, and asked whether there are political theories and institutions developed in some Asian countries that are based on quite different assumptions about the categories and groups that make up nations? This way of thinking has enjoyed a very bad reputation, of course, ever since former Malaysian Prime Minister Mahathir touted the virtues of ‘Asian values’ in order to claim the inapplicability of international norms of human rights. But I wish to focus not on issues of human rights but rather of the recognition of minority rights, and pose several questions: What categories are granted political and legal recognition? What kinds of claims are made by communities that compose the nationwide population, which may or may not be minorities? What remains of the category of citizen or member in a national political community? My Asian work has been in Indonesia and I restrict myself here to that country, but I believe that contrasts along some of the axes I point to here could become the basis for some modest regional comparisons, before extending such comparisons to European or American countries. In what follows I first analyze debates about the relative merits of claims to self-governance that are made in Indonesia on the bases of peoplehood, place, and social norms. I then consider whether the result of this analysis could provide us with a different lens for studying debates in Europe or the Americas. Next I turn to the question of religious law and its place in a democratic society, asking whether the presence of a legal system of laws that are based on revelation is compatible with the idea of an overlapping political consensus— and whether this problem does not exist for Western societies as well.

1. Indonesian Categories The New Order that lasted under Suharto from 1966 to 1998 made the control of categories part of its state-building policies. The Indonesian state motto is ‘unity in diversity,’ a motto whose Sanskrit origin reminds us of the

154

john r. bowen

importance in the state ideology of the ancient ‘Indian’ connection, a connection that is promoted through the Buddhist complex at Borobodur and that promises to overcome divisive allegiances to region, religion, or political party. Under Suharto a narrow sort of cultural diversity across regions was acknowledged and indeed promoted. In the 1970s and 1980s, the state television stations frequently aired dances and songs that were identified by the name of a region. These performances took on a rather boring uniformity, wrested as they were out of their ritual or ceremonial contexts. Each province boasts a house in the national ‘miniature garden’ in Jakarta, the Taman Mini Indah Indonesia. Inside each are tokens of ‘culture’: wedding outfits on mannequins, farm implements, musical instruments, and so forth. Absent are representations of indigenous political institutions or, most intriguingly, accounts of ethnic differences. For example, the province of South Sulawesi contains a number of distinct ethnic categories—Buginese, Makassarese, Torajan, and others—and residents of the province are highly aware of these categories and the cultural differences across them. But in New Order public contexts one could only speak in terms of the residents of a geographical region, as in ‘people of South Sulawesi’ and not mention ethnic names, lest one be guilty of exacerbating ethnic tensions. The forbidden categories for public discussion were known by the acronym SARA: suku (ethnicity), agama (religion), ras (race), and antargolongan, literally ‘intergroup’ and applicable to nearly any discussion of group identity. I found of particular interest the linguistic contortions necessary to refer to individuals of Chinese background. Often one read the incomplete designating phrase orang keturunan, ‘someone of descent’, which everyone could easily complete with ‘Chinese.’ A second usage was to write about someone who was a ‘citizen’, warga negara, which readers understood to refer to Chinese because Chinese, and no other citizens, were merely citizens; legal citizenship was their only relationship to the Indonesian social and political body. (One might compare the French designation, ‘franc¸ais de papiers,’ ‘French by virtue of papers’, referring to those people who have citizenship papers but no other claim to French status.) After Suharto these restrictions were considerably loosened, but even more consequential for public deliberation about minorities and citizenship has been the process of political decentralization. In a series of laws, Parliament has authorized the devolution of some political and economic authority to provinces and districts. Local governments now have greater opportunities to develop policies about resource use or trade, and also to engage in the corruption once reserved for the central government. This legislation came at the same time as a general sense of a crisis in legitimacy, and indeed in part because of that crisis. It was, and still is, unclear what the normative basis for government is in Indonesia. Elections have been widely viewed as manipulated. The three presidents who succeeded Suharto

normative pluralism in indonesia

155

did so under the old rules of the game. Current contenders for the office include highly corrupt members of the Suharto regime and representatives of more or less ‘Islamic’ parties. The judiciary hardly inspires greater confidence. Certain judges continue to give their decisions to the highest bidder; the major change since 1998 has been the degree of publicity given to their actions. The prospect of devolution has given rise to movements for self-governance in many parts of Indonesia. These movements and deliberations do not, however, seem to have entered into international discussions of group rights and representations. The reasons for that may be, first, that in Indonesia the issue is seldom posed in terms of ‘minority rights’, and, secondly, that there is a great deal of local debate and conflict over precisely in what terms claims to self-governance should be made.

2. Provinces, Peoples, and Adat Norms One might expect the natural unit for decentralization to be the province. Provinces have been the most important subunits in Indonesia’s politics. Many provinces correspond in some way or another to social and historical realities. All provinces contain people of more than one ethnic category, but some are relatively homogeneous, such as central Java, which contains the two old court cities where Javanese culture was most developed, and west Sumatra, home of the Minangkabau people. Others are frankly ‘mosaics’ but correspond to historical developments, such as North Sumatra, which contains old Malay sultanates, various related Batak peoples, and the cosmopolitan city of Medan. Much of that province’s historical dynamics revolve around the creation of plantations and the movement of Bataks from the hills into the plains and the city. Some provinces can appeal to distant glorious pasts. Aceh contains a number of distinct peoples but is the remnant of a once extensive sultanate. The city of Palembang, capital of southern Sumatra, lies near the capital of the maritime empire Srivijaya and provides a symbolic focus for that province. Since independence, most provinces have engaged in one or another project of rebelling against Jakarta, whether because a secessionist movement gained regional power or because provincial leaders thought they could gain leverage in order to make demands for provincial privilege or for changes at the center. Indeed, it is very difficult to adequately characterize these ‘secessionist’ movements, as different groups of people participated for very different motives. Starting before, but especially after the fall of Suharto in 1998, individuals and groups have made claims to self-governance on grounds that they represented people bound together by a set of norms or values. These claims

156

john r. bowen

have rested on several different foundations. In some cases they referred to Islamic or other religious norms, but in many other cases they referred to norms of adat, a term used to refer to local norms, practices, and values, and usually in explicit opposition either to Islam or to rule by Jakarta. In a legalistic sense, adat can be used to refer to social norms as rendered into the law-like codes of ‘adat law’. In a superficial sense, adat can be used to refer to the cultural trappings of wedding ceremonies and cuisine. But more recently, adat has been used to refer to ways of governing resources and resolving disputes. Some adat-based associations began to advance their claims well before 1998. The West Sumatran Adat Assembly, for example, was recognized in 1983 by Jakarta as a legitimate political body. By the late 1980s the Assembly had declared its deliberations to have the force of law. Regional alliances began to emerge, each claiming to represent a specific masyarakat adat, a phrase that literally means ‘adat community’ but is used to mean ‘people who live according to adat’. In the late 1990s an Alliance of Adat Communities in the Archipelago lobbied the national parliament for greater selfdetermination by such adat communities. One delegate put the alliance’s claims in terms close to those used by Kymlicka (1995) to justify selfdetermination by indigenous groups: ‘Long before the state existed, adat communities in the archipelago already had succeeded in creating a way of life; the state must respect the sovereignty of the adat communities’ (Kompas, March 22, 1999). The concept of ‘adat community’ has provided a source of legitimacy for groups seeking to act in the name of society against the state. Their claims may amount to a recall petition, as when in West Kalimantan three such organizations, claiming to represent Malays, Dayaks, and Chinese, ‘the majority of residents’ in the province, sent a petition to the regional parliament asking for the dismissal of the Governor. The three groups said they acted in the name of ‘the people of West Kalimantan’ and called their statement a ‘no-confidence motion’, in other words, as if they were a shadow parliament (Kompas, June 14, 2000). The claims made by such groups are in terms of specific political ideas about their political legitimacy, on grounds that their society is governed by distinctive social norms of adat and that these norms predate 1945, the birth year of the Indonesian state. ‘Adat’ as used by these groups includes most importantly the norms governing family life, methods of resolving disputes, and rights to resources. For many groups, the importance of highlighting adat has to do with resources and self-government, and in particular: (a) rights to land held in the name of the community as a whole, now brought to bear on agricultural estates and logging companies which had been authorized by the Suharto state; and (b) institutions of dispute resolution,

normative pluralism in indonesia

157

weakened by the state, which might help ease current intercommunity tensions. (Murray Li 2000). These political self-conceptions and claims do not always involve a general notion of prior residence or even minority status—Javanese organizations claim the importance of adat norms as well. Sometimes they correspond to ethnic groups, sometimes to the population residing in a particular region. In north and east Sumatra, for example, rival groups claiming to represent ethnic Malays in land disputes also tried to include other ethnic groups in the category ‘Malay adat community’. One group referred to the ‘adat community of Deli’, a region defined by a Malay sultanate, and stated that ‘Anyone, as long as he/she lives on Deli soil, is included in the Deli adat community’; indeed the group had Javanese, Bataks, and Malays on its rosters (Forum Keadilan, June 18, 2000). This group saw its major struggle as regaining rights to communal land then controlled by a private company, and its self-definition around common residence fit that project. Another group defined its wider scope in terms of ‘Malay adat and culture’ throughout eastern and northern Sumatra, but also highlighted the fashion in which Malays had married with other groups and yet had preserved Malay norms (Kompas, June 13, 2000). As one might expect, claims to speak for an ‘adat community’ have led to disputes over legitimacy of representation. More interestingly for our questions, however, is that these disputes often also have concerned the very nature of the social groups being represented. For example, in the late 1990s delegates could be proposed to represent ‘ethnic minorities’ to the Indonesian national ‘superparliament’ that chose the president. The Dayak Adat Council of West Kalimantan proposed in 1999 that one of its leaders represent the Dayak minority. But two other Dayak leaders argued that Dayaks should not be represented as ‘ethnic minorities,’ both because on Kalimantan they are the majority, and because it is control of local resources, and not representation in national forums, that is important (Kompas, August 9, 1999). In the end, ‘adat’, along with ideas of ‘minority’, ‘ethnic community’, and religion, are political resources that can be deployed in public debates about regional autonomy, debates that have become more pressing as, recently, districts and province prepared to exercise greater autonomy over internal affairs, and an increasing number of regions petitioned for status as independent districts or provinces. In general, it seems that an expression such as ‘adat society’ was heard in those provinces, such as Riau or West Kalimantan, where indigenous peoples felt themselves displaced or deprived of older resources by immigrants. In some cases Islam has become a rallying cry for regional autonomy more than a basis for a theocracy; such is true of Aceh and South Sulawesi. Still elsewhere, in Ambon and Central Kalimantan, adat emerged as a source of indigenous peacemaking processes and, more

158

john r. bowen

generally, rules governing social life and the relationship of people to the environment. Adat as a set of norms provides a different basis for claims to self-governance than do concepts of ‘people’, ‘minority’, or ‘ethnicity.’ The use of adat to claim control over regions and resources resembles the way in which regional languages and language histories have been invoked in Spain, France, and elsewhere in Europe as signs of allegiance to a regionalist political cause and as evidence for the cultural and social foundations of that cause. In general, language plays a less critical role in Indonesian autonomy debates than it does in some other parts of the world—it is less frequently a sign of one’s allegiance to either the center or the region. There may be a number of reasons for this difference; two come immediately to mind. First, in most parts of Indonesia, the numerically and politically dominant Javanese are not perceived as owning the national language, and refusing to speak Indonesian would have relatively little political impact. Although reassertions of linguistic distinctiveness may well arise, state control or exploitation is not generally associated with linguistic imperialism, as it is in India, the Philippines, or Spain. (Aceh is an exception here, as was the former East Timor, for those who saw Indonesia as a colonizing power.) Second, the major fault lines in recent, violent local conflicts have not been linguistic (and most, Irian Jaya excepted, have not involved Javanese), nor have they been part of a single nationwide cleavage, but rather have pitted a specific, recent group of immigrants against other residents. Hostilities in both Kalimantan and Ambon in the late 1990s and early 2000s had as their underlying causes resentments of the economic success of the immigrants, in some cases exacerbated by behavioral differences that grated on the sensibilities of the local population. In Kalimantan, Malays and Chinese joined forces with Dayaks against Madurese traders; later, Dayaks acted on their own. In the Moluccas, Ambonese fought against Bugis immigrants from South Sulawesi. In the latter case, but not the former, the cleavage was also along religious lines, pitting Ambonese Christians against Sulawesi Muslims. The churches and the mosques of the Moluccas served as rallying points, and the larger national communities joined in, further inflaming the conflict. But in none of these cases did language differences play a major divisive role.

3. The Case of Aceh Clearly, then, there are a number of possible ways to characterize a subnational unit of self-governance—as a region, a people, a linguistic minority, as people following certain norms, or as members of a religious group, among other possible categories. Current decentralization policies in Indonesia will probably lead to a very complex structure that includes various types of local units

normative pluralism in indonesia

159

with varying degree of power of self-governance. How should we then categorize the overall set of such units? I urge us to resist the use of simple, blanket descriptors such as ‘national minority’, and will try to make this case not only by pointing out, as above, that the bases for these units’ legitimacy are varied, but also by arguing that choosing one set of descriptors for a range of cases can itself lead us to unintentionally favor one side over another in a local political conflict. This point is illustrated by way of the example of Aceh, the province where I have conducted most of my Indonesia fieldwork (see Bowen 2003). Aceh is the northernmost province on the island of Sumatra and the first part of today’s Indonesia to have societies organized along Islamic lines, beginning probably in the late thirteenth century. By the sixteenth century the Sultanate of Aceh controlled a substantial portion of Sumatra and parts of Malaya. Conquered only with great difficulty by the Dutch in the late nineteenth century, Aceh remained under more or less military control until the Japanese invasion in 1942. The Dutch never were able to regain a foothold in Aceh, but many Acehnese fought against the Dutch near the city of Medan and raised money for the nationalist cause. Indeed, its role in providing financial capital for the Revolution led to one of its mottos: ‘capital for the Revolution’ alongside of the older motto ‘veranda of Mecca’ (Reid 1979). Disputes with Jakarta over the status of the militia and the right to control schools and religious affairs led to a rebellion in 1952 under the banner of Darul Islam, which although it ended in 1962 left a residual resentment of Jakarta. The rebellion was supported by many across the province, including the ethnically distinct highlands regions (where I conducted fieldwork). It was a rebellion in the name of continued regional autonomy and for the protection of Islam as the religion of its inhabitants. A second, small rebellion began in 1976 and continued on a relatively small scale into the 1980s. It received support due to rising discontent over the government’s failure to honor its promises to grant some degree of autonomy to Aceh and to return to the province any more than a small share of the enormous profits yielded by natural gas facilities on the northern coast (Kell 1995). I remember armed patrols passing through the village where I lived in the mountainous central region of the province during my fieldwork in the late 1970s and early 1980s. By the late 1980s the repressive tactics of the military and the politically repressive policies of the Suharto regime had further intensified hatred of the central government and support for the rebellion (Bowen 2003; Kell 1995). Whereas the rebellion of the 1950s was under the banner of Islam, this new movement was called the ‘Free Aceh Movement’, and claimed to speak for an ‘Acehnese people’ who never had been legitimately incorporated into Indonesia but rather invaded by the ‘Javanese-Indonesian’ state. The atrocities committed by the Indonesian military, acting virtually without civilian control by the time of Megawati Sukarnoputri’s accession to the presidency

160

john r. bowen

in 2001, have further deepened hatred and resentment, leaving the conflict without a clear solution (see Jones 2003). Now, it would seem that the Free Aceh Movement’s calls for self-governance on grounds of precolonial autonomy and in the name of a people would suggest that the political theoretic approach to national minorities would work here. Indeed, international commentary on the struggle in Aceh sometimes portrays it as a liberation struggle by the ‘Acehnese people’, sometimes described as an ‘indigenous people.’ Drawing this conclusion would, however, take the movement’s self-characterization at face value. In fact, Aceh consists of a number of distinct language groups, and, among the majority Acehnese speakers, serious and long-lasting oppositions between regions. The central, southeast, and southern districts are mainly composed of non-Acehnese people, who have urged the central government to recognize them as a distinct province, and to help them to develop roads and airports such that they would be able to reach the city of Medan without having to pass through Acehnese-majority districts. (As of early 2005 an airport in the central city of Take`nge¨n received two flights a week.) Before the current war, people in these districts managed to improve their economic and social lives only by leapfrogging over the provincial government and appealing to Jakarta for assistance. The Acehnese-speaking people of west Aceh have long resented the control by elites from two other districts, Pidie and Greater Aceh. The main force of the idea that Aceh consists or should consist of the Acehnese has been to underwrite violence by Free Aceh fighters against Javanese migrants. Most of the killings that occurred in the central district, where I have worked the longest, were of Javanese migrants. The movement also claims that the rightful rulers of Aceh are the precolonial elite. The movement’s leader, Hasan Di Tiro, descends from prominent Acehnese nobility, and the movement claims its legitimacy from that tie, positioning itself against both Islamic leaders and those who favor continued membership in Indonesia. Ironically, it was the central government that attempted to make Islam its own weapon in the struggle and that recently gave to the province the right to reshape its legal structure ‘according to shari’a’. The provincial government has taken up the challenge of trying to develop new laws that would reflect Islamic values. Aceh illustrates the ways in which international categories of ‘minorities’ and ‘peoples’ not only fail to capture local histories and meanings, but in fact weigh in on one side of a conflict. In this case referring to the residents of Aceh as an ‘Acehnese people’ sides with Acehnese nationalists against those other residents of the province who see their interests as intertwined with the Indonesian state and threatened by the prospect of an independent Aceh. Of course, if Aceh were to become independent, a highly unlikely prospect, instantly the highland minorities would become the ‘indigenous peoples’ and

normative pluralism in indonesia

161

‘minorities’ in international language and the Acehnese, now majority and nondominated, would equally instantly lose their ‘indigenous’ status.

4. Religious vis-a`-vis National Communities Quite distinct from the norms discussed above are those which grant different legal statuses to persons depending on their religion. Indonesia has an Islamic court system that runs parallel to its system of civil courts. Each system hears civil cases in first instance and on appeal, and allows requests for cassation to be made to the Supreme Court. The Islamic courts only hear cases brought by Muslims. They give legal sanction to marriages and divorces and can hear disputes over inheritance or the division of property upon divorce. The civil courts hear all other types of civil cases and all criminal ones, and also cases involving marriage, divorce, or inheritance brought by non-Muslims. (Special courts also exist for administrative, military, and commercial matters.) The courts of first instance refer elements of cases to each other: an Islamic court will ask its sister civil court to decide ownership disputes; the civil court will ask its Islamic counterpart to render a decision about the Islamic division of property. I have treated the details of the legal system elsewhere (Bowen 2003); relevant to our discussion here is that Indonesia grants distinct rights to its citizens depending on their declared confession. All Indonesians must state to which religion they adhere, and they must choose among a limited, albeit now expanded, list. Couples of mixed religion enormously complicate matters, of course, and have been the subject of extensive jurisprudence, but the broad idea is that Muslims have the right to have their cases decided under Islamic law. That this is seen as a right has to do with the colonial history of law; in 1937 the Dutch regime withdrew from those Islamic tribunals then in existence (primarily on Java and Madura) the right to adjudicate inheritance cases, leaving them with jurisdiction only over marriage and divorce. Many Indonesians remembered this slight long after independence, and they saw the creation of a nationwide Islamic court system in 1989 as a final assertion of independence. If the Islamic courts are limited in jurisdiction to cases involving Muslims, the civil courts not only hear cases involving any and all Indonesians, but emphasize the multireligious nature of the country and of its justice. I recall the manner in which one chief judge of a local civil court in Aceh asked each witness to state his or her religion (required at the swearing-in). When each responded ‘Islam’, he would say kebetulan, ‘as it happens,’ in order to make of this simple and routine question a didactic moment, an occasion to remind his audience that in his court one might find Christians or Hindus testifying or litigating as well as Muslims, and that this was the nature of justice in Indonesia.

162

john r. bowen

However, the segmentation of the court system also created problems, in part because it suggested that with respect to family law people could be easily separated into two distinct and sealed communities. Muslims would have their affairs regulated in one court, and those of all other faiths in the other. This idea has two types of difficulties associated with it. Firstly, it creates practical problems whenever a couple or family contains people of different religions, or, more precisely, one or more Muslims and one or more people of another religion. Secondly, it may reduce the degree to which people consider themselves citizens first and Muslims, or Christians, second. This last question is basic to the future of Indonesia. A number of Islamic parties and organizations emphasize the priority of solidarity within the Islamic community, ukhuwah Islamiyah. They then call on the State to protect this community against violations and intrusions that come in the form of efforts to convert Muslims, to urge them to marry outside the community, or to break up Islamic organizations under pretense of antiterrorism actions. An alternative notion of ukhuwah, understood as the community of all Indonesians rather than just Indonesian Muslims, has been promoted by other Muslim intellectuals and politicians. These scholars invoke the Medina Constitution of the prophet Muhammad, under which Jews and others lived together with Muslims, as a charter for an Islamic theory of religious pluralism. The scholar Jalaluddin Rakhmat (1991) has even proposed the concept of a mazhab ukhuwah, a ‘legal tradition based on community,’ in which Muslims would emphasize common effort and good works rather than theological debates.

5. Policing Intermarriage It is with respect to marriage across religious boundaries, however, that the greatest difficulties have arisen. Intermarriage has been one of the key domains in which Muslim fears of inroads on their community have arisen—as is the case with many religions. Current disputes began after passing of the 1974 marriage law, which created considerable confusion about the status of ‘mixed marriages.’ Before the law, the term had been used both in law and in everyday discourse to refer to marriages between two people subject to different laws, where ‘law’ included religious laws. Marriages between citizens of different states or followers of different religions were ‘mixed.’ The right to enter into such marriages was guaranteed by law. Furthermore, Muslim jurists in Indonesia and elsewhere had generally acknowledged as valid the marriage of a Muslim man to a non-Muslim Christian (or Jewish) woman, citing the explicit permission given in the Qur’aˆn (Verse 5:5).

normative pluralism in indonesia

163

But the 1974 law redefined ‘mixed marriage’ as referring only to different citizenships, and, in Article 2, clause 1, stipulated that marriage among Indonesians was to be carried out according to the religions of the parties. Did the new law mean that a couple had to be of the same religion before they could marry? Or did it only mean that each had to satisfy his or her respective religious authorities? In practice, people of different religions living in Jakarta (where the issue arose most frequently) ignored these issues and married at the civil registry as they had done before the law. This course of action was endorsed in at least one Jakarta court decision, although it was made more difficult by a 1983 executive decree that limited the civil registry’s function to registering marriages that did not involve Muslims. In May 1986, the head of the Jakarta office of the Ministry of Religion sent a letter to the civil registrars stating that because marriage was a religious matter, the civil registries should refrain from registering any marriage involving a Muslim. After all, said the circular, Muslims have their own Religious Affairs Office, which in theory could marry a Muslim man to a Christian woman, so there was no need for the registries to be involved. Doing otherwise would be to ‘bow down to Western law’ by treating marriage as secular. The Supreme Court challenged this position three years later, in a case written by the Court’s Chairman, Ali Said. Said declared that the 1945 Constitution guaranteed people of different religions the right to marry, and that this right had not been revoked by the 1974 marriage law (see Bowen 2003: 240–8 for details). In this case the Religious Affairs Office in Jakarta had refused to marry a Muslim woman to a Christian man, saying that such a marriage was contrary to Islam. The Court agreed with their finding, but went on to say that the very fact that the woman had then gone to the civil registry, where the marriage could be performed but not in accord with Islam, showed that she ‘no longer heeds her religious status.’ The civil registry should then marry them or help them to marry, concluded the justices. They lamented that the 1974 law provided for no institution to handle interreligious marriages, and stated that the law had created a regrettable ‘legal vacuum’. The decision caused considerable negative reaction from Muslim jurists. It stated that the Muslim bride, by her very use of the registry, had suspended or abandoned her religion. This assertion confirmed the fears of some Muslims that interreligious marriages would lead Muslims to convert to Christianity. The editors of the Ministry of Religion’s publication Mimbar Hukum took strong and continued exception to the Court’s argument. Every year throughout the 1990s they published articles on mixed marriages, in which they gave reasons why every religion opposed such marriages and sometimes rather creatively reviewed the social difficulties caused by mixed marriages, including interracial marriages in the United States.

164

john r. bowen

The Ministry officials defend the prohibition on marriages between Muslim men and non-Muslim women. Such marriages had generally been considered valid in Islamic circles, but, argued some scholars, this special dispensation was intended to accommodate the situation in the beginning of Islamic history when there were few Muslim women, a situation no longer existing. Muslim opponents of mixed marriages often justify their stance by pointing to the danger of conversion to Christianity, particularly because (they claim) the higher economic status of Christians will make it easy for Christian men to attract Muslim wives. The historian Taufik Abdullah (interview, 1994) explained: ‘No one really debated this change in emphasis from ‘‘OK for a Muslim man to marry a Christian woman’’ to ‘‘neither way’’; the latest theory to justify the change is that the religion of the mother is the more important since she is with the children more’ (He agreed with this claim). Even after the Supreme Court decision, local Offices of Religious Affairs continued to refuse to perform marriages involving a Muslim or to register such marriages, even if they had been performed elsewhere according to Islamic law. Some couples married overseas, but they could not then register their marriages in Indonesia. Not having a certificate of marriage registration causes problems for such couples. Indonesian law directs courts to not recognize marriages where there is no marriage certificate. Certificates are needed to collect a deceased spouse’s pension or bank account, or to be declared the heir of the spouse by the religious court. Nor does the conversion of one spouse always provide a satisfactory legal solution; the Supreme Court ruled in 1996 that a wife who had converted to Islam but then reverted to Christianity lost all rights to her children in case of divorce. In 1992 this ‘vacuum’ led Minister of Religion Munawir Szadjali to call for new laws to regulate interreligious marriages, a call echoed by Chief Justice Ali Said. But Munawir’s voice was weakened by his own daughter’s marriage to a Christian; some observers suggested that this weak position gave the upper hand to those who thought that no mixed marriages should be considered religiously valid. In 1995 I interviewed a number of prominent Muslim intellectuals in Jakarta about mixed marriages and drew a variety of responses. A noted psychologist condemned the restrictions on marriage as ‘absolutely out of tune with the times’, but her colleague in defending women’s rights, the lawyer Nani Yamin, came out strongly against any legislation to permit mixed marriages; permitting them would weaken religious values, she argued. The well-known Muslim scholar Nurcholis Madjid relied on the Qur’aˆn, ‘which says that a Muslim man may marry a Christian: how can you forbid the marriage when the Qur’aˆn allows it?’ But other Muslim scholars and activists disagreed. A young feminist Muslim journalist said she agreed with the prohibition: ‘Religion is the foundation for everything—how could I have a husband who did not follow Muhammad

normative pluralism in indonesia

165

or believe in the Qur’aˆn (she shuddered slightly to herself ); such marriages would be confusing.’ The Indonesian Council of Ulama, an quasi-state body, has consistently opposed such marriages on grounds that they create difficult family situations. As one Council member explained to me in 2000, such marriages ‘lead to problems in the home, because the husband and wife will behave differently. For example, when they have sex, the Muslim one will bathe afterwards and the other will not, and then the first will not want to have sex again because the other will be unclean. Or when cooking, they won’t both observe the dietary rules.’ The debate over mixed marriage often leads to the question of whether marriage is primarily religious in character. Former Supreme Court Justice Busthanul Arifin, one of the ‘hard-line’ justices on mixed marriage, recalled only somewhat whimsically of the time when Stevie Wonder was playing a concert in Jakarta. One of his sidemen wanted to get married. Someone called up Arifin to see if he could help them find a church—‘in the middle of the night! Of course, for them, the church marriage is the real marriage, unlike what the Dutch do, when they first have a civil marriage and only later marry in the church. So it is the fault of the Dutch that we have Christians thinking that marriage in a church, marriage being religious, is a threat to Christians . . . even Gus Dur (then President Abdurrahman Wahid) has said that our marriage laws make us sectarian. But I said no, if that is the case, then Europeans, Australians, they are sectarian, too, because they marry according to religion’ (interview, 2000). Of course, Judge Arifin’s position is different from that embodied in European legal systems in that he affirms that marriage can only be performed according to religion. Even if that position has softened in practice in recent years, it can be seen as one possible logical implication of a schema for legal pluralism in which Muslims and others inhabit different family law universes. It poses problems for community cohesion at the same time as it responds to understandable demands that society take account of God’s commands for those who follow them. Islamic law in this and most other societies concerns only Muslims, at least in theory, but the messy nature of social life—marriages across confessional lines, conversions, inheritance disputes in multireligious families—sometimes intervenes to challenge this conception of legal pluralism. In most respects, jurists and politicians in Indonesia have worked to develop avenues along which Islamic law can converge with general norms of interreligious tolerance and human rights. Efforts to reinterpret Islamic law so as to guarantee equal rights for women are far from complete, but were important in bringing about substantive reform in marriage, divorce, and postdivorce property settlements (Bowen 2003). These reforms were within the context of Islamic jurisprudence rather than against it. For

166

john r. bowen

example, long-standing asymmetric categories and understandings of divorce were preserved even as wives and husbands were assigned substantively equal burdens of proof. A husband still technically brings about a divorce by repudiating his wife, whereas a wife must appeal to a judge for an annulment. However, in both cases the initiating party must appear before a judge and demonstrate that one of a number of reasons for divorce has been met. The judge then either grants the wife a divorce, or allows the husband to pronounce the divorce formula. Islamic law experts have stated that these conditions simply limit how God’s word is carried out without contravening it. The same Indonesian legal terms for ‘divorce’ are used in the two cases, thus masking the underlying Islam-based formal law asymmetry. All property acquired during a marriage, regardless of title, is divided equally between the husband and wife. This process of convergence allows two or more groups of norm advocates to continue to adhere to their respective, conflicting universalistic positions. Advocates of international human rights and women’s rights can insist that men and women enjoy just and equitable judgments. Current Indonesian law more or less meets this standard in divorce cases. Advocates of Islamic rights and duties can insist that Muslims obey God’s commands as set out through the Qur’aˆn and through the words and deeds of the Prophet Muhammad. Indonesian law also meets this standard. In this way, two or more metanormative claims—claims about the supremacy of one set of norms over another—can coexist.

6. Three Indonesian Ideas of Normative Pluralism I think that three distinct kinds of claims shape most of the Indonesian deliberations about normative pluralism. The first arises when people claim that a social group existed as a political community, governing itself, before the creation of the Indonesian state, and therefore ought to be able to continue to do so or revive the capacity to do so. This is the kind of claim made by some leaders in regions that once were states, such as Aceh. It corresponds closely to the idea of national minorities in Kymlicka’s work (Kymlicka 1995, 2001), except that ‘minority’ is not part of this idea. The majority Javanese can make such claims as well. (This feature also distinguishes these claims from current international notions of ‘indigenous peoples.’) The second and closely related idea is that local social norms (adat) are integral to the community and therefore provide legitimacy to self-governance. This form of legitimacy is distinct from that which follows from enactment of positive law or revelation of God’s will. The element of preexistence relative to the Indonesia state does not seem to me to be

normative pluralism in indonesia

167

necessary to this idea. It is, rather, the quality of being embedded in a local community that renders these claims legitimate. The relationship between the local norms and any notion of peoplehood, ethnicity, or language is variable, as I showed for several cases in Sumatra. This metanormative distance between the norms themselves and any particular social group is distinctive of this idea and makes it unlike the major components of Western multicultural theory. One reason for this dissimilarity is the importance of genealogy in most Western notions of peoplehood, for example in proving one’s status as a member of a tribe in North America. This idea is not necessarily found in adat-based legitimacy claims. Finally, Islamic norms concerning family—marriage, divorce, and inheritance—are legitimate because of their divine status. Their enactment as positive law has meant that this legitimacy has been augmented by the legitimacy of positive law. The convergence process described above allows advocates of Islamic law and gender equality to claim some degree of victory. An Islamic jurisprudential principle that adat can be made into Islamic law also allows convergence between Islam and adat norms.

7. Is Asia Different? The Indonesian case points to two features of subnational group politics. One is that definitions of group are themselves contested; the categories of description are among the resources drawn on by various local actors in their struggles among themselves and with those who govern them. Descriptors are thus themselves potentially of political consequence. People may choose to describe a subgroup as a people, as residents of a region, or as speakers of a language for reasons having to do with local struggles for power or legitimacy, or with the corresponding national struggles and debates. The descriptor chosen by a social scientist or philosopher thus may be intrinsically partisan, independently of the analyst’s intentions, or the substance of the analysis. The second feature is that distinct sets of norms may be irreconciliable on an abstract and metanormative level, but be subject to reconciliation and convergence through processes of reinterpretation. Hermeneutically speaking, the one set of norms provides the ground for the other. Politically speaking, each set of norm advocates can play to its own audience while engaged in serious negotiations with the other camp(s). Are these two features of subgroup politics and rhetoric—the irreducible multiplicity of group descriptors and the possibility of normative convergence—peculiar to one part of the world, or are they of more general significance? Does an understanding of these processes as they take place in Indonesia (or other countries of Asia and Africa) bear on how we approach

168

john r. bowen

pluralism in Europe or North America? Let me suggest that it does through a brief reference to two types of cases that arise in Europe. The first type of case arises when a state and a subgroup within the state represent the nature of that subgroup in conflicting ways. France and Corsica offer such an example. The French Constitution describes France as one people and gives sole recognition to the French language. The French government does, however, recognize as legitimate and constitutional efforts to develop forms of regional self-governance. Corsican movements (and even some nonCorsican French politicians, such as former Prime Minister Lionel Jospin in a moment of forgetfulness) speak of Corsica as having a distinct ‘people’ that ought to govern themselves because of their distinct peoplehood. In this case two conflicting ways of thinking about pluralism coexist in public discussions. One represents Corsican claims in the context of an overall movement toward political and fiscal decentralization, and conceives of Corsica as a distinctive region that has a distinctive history and set of social norms, and that therefore ought to have a bit more autonomy than other regions. Corsica thus would not be an example of multination federalism but of regional decentralization. The Corsican nationalist approach makes the case in terms of a distinct Corsican peoplehood, of which language is one of several elements. In this interpretation, Corsican self-governance would be an example of multination federalism. The resolution of this conflict of interpretations has been a modus vivendi—albeit a rocky and sometimes violent one—according to which certain political and legal steps could be taken that would be explained by each set of leaders in politically advantageous ways. In this fashion a kind of convergence can be achieved. This case complicates speaking of ‘national minorities’ because Corsica is such a minority under one description and only a region, not a minority, under another. In this and other cases another set of complications comes from divergent local ideas about the definition of a subgroup. Does the subgroup consist of speakers of a language, people with certain kinship ties, people who live in a certain region, or is it defined in some other way? These categories can themselves be combined in different ways. For example, language can be mapped onto region, as with maps showing ‘three Wales’ regions: areas that are Welsh-speaking and Welsh-identifying; those that are not Welsh-speaking but are Welsh-identifying, and those that are neither (where English is the dominant category). But people within, say, the first region themselves disagree about criteria for defining someone in or out of the category. For some, only native speakers of Welsh are Welsh; for others, speaking Welsh at all qualifies one as Welsh; for still others, Wales and Welshness is a matter of residence. To further complicate matters, the same individual may assign people to one category or another depending on context: some people proclaim non-native speakers of Welsh to be nonWelsh, but then may, on another occasion, include a non-native-but

normative pluralism in indonesia

169

pretty-fluent-Welsh-speaker in the category of ‘Welsh’ during a conversation with that person (Bowie 1993). This second example moves us down into the microdistinctions of everyday life, but it is at this microlevel that category boundaries are developed, maintained, or challenged, and hence where one can observe ‘the Welsh’ (or ‘the Corse’, or ‘the Acehnese’) being created. The Welsh thus can be described at a global level as a people, or a set of language speakers, or people living in a certain region with a certain subjective relationship to their past. However, the choice of descriptors belies the socially shifting uses to which these same categories are put locally. In terms of both the inherent difficulties of choosing global descriptors and the complexities of local use I see little difference between the Welsh and Corsican cases, on the one hand, and those of Aceh or other Indonesian societies, on the other.

Conclusion I will close with two brief comments, each of which I hope to expand elsewhere (and both of which have developed out of conversations with Will Kymlicka). The first is that the processes of convergence across normative systems discussed for Islam in Indonesia are more broadly characteristic of competing universalistic normative structures, whether they be based on religious doctrine, human rights, or international law norms, or the common-law or civil law systems of particular countries. It may be an inevitable feature of our normatively fragmented yet shared human world that we can hope at best for convergence, what we might call reasoned modi vivendi, rather than merely Hobbesian truces on the one hand or agreement on a set of shared normative starting points on the other. Secondly, and to some degree consequently, ‘we’, as participants in broad discussions about norms who are nonetheless situated, more or less firmly, in our own parochial normative traditions (no matter how universal we might imagine them to be) and, I trust, exchanging ideas with people situated in very different parochial traditions, inevitably find ourselves championing some norms over others, finding some as more basic, or worthy, than their competitors. To do so is human. However, to the extent that we engage in a complex combining of normative and empirical work, advocating our ideas of justice and fairness while taking due note of the ideas advocated by others, we must expect to find ourselves at times perplexed and troubled by this exercise. Once we think we have settled matters once and for all, that is when we ought to take a second look around.

8 The Cost of Membership in Ascribed Community C H UA B E N G H UAT

In the early 1990s, in an ideological context where liberalism was hegemonic in both intellectual and public discursive spheres, there emerged in Western social theory two strands of intellectual and political concern with the idea of community; namely, a new multiculturalism and a new communitarianism. At precisely the same historical period, political leaders in several Asian locations began to denounce what were to them, culturally corrosive effects of excessive individualism of ‘Western’ liberalism that was invading their cultural spaces. To strategically counter this invasion, these Asian leaders and their intellectual supporters, such as those in Singapore, began to claim that the political practices in their respective countries were based on variations of a communitarian ideology, which they argued is a defining feature of ‘Asian’ cultures. There was thus an apparent convergence, or a simultaneous emergence, of ideological developments in two different geopolitical locations. Yet, the proponents of multiculturalism and communitarianism in the West would be very unhappy with any suggestion of identity with the politicians and intellectuals in Asia who espouse communitarianism. The differences between the two groups appeared essential to both. This essay is concerned firstly, with these conceptual/ideological differences and secondly, with their practical effects on the concrete political and cultural practices, with Singapore as an illustrative example. Let me begin by clarifying the concept of the new multiculturalism and the new communitarianism in the Anglo-American West. Conventionally, the concept of ‘multiculturalism’ would refer to differences in national, ethnic, religious or ‘racial’ cultures, or differences in civilizations. Such differences are seen as ascribed differences involuntarily inscribed on every member of the so constituted group. In recent years, the concept has been greatly generalized beyond ascribed identity to include groups with self-elected, volunteer members who share similar, preferential cultural practices. Thus groups who prefer certain consumption practices as lifestyles, sexual preferences as gays, and political positions as feminists may be conceptually constituted as ‘communities’. Let us designate this general-

cost of membership in ascribed community

171

ized position as ‘preferential multiculturalism’; as an ideology that defends the copresence of groups that are constituted by and through freely chosen cultural preferences. It should be noted that although the idea of ‘collectivity’ is implicated the concept of culture and community, in emphasizing ‘choice’, preferential multiculturalism remains squarely in the realm of liberalism, which insists on the ‘freedom to choose’ as a basic right of an individual. The new communitarianism emerged in the United States around a group of concerned intellectuals and public figures, including politicians, who were progressively alarmed by the rise of selfishness in which individual preferences are rhetorically cast as ‘rights’ under a popular conception of liberalism. Such popular liberalism may be said to have ‘practically’ extended the individualism that undergirds a more philosophical liberalism. As formulated by Rawls, within liberalism, what matters ‘is not so much that people make good choices as that they are free to make their own choices’ (Mulhall and Swift 1992: 6). That is, the freedom, hence rights, to make choices should not be encumbered by any conceptualization of the ‘good’ imposed by the social body in which one reproduces one’s daily life. Such an individual, Gray argues, is ‘without history or ethnicity, denuded of the special attachments that in the real human world give us the particular identities we have’ (1995: 5). The asocial conceptualization of the individual is the departure point for the new communitarianism. Against it, the new communitarians argue that individuals are unavoidably embedded in the society and culture in which they live. They are thus bound by the cultural practices of the ‘community’ which constitute them as who they are; who they are is realized in and through the reproduction of the habits and traditions which constitute their everyday life. At its most sociological extreme, within the new communitarian perspective, an individual may be said to be ‘parasitic on society for the very way she thinks, including the way that she thinks of herself as an individual’ (Mulhall and Swift 1992: 14). Therefore, any conceptualization of social and political life should begin with the concrete ontology of the community and of the embedded individual—life in and as a community— rather than the erasure of the former and the disembodiment of the latter. It is this antipathy to the asocial conceptualization of individualism that identifies the new communitarians, rather than any coherent philosophical or political position. Consequently, the American intellectuals and public figures who have signed and issued a public communitarian manifesto are linked together less by a common philosophy than by their common perception of the decline of ‘public spiritedness’ in the United States and of the need for reformist politics in different spheres or social and public life.1 Theantipathy 1 See ‘The Responsive Community Platform: Rights and Responsibilities’ in Etzioni (1998:xxv–xxxix).

172

chua beng huat

to an asocial conceptualization of individualism is not tantamount to the total rejection of individualism per se; as shown in the next section, this distinction enables the new communitarians to remain liberals in principle.

1. Liberalism as Ground The new multiculturalism and the new communitarianism may be said to share overlapping conceptual spaces mediated not only by their similar interest in the idea of ‘community’ but also by their tenacious refusal to give up the liberal ground and ultimately individualism. This is evident in the argument of multiculturalism as a ‘politics of recognition’ by Taylor (1994), who despite his own disavowal is nevertheless often placed in the company of new communitarians. As Taylor sees it, the emerging prominence of ‘multiculturalism’, particularly in America and Canada as also in postcolonial societies, is its deployment as a strategy for redressing historical injustices experienced by specific social groups. For example, the injustices suffered by indigenous populations in settler communities, colonized nonwhite population under white colonial regimes, or women in patriarchal societies. The demand to right past wrongs by the many conceivable socially constituted groups may be the very reason for the proliferating use of the concept. In this sense, multiculturalism as politics is substantively a ‘civil rights’ issue, a quintessential liberal issue. Second, as politics of recognition, multiculturalism must be based on an idea of respect for ‘difference’. This in turn is dependent on a conception of ‘dignity’ of the individual that deserves respect, a dignity that is common to everyone and a respect that is reciprocal between equals; equality and universality are the bases for the respect of difference. As Taylor points out, a contradiction in this demand for respecting difference inheres within liberalism. ‘[T]he principle of equal respect requires that we treat people in a difference-blind fashion’, while with the respect of difference ‘we have to recognize and even foster particularity’. To take the second demand seriously is to ‘violate the principle of nondiscrimination’. On the other hand, taking the ‘difference-blind’ rule seriously would be open to criticism of ‘forcing people into a homogeneous mold that is untrue to them’, thus negating the identities of individuals. Taking the argument to intergroup relations level, the latter critique goes further: ‘the supposedly neutral set of difference-blind principles of the politics of equal dignity is in fact a reflection of one hegemonic culture . . . Consequently, the supposedly fair and differenceblind society is not only inhuman (because of suppressing identities) but also, in a subtle and unconscious way, itself discriminatory’ (Taylor 1994: 43). Grounded in individualism, it is conceptually difficult if not impossible for liberalism to arrive at a comfortable concept of ‘cultural’ rights as ‘group’

cost of membership in ascribed community

173

rights and thus, multiculturalism remains a much contested concept among liberal intellectuals, particularly Anglo-Americans. As for new communitarianism, logically an emphasis on communitarian values would lead to appreciation and respect of differences between different societies and cultures, each endowed with its own justifiable and coherent set of cultural practices, including its own conception of what is ‘just’ and ‘good’. Thus Taylor (1995) argues that ‘the equal worth’ of different cultures should be the starting premise for interaction between cultures. However, this is not to be. The new communitarian commitment has never been one that begins with the primacy of the community and communitarian value but to a critique of the excesses of individualism, with a desire for a balance between the rights of individuals and responsibilities to the collective.2 Hewed from Western philosophical trajectory, the new communitarians are reluctant to surrender their deep-seated liberal ideal, whose ‘bottom line in political morality’, according to Gray (1995: 2), ‘is the claims of individualism and that these are spelt out in terms of the demands of justice and rights’. In consequence, Gray puts it bluntly, ‘The community invoked by these writers (new communitarians) is not one that anyone has ever lived in, an historic human settlement with its distinctive exclusivities, hierarchies and bigotries, but an ideal community, in its way as much of a cipher as the disembodied Kantian self as the communitarians delight in deflating’ (Gray 1995: 7). The same point is made by one who places himself squarely in the new communitarian camp, Daniel A. Bell (2004), who concludes that, ‘it must be conceded that 1980s communitarian theorists were less-than-successful at putting forward attractive visions of nonliberal societies’. However, Bell’s observation is moot, for the new communitarians do not have any interest in doing so in the first place. Entrenched in liberalism, Anglo-American political theorists are generally very concerned about the ‘cost’ of membership to individuals in cultural groups. They seek different ways for individuals to ‘escape’ the cost. First, by denying the importance of culture to individual identity formation, via an asocial conceptualization of the individual, thus providing discursive room for individuals to reject the cultures into which they were born and so ascribed. Second, by honoring only the civil rights of individuals as ‘citizens’, thus emphasizing equality of all, the possibility for a rational basis for the constitution of ‘group cultural rights’ that are not reducible to individual rights is displaced, if not denied. Third, the asocial conceptualization of individual is rejected and the embedding of the individual in different cultural contexts is recognized; however, the idea of ‘culture’ is conceptualized as an 2

This attitude and concern with social problems which result from excesses of individualism, such as single-parent families, and moral and civic education, are pervasive in the essays collected in The Essential Communitarian Reader (Etzioni, 1998)

174

chua beng huat

ongoing acquisition, subject to addition and deletion according to an individual’s freedom to choose and the resulting identity is the result of the individual’s own work, as in the case of preferential multiculturalism; ultimately, the end result is a ‘cosmopolitan’ individual who is not tied to any formative cultures. Finally, realizing that a cultural group, by definition, requires its members to abide by certain norms which might be antithetical to the freedom of its individual members, liberals would want an ‘exit’ clause to be written into membership.3 In all these strategies of escape, among others, the priority of the rights of individual is privileged in different modes and community or collective interests are secondary and dependent on the individual’s willingness to accommodate them. At its most generalized level, Anglo-American liberalism may be said to ground itself in the given-ness of an individual, endowing it with transcendental rights, and then proceeding to protect these rights at all costs, making occasional concessions to the empirical fact that such individuals do in fact live collective lives. Within this frame, the social is always already repressive as an encroachment of the individual. Consequently, within Anglo-American liberalism escaping the repression of group life is a constant preoccupation, while the ‘enabling’ character of group life is marginalized in political theorizing. To a critic, this position is at best high intellectual abstraction and at worse intellectual fiction. The critic will begin precisely at the other end, with ‘social realism’. Indeed, ‘social realism’ is one of the stubborn obstacles that stand in the way of liberalism’s ambition to being universal. Critics almost always use instances of the socially ‘real’ to contest liberal claims: Individuals live in and are thus embedded in various layers or rings of collectives. They have families. They have ethnic, linguistic, and national identities. These collectives are hierarchically structured rather than laterally connected equals. Individuals are encumbered by the cultures of these collectives. They are unavoidably inscribed with a culture that specifies, among other things, what is ‘moral’, what is ‘just’, and what is a ‘good’ life. They are constantly constrained by social norms, the violations of which have consequences for themselves and for others. Such constraints impose costs on their personal desires and freedoms, of which they may or may not be conscious, and may pay the cost reluctantly or happily, for a sense of the culturally defined good. It is these potential costs that the new communitarianism and preferential multiculturalism, both grounded in liberalism, are unwilling to pay and ‘exit’ is posited as an individual’s right. In sharp contrast to group membership by one’s election and preference, such as being ‘feminist’ under a ‘preferential multiculturalism’, in which ‘exit’ 3 Kymlicka provides an excellent editor’s summary of the various issues with which liberals struggle with reference to multiculturalism in The Rights of Minority Cultures (1995).

cost of membership in ascribed community

175

clause would pose little difficulties, exit is not always an option in ascribed identity and community because easy exit procedures would severely destabilize the constitution of the collective, of group life. Such ascribed cultural membership cannot be simply rejected when the balance sheet of gains and losses are not in an individual’s favor. In ascribed community, ‘culture’ is not acquisition by choice, cosmopolitanism is but a glib way of denying the identity determining culture of the ascribed membership and, finally, ‘free riders’ are not acceptable.

2. Communities as Taken For Granted From an ordinary point of view, the idea that an individual is always part of a larger social unit and, therefore, obligated to orient oneself responsibly to coordinate activities with others and meet the needs of others as part of meeting one’s own is taken for granted in the smooth flow of everyday life. The fact that one is part of a larger social unit is commonsense, uncontroversial, and without doubt. Furthermore, an individual routinely takes for granted that one is a member of more than one larger social unit; the degree of involvement with the different units is dependent on the contextual immediacy of the respective unit. As a general rule, the intensity of involvement is proportional to the degree of intimacy, from family, networks of friends and colleagues, residential based neighborhood and beyond that, identification with the nation of which one is citizen, and occasionally, beyond the nation to global issues, such as environmental issues, or contribution to charity organizations with global reach. As one moves progressively from the most to the least intimate, the sense of ‘natural affiliations’ is also progressively weaker and the constructedness or ‘imaginary’ character of the ‘distant’ communities becomes increasingly apparent. However, that these distant communities are constructed and imaginary do not make them any less ‘real’ and relevant in routine activities of their members. In every instance of membership, even as distant as a member of a ‘global’ community, there is a sense that one’s own well-being and destiny is inextricably tied to those of the other members of the unit. Such is the intrinsically social ‘nature’ of an individual’s everyday life, in this essay designated ‘vernacular communitarianism’. From the everyday taken-for-granted conceptualization of ‘community’, the liberal insistence of an unencumbered individual is distinctively an ‘unnatural’ idea, even fictitious. The everyday life sense of organization, of structure, of order, of membership in social groups provides the emotional, psychological, and material resources for the formalization of a ‘sense of community’ into an ideology, into ‘communitarianism’ at various levels, progressing from the most immediate and concrete to pragmatic politics to abstract principles, that is, from

176

chua beng huat

the ‘vernacular’ to ‘political’ and ‘philosophical’ (Frazer 1999: 11). From a concrete if ill-defined sense of ‘community’ to ‘communitarianism’, the ‘taken-for-granted’ is transformed into conscious articulation as an explicit ‘value’. As an explicit ‘value’, thus an ‘ideological commitment’, communitarianism uses the naturalness of the social of immediate communities as an alibi; it hides its own artifice behind the naturalness of the latter.4 While the above is true of all communitarian ideological positions, the Anglo-American new communitarians, however, accept this with a very severe reservation: that communitarian commitment must not violate the individual’s freedoms and rights to choice and justice, reflecting and affirming the fact that liberalism is the dominant ideology in Anglo-American countries. Instead of underpinning communitarianism with a bedrock of liberalism, the full implication of costs of membership in community appears to be faced squarely in East and Southeast Asia, where politically, to successfully inscribe a communitarian ideology unto the social body, it is explicitly codified as a ‘national’ ideology. As there is an extensive body of literature on the communitarian question at the ethnic and cultural group level, for the remainder of this essay, I will be examining the effects of ‘nation-as-community’ on the individuals and the ethnic groups as communities, particularly in East and Southeast Asia, with Singapore as an illustrative example. For this purpose, the general efficacy of communitarianism as national ideology requires further clarification.

3. Communitarianism as Ideology of Real Nation As mentioned earlier, the idea of a ‘nation’ is a constructed one. It should be noted that this analytic understanding is one step removed from the way the nation is perceived in the everyday life world. In the everyday life world, the reality of the nation is maintained by the world of nation-states. Every individual is obliged by the international structure of nation-states to be a ‘citizen’ of a particular country; woe to be one who is stateless. Internationally, an individual’s movement across national borders and rights and protection while in foreign territories are facilitated or hindered by international regulations based on exchanges between nations. Domestically, the quality of life of a citizen is dependent on the government and its state agencies for a very significant portion of their routine necessity as public goods; there are therefore, good reasons to be a citizen of a nation. Conversely, the ability to provide these public goods efficiently and preferably equitably, constitutes, for the citizens, the political legitimacy of the government in power. The 4 The idea that ‘nature’ provides the alibi for ideology and ideology is the naturalization of the historical is discussed in Barthes (1972).

cost of membership in ascribed community

177

‘reality’ of the nation, made visible through its state agencies, therefore, has very concrete effects on the everyday life of every citizen. These agencies and their very immediate effects displace the idea of the constructedness of the nation within the taken-for-granted attitude of everyday life, within this attitude the nation is concrete and real, rather than the much popularly reiterated ‘imagined’ community. This reality of nation-as-community may be designated as ‘state communitarianism’.5 The hierarchical structure—from individuals to social groups to the nation—contains within it a network of conflicts of interests and demands. First, there is the question of individualization and individualism, which has not been completely erased in the taken-for-granted social world of everyday life. One is constantly aware that memberships in different social groups produce a felt sense of constraint, of repression of one’s desires. No individual is so thoroughly socialized into a group that there is no trace of a ‘residual’ sense of self, of agency, that would react against repressions by the social.6 Indeed, the costs to be paid for membership are often difficult to bear lightly by individuals. It is here that the idea of the ‘individual’ with ‘natural’ rights and freedoms, the conceptual core of liberalism, has its appeal. Fortunately, as the rights and obligations towards each of the units remain largely silent rather than explicitly codified, the legal code being an exception, there are significant degrees of freedom for individual preferences in practice. The limits to these preferential practices are the limits of membership; beyond which either an individual withdraws membership from the group or the group withdraws membership from the individual. A similar logic holds in the relationship between social groups and the nation. If a social group, such as an ethnic community, holds on too tightly to its members for its own welfare, it deprives the next level of the hierarchy, namely, the nation, of the active participation of its individual members as citizens. For example, an overly cohesive family which extracts a high commitment from all its members for its own welfare will in turn deny the larger social communities of the active participation of its members. A strongly cohesive family can also be therefore an antisocial family. In nations where governments are generally profamily in their public policies, as in East Asian countries, such tendencies are common; a strong Confucian family is an anticommunitarian family from the vantage of the greater society and nation (Chang 2004). The nation also could be deprived of active citizenry from the other end of the hierarchy, namely any transnational community; for example, the transnational environmental movement and its organizations whose members are often critical of the environmental regulatory practices of their own nations. 5 6

This term, ‘state communitarianism’ is suggested by Kymlicka. This is the old saw in sociology against the ‘oversocialized concept of man’.

178

chua beng huat

One specific transnational community that has emerged in the closing years of the twentieth century is that of fundamentalist religious community, particularly in Islam. Here, cohesiveness and loyalty to the global community (or brotherhood) of believers, united by a common faith, withdraw individuals from their respective national identities. In many of the ‘terrorist’ activities allegedly carried out by members of transnational fundamentalist Islamic organizations, the activities are perpetrated within the space of the nations from which they are hewn. These transnational social organizations of self-elected members of clearly defined interests therefore constantly disclose the porosity and arbitrariness of the boundaries of nations, exposing the very constructed character of nations. In principle, the resolution of potential conflicts at different levels of the hierarchy of communities—from individual to transnational social organizations—should be an open possibility in outcome, that is, an empirical issue for each instance of conflict of interests. However, philosophical liberalism notwithstanding, in practice, tensions tend to be resolved in favor of the nation for practical reasons. To the extent that the well-being of local social groups and the individual citizen as a member of the citizenry-as-a-whole is dependent in very significant ways on the efficacy of the government and state agencies, a discursive and political space is carved out for the articulation of the ‘needs’ of the nation-as-community. Discursively and substantively, if the government and its agencies are to function efficaciously for the benefit of not only individual citizens but the entire citizenry as a collective, then certain conditions of social and political stability have to be established and maintained. Furthermore, the need for stability prioritizes the nation and the national and empowers the government to define the conditions that constitute the very stability and to intervene, police, and maintain these conditions whenever necessary. It provides both the discursive and institutional administrative spaces for the government to specify rules of governance of both individuals and social groups, in the name of the whole people as a nation. The constraints on freedoms of individual citizens and organized social groups are to be borne by all not only as costs of membership but also as self-interest, as the stability engendered is necessary for their standard and quality of everyday life. Consequently, the more efficacious the government in delivering the public goods, the greater its legitimacy and greater is its claim, relative to both the family and transnational organizations, on the cost of membership of citizens. However, it is impossible for state agencies to administer exhaustively all aspects of social life. The government is, therefore, dependent on lower levels of social collectives to govern aspects of social life that are beyond its reach. Each social group, from family to racial/cultural groups, is expected—indeed sometimes explicitly assigned and entrusted—by the government to impose

cost of membership in ascribed community

179

and police the constraints generated by national interests on its own members. For example, a government which emphasizes national interest does not and is unlikely to intervene unnecessarily into the workings of a cohesive family; instead it would want to use the family as a frontline of providing for the welfare of its members in times of needs. Furthermore, duties and responsibilities of individuals to the intermediate social groups, that is cost of membership, are left to the respective groups to extract from their members. The success of the extraction indexes the strength of the group as a community. Here, a government may in fact contribute directly to the strengthening of a racial group by providing administrative and financial assistance to the group’s cultural activities which reinforces the group’s boundaries and shores up its hold on individual members; improving group cohesiveness. In sum, while the emphasis on the nation and the national will unavoidably disrupt, even deny, social groups of some measures of the self-definition in terms of substance of identity and autonomy, this is not a zero-sum game. The intermediate social groups are often partners of the state agencies in maintaining general social stability. This practical logic applies even more, as it is reinforced normatively, in a political context where communitarianism is the national ideology, as in parts of East and Southeast Asia.

4. Asia as Context The coincidence of the rise of capitalism in Asia, first in Japan, followed by South Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Singapore, and now the People’s Republic of China (PRC) and India, with the historical demise of the realsocialism of the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, has arguably stopped liberal democracy and market individualism from realization of their universalizing desires and hegemony. As Fukuyama (1992: 238) puts it: ‘Asia’s tremendous economic success has led to a growing recognition that the success was due not simply to the successful borrowing of Western practices, but to the fact that Asian societies retain certain traditional features of their own cultures—like strong work ethic—and integrated them into a modern business environment’. The rise of capitalism provided the material basis for the politicians and their intellectual supporters in these Asian countries to discursively and ideologically delink capitalism from liberal individualism. It provided the discursive space for them to defend their nonliberal, even antiliberal, political practices in the post-Socialist world. Before World War II, countries in Asia were either imperial nations with kings and emperors or colonized territories. After the war, the colonial powers were either defeated in revolutionary wars or left without bloody struggles, and the kings and their dynasties were either dismantled

180

chua beng huat

completely or transformed into constitutional monarchs and retained as national symbols. Some postcolonial nations immediately adopted parliamentary democracies. Without proper preparations among the population under the colonial regimes, attempts at parliamentary democracies largely failed. Others retained democratic procedures but with severe modifications, critics might say distortions, of electoral and other parliamentary rules. Yet others turned to different experiments with socialism. The two examples of success in parliamentary democracy were India and Japan, but both polities remained a single-party-dominant-state for decades, until the 1990s. There were and still are no liberal traditions in Asia. However, the individualizing effect of the intrinsic logic of capitalism is unavoidable. Entire populations need to be transformed into individual active, competitive wage earners with individualized rewards. This proletarianization of the self is known to every wage earner. Furthermore, the individualization effect is not restricted to the workplace but has the tendency to seep and spread into other spheres of social life, most observably but not exclusively into the emergent culture of competitive consumerism. Indeed, the developed capitalist nations of the West bear witness to this individualizing process in the gradual ideological transformation of liberal individualism into its excessive individualism. The same is happening in developed Asian countries. As late capitalist developers, the ideological trajectory of liberalism in the West appears to be a fate that both the leaders and the populations of emerging capitalist Asia want to avoid. In contrast to the liberal new communitarians who valued individualism in itself and sought only to keep it in check by the evocation of ‘community’, East and Southeast Asia people have taken the presence of community in their midst as given, accepting the obviousness of the ‘social’ in everyday life—social realism—and sought to contain the ‘community-corrosive’ consequences of the individualizing effects of capitalism which they embraced materially. In Asia, communitarianism is therefore a counterdiscourse to liberalism, not a reformist one. Many political leaders in East and Southeast Asia use the alibi and veil— laid bare above—provided by the very process of ideological transformation to develop communitarianism into an explicit ‘national’ ideology, which is used to rationalize general political governance and specific administrative polices. Not surprisingly, the same list of social problems—high rates of divorce, of single parenthood, of teenage pregnancies, of unemployment, of drug addictions, of alternative lifestyles, polymorphous sexuality, and of crimes—that have unsettled the American new communitarians are evoked as evidence of the downsides of ‘Western’ liberalism, which can only have negative effects on Asian esteem for ‘social harmony’. Different governments in capitalist Asia, from South Korea to Singapore, began to seek different modes, strategies, and languages to inscribe this dichotomous conceptual-

cost of membership in ascribed community

181

ization of ‘Western individualism’ and ‘Asian communitarianism’ unto their respective social and political bodies. At the most extreme, Asian politicians, with or without popular electoral legitimacy, began to impose so-called ‘collective’ values and attendant social policies by fiat rather than through public deliberations. For example, the now-removed President Suharto of Indonesia imposed the ideology of ‘Panca Sila’, a nationalist ideology of collaboration as the basis of social order, as the highest national principles unto every level of social organization, from elementary schools to military institutions and political parties.7 This ‘Asian’ communitarianism was at the core of the so-called ‘Asian values’ debate which pitched liberal democratic critique of Asian ‘authoritarianism’ against Asian critique of Western individualism and its social ‘decadence’.8 Among the most vocal promoters of what may be called ‘Asian’ communitarianism are the political leaders of Singapore and their intellectual supporters. They have arrived at their ideological position through a retrospective formalization of the island-nation’s constitutional multiracialism which frames many administrative practices governing different spheres of everyday life of Singaporeans. This makes Singapore an exemplary case for examining the effects of multiculturalism and communitarian ideology in political practice.

The Singapore Case Since 1968, Singapore has been governed by a single party, the People’s Action Party (PAP), without disruption. It has won absolute majorities in every general election conducted every four to five years, under electoral regulations that clearly disadvantage other political parties. During its ascendancy to power in the immediate years of decolonization, repressive measures were widely used to suppress dissent and eliminate opposition: deregistration of radical trade unions, detention without trial of alleged Communists or other ‘subversive’ activists, closing of newspapers, and launching defamation suits with very significant financial claims of damages against politicians from other political parties. Amendments had been made to reinforce repressive laws that were a legacy of the British colonial regime, while disingenuously disclaiming responsibility for initiating such laws. For example, the Internal Security Act (ISA) has been amended to empower the Minister of Home Affairs to detain anyone that the Minister subjectively deemed to be subversive to national interests. This history of repression and the continuing presence of repressive laws have earned for the PAP 7 For detailed discussion on Panca Sila and its ideological and political effects see Ramage (1995). 8 The literature on Asian Value discourse is by now very extensive from popular journalist writings (Sheridan 1999) to serious academic debates (Han 1999; Chua 1999).

182

chua beng huat

government a persistent label as an authoritarian government.9 However, the regime stands squarely without flinching, let alone retreat, in the face of criticism of authoritarianism, particularly from liberals, because under its governance, the economy of Singapore has grown and the material life of its population has improved massively. Furthermore, having consolidated its stranglehold on political power, unsavory repressions have become relatively rare. The PAP government recognizes the cultural demands of capitalism to be competitive at every level of social organization, from individual to firm to nation. It incessantly exhorts its population and firms to meet the intense global competition, lest the firms collapse leaving behind trails of unemployed people and bringing down the national economy. Simultaneously, it is also deeply aware that intense competition has the tendency towards hyperindividualism and intensification of class divisions, both made far more visible by the different lifestyles that are displayed through rapidly expanding consumerism in everyday life. Such tendencies can have potentially negative effects on social solidarity of every social unit, from family to society; tendencies that have been hitherto kept at bay by continuous economic development and expansion of material life across the board. While economic expansion may intensify inequality, economic growth also enhances social solidarity. The government sees a need to emphasize ‘collective’ wellbeing, without dampening the motivation of those who are successful. In this sense, there are good economic and political reasons for the PAP government to adopt a ‘communitarian’ ideology while embracing capitalism. It, therefore, espouses a self-understanding as the ‘moral’ guardian of the nation’s interest and claims to practice a communitarian politics through its social policies.

5. Ideological Resources for Communitarianism As always, the rhetorical basis for communitarianism has to be grounded outside the competitive economic sphere. The PAP government can draw on two ideological resources locally. First is the multiracial composition of the population. Unlike other postcolonial countries that can identify their own ‘indigenous’ populations, delineate their ‘national’ boundaries and declare 9 The detailed history of the ascendancy of the PAP and the rise of Singapore as a ‘model’ capitalist economy is a well-worn tale. Available material ranges from the autobiography of Lee Kuan Yew, who was prime minister for the first thirty years and who sees his life as isomorphic to the life of Singapore as an independent nation, see his two-volume memoirs, The Singapore Story (1998, 2000), to a comprehensive collection of landmark essays on different aspects of Singapore by Rodan (2001).

cost of membership in ascribed community

183

themselves ‘owners’ of the nation, Singapore had to transform its demographic multiracial reality ideologically into a constitutional ‘multiracial’ country and institute multiracialism as an abiding foundation for governance since political independence. The Asian-Singaporeans are predominantly descendants of immigrants who had been coming to Singapore since its establishment, in 1819, as a trading post of the Anglo East India Company. A Chinese immigrant majority emerged quickly. ‘Malays’ arrived from different parts of the Southeast Asian archipelago. By mid-1800, significant numbers of English-educated Indians arrived to take up minor civil service jobs. The proportions of the residential population at the point of independence were, and so remain, approximately 75 percent ethnic ‘Chinese’, 17 percent ‘Malays’ and 7 percent ‘Indians’ and a small generic category of ‘Others’ of everybody else; a composition that is locally abbreviated to CMIO. Each of these general racial categories is, of course, a discursive practice that ‘flattens’ and ‘homogenizes’ ethnic, linguistic, and religious differences within each category.10 Chinese are forcefully homogenized by the banning of all languages and dialects in official transactions, education institutions, and broadcast media, replaced by Mandarin as the sole Chinese language. Of the ‘Malays’, in addition to ‘standardizing’ Malay as the common language, the state considers that ‘all Malays are Muslims’, leaving no space for non-Muslim Malays. As for Indians, the defining element is geography and includes anyone whose ancestors are from South Asia and the language of the majority of local Indian population, Tamil, is designated as the official Indian language. Every child is officially assigned the father’s race at birth, a hyphenated-citizen, suppressing all possible ambiguities of racial identities.11 Finally, English, the colonial language, is retained as the language of public administration and commerce, ostensibly for practical economic reason and in the early 1970s, made the primary language of instruction of all education institutions, while the other three official race-languages are taught as ‘second’ or ‘mother tongue’ languages; there is more discussion on this in the next section. Obviously, the ‘homogenization’ of the population to CMIO has redefined the racial groupings at significant cultural costs to both individuals and to all the smaller constituent ethnic groups that were ‘amalgamated’ into each ‘umbrella’ racial group. First, at the individual level, the assumption that one 10

Among the ‘Malays’ were Javanese, Minangkabau, Baewanese, Achinese, and Malays from Peninsula Malaya; among the ‘Chinese’ were different linguistic groups of Hokkiens, Cantonese, Hakkas, and Teochews and, in the case of ‘Indians’, the regional, linguistic, and religious differences were equally pronounced, if not more so. See Purushotam (1997) for details. 11 In instances of interracial marriage, the child would be assigned, by law, the father’s race and may take the mother’s language as the second language in school. In such situations, the choice of language can be a serious source of parental disagreements and/or economically determined strategic decisions.

184

chua beng huat

is embedded in the homogenized race-culture of one’s ascribed race is dubious. Even at the time of independence, there were significant numbers of local born individuals who had no knowledge of the ‘traditional’ cultures of their ancestors; their biographies were completely inscribed by their being British colonial subjects, often already converted to Christianity, a non-Asian traditional religion, and exclusively local English education and, might have come to think of traditional Asian cultures as backward and unworthy of preservation. For these individuals, being assigned a race-culture would have constituted a regressive labeling by the state. At the racial community level, the tensions between the smaller groups and the state-defined racial groups are not erased by this homogenization. The cultures of the smaller groupings, albeit weakened because of different negative official sanctions, continue to be practiced in many spheres of everyday life. Suppressed languages, such as different Chinese ‘dialects’, continue to be used by its speakers and often as explicit acts of resistance towards government injunctions by those who are thoroughly competent speakers of Mandarin and English, two of the official languages. In recent years, however, some cracks have appeared in the government imposed Mandarin exclusivity for the public sphere. Locally produced films have brazenly used different Chinese dialects in the film dialogue, without being censored by the censorship board, and have been enthusiastically received by local audiences. However, at every contact point with officialdom, the homogenized CMIO categories rule, with very few exceptions. The homogenization process is executed entirely for ease and convenience of governance, prioritizing the interest of the nation. The presence of the three ‘homogenized’ Asian races enables the government and the people to claim Singapore to be a cultural space that is constituted by the intersections of, respectively, the Chinese-Confucian, Indic and Malay-Islamic cultures. It is further claimed that the ‘communitarian’ character of these Asian traditions enables a distillation into a set of ‘shared values’, which have been formalized by the government and elevated to a national ideology, endorsed by parliament in 1991, with much popular resonance. The five ‘Shared Values’ are ‘nation before community and society before self; family as the basic unit of society; community support and respect for individual; consensus, not conflict as the basis for resolution of social issues; and racial and religious harmony’. This ‘national ideology’ has not been enshrined in any legal document but remains as a general guideline with no specific binding power on any social actors, including the government.12 Its general communitarian orientation, emphasizing succes12 The Shared Values as explicitly articulated national ideology is contained in a parliamentary White Paper (2 January 1992). The White Paper had been debated and adopted by the House of Parliament but not translated into a legal document or statutes, consequently its legal status remains unclear. For a critical assessment of Shared Values see Clammer (1993).

cost of membership in ascribed community

185

sive levels of ‘community’ is nevertheless consequential in administrative practices (Chua 1995: 31–5). The second ideological resource is the Party’s ideological roots in social democracy, which was embraced by its founding generation of leaders who had absorbed this ideology while they were students in British universities in the immediate postwar years. A leading younger PAP ideologue has argued that the ‘Socialism’ of the founding generation should not be forgotten or forsaken, in spite of the obvious fall in fortune of the idea of Socialism in the contemporary world. He elaborates: in what he calls the ‘supply-side’ Socialism of the PAP government, state subsidies are made ‘to maximize the ability of all human beings’, which in turn improves the economic competitiveness of the nation (Straits Times, June 17, 1994). Obviously, this supply-side Socialism is not interested in the destruction or even restructuring of capitalism, instead it abides by the disciplinary effects of the market. He further argues, ‘Socialism will never die, of course, because it springs from the very nature of man as a social animal. At least, the family will always stay socialist’. Significantly, the reduction of ‘Socialism’ to ‘familialism’ brings it closer to the foundational concept of a Confucian society and in line with one of the five ‘national’ Shared Values.13

6. Racial Equality rather than Equality of Individuals Promoted in 1991, more than twenty-five years after political independence, the ‘communitarian’ national ideology of Singapore may be said to be a retrospective rationalization of its ‘multiracial’ policies instituted at the beginning of nationhood. The substance of multiracialism as administrative practice is based on formal equality of the administratively homogenized racial groups in several areas of public interests and policies, such as languages, religions, and festivals. All the major religious festivals are national holidays. There are two Islamic holidays; two Indian related religious holidays, one for Hinduism and one for Buddhism; as the Chinese are religiously syncretic, the first two days of the Chinese New Year are used; and two Christian holidays of Good Friday and Christmas Day.14 Race-cultural festivals are supported directly or indirectly with public funds, spaces, and other administrative resources. 13 I have traced the trajectory from Confucian ethics to communitarianism in the Singaporean national ideology in Chua (1995), especially pp. 9–39 and pp. 147–68. 14 In informal instances, multiracialism is often represented by ethnic food. Thus in all the hotel restaurant menus, one would find under ‘local fare’, at least one item each of Chinese, Malay, Indian, and Peranakan; the latter referring to the cuisine of descendants of Chinese-Malay intermarriages in the nineteenth century or earlier.

186

chua beng huat

With the introduction of a national education system in the mid 1970s, English has become the primary medium of instruction from primary to tertiary institutions. However, every student must learn a second, ‘mother tongue’ language: Mandarin for Chinese, Malay for the Malays and, after much lobbying from the South Asian communities concerning the much greater linguistic differences among themselves, different languages, such as Bengali and Hindi, are permitted for ‘Indian’ students, besides the official language, Tamil. A student of mixed race parentage is assigned by administrative fiat the ‘race’ of the father and, accordingly the language in school; paternity rules and ‘mother tongue’ is a misrecognition required by the ease of administration. Obliging each hyphenated-Singaporean to take one’s ‘mother tongue’ language presumes that either one is already embedded in or one desires to acquire the assigned homogenized race-culture. This dubious presumption is further rationalized: learning of mother tongues is meant to instill in the students traditional Asian values which supposedly will provide the ‘cultural ballast’ to combat insidious ‘Westernization’. In reality, however, as English becomes increasingly the language in homes and on the streets, the survival of the three ‘mother tongue’ languages has to be boosted by, annually, one-month public campaigns dedicated to the use of each language.15 Within the general framework of racial equality but constitutionally recognizing them as the indigenous population, the Malay population is given certain privileges. First, Malay was made the ‘national’ language, with Mandarin, Tamil, and English as the other three ‘official’ languages. However, by now, this is but an ‘empty’ symbol; English has effectively become the lingua franca and the learning and use of Malay by non-Malays has become a very occasional thing. Second, Malays were to be given free education at all levels. However, with an emerging, visible Malay middle class, it is inequitable that their children get free tertiary education when students from poor Chinese and Indian families pay full fees. Since early 1990s, children of Malay middle class parents pay tuition fees for tertiary education but the fees are channeled into a Malay community fund, while the government compensates the universities with equivalent funds; consequently, tertiary education remains free for the community as a whole. Third, a prominent site is reserved in every public housing estate for the construction of a mosque, while Christian churches and Chinese temples 15

The irony of language choice should not be lost here: In this practice, as the child is assigned the father’s race, the term ‘mother tongue’ implicitly assumes that both parents are of the same race. Complications arise in cases of mixed marriage. For example, a child of an Indian father and Chinese mother may opt for an Indian language or Mandarin in school regardless of being officially assigned as Indian, because Mandarin being the language of the majority is perceived as economically advantageous. The dynamics of such decisions have been explored in great detail in Purushotam (1997).

cost of membership in ascribed community

187

compete by tender for sites made available in the estates. Finally, Islam receives special administrative attention under the purview of a Minister for Malay and Muslim Affairs. In macro-administrative policies and strategies, the logic of governance in Singapore takes social groups, from family to racial groups, as the units to be governed rather than individuals-as-citizens. One consequence of this is that the rhetoric of public interest in the country is generally couched in terms of social responsibilities to the collective rather than rights of individuals; there is a very extensive vocabulary for responsibility and a relative poverty of the vocabulary of rights. Among the stresses of responsibilities is the duty of the individual to contribute to the need of the nation to maintain racial harmony.

6. Racial Harmony as Public Good ‘Race’ is maintained at a very highly visible level in the public sphere. The high visibility is used to signify ‘deep divisions’ within the nation, in order to provide discursive space for the elevation of ‘racial harmony’ as a public good. That ‘racial harmony’ is ‘good’ few can morally deny. Past instances of race riots are constantly invoked by the government as evidence of the ‘tenuousness’ of racial harmony. As the ‘risk’ of disruption inheres logically within every discussion of race relations, the entire domain of ‘race’ has hitherto been considered ‘sensitive’ and best not to be raised publicly, justifying a need for constant policing of racial boundaries. Public voicing of grievances in terms of race have been quickly suppressed and individuals publicly chastised, even criminalized as allegedly, ‘racial chauvinists’ who threatened racial harmony.16 The fact is there has been no racial violence in Singapore since 1969. However, it is difficult to provide a definitive explanation for this17 because ‘deterrence’ of public discussion operates in a closed logic: It is because of deterrence that misdeeds are kept low, but not entirely erased, so deterrence must continue; since deterrence is never lifted, the validity of the assumption 16 In the 1997 general election, one of the candidates from the Worker’s Party was publicly labeled as a ‘Chinese chauvinist’ by the ruling party, on account of his expressed sentiments regarding the social and economic disadvantages suffered by those who are monolingual Mandarin speakers in the face of the ascendancy of English as the lingua franca. He is now a fugitive from the law for his failure to pay indemnity, which results from a series of libel suits brought against him by several members of the ruling party, including cabinet ministers. 17 It could be the result of the suppression of discussion of race, as the government would suggest. It could also be the result of the progressive enlightenment of an increasingly educated population; if so, then, suppression of discussion would no longer be necessary. Finally, the ‘danger’ of riots had been exaggerated by mythologizing the past events; if so, suppression was not necessary in the first place (Dayang 2001).

188

chua beng huat

that if lifted misdeeds will burst forth is never tested and deterrence continues. With closed logic in place, ‘racial harmony’ continues to act as a repressive device for preempting public debates on issues that face all multiracial countries—such as existing racial discriminations in the job market, the historical legacy of structural inequalities along racial lines, and ‘real’ sentiments toward each other among the component races. The resultant ‘racial harmony’ is minimalist, maintained by passive tolerance of visible and recognizable differences without substantial cultural exchanges, deep understandings, and even less cultural boundary crossings. Multiracialism of ‘distinct’ racial groups and minimalist racial harmony as public good provide the political discursive space to rationalize, enable, and indeed, require the government to monitor closely and police racial boundaries. The government sets itself up structurally as ‘above’ the particularistic interests of the racial groups, as the neutral umpire that allocates resources and adjudicates disputes among the races. The state is thus able to achieve and retain a very high level of autonomy relative to the racial groups that constitute the society. The adoption of English as a ‘race-neutral’ language in education, administration, and commerce for all the Asians supposedly places every Singaporean on equal footing in school and at work in their need to acquire the linguistic competence necessary to achieve personal success.18 The resulting dominance of English facilitates, partially, the government’s insistence that it governs through ‘meritocracy’, thus distinguishing not only the interests of the state but also those of individuals from the interests of all racial groups. Every individual achieves or fails by their own merit regardless of race, thus extracting the interests of the individuals from those of the racial group to which they are ascribed membership. This ideology of meritocracy reinforces the relative autonomy of the PAP government vis-a`-vis the racial groups. In sum, what we have is a relatively autonomous state apparatus which explicitly recognizes materially the multiracial character of the society and adopts administratively homogenized racial groups—conceptualized as coherent cultural units, as ‘communities’—instead of individuals as the units of governance under the auspices of a particular concept of multiculturalism which has, as its core value, the maintenance and preservation of ‘racial harmony’ as the public good. I would like to examine an area of public administration to draw out the ‘communitarian’ and ‘multicultural’ practices of the Singapore government.

18 The idea that a language belongs to a particular race or ethnic group is, of course, problematic as it denies that language acquisition is a learned process rather than an intrinsic biological inheritance. English has, contrary to the Singaporean leadership’s mistaken belief, been adopted by many middle class individuals in ex-British colonies as their own language.

cost of membership in ascribed community

189

7. Public Housing as Community Interest The PAP government is justifiably proud of the national public housing program. Since its establishment in 1960, the year after the PAP was first elected as a majority government in a self-governing Singapore, the Housing and Development Board (HDB), the statutory board entrusted with the program, has provided housing for virtually the entire nation, with the exception of the highest ten percent of income earners who elect to live in non-HDB housing, as a marker of personal financial success. The details of such a national housing program is of no consequence here, only the features that are important to communitarianism and multiculturalism are germane to the issue at hand.19 The massive housing program which houses more than 85 percent of the population would not be possible if land necessary for the undertaking were not available. Consequently, from the very start the compulsory land acquisition legislation was amended radically to empower the Ministry of National Development and the Commissioner of Land to acquire any piece of private property in the ‘national’ interest, leaving the latter necessarily undefined. Furthermore, until the early 1990s, land parcels were acquired at either the prevailing market rates or at very low prices set by the government; whichever is the lower. Only in the early 1990s, when the government estimated that it had all the land it needed for future developments, was compensation at market value. Such draconian land acquisition clearly violated the rights of property of individuals; this the government did not deny. However, without it there would be no national public housing program and the living conditions of a significant portion of the population would be either insecure or of lesser quality. Before the rehousing of the population into high-rise housing estates, the different racial groups lived in exclusive ethnic areas, particularly the Malays and the Chinese; the Indians were too small in number to form extensive residential areas. With public housing, there remained a tendency for Malays to show preference for a few housing estates that were built in areas where they were previously concentrated; the Chinese being the 75 percent overwhelming majority effectively constituted the majority population in every housing estate. To break up the potential reconcentration of the Malay population, a quota system of allocation of housing units was introduced in the mid-1980s. Quotas for each of the three racial groups are maintained for each block of public housing units, hence a general redistribution of the Malay and Indian population throughout the island’s housing estates is effected. Although in principle, all the three groups are affected by the 19 Literature on the public housing program is readily available, a sampling includes Wong and Yeh (1985) and Chua (1997).

190

chua beng huat

quota system, the effects are clearly uneven with the Malays and the Indians bearing more of the negative consequences of being unable to live among their own kin and kind. This quota practice has been rationalized in terms of the interest to achieve better racial integration and enhance racial harmony. From the beginning of the housing program, only households are eligible to purchase or rent subsidized flats from the HDB as part of the profamily policy of the government. It was reasoned that allowing singles to enter the public housing market would encourage the ‘early’ breakup of families. In addition, extended families that elect to live in close proximity to each other have been given priority of allocation; throughout the 1960s to the 1980s when housing demands were very high, this priority could shorten the waiting time on the queue for housing by several years. Finally, a young family that opts to live close to one of the parents is given a higher cash grant towards their housing cost than those who chose not to be close to their parents. Such policies see the family as the first line of defense and mutual assistance in times of necessities, thus reducing dependency on state provision. Obviously, such policies disadvantaged the never married citizens. In the face of rising number of such never married single individuals, the government finally relented and now permits singles to purchase the smallest available flats from existing tenants in housing estates at market value; they are therefore denied the government subsidies that are built into the prices of new flats supplied by HDB. Such profamily policies can also be found in other areas of administration and, as noted above, have now been enshrined as part of the national ideology, the Shared Values—family as the basic unit of society.

8. Costs of Communitarianism and Multiracialism From the very brief explication of the public housing program, it is clear that governance practices around different levels of ‘collective’ exact costs from individuals; land acquisition from landlords, quota from individual households, and family first allocation from individual singles. The costs exacted from different racial groups for multiculturalism is less apparent but not difficult to uncover. In addition to the costs that came with the ‘homogenization’ of the three groups along linguistic and religious lines, the overwhelming Chinese majority has been denied the adoption of Chinese as the national language; it has been reduced to the same status as ‘merely’ a mother tongue. Like all who lack facility with the English language, exclusive Chinese speakers, whether well educated and Mandarin-speaking or poorly educated and exclusively Chinese ‘dialect’ speaking, are highly disadvantaged in the political economy

cost of membership in ascribed community

191

of contemporary Singapore. In this sense, there is a ‘minoritization’ of the non-English speaking in the Chinese demographic majority. For the Malays, their weak economic position, relative to the Chinese and Indians, has been a persistent source of tension between the Malays and the government, in different sites.20 One of the thorniest problems, however, is the participation of Malay men in the conscripted armed forces. For the first two decades since the introduction of compulsory military service for all male citizens was introduced in 1967, Malay young men were not conscripted. It was not until mid 1980s that the numbers of Malays in the armed forces increased and their presence among officer ranks became noticeable.21 The government has never denied the discrimination but points to the imagined and imaginable potential ‘moral’ conflict that a Malay military man may face if Singapore were at war with its neighbors, Malaysia and Indonesia: he could be placed in a dilemma of having to shoot his own ‘kin’ and ‘ethnic brethrens’ or to shoot fellow Singaporeans. According to Lee Kuan Yew, Prime Minister from 1959 to 1990, ‘it would be very tricky business for the SAF (Singapore Armed Forces) to put a Malay officer who was very religious and who had family ties in Malaysia, in charge of a machine-gun unit’ (Straits Times, February 8, 2001). Apparently, after fortyyears of ‘nationhood’ the national loyalty of Malays remains a political issue. Finally, as the smallest identifiable racial group, the costs to the Indians are the least visible because they ostensibly are treated equally and therefore enjoy similar opportunities provided by public policies. While issues of racial discrimination or disadvantages are seldom voiced by Indians publicly, private grievances are not absent. One significant public instance should be noted. In the early 1990s, the time when he was ready to pass on the office of the Prime Minister, the former PM Lee Kuan Yew publicly suggested that Singapore was not ready for an Indian-Singaporean prime minister, although there had always been Indian members of cabinet in the PAP government. There is apparently a glass ceiling in public office, albeit a very high one. It is obvious that in the politics of Singapore, what may be constituted as rights of individuals and social collectives, including government-defined ‘homogeneous’ racial communities, are routinely ‘violated’ in the interest of successively higher levels of a hierarchy of collective life, culminating in the overall domination of the ‘national’ interest as defined by the existing ruling one-party dominant government. The citizens and the homogenized racial groups are quite conscious of these costs. As to be expected, they do not always bear the costs with equanimity. For example, residents in non-HDB housing who pay a very high cost for the ability to live away from the ‘masses’ 20

For an ‘official’ conceptualization of the economic ‘backwardness’ and ‘marginalization’ of Malays in Singapore, see Li (1989) and Rahim (1998) respectively. 21 Tan, Tai Yong (2001: 287).

192

chua beng huat

do complain about the apparent endless government subsidies given to the public housing residents, from the initial subsidy of new flats to the continuous cycles of upgrading older flats and estates in order to maintain the latter’s property values in the face of successive generations of newer and better serviced estates. The economic marginalization is a deep grievance among exclusive Chinese language speakers; an issue that is voiced in different guises, from direct complaints of economic discrimination to the more abstract and more publicly aired comments on the progressively poor state of Mandarin language teaching and learning in schools. Indeed, the state of learning of Mandarin has been so watered down that secondary school students are being offered the option to undertake a curriculum that amounts to no more than minimal conversational competency. The government’s skepticism regarding their ‘national loyalty’ is understandably an unacceptable condition to the Malays but they are urged to accept this condition as one determined by the geopolitics of Singapore being a Chinese predominant island-nation within the larger regional Malay world. It is obvious, that in each instance, the resolution of the tension between the racial groups and the nation-state, the latter’s interest triumphs. This is entirely the result of emphasizing the national at the peak of the hierarchy of social groupings within the boundaries of the nation itself; state communitarianism rules. However, as suggested above, the government and its state agencies are themselves dependent on the work of social groupings at the lower end of the hierarchy, such as families and racial groups, to complete its work of governance. To this end, the PAP government has helped to reinforce the institution of the family by its profamily social policies, including public housing and health care. At the racial community level, it has also reinforced group cohesiveness by the making of religious and other cultural festivals into national public holidays and continues to teach race-languages in schools and in the specific case of the Malay/Muslims by contributing administratively to the building of mosques. These mosques are the physical beacons that impart religious identity and space to the local communities of believers that they serve. The government thus both reduces the autonomy and selfdefinition of the racial groups and also contributes to the maintenance of their respective boundaries and cohesiveness, in the national interest. In sum, at the family, racial group, and nation levels, boundary cohesiveness is reinforced by public policies in conjunction with some of the normative injunctions of the social groups themselves, making exit at every level difficult. To prevent the ‘premature’ break up of the family institution, singles are disqualified from new public housing flats; thus, it is common for Singaporeans to move out of the home of the family of origin only upon marriage, from one family to the next. The use of public housing to discriminate against individuals of legal age contrasts sharply with liberal countries where social welfare is allocated to individuals who are legally entitled. In the

cost of membership in ascribed community

193

Malay community where Islam is ascribed to every individual, the antiapostate rule of the religion inhibits exit, in contrast to religion as free choice in liberalism. Perhaps, most problematic of all for liberals, the state has the right to take away the citizenship of an individual Singaporean by birth after he/she has been physically away from the country for ten years or more; he or she being deemed as no longer holding any interest in the nation. Here, in a reversal of expectation, the exit of the individual is demanded by the state. All these practices are illiberal to the core. All the above discriminatory practices are known to any Singaporean who keeps abreast with the daily news, yet there have been no massive objections or revolts. This is indicative of Singaporeans’ acquiescence, if not total acceptance, to arguments of the need to maintain collective well-being at the national level—state communitarianism—in order to have the well-being of the racial communities and by extension individuals. This generalized support is reflected in the absence of massive revolt at the ballot boxes at every periodic general election since the PAP was first elected into parliament, particularly since the late 1970s when overt repression of dissent became infrequent. Albeit the general elections were not conducted on level playing fields with other political parties, the result of each general election still reflects the popular support and therefore the political legitimacy that the PAP holds among Singapore citizens.

Conclusion: Communitarianism and Single-Party Dominance Obviously, the PAP is wont to argue that the economic success, the social stability, and general improvement of life of the population are results of its ‘good’ governance, including the fact that it has no opposition in parliament to delay unnecessarily the implementation of policies that are beneficial to the well-being of the population as a whole. Of these arguments, the one that links communitarianism to single-party dominance is dubious. Indeed, the weakness of this argument was exposed in no less an area of politics than the generally salutary public housing program. In the 1997 general election, in the face of the possibility of losing several seats, the PAP threatened that the HDB estates which voted against its candidates will be excluded from the above-mentioned upgrading exercise and that in estates where the upgrading had already been approved, approval could be withdrawn by an elected PAP government. The PAP did not care to deny that using public funds to the Party’s private advantage was an unfair practice. It dismissed such complaints as politically ‘naı¨ve’ because such ‘strategic’ use of government resources by the ruling party was part and parcel of real politik, practiced even in most ‘democratic’ polities. Obviously

194

chua beng huat

the PAP knew that it was holding hostage the citizens who are dependent on government upgrading funds to maintain the values of their flats (Chua 2000). Only those who fervently believe in democratic politics would be inclined to consciously ignore their material interests by voting against the PAP. In the context of this essay, it is important to note that such unfair electioneering strategies reflect the unwillingness of the dominant single party to share political power. It is largely a legacy of the immediate years after political independence and, to a lesser extent, the continuing use of political repression on the part of the PAP to keep the opposition out of parliamentary politics and power. In the areas of public goods and services, citizens are highly dependent on state provision; they are in this sense ‘clients’ of the state (Chua 2000). As illustrated by the case, such dependency renders citizens vulnerable to threats by the ruling regime to withdraw or withhold the necessary goods and services. This adds to the earlier mentioned reality of the nation-state in the everyday life of citizens. To have a bargaining position with the state agencies, it is absolutely crucial that the citizens-as-electorates possess the ability to change government. The threat of removal from the seat of power would then serve as a motivation for the ruling political party to negotiate with the citizens in exchange for electoral support. However, the political history of Singapore is precisely one in which the PAP had systematically defeated all other political parties, reducing the remaining ones to a marginal presence in parliament and in public debates. Not being under any threat of displacement, the PAP could then turn around and threaten the electorate with impunity. The entire episode suggests that greater democratization of politics with a multiparty polity is urgently needed for Singapore. Sadly, this is unlikely to happen for at least another decade. However, the need for greater democratization of the Singapore polity has little to do with either the communitarianism or the multiculturalism which the PAP espouses and practices. Nor should it be understood necessarily as a call for liberalism. There is no inevitable link between liberalism and democracy. A multiparty democratic polity could conceivably continue with the communitarian orientation that has been in place. The PAP does not have exclusive ideological ownership of communitarianism. As argued above, it is the very realism that an individual is embedded in a hierarchy of collectivities—vernacular communitarianism—that provides the material and conceptual resources for its political transformation into a national ideology, into state communitarianism. It is this ideological transformation that enables the PAP to tap into public resonance and support for its administrative orientation and not the Party in itself. Ultimately, communitarianism as a political ideology is a discursive resource available to all contesting parties. Material for the construction of a ‘community’ varies according to the ability of each group to draw on visible

cost of membership in ascribed community

195

or invisible markers to constitute visible communities. The legitimacy of communities so constituted is dependent on the degree to which their claims are honored by contesting parties. The contest could take a multitude of forms and modes, from the manipulation of communitarianism by the state to impose social discipline, to its use by local groups in defense of their scarce resources (for example squatter settlement rights),22 to civil society organizations as communities without propinquity.23 In contemporary Singapore, after close to forty years of the PAP rule, the positive outcomes in various areas of social life of the logic of ‘governance by groups’ should have a lasting impact on Singaporeans. Consequently, any political party which aims to successfully contest political power could do much worse than adopting the communitarian orientation of the PAP. 22

There is a large volume of literature on urban settler’s defense, however, in this context I have in mind, Chatterjee’s essay, ‘Community in the East’ (1998). 23 Calhoun (1998: 29) attributes the term ‘community without propinquity’ to Melvin Webber.

9 Justice for Migrant Workers? The Case of Foreign Domestic Workers in Hong Kong and Singapore1 DAN I E L A . B E L L A N D N I C O L A P I P E R

Citizens of wealthy, industrialized countries must grapple with the question of ‘who should do the low status and difficult but socially necessary work that locals are unwilling to do’? The answer, usually, is to import foreigners from relatively poor countries who will be drawn by economic opportunity. This often results in two broad classes of residents with unequal rights and privileges. Is this arrangement morally justifiable? According to Kymlicka’s theory of minority rights, justice requires equality between ethnocultural groups in the same state. Inequality between groups cannot be justified as a permanent, long-term arrangement. Kymlicka has suggested that his theory also applies to the case of long-term migrant workers in Asia.2 Other liberal theorists who have considered the question of rights for migrant workers have explicitly argued that they should 1

This essay draws on interviews with FDWs conducted in Hong Kong, December 2002, with Cynthia C. A. Abdon-Thellez, Director of the Mission for Filipino Migrant Workers and Holly Allen, Director of Helpers for Domestic Helpers and one volunteer helper at that organization, and four Filipina domestic workers with experience in both Singapore and Hong Kong interviewed at the YMCA in TST, Hong Kong. Daniel is very grateful for their input. Nicola would like to thank the many dedicated NGOs, government officials, academic researchers, and other individuals who were interviewed as part of the report written for UNESCO (www.uow.edu.au/ science/geosciences/research/apmrn/publications/wp_14. html). We would also like to thank Will Kymlicka, He Baogang, Joseph Carens, Thomas Pogge, Tan Soor-Hon and Leah Briones for helpful comments on earlier drafts. 2 Kymlicka briefly mentions the case of metics [long-term migrant workers] in Asia in Chapter 2. He notes that the expectations that they would return ‘home’ were misguided, as in the West, and that (in most cases) citizenship rules have subsequently been liberalized to enable some members of the metic group to gain or regain citizenship. Where perceptions of security or unjust privilege exist, however, the trend towards citizenship is unlikely to take place without international pressure. As we will see, the case of FDW in Asia does not fit Kymlicka’s categories. The expectation that they would return ‘home’ has not proven to be misguided, citizenship rules have not been liberalized to enable them to gain citizenship, and neither perceptions of security nor of unjust privilege have played significant roles.

justice for migrant workers: hong kong and singapore

197

eventually be put on the road to citizenship. There may be a case for differential rights in the short-term, but they should not be treated as permanent second-class citizens. They belong, and belonging matters morally. As the political theorist Joseph Carens puts it, ‘long-term membership in civil society creates a moral entitlement to the legal rights of membership, including citizenship itself ’ (Carens 2000: 3–5). Beyond a certain point—five or ten years—the state should give equal rights to those partaking of the way of life in a territory, regardless of their background.3 Thus all migrant workers should eventually pass a threshold that entitles them to the same legal status as citizens. This argument, as Carens recognizes, mirrors the emerging pattern in most Western liberal democracies. There is a trend towards extending to long-term residents most if not all the legal rights of citizens and improving access to citizenship for the descendants of immigrants and immigrants themselves. This situation is different, however, in developed East Asian societies. The largest proportion of migrant workers work on short-term contracts without the realistic hope that they will ever be equal members of the political community. As one might expect, this gives rise to many injustices. It does not follow, however, that the prescriptions of Western liberal democracies will help to secure the interests of migrant workers. The special circumstances of developed East Asian societies may justify arrangements for differential rights. There may even be something to learn from the experience of those societies.

1. Patterns of Labor Migration in East Asia— Setting the Scene Cross-border migration in Asia (as in other regions) is not a new phenomenon. The multiethnic composition of many states in Asia points to a long history of geographic mobility. However, patterns and conditions of international migration have undergone considerable changes of late, the most important of which is the increased feminization of these flows within Asia and of Asians to other parts of the world (Lim and Oishi 1996: 85–116). In developed Asian countries, new opportunities for female labor migration 3 This moral argument for citizenship seems less plausible in the case of wealthy, skilled immigrants—for example, it would be difficult to argue that, say, a state such as Switzerland would be committing a fundamental injustice by denying full citizenship rights to a well-paid corporate lawyer who has spent the last ten years working out of that country’s branch office (we are grateful to John Holbo for raising this point). The case for equal citizenship seems more compelling for relatively poor, unskilled foreign resident workers who would likely derive substantial benefits from citizenship rights. Even in such cases, however, we will argue that the case for citizenship rights is not as straightforward as it might seem.

198

daniel a. bell and nicola piper

emerged due to such factors as expanding middle classes and dual income households in need of domestic help.4 In relatively poor sending countries, new opportunities for emigration arose through the relaxation of emigration policies and the establishment of recruitment agencies. By 2002 there were at least 1.3 million migrant women working legally in the major labor importing countries of the region (Yamanaka and Piper 2003: 5–6) (Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Korea, and Japan).5 Most of these women migrate from Southeast Asia, notably the Philippines and Indonesia, but increasing numbers of women have also migrated from South Asia, particularly Sri Lanka and Bangladesh, to destinations in the Mideast as well as East and Southeast Asia (Gamburd 2000; Siddiqui 2001). The majority of female migrants in East and Southeast Asia still work in a narrow range of unskilled, reproductive, and productive labor. Domestic work, helping with housework and/or caring for needy family members, has been the most common occupation among migrant women throughout the region.6 These workers often experience abuse and exploitation hidden in the ‘privacy’ of the home, and they may well be the most vulnerable of all migrant workers. This chapter, focuses primarily on the cases of foreign domestic workers (FDWs) in Singapore and Hong Kong, which have the largest number of legally contracted FDWs, in both absolute and relative terms (in Asia). In 2002, 140,000 women, mostly from the Philippines, Indonesia, and Sri Lanka, registered as foreign domestic workers in Singapore, accounting for more than 40 percent of the country’s unskilled foreign labor force (Huang and Yeoh 2003). In the late 1990s, Hong Kong hosted more than 150,000 FDWs who accounted for two-thirds of its 200,000 unskilled migrant labor force. The majority of them were from the Philippines (85%), followed by those from Indonesia, Thailand, and other countries. In terms of their legal status, FDWs are far better off in Hong Kong than in Singapore. The minimum wage in Hong Kong is set at HK$3270 (US$419) per month, including room and board. There is no minimum wage in Singapore, but average pay is about half of Hong Kong’s minimum wage. Employers in Singapore must also pay a ‘maid levy’—in effect, a luxury tax— of US$225 per month to the government. FDWs have more statutory holidays in Hong Kong—every Sunday and eleven public holidays, and two other floating holidays, compared to one day per month off in Singapore 4

For Malaysia, see Stivens 1998: 99–103. We leave aside the question of economically driven migration within the same country. In China, however, many of the same ethical issues would arise. Hundreds of thousands if not millions of rural women migrate to urban areas to seek work as domestic workers, and the hukou registration system deprives them of equal rights (relative to urban residents). 6 For exact statistics, see Yamanaka and Piper 2003. For in-depth ethnographic data, see Constable 1997; Chin 1998; Yeoh et al. 1999. 5

justice for migrant workers: hong kong and singapore

199

(after three months of probation). Employers in Singapore are supposed to provide FDWs with medical insurance, but this does not always happen; in Hong Kong, FDWs enjoy the same (nearly free) medical benefits as residents. They have the right to bring complaints to a labor tribunal in Hong Kong, but not in Singapore. FDWs in Singapore are obliged to sign a Statement of Undertaking that prohibits them from marrying or cohabiting with any Singapore citizen or permanent resident; there are no such restrictions in Hong Kong. The Hong Kong government blocks off main roads in the financial district every Sunday to allow FDWs to congregate; there are no comparable public spaces for workers in Singapore. In Hong Kong, it is unlawful to terminate a FDW because of pregnancy after five weeks and they have ten weeks of maternity leave; in Singapore, they have to undergo pregnancy tests every six months, and they are immediately deported if they are pregnant. In Hong Kong, FDWs have two weeks to find a new employer; in Singapore, they are repatriated if they change employers. In Singapore, FDWs are subject to the death penalty; capital punishment is illegal in Hong Kong. Perhaps the most telling sign of better conditions is that most FDWs prefer to work in Hong Kong, given the choice (Samydorai 2003; Piper interview, Hong Kong Government, February 2003). There are, however, some commonalities between Hong Kong and Singapore. There is no limit to work hours, and FDWs are not allowed to bring in dependants or other members of their families. In both territories—and here is the key issue, for our purposes—they work on contract terms, and are denied the rights of citizenship without the realistic hope that they will ever be equal members of the political community in their host societies. In Hong Kong, for example, the contracts of FDWs can be renewed indefinitely (it is not uncommon to find FDWs who have been working in the territory for fifteen years or more) (Migrant Focus Magazine, 2001: 11), without the provision that they can apply for citizenship rights.7 As we will see, however, the struggle for equal citizenship is almost never on their political agenda.

2. The Political Concerns of Foreign Domestic Workers Government officials of receiving countries rarely speak out on behalf of FDWs. FDWs typically generate little compassion on the part of the local population, and to the extent that governments are responsive to their 7

The Hong Kong government’s policy in this regard is relatively ‘generous’ compared to other Asian countries. In Japan, the large bulk of migrants must return home after two or three years (Piper and Iredale 2003: 28), and in Taiwan the maximum is six years. It should be noted here, that technically speaking, there is no such thing as ‘Hong Kong citizenship’, but rather its legal and practical equivalent, ‘permanent residency’ (we thank John Dean for alerting us to this). For stylistic reasons, we continue to employ the term ‘citizenship’.

200

daniel a. bell and nicola piper

citizenry they will not forcefully articulate the interest of FDWs.8 Non governmental organizations (NGOs) that represent the interests of FDWs in the Asian region, arguably, offer a better window into the actual concerns of FDWs.9 In Hong Kong, most FDWs are Filipinas, and the large bulk of supportive NGOs are organized by Filipino nationals in many receiving countries (Piper 2003). In other receiving countries, however, the NGOs are typically formed by concerned citizens (in Singapore the reason is obvious: FDWs lack the freedoms of speech and association). Surprisingly, perhaps, these NGOs do not seem to be actively struggling for citizenship rights for their constituents in the receiving country.10 The fact that Asian governments sanction two classes of residents with unequal rights and privileges—in effect, relegating FDWs to permanent second class citizenship, or denizenship (cf. Hammer 1990)—is not, at least on the surface, an issue of great concern for pro-FDW NGOs. There are normative and political reasons explaining silence in this matter. What, then, are the concerns of these NGOs and their constituents? Our findings are based on interviews with pro-FDW NGOs as well as interviews with individual FDWs. Interaction between employers and FDWs occurs mainly in the ‘privacy’ of the home, consequently, the informal rules of engagement within the home have great impact on the welfare of FDWs. The laws, as they stand, typically leave large amounts of discretion to the employer—for example, contracts between employers and FDW do not specify maximum number of work hours, and in some countries (e.g. Singapore) the wage levels are set by the employer. So from the point of view of FDWs, one of the most important considerations is to find a ‘nice’ employer and to avoid ‘exploitative’ ones.11 8

It is tempting to explain the lack of openings for citizenship of migrant workers with reference to the less-than-democratic political arrangements in societies such as Hong Kong and Singapore. For an argument that more democracy—in the sense that citizens choose their leaders by means of free and fair competitive elections—is more likely to harm migrant workers, see Bell 2001. In the case of Taiwan, the development of a more democratic, responsive government has been bad for FDWs—under increasing pressure from specific domestic groups that (mistakenly?) blamed foreigners for growing unemployment of indigenes and blue-collar workers, in September 2000 President Chen Shui-bian promised to cut the number of foreign workers by 15000 annually, the goal being to reduce the number by 60000 by 2004 (Lovebond 2003: 3). 9 This is not to imply that some NGOs may not have mixed motives. According to a political science lecturer at the University of Indonesia in Jakarta, some Indonesian NGOs have used the issue of migrant workers to get money from donor agencies for other purposes (Piper interview 19 March, 2003). 10 But NGOs run by and for Filipinas engage in active citizenship rights’ struggle directed at their country of origin. See for more detail Rodriguez 2002. 11 In Singapore, however, this is relatively difficult because FDWs have no power over their placement and they are legally tied to one employer and not allowed to swap. Employers also have to pay a $5,000 bondage to make sure their domestic workers do not ‘run away’. As a result, FDWs usually have their passports confiscated by employers and are often locked up in

justice for migrant workers: hong kong and singapore

201

There is growing recognition of the need to counter the ‘education’ provided by agencies that benefit from trade in FDWs. One officially sanctioned private agency in Singapore, distributes a pamphlet that offers the following advice to FDWs regarding prayers: 1. You are discouraged to bring your White Prayer Uniform along. This is because the Employer does not want this Uniform to scare their children. Most of the employers dislike their domestic helpers to pray while working in their house. This condition has been stated earlier and we as your agent have agreed on your behalf in order to be able to secure you a job. 2. Another thing due to various reasons such as a conflict between two Gods, employer does not want to have different kinds of prayers in their house, does not understand the domestic helper’s religion, etc. 3. But if you are lucky, you may be allowed to pray in the morning before your employer and the family members have woken up. 4. Subject to employer’s approval. If this should happen, please pray in your heart and you may make it up when you return to your country. 5. Thus, you should have an attitude by thinking that you are lucky to be able to work here whereas your friends are still in the village waiting for their employment (Advance Link Pte Ltd 2000: 35).12 The main concern, apparently, is to minimize conflict between employer and FDW so that the agency will not be blamed if things go wrong, but the strategy is entirely focused on ensuring that docile FDWs defer to the wishes of employers. The Singapore government has published pamphlets that aim for a more balanced approach. Once again, the aim is to promote a harmonious working relationship between employer and employee, but this is meant to be achieved by means of mutual cultural understanding, open communication, and mutual respect (Tan 2002). These desiderata are spelled out in vague language, however, and their effect on the behavior of employers is questionable. An ad hoc working group made up of individuals and organizations that seek to promote respect for FDWs has recently published a guide for employers of FDWs that spells out their moral obligations in substantial detail. The bulk of this guide seems designed to appeal to the conscience of apartments during the day. A hotline set up at the Indonesian Embassy in Singapore receives on average three distress calls per day, typically by maids locked into the apartment, and the Labor Desk receives three to four runaway cases each day. The restriction on pregnancy reinforces this problem—an employer would lose his or her bond if the FDW becomes pregnant, which leads to such restrictions as bans on receiving phone calls by males in the employer’s home. 12 This pamphlet might be intended primarily for Muslim FDWs from Indonesia, though it is not made explicit.

202

daniel a. bell and nicola piper

the employers, rather than invoking threats of legal punishment. To counter the myth that ‘My maid can’t manage money well, so I should keep her passbook’, for example, the guide notes that ‘In the Philippines, one in every two households depends on the remittances of overseas workers’. On the issue of religious requirements, the guide notes the requirements of different religions and urges employers to respect those requirements. A devout Muslim, for example, ‘is required to pray five times a day and fast in the month of Ramadan. These constitute two of the five pillars of Islam that must be observed. Allowing your FDW breaks to perform her prayers does not take up much of her time. Each prayer takes ten minutes at the most and are spread out at convenient intervals from dawn until bedtime. For most Muslims, as the conduct of Singaporean Muslims shows, life goes on as normal during the fasting month of Ramadan: they work while fasting from dawn till dusk. A Muslim FDW expects to perform her usual duties during this month, but you should show understanding of her need to eat before dawn, so that she does not work all day on an empty stomach.’ Such informal ‘calls to the conscience’ might seem naı¨ve, but they are crucial, given the nature of interaction between employers and FDWs. If the concern is to improve the welfare of FDWs, the informal rules of engagement within the home are often just as fundamental, if not more so, than the set of rights guaranteed by law. It is important to emphasize this point only because liberal-democratic theorists (and Western NGOs) are inclined to think, first and foremost, of legalistic solutions for securing the welfare of the weak and vulnerable. Of course, this is not to deny that laws also affect the welfare of FDWs. In Hong Kong, the minimum wage of FDWs is guaranteed by law, and proFDW NGOs have campaigned on three separate occasions since the 1997 economic crisis against proposals by political parties and employers’ interest groups to cut the minimum wage for FDWs (once, in 2002, with successful opposition to the cut). Another prominent issue for NGOs has been opposition to the ‘two-week rule’ that prohibits migrant workers who break their contracts from staying in Hong Kong more than two weeks. This rule effectively means that FDWs must put up with exploitative conditions since it is difficult for them to find an alternative employer on such short notice. According to our interviewees, there is no other legal regulation that is as damaging to the interests of FDWs. NGOs in Hong Kong have suggested going back to the pre-1987 system, when FDWs were given six month renewable visas and they had more time to find alternative employers if things went sour. Another major concern for NGOs, at least in Singapore, is the issue of domestic workers not being covered by the national Employment Law which covers all other (male) migrant workers. The recently formed ad hoc working group campaigns for the inclusion of FDWs under this law. Last but not

justice for migrant workers: hong kong and singapore

203

least, there is the ‘one day off ’ campaign in Singapore. Unlike Hong Kong, many FDWs (mainly non-Filipinas) do not get a day off per week for their own recreation.13

3. Should Foreign Domestic Workers Be Given Equal Rights? From the perspective of FDWs and their representative NGOs, in short, the main concerns relate to informal interaction within the home, improved working conditions, and labor rights. The fight for equal citizenship is not the most pressing issue and equal citizenship is not typically seen to be the key to alleviating the high level of abuse that FDWs often experience. Still, it may seem that the fight for equal citizenship matters, at least as a long-term goal. After all, citizenship rights confer a wide range of benefits (and duties, however, such as paying taxes and a two-and-a-half period of national service for Singaporean males). Even in nondemocratic Hong Kong, citizenship matters—it provides access to valued passports, public housing, education, as well as a certain degree of political representation—all benefits currently denied to FDWs. One possibility might be to invoke the United Nations International Convention on the Protection of the Rights of All Migrant Workers and Members of their Families (hereafter: ICMR), which has officially entered into force as an instrument of international law on 1 July 2003.14 In comparison to the two previous International Labor Organization (ILO) conventions dealing with migrant workers (no. 97 from 1949 and no. 143 from 1975), the ICMR sets new ground by: 1. emphasizing that both host and origin countries often lack protective/ rights legislation on migrants, and encouraging States to establish legislation in harmony with recognized standards; 2. providing a comprehensive international definition of migrant worker, categories of migrant workers and members of their families; 13 Interestingly, no NGO in Singapore campaigns to abolish the rule that prevents locals from marrying FDWs. 14 This Convention was passed by the General Assembly on December 18, 1990. But a minimum number of ratification by twenty countries was required to let it come into force. During the ten years of deliberation regarding the content of this Convention, no Asian country was present, apart from Japan which joined in the last year. The main countries involved in the drafting process were the European MESCA group (seven Mediterranean and Scandinavian states) and the Group 77 which is mainly composed of sending countries (with specific engagement by Algeria, Mexico, and Morocco). In this sense, it is not surprising that the content of this Convention reflects the situation of migrant workers in Europe and North America at the time.

204

daniel a. bell and nicola piper

3. establishing that migrant workers are social entities with families as well as laborers or economic entities; 4. specifying the specific fundamental human rights of all migrant workers, including unauthorized migrants, and elaborating on other rights of regular migrant workers in a number of legal, civil, economic, social, and cultural rights; 5. seeking international cooperation in eliminating exploitation of migrants, and in ending clandestine movements and irregular or undocumented situations. The ICMR, however, has been less than successful in Asia, particularly if the test of commitment to an international accord is that it would affect (change) the policies of member states. Only two sending countries (Sri Lanka and the Philippines) have ratified the ICMR, and not one single receiving country has done so. The concern among receiving countries is not that the ICMR specifies equal citizenship rights for migrant workers—states are still largely free to design their own visa and immigration policies—but that it would lead to settlement by admitting family members of labor migrants. Having said that, this concern is not grounded in a sound grasp of international law.15 The provision concerning family reunification in the ICRM—which is only applicable to regular migrants—is dealt with in Article 44 where it is stated that States Parties, recognizing that the family is the natural and fundamental group unit of society and is entitled to protection by society and the state, shall take measures to ensure the protection of the unity of the families of migrants workers. (Art. 44,1)

Under paragraph 2, states parties are under an obligation ‘to take measures that they deem appropriate’ to facilitate the reunification of migrants with their families. According to Cholewinski, who has studied the Working Group’s reports, this provision is phrased ‘in terms of a ‘‘mere recommendation’’ and can only be considered a ‘‘guidance’’ to states parties’ (Cholewinski 1997: 172). Although the third paragraph imposes the duty upon states to consider facilitating family reunification on humanitarian grounds, this does not constitute a right to do so and leaves this to the discretion of individual states. Still, the European experience suggests that there will be mounting moral pressure to accept migrants’ families if the ICRM is ratified—a precedent that may also help to explain the lack of enthusiasm among recipient countries in Asia.16

15

Misunderstanding of this Convention’s content should not be surprising, given that most Asian countries have not studied this Convention in-depth and lack experts in international law (see Piper and Iredale 2003). 16 In Japan, the European experience with guest-workers who became long-term immigrants is often used against legalizing the hiring of unskilled foreign workers.

justice for migrant workers: hong kong and singapore

205

In short, most labor receiving countries do not want permanent settlement programs and they feel that extending rights to the families of migrants will encourage settlement (Piper and Iredale 2003). These views are not likely to change in the foreseeable future. The authors of a recent report identifying the obstacles to the signing and ratification of the ICMR conclude that the focus in receiving countries should therefore be on changing domestic policies and laws before mounting a ratification campaign. In fact, this is exactly what NGOs in receiving countries are already doing: they refrain from lobbying their government to ratify the ICMR, because they fear that focusing on the promotion of the ICMR would result in a backlash with smaller scale improvements slipping away (Piper and Iredale 2003: 55).17 Whatever the legal issues, the normative question remains—should FDWs be put on the road to citizenship, as liberal democratic theorists advocate? In East Asia, as we will see, the arguments for denying equal rights to FDWs are not simply the crude justifications of narrowly self-interested elites. The most obvious justification for unequal rights is that FDWs could be seen as consenting to the arrangement that brings them to the receiving countries. Restrictions on the rights of domestic workers are publicly announced and FDWs know about them before they come.18 Why do they come? Many workers are mothers, and seek relatively high-paying jobs as domestic workers abroad in order to allow their children to be better educated and to lead more comfortable lives. As the Philippine Labor Secretary put it, they ‘make a choice for more money but less prestige’.19 Poverty at home may not be the only motivating factor. For many workers, as Momsen notes, ‘the search for personal freedom and the accompanying rejection of traditional gender roles is as important as economic reasons’ 17 This is not to deny that the ICMR can be useful for other purposes. In Singapore, for example, a working group of pro-FDW individuals (the word ‘NGO’ can be sensitive in Singapore!), notes that ‘practices such as withholding of salaries, not providing adequate and proper food, use of threats, degrading methods of punishment such as compelling FDWs to stand facing a wall for hours or to perform repeated ‘squats’ as means of disciplining them are in direct violation of Articles 10 and 11 of the ICMR, which stipulate that migrant workers (who include FDWs) should not be treated in a cruel, inhumane, and slave-like manner. Depriving FDWs of freedom to follow practices required by their religious faiths such as praying, going to mass or a place of worship, and fasting contravene Article 12, on freedom of religious practice. This convention came into force in July 2003.’ Of course, the Singaporean government did not ratify this convention so it is not legally binding in that country. However, the hope is that invoking this convention can have rhetorical and political effects anyway. It would seem rather pedantic on the part of an exploitative employer to argue that he can treat his FDW in a slave-like manner because his government had not yet ratified the ICMR. 18 Although we have to qualify here with regard to the different nationality groups and their respective governments’ actions: Filipinas are generally well-informed due to better predeparture training; Indonesians are not as well-informed and often only find out about rights issues after arrival in Singapore and Hong Kong. 19 ‘Maid Wage Cut a Potential Football’, South China Morning Post, December 23, 2001.

206

daniel a. bell and nicola piper

(Momsen 1999: 10–1). In short, unequal rights for foreign domestic workers may be justified given that they accept these terms before they go abroad. The problem with this argument, as Carens points out, is that ‘every plausible moral view sets limits to consent. For example, no liberal-democratic state permits people to sell their organs or to sell themselves into slavery. It is no doubt true, given the conditions in the world today, that many immigrants would readily agree to severe restrictions on their rights, even including terms of indentured servitude. But consent alone cannot legitimate that sort of arrangement. There are standards of fairness and justice beyond actual consent for assessing the ways in which states treat their own citizens and others’ (Carens 2000: 24). Still, it is difficult to compare the terms of FDWs to ‘terms of indentured servitude’. In some cases, it is true that FDWs must take out high-interest loans from private agencies, and much of their salary goes to pay off their loans. One interviewee said that she did not get to keep any of her salary the first six months she worked in Singapore—and she never had a day off. But these are abuses of the system, more typical in Singapore than elsewhere, and the Singapore government is finally getting serious about cracking down on unscrupulous agencies.20 If the system works as it is supposed to, the choice is between low-paying jobs (or unemployment) at home and (relatively) high paying jobs as FDWs. Moreover, in Hong Kong (but not in Singapore) FDWs can change employers if they so choose (though they have only two weeks to find another employer). In both Singapore and Hong Kong they can return home on a moment’s notice, so the comparison with indentured service is misleading. In the large majority of cases, it cannot be denied that FDWs consented to an unequal rights regime because they calculated that the benefits of this arrangement outweigh the costs. Still, consent is (only) a prima facie argument for justifying particular arrangements (one cannot consent to slavery). Let us consider some possibilities that may trump the argument from consent, and see if they hold water for FDWs in the East Asian context. One argument might be that one-off consent, while sufficient to legitimize market transactions, cannot justify the subjugation of foreign resident workers. For one thing, foreign workers do not simply sign contracts with their employers. They have another ‘boss’—the state in which they live and work. As Walzer puts it, These guests [foreign resident workers] experience the state as a pervasive and frightening power that shapes their lives and regulates their every move—and 20 All agencies in Singapore must now be registered (starting in 2004). The Hong Kong government, for its part, recently established a commission, including participation of proFDW NGOs, to investigate such abuses and prosecute rogue agencies (South China Morning Post, January 4, 2003).

justice for migrant workers: hong kong and singapore

207

never asks for their opinion. Departure is only a formal option; deportation, a continuous threat. As a group, they constitute a disenfranchised class. They are typically an exploited or oppressed class as well, and they are exploited or oppressed at least in part because they are disenfranchised, incapable of organizing effectively for self-defense. Their material condition is unlikely to be improved except by altering their political status. (Walzer 1983: 59)

These are not just theoretical musings. In the East Asian context, states have unilaterally altered the terms of contracts—for example, the Hong Kong government has twice cut the minimum wages of FDWs since the economic crisis of 1997. Having said that, FDWs would not necessarily prefer contracts where all parties are indefinitely bound by original consent (unless it is based upon ‘the best in town’, i.e. similar to the Hong Kong-style contracts). They may discover new possibilities, learn about unexpected problems, compare their situation with FDWs in other countries, and realize that they were given a raw deal that needs to be challenged. This helps to explain why, as mentioned earlier, many pro-FDW NGOs in Hong Kong are campaigning for an end to the ‘two-week rule’ and more severe punishment for employers that mistreat domestic workers. It is also possible that they may campaign for increases in salaries in inflationary and/or economic boom times. In short, we have good reasons to doubt the argument that FDWs consented to the exact terms that brought them to the receiving countries—many discover upon arrival that the state can and should do more to improve their condition. Compared to guest workers in Europe and immigrant groups in North America, however, one is still struck by the absence of the demand for equal rights in East Asia. Yes, FDWs are the victims of many injustices and many are actively campaigning for better conditions, but this rarely translates into the request that they be put on the road to citizenship. They may not be satisfied with the status quo, but they do not aspire to equal citizenship. At some basic level, it seems that FDWs in East Asia really do consent to unequal rights. Is there a sufficiently powerful reason to trump this argument from consent? One possibility is that FDWs are subject to coercion, and this is what prevents them from articulating the demand for equal citizenship. Thus, they are not genuinely consenting to unequal rights, it is just that they are forced into acceding to this arrangement and fearful about articulating or even contemplating an alternative. In a just world without this element of coercion, they would be pushing for equal rights and the state would be morally required to accede to this demand. But is it really coercion that explains this (apparent) lack of interest in the demand for equal rights? If guest-workers in Europe or long-term immigrants in North America were to refrain from articulating the demand for equal citizenship, one would be tempted to explain this frame of mind with reference to either fear or false consciousness. In Singapore, there is much merit to the argument from

208

daniel a. bell and nicola piper

coercion—FDWs cannot freely organize and/or publicly articulate their demands and are likely to be deported if they try to do so. In Hong Kong, however, the situation is more complicated. Hong Kong is a small, crowded territory where the cost of living is very high—not an ideal location for establishing long-term homes. Even the locals frequently move abroad when they have the means to do so. Whereas most immigrant workers to, say, the United States or Canada, aim to establish roots in their new country, the large majority of FDWs plan to return ‘home’ once they have earned enough money.21 As one of our interviewees put it, ‘I’m not interested to stay in another place. I love my country’. Another key difference is that guest-workers in Europe were given longer visas for certain jobs and were allowed to bring their families. Their children often learn the language and culture of their resident country, and develop the desire to stay there. Even if their parents consented to return ‘home’, the consent of parents cannot be construed as the consent of the children. No doubt many parents want to stay in their new country for the sake of their children. In contrast, FDWs come to Hong Kong without their families and rarely make an effort to learn the local culture and way of life, though a few do pick up some Cantonese. Still, it may be difficult to dispel the suspicion that coercion plays an important role when FDWs ‘consent’ to unequal rights. More rights are better than less, and it seems irrational not to want equal rights. Given the choice, some FDWs may well choose to settle down in their new countries. Even those who plan to return ‘home’ because of emotional ties to family and native land may change their minds and hence would prefer to be given the choice of membership on the basis of equal rights. So why not ask for equal rights? In the real political world, struggling for what seems like the ideal solution may lead to worse outcomes than settling for the second best. The simple fact of the matter is that locals would never agree to this demand, and it may be counterproductive to even raise it. Let us take the case of Hong Kong. Urban areas in the territory are already among the most crowded on earth (only the Gaza strip is more densely populated). Land is expensive, and decent housing is beyond the reach of most people. As a result, the government provides massively subsidized housing for more than half the population. There is a waiting list of five to seven years that would expand even further if FDWs were given equal rights and allowed to join the queue. This would be an obvious source of discontent among locals. 21

One important factor, as noted below, is that FDWs in East Asia leave their families behind in sending countries. Another factor is that they spend most of their waking lives working in the homes of their employers, with limited opportunities to partake of civic and cultural life outside the home, which further reduces the likelihood that they would develop psychological attachments to the receiving country and develop the desire to stay there.

justice for migrant workers: hong kong and singapore

209

Besides practical obstacles, there are also questions of fairness at stake. This is recognized by many FDWs. As one interviewee put it, ‘there are so many mainland Chinese waiting in the queue’. To control population growth and prevent the territory from being ‘flooded’ with relatively impoverished mainland Chinese ‘compatriots’, there are strict border controls between Hong Kong and mainland China (the functional equivalent of an international border). While the majority of the population in Hong Kong (arguably) benefits from this arrangement, some families in Hong Kong cannot sponsor their own family members as immigrants. In recent ‘right of abode’ controversies, the Hong Kong government has been fighting hard to prevent mainland Chinese not born in Hong Kong, even if they have close relatives in the territory, from getting residence rights. From the perspective of Hong Kong residents with relatives in the mainland, it would seem unfair if the Hong Kong government were to grant permanent residence to FDWs without relatives in the territory, even if only a minority took up the offer. For FDWs, the fact that the door is closed to equal rights does have one practical benefit—it means that there are more doors open to temporary contract workers. The only reason that so many FDWs are allowed to work in Hong Kong—and Singapore—is that all sides assume they will eventually return home. In Canada, by way of comparison, FDWs can become permanent residents after two years, but the government can afford to be relatively ‘generous’ because it only lets in a few thousand such workers every year—in 1996, for example, only 1710 domestic workers were admitted under the Live-in Caregiver Program.22 The choice, in reality, is between few legal openings for migrant workers with the promise of equal citizenship and many openings for migrant workers without the promise of citizenship. So FDWs in Hong Kong who benefited from the latter system generally refrain from raising the demand for equal rights because they know it is a nonstarter. Were they to raise this issue, populist politicians would propose replacing them with contract domestic workers from other countries. That is already happening in the struggles against pay cuts—Filipinas are gradually being replaced by the more compliant and less well-organized Indonesians,23 and 22

On the experience of FDWs in Canada, see Pratt 1999. Compared to Filipinas, Indonesian FDWs tend to be less-well educated and less-well organized, and their government does not offer the same level of support, with the consequence that many are underpaid and abused (Asian Migrant Center 2001: 2). In Taiwan, the proportion of Filipinas has also been decreasing, as they are gradually being replaced by less expensive Indonesian and Vietnamese women (there is no minimum wage in Taiwan). Anne Lovebond notes that ‘according to the common truth [in Taiwan] Indonesian women are best suited as carers of the chronically ill, the paralysed, and elderly patients because they are more ‘caring’ and ‘loyal’ and they can cope with the repetition of washing, cleaning of people, clothes, and households more easily than the cleverer Filipinas who tended to argue about their rights and precise job specifications. Indonesians are also supposedly more accepting because, as one employer suggested to me, they are Muslims’ (Lovebond 2003: 6). 23

210

daniel a. bell and nicola piper

employers’ groups point out that they can also be replaced with contract domestic workers from mainland China if they complain too much. The Hong Kong government has also hinted at such possibilities. For FDWs in Hong Kong, it seems, the feasible alternatives to unequal rights are considerably worse. Notwithstanding the consent of FDWs, liberal-democratic theorists may reply that the situation is still unjust. The institutionalization of second-class citizenship—permanent unequal legal rights for a group of residents—is a violation of fundamental liberal-democratic principles and should never be allowed, no matter what the circumstances. No decent government will ever compromise on these principles. The argument for granting full rights to long term residents may be politically infeasible in current circumstances in Asian societies,24 but none of the counterarguments show that it is not correct in principle. It is just a matter of how best to persuade Asian governments to recognize the moral imperative of equal citizenship. Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that policymakers in East Asia are persuaded by this view. The laws are changed, and all FDWs are automatically entitled to equal citizenship following a period of, say, seven years. All FDWs are permitted to settle down in receiving countries and are given the same rights as locals. What would be the likely effect of this policy switch? It is almost certain that the door to further immigration from major sending countries such as the Philippines would be officially closed. We say ‘officially’, because this policy may well open the door to substantial illegal migration, as happens in Europe, North America, and in other Asian destinations. Filipina domestic workers may still come (illegally) to Hong Kong and Singapore and ‘choose’ to work in even more exploitative conditions without any legal protection whatsoever. As it stands, there are few illegal worker migrants from the Philippines in Hong Kong.25 But that may change if the legal doors to immigration are closed. Judging from the experience in the 24 In Korea and Taiwan, the situation is more complicated and counterarguments are often cast in normative (as opposed to purely pragmatic) language. In the post-World War II era, there was, arguably, an implicit contract between workers who agreed to be ‘exploited’ (60 hour weeks, minimal worker safety regulations, curbs on union activity, etc) in exchange for accumulation of wealth that was meant to benefit the next generation. Hence, there is strong resistance to granting citizenship rights to foreigners who should not be seen to benefit from their sacrifices. As one Korean interviewee put it, ‘We Koreans have worked hard, if foreigners come, they will get the benefits of our work without any of the sacrifice.’ (Piper interview May 2003). 25 The situation is more complex in Singapore, where the large majority of Filipina FDWs came as ‘tourist workers’ without work permits from the Philippines, an arrangement that is legal in Singapore but not considered so by the Philippines’ government. The purpose of this arrangement appears to be that of circumventing the regulations in the Philippines designed to protect the interests of their migrant workers and therefore allowing for relatively exploitative (e.g. very low wages; the Philippines government requires a minimum wage, but not the Singaporean government) conditions for Filipina FDWs in Singapore.

justice for migrant workers: hong kong and singapore

211

United States and Canada—where illegal employment of domestic workers from the Third World is quite widespread—one can expect that people from impoverished countries will migrate to rich countries, with or without the legal rights to do so. Canada, for example, effectively cut back on the number of FDWs legally entitled to work in the country, and this led to an increase in the number who came to work illegally (Bakan and Stasiulis 1997: 19–20).The same is true in Asian countries. Following the 1997–8 economic crisis in South Korea, the government announced a moratorium on admitting low-skilled migrant workers (such workers would normally have been eligible for all the rights Korean workers possess following a two-year period), but this led to a large influx of illegal workers (Milly 2000: 310). From a normative standpoint, it is not obvious that formal equal rights for all workers combined with high rates of illegal employment of foreigners is preferable to reliance on large numbers of contract workers with legal protection but without the hope of equal rights. In the West, the political culture places higher priority on the justice of legal forms, and there may be greater willingness to accept substantial harms in the social world for the sake of preserving laws that conform to liberal-democratic principles.26 That may not be the case in East Asia. Their governments prefer to enact illiberal laws that allow for huge numbers of FDWs to (temporarily) engage in legally protected work in their territories.27 And from the perspective of sending countries, the East Asian approach may be preferable. 26 The Bush administration has recently ( January 2004) proposed legislation that would in effect replace illegal immigration/work by millions of Mexicans with a guest-worker program that would allow previously illegal immigrants and future migrants to work on three year contracts. It is unclear (at this stage) whether this proposed legislation will be enacted in its current form. This proposed legislation does not provide for opportunities for contract renewal and/or access to citizenship rights via the guest-worker program (because it would effectively sanction illegal immigration and would seem unfair to those waiting to migrate to the United States via the legal route, and perhaps also because it would be more difficult to enact this kind of legislation in the US Congress). So the obvious question is what to do with workers that seek to stay for more than three years. If the choice is between renewable contracts without the opportunity for citizenship that would effectively sanction permanent second class citizenship for a group of foreign-born workers and short-term contracts with many illegal overstayers, it is predicted that the United States will opt for the latter option. This Western liberal-democratic approach—that emphasizes the need to preserve the legal form of equal citizenship while sanctioning illegal immigrant workers—can be viewed as a cultural preference. However, this approach would not be favored by illegal migrants who are subject to unmonitored exploitation by employers. 27 Note, however, that FDWs are excluded from National Employment Acts in Asia and hence are not officially defined as ‘workers’ (male migrant workers, by contrast, are covered by labor and employment laws). This means that whatever protection FDWs have comes from their contracts, and Filipinas typically have better contracts than Indonesians as the Filipino government is more actively involved in ensuring decent contracts. Still, even the worse-off group—Indonesian FDWs—typically have more rights and legally defined obligations than illegal workers.

212

daniel a. bell and nicola piper

For the sake of argument, once again, let us assume that illegal immigration can be controlled, and that this would not turn out to be a problem in territories such as Hong Kong and Singapore. It is then worth considering the effects of granting equal rights to FDWs in Hong Kong and Singapore on people in sending countries such as the Philippines. The most likely effect of this policy switch would be to close off further emigration. This would mean that many young Filipinas would lose the opportunity to work abroad to support themselves and family members. The country’s economy as a whole would eventually suffer as well—Hong Kong’s Filipinos make the fourth biggest contribution of remittances to the Philippines, a total of US$116 million in the year 2000 up to October (South China Morning Post, 7 May 2001) (the remittances of Filipinos living or working overseas account for nearly 8 percent of the country’s GNP). That is why they are so appreciated by the Philippine government, even though the state is not supposed to officially promote overseas employment as a means to sustain economic growth and achieve national development (Gonzalez 1998: 78). In 1998, President Cory Aquino, speaking to a group of domestic workers in Hong Kong, coined the term ‘national heroes’ for overseas workers, a term that has been frequently invoked in national rhetoric since then (Law 2002: 208). The government recognizes that FDWs experience hardship and loneliness abroad for the sake of earning money for their families, and their remittances help to sustain the whole Philippines’ economy.28 Of course, the situation may not be so dire if wealthy receiving countries decide to increase foreign aid to sending countries so as to help develop their economies. But there is no reason to expect that this will happen. According to the World Bank, the worldwide remittances of migrant workers are second only to the earnings of crude oil trading and bigger than all the developmental aid combined (Migrant Focus Magazine 2000: 5). Certainly the experience of western countries does not provide grounds for optimism. Canada has recently increased standards of education and experience for immigrant domestic workers, with the consequence that the poorest and 28 It could be argued that the system actually harms the Philippines’ economy, because having so many teachers, nurses, and other highly educated women working as domestic helpers represents a waste of talent and limits the possibility of economic development in the long-term. The fact of the matter, however, is that FDWs would rather earn more abroad, even if the work may not be as challenging, and forcing migrant workers to return home is not likely to produce positive economic outcomes. Even if the economic benefits do outweigh the costs in the long term, from a moral point of view it is hard to justify sacrificing the interests of the current generation of FDWs for the long-term good. Another possibility is that remittances are not deployed in ways that benefit the economy. Heyzer and Wee (1994) have proposed that the governments of sending countries ensure that remittances be used in productive ways as opposed to items of conspicuous consumption that may not aid the local economy. However, it would be politically difficult (and more difficult to justify) for the government to extend this level of control to uses of remittances among family members.

justice for migrant workers: hong kong and singapore

213

least-skilled domestic workers have fewer opportunities to come in, but this has not been accompanied with increased aid to affected countries. Even if receiving countries were to increase foreign aid, this would not necessarily (or even probably) translate into an improvement of the sending countries’ economy to the point that its people would not need to consider working abroad. It is far from certain that channeling foreign aid to (often corrupt) government officials would do more to benefit the people of sending countries than direct remittances from family members working abroad. The liberal-democrat may reply that there are other feasible ways to secure the trade in migrant workers without compromising on the ideal of equal citizenship. It can be conceded that we will not be able to do away with the fact that workers from poor countries will seek to make their fortunes in the industrialized world and also that rich countries are not about to offer full citizenship rights to huge numbers of migrants from poor countries. One proposal, consistent with liberal-democratic principles, might be to limit the work-visas of FDWs to, say, six years, as in Taiwan. That way, they will not have stayed long enough to be morally entitled to equal citizenship rights. The problem with this proposal, however, is all too evident—it harms the interests of FDWs, who would rather have the opportunity to work longer in rich countries. If the choice is between Hong Kong-style work visas that can be renewed indefinitely without the hope of equal citizenship rights and six-year nonrenewable work visas that may be more consistent with liberaldemocratic principles, no rational FDW would choose the latter.29 Why is it that liberal-democratic theorists typically fail to identify the conflict between their ideals and the actual needs and interests of migrant workers? One reason is that liberal-democratic theorists write as though justice applies only within the nation-state.30 Justice is realized once meaningful rights are given to free and equal citizens—and usually this means citizens in Western-style liberal democracies. Thus, much theorizing about justice is carried out with the liberal-democratic context in mind, and the interests of Third World peoples fade into the background. There is increased recognition, however, of the need to consider our obligations to relatively deprived people in foreign lands. If it turns out that equal rights for all long-term resident workers in rich countries have negative implications for people in impoverished countries, this should be a source of concern. By drawing on the case of FDWs in East Asia, we have tried to show that equal citizenship rights can harm the same group they are meant to 29

That is, no rational FDW among the current batch. Future potential FDWs may have an interest in shortening the contracts of the current batch of FDWs so as to increase opportunities for others. See the concluding paragraphs to this chapter for more on the conflict between the interests of the current batch of FDWs and potential future FDWs. 30 Fortunately, this has been changing of late (e.g., Pogge 2001).

214

daniel a. bell and nicola piper

protect. The condition of FDWs can be criticized on many grounds, but putting them on the road to citizenship may well worsen their overall situation—if not for FDWs currently working abroad, then for people in sending countries potentially denied the opportunity to improve their living standards. Let us then put forward the following hypothesis: Unequal rights between citizens and migrant workers may be justified if this arrangement (a) works to the benefit of migrant workers (as decided by the migrant workers themselves), (b) creates opportunities for people in relatively impoverished societies to improve their lives, and (c) there are no feasible alternatives to serve the ends identified in (a) and (b). Of course, the ‘East Asian’ system of long-term residency without hope of equal citizenship is far from perfect, it is something to be tolerated, not celebrated. The trade in migrant workers is founded on global injustice—the global economy is thoroughly unjust, it is unfairly skewed towards the interests of rich countries, and it perpetuates poverty in the Third World.31 The long-term aim should be to eliminate global inequalities, or at least to reduce them to the point that decent work opportunities are available for all human beings.32 Unfortunately, that day does not seem to be forthcoming,33 and the short to medium term task (next 100 years?) is to think about other ways of dealing with Third World poverty. 31

See, for example, Stiglitz 2002. This position assumes that societies should be organized with the overriding aim of providing decent work opportunities unrelated to care. It could be, however, that this desideratum conflicts with other goals, such as providing humane care for the needy (those who spend time and resources providing care for the needy may not have sufficient time and energy to contribute to economic activity that provides the basis for decent work opportunities unrelated to care). But should relatively caring societies be penalized for this ‘cultural’ outlook? As Christian and Berriel (2000: 121) put it, ‘It is paradoxical that societies we think of as ‘‘developed’’ have an acute shortage of the kind of caring that makes life worth living. As a result, their families are attempting to buy the milk of human kindness that, proverbially, ‘‘money can’t buy.’’ What would be the ranking of countries by gross national product of kindness? Countries can be net exporters or net importers of loving care. Should the world community not cherish and cultivate the societies that produce the best caregivers, and learn from them? It does not yet, because by and large domestic care is not yet valued.’ Valuing care in a nonmonetary sense would mean that more people would be willing to be care-givers (because it would offer more status, even if the economic benefits are not significant), and this would reduce the international trade in FDWs. Valuing care in a monetary sense would mean that domestic workers get paid more, which would also reduce the international trade in FDWs (because more locals in rich countries would do it if it pays more, and those in sending countries would receive higher salaries at home, and not have to go abroad). As things stand, however, neither of these possibilities seems very realistic in the foreseeable future. 33 Even the most obvious first step to remedying global inequalities—reducing or eliminating agricultural subsidies in the United States, Europe, and Japan to make room for agricultural exports from poor nations (see the New York Times series of editorials, ‘Harvesting Poverty’, published throughout 2003)—may not have entirely beneficial impacts on developing countries (Lind 2003). 32

justice for migrant workers: hong kong and singapore

215

The exportation of migrant workers is one way. From the perspective of poor migrant workers, arguably, it may in fact be better than liberaldemocratic prioritization of equal citizenship for all resident workers. Equal citizenship, to repeat, can have negative implications for people in poor countries. In the case of FDWs in East Asia, putting them on the road to citizenship is most likely to result in one-way tickets back home and to deny opportunities to improve the living standards of people in sending countries.

4. The Role of Culture Given the relative advantages of ‘East-Asian style’ differential citizenship rights,34 does this mean wealthy people in Western countries should open their homes to contract domestic workers from the Third World?35 Not necessarily. In the rest of this chapter, we argue that the practice of hiring FDWs ‘fits’ better with the Confucian cultural heritage in East Asian, and that this cultural congruence has normative weight. Whatever the moral imperatives at stake, there are cultural particularities underpinning the system in East Asia that may not be shared elsewhere, which poses difficulties for those favoring exportability of this system. One interviewee—a volunteer at the Hong Kong NGO Helpers for Domestic Helpers—noted that Asian people have a more recent history of living in homes with extended family members, and there may be greater acceptance of domestic workers in one’s home and caring for needy members of the family. Given the choice between at-home care for children and elderly parents (and the chronically ill), and day care for children and nursing homes for elderly parents, most East Asians seem to prefer the former.36 In East Asia, the day care and nursing home systems are relatively undeveloped, even in the wealthiest countries. One important factor seems to be the reluctance to commit one’s children to anonymous carers in publicly funded institutions. Most people in East Asia would rather hire 34

Another advantage of this system is that domestic workers can provide around the clock day care, which could help remedy the growing problem of inadequate ‘night care’ in western countries that results from the increasing tendency towards shift work with nonstandard hours (see Presser 2003). 35 This is already happening in southern European countries such as Italy, Spain, and Greece, but the numbers are much lower than in Hong Kong and Singapore (see Anderson 2000 and Pe-Pua 2003). 36 Interestingly, Asian-Americans are somewhere in between—they are more likely to live with, and provide financial support to, elderly parents compared to the other major groups of Americans (see the New York Times, July 11, 2001), but the levels are still lower than in East Asia.

216

daniel a. bell and nicola piper

domestic workers to provide family-like care for needy family members. Conversely, the disadvantages of living with a nonfamily member in the ‘privacy’ of one’s home would seem relatively high in western countries. Of course, it is difficult to prove that a cultural preference for at-home family care is the main explanation for the predominance of this practice in East Asia—other factors, such as policymaking and economic forces may be equally, if not more, important.37 The role of culture may be more evident in the way people actually deal with each other within the home. Consider the treatment of FDWs. FDWs with diverse experiences say that typically, different sorts of employers act in very different ways, depending on their background and set of cultural expectations. Western employers, for example, generally treat FDWs differently than Chinese employers. Two social scientists at the Chinese University of Hong Kong who administered a questionnaire to Filipina FDWs in Hong Kong found that the domestic workers were generally more satisfied with their western employers, who allow them more personal space and are more likely to treat them on equal terms.38 The authors of this study suggest that Chinese and Western employers may have different conceptions of the Filipina domestic workers as a human being (Cheung and Mok 1998: 191). Respect appears to be more important to the western employer. Respect per se, however, may not be sufficient. That is, the very best employers—only a small minority—treat FDWs with more than respect; they also treat them as valued members of the family. Most of these employers tend to be Chinese. The aforementioned study provides a good example of family-like treatment by a Chinese employer. A Filipina domestic worker valued her employer’s parents because she was treated as the daughter that they never had. The ties between the employee and the employer’s family were based on mutual concern and caring, not simply fairness and respect, 37 The fact that western expatriates in East Asia often hire domestic workers casts some doubt on cultural explanations—one could argue that relatively undeveloped day care is the main reason why people are ‘forced’ to rely on at-home care, regardless of cultural background. In fact, however, the average waiting period for cre`ches in Hong Kong is only 1.6 months, that is, it is not obvious that people are ‘forced’ to rely on at-home care. More importantly, the lack of public demand for widespread day care, even in East Asian societies with open political systems and vibrant civil societies, is rather striking and it is difficult to appeal to reasons other than ‘culture’ to explain this phenomenon. 38 One reason might be that Western expatriates can empathize with and relate to the outsider status of FDWs in Asian societies. This may help to explain why, for example, employers’ interest groups in Hong Kong attract support almost exclusively from the local population, as conflicts of interest are viewed by locals as an ‘us versus them’ battle. Western expatriates do not identify with the ‘us’ to the same extent, and they may be in a better position to reflect upon conflicts in ways fair to both sides. Of course there are many exceptions to this tendency.

justice for migrant workers: hong kong and singapore

217

and this manifested itself in gestures such as watching television together, mutual teasing, and employer’s sincere concern for the FDW’s biological family in the Philippines (Cheung and Mok 1998: 184). Our own interviews with FDWs revealed similar reactions. One FDW praised her former employer in Singapore for her use of affectionate family-like appellations and for including her in weekend family outings. Another FDW was made a Godmother of the employer’s child and they would go to church together. Her biological family in the Philippines made regular visits to her employer’s home in Hong Kong, and she hoped that her employer’s family will visit her in the Philippines when she returns. Of course, Western employers can also treat FDWs as family members, but this is relatively rare.39 The Hong Kong study found that Western employers were more homogeneous as a group compared to Chinese employers. One of our interviewees said that Western employers often treat FDWs with respect and tend to be fair-minded,40 but it typically does not go beyond that. Good treatment means paying beyond the minimum wage and giving more free time to employees, but the affective component may not be as prominent. Such ‘distance’ has its advantages. The idea that the FDW belongs to the family can be used as an excuse to impose extra burdens on the workers, such as asking her to work during public holidays (Bakan and Stasiulis 1997: 11). This may help to explain why some FDWs will refuse to address their employers by their given names, even if they are asked to do so, preferring such formal labels as ‘Sir’ and ‘Ma’am’.41 Still, the feeling of being treated as a valued member of the family—of feeling loved and trusted—usually outweighs the cost. Once again, it is difficult to directly trace the influence of culture, but it is not unreasonable to suggest that Confucian ethics makes this kind of family-like treatment more likely, or at least more deeply entrenched when it happens. In Confucianism, there is a firm distinction between family insiders and nonfamily outsiders, but the concept of family is relatively flexible, and ethical 39 One reason may be that expatriates do not expect to stay too long, and thus do not seek to develop family-like bonds with FDWs. 40 In Hong Kong, several of our interviewees note that foreign employers often allow FDWs to be politically active and give them time off to attend NGO meetings, participate in demonstrations, and organize themselves. The Western employers seem more used to the idea (and to appreciate the importance of ) of civil society/political activism. 41 Another ‘distancing’ tactic, with the aim of minimizing work, is to feign linguistic incomprehension: ‘Filipinas [in Taiwan] often say they don’t wish to learn or speak Chinese because then they would have to work harder. One woman told me how she could avoid many tasks by pretending not to understand what she was being asked ‘then they just give up (she laughs) . . . if it is really important they can telephone the grand-daughter who speaks English and she can tell me (laughs again).’ (Lovebond 2003: 5).

218

daniel a. bell and nicola piper

relationships grow when family-type labels and norms are applied to nonfamily members.42 This is reflected in the Chinese language. Good friends will refer to each other as younger or older siblings, as will alumni, and—in the best cases—so will FDWs and employers. In short, the practice of hiring FDWs can be seen as fitting in with Confucian norms about desirable social relationships. Of course, critics may respond by questioning whether such relationships really are desirable. No matter how good the ‘cultural fit’ with Confucian norms, some Confucian cultural norms are morally problematic and should not be encouraged. Cultural values change and the undesirable ones should be challenged rather than promoted. For example, Confucianism is (in)famous for its patriarchal values,43 and this can (and often does) pose obvious dangers for FDWs working in Chinese homes. On the other hand, it is worth noting that the whole FDW system would not be feasible in thoroughly patriarchal cultures. Rigidly patriarchal countries like Pakistan do not send their women to work abroad, no matter what the economic benefits. The Philippines, the main sending country, is relatively egalitarian compared to many other Asian countries, which is one of the factors explaining the trade—women must be regarded as free and autonomous agents to an important extent if they are ‘allowed’ to work abroad. While most FDWs go abroad to earn money, as mentioned earlier, many are also seeking adventure, freedom, and independence. Moreover, well-off but rigidly patriarchal countries, like Japan and Korea, do not import many FDWs, no matter what the potential benefits. Opportunities for decent employment for local women are few and far between, and most are ‘confined’ to the household, thus reducing the need for FDWs. More controversially, the FDW system may itself help to transform patriarchal cultures, on both ends. In receiving countries, it frees women from many household and caring duties and allows them to develop their talents in the ‘public’ sphere, paving the way for future generations of women freed from patriarchal (mis)understandings regarding the ‘proper’ role of women (of course, the fact that FDWs are women also serves to remind them that household and caring duties tends to be ‘women’s work’, this aspect still needs to be challenged). In sending countries, it helps to transform the way childrearing has been conceived. The fact that many Filipina mothers work abroad, for example, means that Filipino fathers have become the primary child-minders, notwithstanding the ideology that mothers should be responsible for the emotional care of children (Parrenas 2001). Of course, the fact 42

For a classic statement of this view, see Liang 1987: ch. 12. But for an argument that Confucian principles should not be held responsible for patriarchal practices and that Confucianism can be reconciled with feminist principles without altering its major values, see Chan 2003. 43

justice for migrant workers: hong kong and singapore

219

that mothers are forced to leave their biological children behind is not something to celebrate. The FDW system, in short, may help to challenge patriarchal aspects of Confucianism, thus allowing the more desirable aspects of the Confucian tradition—the application of family-like norms and practices to nonrelatives such as FDWs within homes44—to do their work without being tainted by past abuses. We believe that this should indeed be the focus of reform. The critic may then reply that Confucian valuation of family-like ties, once interpreted in this way, is beside the point, because there is no conflict between this value and the ‘Western’ emphasis on respect and fairness. Both should be promoted, there is no trade-off between them. Unfortunately, things are not so simple. At the level of public policy, the ‘Western’ emphasis on fairness takes the form of legal regulations designed to protect the rights of FDWs. Some regulations are of course necessary, but taken to an extreme they can undermine affective ties between employer and employee. In the family context, emphasizing rights can be inappropriate if it leads members to often view themselves as subjects possessing rights upon which they make claims against their partners. Rights can motivate us to see other members’ interests more as limitations on ours than as interests we wish to promote, and this can undermine family relationships that should be informed by love and caring.45 Of course, the relationship between FDW and employer is also a market relationship, and there needs to be a balance between concern for rights and the quality of affective ties. The point here, however, is that these concerns often conflict in practice and considerations of justice should not always have priority. For example, one interviewee praised her former Singapore employer for providing shampoo and other toiletries. Such seemingly trivial gestures were deeply appreciated because they went beyond formal legal obligations, and they strengthened bonds of trust between employer and employee. If the employer had provided toiletries because that obligation had been spelled out in contract form, it would not have had the same beneficial effect on their relationship. Consider also the debate over whether to legislate the maximum number of work hours. In Hong Kong, contracts between employers and FDWs do not set maximum number of work hours. There is nothing illegal about making FDWs work sixteen hour days—which is not uncommon. At first 44

The point here is not to suggest that such an ideal is typically realized in homes with Chinese employers (as suggested above, only a minority of homes may come close to realizing this ideal). Rather, the point is that Confucian familism resonates in countries with a Confucian heritage and hence may be relatively easy to implement (compared to western countries), and that East Asian governments should promote public policies designed to implement Confucian familism because it is desirable from the perspective of both employers and FDWs. 45 See Chan 1999: 220.

220

daniel a. bell and nicola piper

glance, this seems morally suspect.46 However, one reason for not specifying maximum number of work hours is that it would be difficult to enforce within the ‘privacy’ of the home and to adjudicate cases of conflict. Another reason is of greater concern for our purposes. The best employers can offer to limit work hours to ‘reasonable’ amounts and this may have the effect of strengthening affective ties between the employer and the FDW. Conversely, the FDW may offer to work beyond agreed-upon hours, and this will also have the effect of strengthening trust and caring relationships within the household. Eventually, the lines between economic activity and family duties may become blurred, and the process of negotiating work between employer and FDW will more closely resemble the distribution of tasks within biological family members; put differently, it allows for the ‘Confucian’ extension of family-like norms and practices to FDWs. Such an outcome could never develop if legal contracts specify in great detail the rights and duties of FDWs within the family context. The suggestion here is not that legal protections for FDWs be entirely abolished. As noted above, FDWs should be given more legal rights, such as longer periods to find employers between jobs. Moreover, there should be legal ways of punishing employers that force FDWs to work beyond humanly tolerable amounts. The critic may reply that the proposal for not specifying maximum work hours still benefits the employer, who ultimately controls the levers of power. Why should the employer have the right to decide whether or not to exploit the FDW? From the perspective of the FDW, it might seem preferable to have the right to limited work hours, which can be invoked if need be. If the FDW wants to strengthen affective ties with her employer, then she can waive this right, and the employer would be grateful. In practice, unfortunately, this is not likely to happen—consider the case of Canada, where FDWs rarely work beyond the specified work hours. 46 Interestingly, it is employers who are calling for specified work hours (though many employers still prefer FDWs available around the clock). An urban councilor in Hong Kong named Jennifer Chow, herself an employer of three FDWs, told the press: ‘The working hours for live-in maids in Hong Kong are not specified and should be in the contract. We should look at the system in Singapore where they set the work at 16 hours a day, which seems reasonable. I have had complaints from several employers saying their domestic helpers started work around 8 a.m. and are going into their rooms at 9 p.m. and will not do any more work—if we set working hours these situations would not happen.’ (quoted in Ceri Williams, ‘Workers starting at 8 am are stopping at 9pm, grumbles councilor; 16-hour day for maids urged’, South China Morning Post, November 9, 1998). Cynthia C. A. Abdon Thellez, Director of the Mission for Filipino Migrant Workers Society in Hong Kong, explains NGO public silence on this issue, notwithstanding heated internal debates. On the one hand, they felt a need to push for an 8-hour maximum, so that FDWs would be treated on a par with Hong Kong workers. On the other hand, they recognized that many FDWs would oppose this policy because many work 14–16 hour days and they fear they would price themselves out of the market if they cut that by half. The NGO eventually decided not to take a stand on the issue of maximum work hours.

justice for migrant workers: hong kong and singapore

221

Once the right is formalized, there is a strong tendency to invoke it, even against ‘good’ employers where it might not be necessary to do so. Moreover, the fact that this right is so difficult to enforce may lead to endless conflicts that could poison the atmosphere in the household. In short, there may be a need to balance the duties of liberal justice with Confucian ethics, and that the former should not automatically have priority in cases of conflict. In some cases, justice should trump other concerns, but concern for the quality of affective ties matters most in other situations. There is no universally right or wrong way of deciding particular cases, it depends on such factors as the severity of the injustice and the likelihood that curbing rights will promote Confucian family values. In hard cases, however, one’s normative position may lead to different conclusions. The liberal individualist may prefer to err on the side of justice, but the Confucian may opt for norms and practices more likely to secure harmony and trust within the family. Let us draw one final implication from Confucian familism. Confucian ethics, as noted above, starts with special, particularistic feelings for members of the family, which are then extended to nonfamily members. In the case of domestic workers, it means that (in the best cases) they are eventually treated as valued members of the family, that market relationships are gradually displaced by family-like relations. But this process takes time; love and trust cannot be cultivated overnight. That is why the best relations tend to be between employers and domestic workers that have been together for several years. This would be an important justification for public policy that favors the interests of current FDWs in the case of conflict with the interests of future potential FDWs. The latter group, for example, may have an interest for shortening the contracts of the current batch of FDWs to, say, three years, so as to increase the opportunities for future FDWs. They may also have an interest in reducing the minimum wage, on the assumption that labor demand will go up when costs come down, hence increasing opportunities for future FDWs.47 However, if the effect of these policies would be to limit the opportunities for the development of family-like relations between employers and domestic workers (because they require an extended period 47

It could be, however, that the market for FDWs is saturated in Hong Kong, so that reducing costs would not increase demand (conversely, the lack of day care may mean that similar numbers of FDWs would be hired even if wages increase, though at a certain point, once wages are sufficiently high, locals would begin to take the jobs). Moreover, the strength of opposition to reducing the minimum wage by pro-FDW NGOs in Hong Kong suggests that they do not see any potential benefit whatsoever from this proposal. Whatever the outcome of reducing costs, the point of this final argument is to suggest that there would still be an important normative reason to favor the interests of the current batch of FDWs (i.e. not cutting the minimum wage) in cases of conflict with the interests of future, potential FDWs.

222

daniel a. bell and nicola piper

to develop48 and perhaps also because FDWs would be relatively demoralized and anxious to return ‘home’ or seek employment elsewhere49 if contracts are shortened and wages are cut), then Confucians would prefer to opt for the interests of the current batch of FDWs. Given the continuing normative relevance of Confucianism in an East Asian context, this would be a reason to continue with the Hong Kong-style practice of unlimited, relatively ‘high’ paying contracts for FDWs, though with better conditions for the current batch of FDWs, particularly by making it easier for them to leave abusive employers. 48

If not an unlimited period—it could be that employers and domestic workers would be less motivated to develop family-like relations if they knew that the workers must return ‘home’ after a fixed number of years. 49 Several of our interviewees said they left Singapore for Hong Kong largely because the salaries are higher in Hong Kong, though some noted that they preferred their employers in Singapore. The implication is that they would have stayed in Singapore if the salary had been higher (we did not, unfortunately, ask this question directly).

10 At the Margins of a Liberal-Democratic State: Ethnic Minorities in Japan LAM PENG-ER

Japan is the oldest liberal democracy in Asia. Though democracy was foisted on Japan by the US Occupation after its defeat in World War II, its antecedents were found in prewar Taisho democracy. The main features of Taisho democracy were universal male suffrage and competitive political parties in power. Japanese democracy today includes universal suffrage (both women and men), regular local and national elections, competitive political parties, local referenda, a free media, academic freedom, and an active civil society. Herein lies a puzzle. Why are minorities at the margins even though Japan is a liberal democracy? One response is to argue that there is really no puzzle because Japan is not a liberal democracy: minorities are at the margins because Japan is a bureaucratic authoritarian system. I believe, however, that while Japanese democracy is imperfect and problematic in certain areas, it is still a liberal democracy because of the features identified above. Given this democratic pedigree, Japan ought to have been the most likely case in Asia for respecting minority rights. A group of scholars and activists supporting Burakumin minority rights raised a similar question: Despite Japan becoming a democratic country after World War II, why is there discrimination against the Burakumins even today? Their answer is: the Burakumin problem teaches us that even if a democratic constitution is established, a genuine democratic society cannot exist if there are no concrete measures which deepen the spirit and framework of a society which respects human rights (Akai et al. 2002: 40). According to many Western liberal scholars, such ‘concrete measures’ must include multiculturalism policies and minority rights. Kymlicka, for example, affirms that a democratic state should respect and accommodate the cultural or ethnic minorities seeking to maintain their distinct way of life (Kymlicka 2002a: chapter 8, and 2004). The dominant majority should not assimilate the minorities and obliterate their cultures. Kymlicka noted that an authentic liberal democracy is one that not only protects the rights of the individual but also those of national minorities: nations with distinctive

224

lam peng-er

culture and language and preexisting forms of autonomous governance before they were forcibly or voluntarily incorporated into a larger political system populated by a majority with a different culture and language. Informed by his Canadian experience of tolerating and accommodating cultural minorities, Kymlicka points out the examples of the Quebecois and indigenous Indians who maintain distinct nationhod and self-autonomy within Canada. Despite a majoritarian British cultural heritage, Canada practices multicultural citizenship by accepting the rights of minority communities to have a national identity and existence of their own within the country. This chapter examines why liberal theories of minority rights that originated from the West have not been adopted in Japan, a non-Western and nonChristian society, and whether this is likely to change in the future. My central claim is that while the Japanese state is relatively liberal, Japanese society is not. Even though the Japanese state, especially local governments, has adopted more enlightened policies towards minorities, Japanese society is often discriminatory towards minorities. This social conservatism and illiberalism sets limits on the sorts of minority policies that the state is able to adopt. This may change. A number of factors are operating today that may help societal prejudices towards minorities, including global trends regarding minority and human rights, antidiscriminatory policies by the national and local governments, activism by Japanese Nongovernmental Organizations (NGOs), and minorities themselves. But these societal prejudices are often deeply rooted and are unlikely to readily disappear. Nevertheless, Japanese society is neither totally impervious to change nor immutably illiberal. There are promising signs that Japanese society in recent years has become more open, particularly towards ethnic Koreans and Okinawans. However, the members of two other minority groups—the Ainus and Burakumins—still perceive societal discrimination in jobs and marriages. The roots of these societal prejudices stem from the myth that Japan is an ethnically homogeneous nation (Dale 1986; Weiner 1997; Lie 2000). In its quest for nation-building, rapid modernization, mass mobilization, and rearmament against the backdrop of Western imperialism during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, the Japanese state promoted the ideology of a family-nation with a divine Emperor as its head. Minority groups in Japan did not fit in this monocultural myth; they were regarded as second-class imperial subjects but not distinct nations. Even though the Emperor renounced his divinity after Japan’s defeat in World War II, the myth of Japan as a unique and homogeneous (cultural and biological) nation persisted. Buoyed by Japan’s resurgence as the second largest economic power in the world, many Japanese were convinced that ethnic homogeneity was their

liberal-democratic state: ethnic minorities in japan

225

source of stability, strength, and success. A whole genre of pop literature (Nihonjinron) extolling the cultural and biological uniqueness and superiority of a homogeneous Japanese nation emerged. Many Japanese consider this view as a fact—obvious, commonsensical, and intuitive. This sense of being unique is also due to Japan’s relative isolation as an island country from the Asian continent and the rest of the world until its forced opening in the midnineteenth century by US gunboat diplomacy. Not sharing land borders like many countries in the world has contributed to the Japanese sense of distinctiveness and homogeneity. Another norm of Japanese society is its strong group orientation. This communitarian approach extols the virtues of group identity, loyalty, and solidarity; the group often comes before the individual. A potential problem of this norm is excluding others not within the group. The largest concentric circle of the group is the Japanese nation. Unfortunately, minority groups fall outside this circle. This is unfair and hypocritical because, while most Japanese value belonging to a group, they ignore the rights of minorities to enjoy their own distinct group life. The majority expects minorities to give up their group identity and become assimilated into a Japanese society that does not readily embrace outsiders. Of course, Japan is not unique in having a racialized national narrative, or in the presence of deeply rooted societal prejudice against minorities. Many Western countries also trace their origins to a single ethnic/national group, or the actions of a racially homogeneous group of ‘founding fathers’. Yet in many of these countries, liberal states have been able to move in the direction of multicultural citizenship, despite the opposition of illiberal elements in the population. In the United States, for example, progressive government policies have sought to overcome centuries of entrenched societal discrimination and racism against racial minorities. This was not easy—in some cases, it required one branch or level of government to overrule another (eg. the judiciary overruling the legislature; the national government overruling state and local governments). But democratic states have shown that, where political leadership is available, governments can sometimes act effectively to combat pre-existing societal prejudices and to enforce pro-minority policies. Why would Japan be any different? There are several additional factors that make the shift toward multiculturalism more difficult in Japan, compared to other Western democracies. First, the size and weight of minority groups matter. While African-Americans number around 30 million in the United States, the population of minorities in Japan is very much smaller. Out of a total population of 127 million in Japan, the Burakumins comprise around three million, Okinawans number over a million, Koreans in Japan about a million and Ainus in Hokkaido only around 24,000. The relatively small numbers of minorities in Japan reinforce the myth that the nation is indeed homogeneous.

226

lam peng-er

Second, Western countries like the United States, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand are immigrant and multicultural societies that grant citizenship to ethnic minorities from abroad. Japan is not. Japanese immigration policy is underpinned by the notions of ethnic homogeneity. Among the G7 countries, it has accepted the least number of refugees from abroad. While Japan welcomes the descendants of Japanese emigrants in Latin America, it does not accept those without Japanese ‘blood’ for permanent residence. Third, the civil rights movement in the United States included liberal whites as well as African-Americans. In Japan, while there are sympathizers for minority rights among the Japanese and certain NGOs, it does not appear that they are prepared to engage in mass demonstrations and even civil disobedience to promote minority rights. In short, a ‘rainbow’ coalition which spearheads social, cultural, and political change is virtually nonexistent in Japan. Fourth, while most liberal democracies experience rotation in power between political parties, Japan has had a one party-dominant system since 1955. The perennial party in power, the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), is the party of conservatism and Japanese tradition. Fighting for ethnic minority rights is not part of its political agenda. The Japan Socialist Party ( JSP) and the Japan Communist Party ( JCP) have been sympathetic to minority rights, but as long-term opposition parties at the national level, they have not had the political clout to promote minority rights. Moreover, the Socialist and Marxist parties tended to ideologically view discrimination against minority groups (especially the Burakumins) along class rather than ethnic lines. Indeed, it was only after the LDP lost power in 1993 and recaptured power in 1994 (by forging a coalition government with the minority-friendly JSP) that progress was made to grant greater recognition to Ainu cultural rights. Given these historical, demographic, political, and cultural differences between Japan and certain Western countries, there are powerful obstacles to applying a liberal theory of minority rights. To be sure, minorities in Japan may well find such a theory attractive. As I will discuss below, minorities in Japan have drawn inspiration from eclectic sources in their struggle against discrimination, including their local traditions (both real and imagined), ideas from the West (Liberal, Socialist, and Marxist), and post-War international norms endorsed by the United Nations (universal human rights and minority rights). Contemporary ideas of liberal multiculturalism fit comfortably into this mix. The question is whether, or under what conditions, the majority in Japan will accept the legitimacy of these claims. I believe that while Japanese society is gradually becoming more open to minority interests, it is unlikely to accept the Kymlickian ideal of a ‘multination state’, recognizing the existence of distinct and equal nations within a single country. Given the myths of

liberal-democratic state: ethnic minorities in japan

227

Japanese homogeneity and the persistence of LDP one-party dominance, state and society are unlikely to accept autonomous Okinawan and Ainu nations coexisting alongside the larger Japanese nation within a single country. Japan is still not ready to see itself as a multination country where cultural minorities can exercise their rights to nationhood and have their languages accepted as official ones too in the country. This chapter will discuss the main minority groups in Japan: the Koreans, Okinawans, Ainus, and Burakumins. In each case, I will discuss the nature of their claims, the normative justifications advanced for them, the sources of opposition to their claims within the larger society, and the prospects for future progress. I will conclude with some general comments on the prospects for a more democratically mature Japan that is sensitive to cultural minorities.

1. Minorities and Minority Claims in Japan Despite the myth of ethnic homogeneity, Japan in fact contains examples of several of the types of ethnic diversity discussed in Kymlicka’s theory, that is, national minorities (the Okinawans); indigenous peoples (the Ainu); and metics (the ethnic Koreans)—as well as other types not included in his typology, such as the caste-like Burakumin. This section gives an overview of these four main groups, starting with the ethnic Koreans.

1. Minority Noncitizens: Ethnic Koreans in Japan The presence of more than a million of ethnic Koreans (zainichi kankokujin in Japanese) is a legacy of Japanese colonialism that incorporated the kingdom of Korea between 1910 and 1945 into the Japanese empire. Many Korean subjects were forcibly conscripted to work in wartime Japan. While many were repatriated back to Korea at the end of World War II, other Koreans and their offspring remain in Japan. Koreans were citizens of the Japanese empire but a postwar democratic state disenfranchised the Korean residents in Japan in 1952. Legally classified as aliens, it is not surprising that the Korean community in Japan associated itself with either North or South Korea. Deprived of citizenship rights, many Koreans had to face discrimination in the workplace. Although many younger ethnic Koreans were born and grew up in Japan, and became assimilated into Japanese society, they remain noncitizens. While it is possible for long-term Korean residents to become Japanese citizens, they are expected to adopt Japanese names. However, most of them are reluctant to lose their cultural and ethnic identity if they were to adopt a name different from their Korean ancestors, family, relatives, and friends.

228

lam peng-er

Since the 1990s, the Japanese state has accorded better treatment to long-term Korean residents. In 1993, Korean and other permanent residents were no longer humiliated by the requirement to be fingerprinted as part of alien registration procedures. Some local governments are also prepared to hire Koreans as civil servants. The Komeito (Clean Government Party), a coalition partner of the ruling LDP, has also advocated for the rights of long-term residents especially Koreans to participate in local elections and referenda, although many LDP politicians insist that voting in elections is meant only for citizens. However, in the quest to improve better relations with South Korea (as a potential ally in the wake of a rising China), some LDP politicians are becoming more open to extending the vote to long-term Korean residents. If this proposal were to come into fruition, the political status of Koreans in Japan will improve as political parties seek to win their votes. Societal prejudices towards Koreans seem to have gradually lessened due to a combination of factors in the past fifteen years: the more favorable impressions of South Korea and Korean culture among the Japanese public after the 1988 Seoul Olympics, the promise of then President Kim Dae Jung that South Korea will reconcile with Japan over historical problems and seek a forward-oriented relationship, and the successful cohosting of the 2002 World Cup by Japan and South Korea. A recent cultural phenomenon is the boom of Korean cultural products in Japan such as the Korean television serial Winter Sonata and Korean movies like Brothers, a saga about the Korean War. However, societal prejudices against the Koreans do resurface in recent times. For example, when the Japanese media gave extensive coverage to North Korea’s admission that it had kidnapped Japanese nationals, there were incidents when Korean residents in Japan were harassed for actions none of their doing. Notwithstanding residual prejudices against the Koreans in Japan, the attitude and behavior of Japanese state and society have certainly come a long way in their treatment of noncitizen, long-term Korean residents. There are, however, limits to Japanese liberality towards the Korean residents in Japan. If the norms of Japanese state and society insist that ethnic Koreans must change their names to Japanese ones, then these long-term residents, without citizenship rights, will remain at the margins of Japan even if Korean cultural products become quite fashionable in the island country. The fact that the Japanese state and society expect Koreans to assimilate as a precondition for citizenship reveals the persistent mentality which excludes the possibility and desirability that Japan is a multicultural country which allows other ethnic minorities to maintain their distinct culture with equal political and social rights. In these respects, the struggle of the Koreans is similar to those of ‘metics’ in other Western countries, such as the guest-workers in northern Europe.

liberal-democratic state: ethnic minorities in japan

229

Okinawans The group in Japan that comes closest to Kymlicka’s category of ‘national minority’—that is, a group that has historically been self-governing, but whose homeland has been involuntarily incorporated into a larger state—is the Okinawans (Kinjo 1996; Taira 1997; Arasaki 2002). Okinawa consists of 169 islands (48 inhabited) in a chain over 1,000 kilometers long which extends southwest from Kyushu (the southern most of Japan’s main four islands) to the north of Taiwan. Geographically, Okinawa is closer to parts of China, Taiwan, and the Philippines than to Tokyo, the national capital. Climatically, it is close to Southeast Asia with tropical crops such as sugarcane, pineapples, and papayas. Once, a Ryukyu kingdom covered a large part of the Okinawa island chain. Ryukyu had a precarious independence because it was a suzerain state (1609– 1879) to both Satsuma (a feudal domain in Tokugawa Japan) and Imperial China. But it had its own elaborate system of government, culture, and language. (Called uchinaguchi by Okinawan natives, the Okinawan language and its many dialects are linguistically related to Japanese but more or less incomprehensible to ethnic Japanese speakers). Given China’s profound weakness after its defeat by Britain in the Opium Wars, Japan forcibly and unilaterally absorbed the kingdom of Ryukyu in 1879. In a sense, Ryukyu was the first colony of Japan. Tokyo’s policy towards Ryukyu was one of assimilation. China did not initially recognize Japan’s absorption of the Okinawan chain but after its defeat by Japan in 1895, the fate of Okinawa as a part of Japan was sealed. Okinawa became a battlefield towards the end of World War II, the only major arena in Japan to experience a land war. Even today, many in Okinawa resent the Imperial Army forcing some Okinawans to commit mass suicide rather than to surrender to US forces. Many Okinawans also felt a sense of betrayal by Japan. To regain its sovereignty from the United States, Tokyo agreed to sign a security treaty with Washington which accepted continual US occupation of Okinawa. The main island in Okinawa was converted into the largest cluster of US military bases in Japan. Until 1972 when the United States returned Okinawa to Japan, many Okinawans felt like abandoned orphans who were sacrificed for the US military umbrella over Japan. Even today, many Okinawans feel that it is unjust for the majority of US bases to be located in just one out of forty-seven prefectures in Japan. The Okinawans are ambivalent towards Washington and Tokyo. The presence of the US forces and the rental of land for military bases contribute to Okinawa’s economy, the poorest among Japan’s prefectures. Tokyo has also pumped in substantial subsidies especially public work projects to boost Okinawa’s economy. But the intrusive presence of US forces, their military training, and crimes committed against Okinawans by certain US military

230

lam peng-er

personnel have generated much resentment against the United States and Tokyo. Ironically, Okinawa today is analogous to Ryukyu’s dual suzerainty status with China and Satsuma: it remains a dependency of the US military and Tokyo. Okinawans today enjoy citizenship rights granted by the Japanese Constitution. But their status is not that of a distinct nation like Quebec in Canada. After being incorporated by Japan, the Okinawans were subjected to Japanese education, culture, socialization, and assimilation. Nevertheless, many Okinawans today are bicultural.1 (Some are tricultural given their contact and dealings with the US military). Apparently, most Okinawans have a dual identity: as citizens of Japan and culturally Okinawan. In contrast, most Japanese in the main islands are only monocultural. Nevertheless, more Japanese today appreciate Okinawan pop stars like Namie Amuro and even traditional Okinawan folk music. But they most probably do not approve of Okinawa being a separate nation within the Japanese political system let alone Okinawan independence. Relatively speaking, Okinawans do not face discrimination in jobs and marriages compared to other ethnic minorities in Japan. Among the minorities in Japan, the Okinawans have the best chance of asserting their demands for multicultural rights as a group in Japan. They are concentrated in an island chain with a certain demographic critical mass. Moreover, many Okinawans still retain their distinct identity, culture, and language. If Corsica, with a population of only a quarter million, can extract concessions from France, it is not inconceivable for a million Okinawans to do likewise. In the post–cold war era and post September 11, the United States has revised its global military deployment. Given the strategic shift from preparing for a massive conventional war against Communist countries to a war on terrorism, and the revolution in information technology, firepower, and mobility, there is less need for the United States to maintain such a large number of troops in Okinawa. If the United States were to reduce its troops substantially or even pull them out of Okinawa (while leaving depots and ‘lily pads’ for equipment and supplies for rapid deployment), most Okinawans would welcome such a move. Hitherto, extending autonomy and nationhood to the Okinawans could well have an impact on the US–Japan Alliance given the anti-military base sentiments in Okinawa. If US forces are substan1 According to Professor Karimata Shigehisa, a linguist from Ryukyu University, many Okinawans below forty can understand only Japanese, most of those below thirty are monolingual (only Japanese) and virtually all below twenty can speak only Japanese. If this condition were to persist, it is possible that the Okinawan language as a living language used on a daily basis would be facing extinction within the next generation or two. Personal communication with Professor Karimata, March 18, 2004.

liberal-democratic state: ethnic minorities in japan

231

tially redeployed from Okinawa, then Tokyo should not be worried that recognizing Okinawa as a distinct nation within Japan would jeopardize the US–Japan Alliance.

Ainus The Ainus are the group within Japan that most closely fits the category of ‘indigenous peoples’, and indeed this is how the Ainus themselves now selfidentify. The Ainus are concentrated in Hokkaido, the northernmost of Japan’s four main islands. Unlike the Okinawans, the Ainus lack demographic weight. But Ainus have rejected the view that theirs is a dying race and culture (Siddle 1997; Ogasawara 1997; Takeuchi 2002). Not only have many Ainus clung on to and revitalized their identity but they have also adopted the discourse of a distinct nationhood within Japan. The Ainus are the indigenous people of Hokkaido, as well the Kuriles and the southern half of Sakhalin (which are today part of Russia). Traditionally, the Japanese considered the Ainus to be ‘barbarians’ but traded with them for their fur and sea products. By 1604, the Matsumae domain established a toe hold in Hokkaido and it became part of the Japanese political system under the Tokugawa Shogunate. Over the next few centuries, the Japanese gradually but relentlessly extended their dominance over the Ainus through trade, war, and emigration. The appearance of the Russians in the north towards the end of the eighteenth century gave the Japanese further impetus to dominate Hokkaido. Attempts to ‘civilize’ and to assimilate the Ainus began in the early nineteenth century. By 1869, the Japanese state embarked on a policy to develop Hokkaido. This entailed a policy of appropriating Ainu land for Japanese mass emigration. By the end of the nineteenth century, there were only 17,000 Ainus left; they comprised only 2 percent of Hokkaido’s population. Despite two centuries of assimilation policies by the Japanese state, Siddle noted that the Ainus ‘remained proud of their heritage and helped create a new, but fragile, sense of Ainu unity’ (Siddle 1997: 25).

Burakumins Different from the Ainus and Okinawans are the Burakumins; they are actually ethnic Japanese (Komatsu 1994; Neary 1997; Kawamoto 2001; Tomonaga 2002; Teraki and Noguchi 2001). Although Burakumins would very much prefer not to be singled out and treated as a social minority, they still face societal discrimination at school, work, and marriage. During the Tokugawa era, strict occupational categories relegated certain workers— particularly leather tanners, executioners, and butchers—to the bottom of the social pyramid. They were stigmatized as being ritually ‘unclean’ according

232

lam peng-er

to Shinto belief, and ‘bad’ for killing animals according to Buddhism. They were labeled as eta (unclean) and hinin (nonhuman). Although the nineteenth century Meiji government repealed discriminatory laws against the Burakumins, Japanese society today still holds prejudices against them. Among the minority groups in Japan, the Burakumins are socially the worst treated by Japanese society. In this respect, they share certain similarities with the dalits (or ‘untouchables’) in India, or the Roma in Eastern Europe—one of Kymlicka’s ‘hard cases’.

2. Societal Prejudices toward Ethnic and Social Minorities As we can see, Japan has witnessed many of the same sorts of ethnocultural mobilizations that have affected Western democracies. Yet, to date at least, the resulting reforms have been meager. The Japanese Constitution liberally affirms the individual rights of citizens but it has no provisions that recognize the group status and rights of ethnic and social minorities in the country. While the Japanese state is relatively liberal, parliament has yet to pass antidiscrimination laws on racial and social discrimination against minorities. The national government passed a Law for the Promotion of Ainu Culture in 1997. This was in response to the political activism of Ainu organizations, the Hokkaido local government, shifting coalition politics (including the Socialist Party) at the national level, and global norms as evidenced by the UN’s advocacy of indigenous rights. Supporting the UN is a pillar of Japan’s postwar foreign policy. Once the championing of indigenous rights became a norm of the UN, Tokyo felt obliged not to ignore this trend in international society. However, some Ainus are unhappy with the 1997 Law because there is neither explicit mention that they are the indigenous people of Japan nor compensation for the lands they have lost. Tokyo also tried to be more sensitive to the grievances of the Okinawans. The state has made symbolic gestures such as holding the G7 Summit in Okinawa in 2000, and also introduced a 2,000-yen note with a prominent Okinawan architectural landmark in its design. Certain local governments have also supported museums, exhibitions, and conferences highlighting societal prejudices against the Burakumins (Buraku kaiho jinken kenkyujo 2002b: 5–6, 10, 17). A few local governments and newspapers have also conducted questionnaire surveys concerning discrimination against the Burakumins. Nevertheless, societal prejudices still run deep against certain minorities. Virtually all societies in the world cling to irrational prejudices (in varying degrees) against minorities out of hate, ignorance, or a sense of superiority towards others. But in Japan, there is often denial or a lack of awareness that society is guilty of discrimination against minorities. Japanese media and

liberal-democratic state: ethnic minorities in japan

233

other opinion shapers rarely cover the grievances and desire of minorities to keep their own distinct identities. In the public consciousness, these minorities are almost invisible. The Okinawans, for example, are rarely heard about unless trouble erupts in Okinawa over protests against US bases, or another crime is committed by a US serviceman against an Okinawan woman or child. Mass public surveys on societal prejudices towards minorities and foreigners in Japan are rare. (This in itself reflects the lack of interest by polling organizations and their readers towards minority issues and rights in Japan). But the few survey results that are available are suggestive about Japanese attitudes toward non-Japanese citizens and foreigners. In two surveys by NHK (the public broadcaster), respondents were asked about their attitudes toward foreigners and minorities living in Japan. In the first, 22 percent of Japanese believe that people are treated unfairly because of their race and nationality (Table 10.1). In the second survey, 51 percent believes that foreigners and minorities should become assimilated into Japanese customs and traditions to become Japanese citizens (Table 10.2); 28 percent disagree. This survey suggests that Japanese society is illiberal in the sense that a majority believes that assimilation is the best approach for foreigners and minorities. In a survey by the Prime Minister’s Office on foreign residents in Japan (Koreans are in this category too) 66 percent believed that human rights of Table 10.1 Unfair treatment in Japanese society Question: Do you think people are currently treated unfairly in Japanese society? If so, which of the following do you think causes unfair treatment? (Sample size: 2,481/multiple answers) Responses Academic background Occupation Economic status Gender Social standing of family Race/Nationality Age Ideas and beliefs Don’t know/no response No unfairness exists

Percentage 60 34 32 30 27 22 21 9 4 0

Source: Ropper Center for Public Opinion Research, NHK Broadcasting Cultural Research, March 1993.

234

lam peng-er Table 10.2 Assimilation in Japan Question: Let me ask you about foreigners and minorities living in Japan. Do you agree, somewhat agree, somewhat disagree, or is it difficult to say that they should learn Japanese customs and traditions to become Japanese citizens? (Sample size 1,256) Responses Agree Somewhat agree Difficult to say Somewhat disagree Disagree Don’t know

Percentage 27 24 18 12 16 2

Sources: Roper Center for Public Opinion Research, NHK Broadcasting Culture Research, January 1995.

non-Japanese should be equally protected; 19 percent believed that nonJapanese people have to live with somewhat reduced human rights (Table 10.3). But thus far, there are no questionnaire surveys about Japanese mass attitudes toward an Okinawan or Ainu nation being recognized within Japan. The Osaka prefectural government has conducted surveys among the Burakumins about societal discrimination in various aspects of their lives— at school, seeking employment, work, marriage, and in the midst of daily living. The 2000 survey shows that 24.7 percent of the Burakumins faced societal discrimination concerning marriage (Table 10.4). Table 10.3 Human rights of foreign residents in Japan Question: Foreign residents in Japan are said to be discriminated against in various aspects of everyday life. Which of the following is closest to your view concerning human rights of foreign residents in Japan? (Sample size: 2,148) Responses

Percentage

Human rights of non-Japanese should be equally protected Non-Japanese people living in Japan have to live with somewhat reduced human rights Neither of the above Don’t know Source: Roper Center for Public Opinion Research, Prime Minister’s Office, January 1998.

66 19 12 5

liberal-democratic state: ethnic minorities in japan

235

A local newspaper also conducted a survey of residents in Tochigi prefecture towards Burakumins. The 2001 survey reveals that 31.8 percent believed that the human rights of Burakumins have been harmed (Table 10.6), 23.4 percent knew very well about discrimination against them (Table 10.5), but Table 10.4 Experiences of discrimination among Burakumins (Number of respondents: 2,085) Situation

Percentage

Marriage Workplace School Daily living Seeking employment

24.7 16.5 16.3 11.0 7.7

Source: Osaka Prefecture, Survey to solve the ‘dowa’ problem, reprinted in Buraku Kaiho Jinken Kenkyujo 2002a: 6.

Table 10.5 Consciousness of discrimination towards Burakumins amongst residents of Tochigi prefecture Question: Are you aware of discrimination against Burakumins? Responses

Percentage

Know very well Know a little Don’t know No answer

23.4 57.5 16.7 2.4

Source: Shitano Shimbun (November 7, 2001) reprinted in Buraku Kaiho Jinken Kenkyujo 2002b: 86–7.

Table 10.6 Beliefs about whether human rights abuse and discrimination exist in Tochigi prefecture

Against women Against children Against Burakumins Against foreigners

Yes

No

Don’t know/no reply

46.0 34.1 31.8 49.7

37.3 47.7 39.0 26.1

16.8 18.2 29.2 24.0

Source: Shitano Shimbun, (November 7, 2001) reprinted in Buraku Kaiho Jinken Kenkyujo 2002b: 86–7.

236

lam peng-er

Table 10.7 Solving the Burakumin issue Methodology: Answer up to three questions only. Percentage Receive understanding from non-Burakumin Don’t talk about it; discrimination will naturally disappear Cooperation with government and non-Burakumins Burakumins to spread and stay in other areas too Burakumins to receive adequate education for good livelihood Burakumins to strive and become distinguished persons Improve the housing and living environment of Burakumins Stabilize and raise the income of Burakumins No reply

40.6 37.7 28.4 24.2 18.3 15.5 14.8 10.9 10.1

Source: Shitano Shimbun, (November 7, 2001) reprinted in Buraku Kaiho Jinken Kenkyujo 2002 Edn., 86–7.

37.7 percent believed if people do not talk about the issue, discrimination would naturally fade away (Table 10.7).

3. Framing Minority Claims for Equality As these surveys show, public attitudes towards minorities in Japan reflect a mixture of ignorance, apathy, and prejudice. A crucial task facing minorities, therefore, is to find a way of framing their claims that will resonate with the Japanese public, and that will increase public understanding and sympathy for their situation. Not surprisingly, minorities have, at different times, drawn upon a wide range of intellectual traditions in the hope of finding an approach that will work. Their approach is generally eclectic, drawing from such diverse sources as their own heritage and history of resistance, the popular rights movement influenced by Western concepts of democracy since the late nineteenth century, the vocabulary of Western radicalism such as Socialism and Marxism, the liberal-democratic values promoted by the US Occupation, and global norms articulated by the UN on indigenous and minority rights. A blend of these norms is then indigenized through the filter of their daily lives and struggle in Japanese society. Minorities in Japan, as elsewhere, also face the strategic question of whether to cooperate with each other—emphasizing the commonalities amongst marginalized minorities—or whether to defend their claims in ways that distance themselves from other minorities, emphasizing that

liberal-democratic state: ethnic minorities in japan

237

they have distinctive connections or loyalty to the majority society not shared by other minorities. For example, the Burakumins, who are ethnic Japanese, could defend their claims by appealing to their ‘Japaneseness’, a strategy that would distance them from other minorities. In reality, however, most minorities in Japan have seen each other as being in the same boat facing the common problems of discrimination by Japanese society. Many Burakumins, who are ethnic Japanese, find a kindred spirit in Okinawans and Ainus rather than with mainstream Japanese society (Buraku Kaiho Jinken Kenkyujo 2002a). A leader of the Buraku Liberation League even argued that Burakumins should not just focus on their own struggle but the League should become a Human Rights League that wrestles with the issues of discrimination against the Okinawans and Ainus too (Buraku Kaiho Jinken Kenkyujo 2002b: 21). Similarly, Okinawans have also stressed the historical and cultural affinity between the Ainus and the Okinawans but not with the Japanese (Oyama 1997: 188). In this section, I will briefly examine the ideological justifications deployed by the main minority groups in Japan, starting with the Burakumin.

Burakumin After the collapse of the Tokugawa Shogunate in 1868, Meiji Japan embarked on rapid modernization to ensure survival from Western imperialism. Besides embracing science and technology from the West, many Japanese also studied the ideas and values of Western civilization that have made these countries dominant in the world. As early as the 1870s, liberal ideas of freedom and democracy had crept into Japan and trickled down to the educated peasantry. Discussion groups were formed in Burakumin communities to study these Western ideas. Following the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia and the rapid increase in the activism of tenant groups and labor unions in Japan, radical ideas of Socialism spread to young Burakumin intellectuals (Neary 1997: 56–9). Their clarion call in 1922 shows eclectic influence from Western notions of human rights, socialism, and references to their ancestral heritage of resistance: Burakumin throughout the country, unite! . . . Brothers—our ancestors sought after and practiced liberty and equality. But they became the victim of a base, contemptible system developed by the ruling class. They became the manly martyrs of industry. . . . The time has come for the victims of discrimination to hurl back labels of derision. The time has come when the martyr’s crown of thorns shall be blessed. . . . We must never again insult our ancestors and profane our humanity by slavish words and cowardly acts. (Neary 1997: 58; Komatsu 1994: 151–2).

The opening statement seems to echo the communist manifesto’s ‘Workers of the world, unite!’ The references to their ancestors are very Asian;

238

lam peng-er

terminologies of freedom and equality are probably inspired by the populist movement which borrowed from the West; references to ruling class and industry have its roots in socialism; and the expression ‘crown of thorns’ reflects Western notions of innocence, injustice, and sacrifice echoing the crucifixion of Christ. After the hoisting of democracy by the US Occupation of Japan, the Burakumins have internalized the language of human rights and democracy in their fight against discrimination. These ideas may have their roots in the West but are now a part of the Burakumins’ repertoire of beliefs which fortify their struggle against discrimination. In a sense, the discourse of individual and human rights is seen as universal rights rather than parochial Western values. In many publications by the Buraku Liberation League, they have expressed their deep sympathies for the Ainus, Okinawans, and Koreans in Japan. The frame of reference of the Burakumins today is universal human rights that transcend ‘blood’ and ‘culture’, the stereotypical values of mainstream Japanese society.

Okinawans Western notions of rights also appealed to the Okinawans. During the late nineteenth century, many Okinawans were also inspired by the ideas of popular rights movement in Japan (Kinjo 1996: 97–8). Shortly after Japan’s defeat in World War II, some Okinawans floated the idea of an independent Okinawa (Oyama 1997: 192–7). However the US priority is to keep its military bases in Okinawa and maintain the US–Japan Alliance and not the democratic rights and interests of the Okinawans. Just before Okinawa was returned to Japan in 1972, there were also discussions among Okinawan intellectuals for an independent Okinawa rather than absorption by Japan. Aspirations for Okinawan independence were rekindled by the 1996 Okinawa Rape Incident when a twelve-year-old girl was assaulted by US servicemen. It sparked mass demonstrations against the US forces and Okinawan anger was also felt against the Japanese national government. The Okinawans then embraced the idea of direct democracy (first practiced in the West) by launching a referendum in September 1996 canvassing the desirability of reducing US bases in Okinawa.2 Indeed, the one and only referendum which had been conducted at the prefectural level in Japan was the one held in Okinawa in 1996. When the United States wanted to build a heliport off the coast of Nago city, the mayor of Nago initiated a local referendum to poll the desirability of a new military facility in the vicinity

2 The results in the prefectural referendum were: 89.09 percent of voters said yes to a reduction of US bases. Voter turnout was 59.53 percent.

liberal-democratic state: ethnic minorities in japan

239

in December 1997.3 In both referenda, the majority rejected US bases in Okinawa. Okinawan intellectuals do not find their Eastern heritage incompatible with Western and universal ideas of individual and minority rights. Both are embraced to underpin their cause for greater voices and participation in political decisions that impact on Okinawa and their daily lives. Okinawa intellectuals for independence are usually nostalgic about the independent kingdom of Ryukyu. But many of them desire a (democratic) Ryukyu Republic, and not a restored kingdom, in the future. They also perceive that the United States and the Japanese discriminate against the interests of the Okinawans. In their dreams, they see a democratic and independent Ryukyu which honors human rights (Kawamitsu 1987: 80). What about the cultural claims of the Okinawans? Many national minorities around the world seek not only some degree of political autonomy, but also recognition of language rights, and the public affirmation of their history and culture. At present, such cultural and linguistic claims seem relatively weak. The Okinawan prefectural government and even the local Okinawan party known as Social Mass Party (Shakai Taishuto), which have captured seats in local elections, do not advocate the teaching of the Okinawan language. There is, however, the Okinawan Language Promoting Society (founded in October 2000 with 300 members) which has published textbooks in the Okinawan language, taught Okinawan to children outside schools, provided training courses in the teaching of Okinawan languages, and issued a newspaper written in Okinawan.4 Ryukyu University does offer a class in the Okinawan language. There is also a weekly television broadcast and a daily radio news in the Okinawan language. It is not obvious why the Okinawans are not making stronger cultural claims for minority rights. Perhaps Japanese assimilation has been so overwhelming that most Okinawans have become comfortable with, and pragmatically accepted, the Japanese language, and so do not engage in political mobilization to promote the Okinawan language. Many who are politically minded tend to channel their energy towards opposing US military bases in Okinawa rather than fighting for the dissemination of the Okinawan language. To champion minority language rights in the political arena, there must be passionate leaders of political parties, interest groups, and social movements who are prepared to devote their time and resources. Presently, no such champions are apparent in the political arena. 3

In the Nago referendum, 52.85 percent voted against a new US military facility. Voter turnout was 82.45 percent. 4 I am grateful to Professor Miyara Shinsho and Professor Karimata Shigehisa, both linguists at the University of Ryukyu, for information and insights into the cultural claims of the Okinawans.

240

lam peng-er

What about Okinawan cultural claims for their history to be adequately reflected in school textbooks? Whether students are taught, for example, the tragedy of the battle of Okinawa towards the end of World War II, depends on whether individual teachers feel the need to highlight that particular saga. Even though Okinawan culture and history are not highlighted in formal school curriculum and textbooks, most Okinawans appear to know their history such as the existence of an independent Ryukyu kingdom and the battle of Okinawa through oral history and tradition through family and friends, and also through books and the local media. Another area where Okinawans differ from some other national minorities around the world concerns mobility issues. Many national minorities are concerned that they might be turned into a numerical minority even in their historic homeland, as a result of being ‘swamped’ with settlers from the dominant group (as happened with the Ainu in Hokkaido). Okinawans, however, do not express this fear. They do not make a cultural claim that ethnic Japanese should not migrate to Okinawa and dilute their numbers. Thus far, the statistical bureau of the Okinawan prefectural government does not keep an ethnic breakdown of indigenous Okinawans and ethnic Japanese in the prefecture. Okinawans have little to fear about being swamped by ethnic Japanese migrants because the latter are not very eager to migrate to Okinawa, the poorest prefecture of Japan with limited economic opportunities. Okinawans generally welcome ethnic Japanese tourists because the visitors benefit the local economy.

Ainus The Ainus have also blended their heritage with universal norms of human and minority rights to stake a claim for equality in Japan. During the US Occupation, some Ainu intellectuals met US officials to explore the possibility of Ainu nationhood and independence but their request was turned down (Ogasawara 1997: 168–9). In the 1960s, influenced by the social movements in Japan against environmental pollution and anti-Vietnam war demonstrations, the Ainus became more assertive about their rights and culture. Certain young Ainus also sought to revitalize their tradition (real or imagined) including dances and festivals to promote pride in their community (Siddle 1997: 36–7). The memories of Ainu leaders who resisted the encroachments by the Japanese in their homeland were also honored. By the 1980s and 1990s, the Ainus had successfully established international linkages with ethnic minorities throughout the world. They have also embraced the Western liberal theory of minority rights which is reflected in the United Nations Decade of the Indigenous People and the UN norms for minority rights. These norms of minority rights do indeed have their antecedents in the West but after being ratified by many UN members, they

liberal-democratic state: ethnic minorities in japan

241

have also become universal norms. Just like the Burakumins and the Okinawans, the Ainus are not troubled by whether norms are Western in origins or stem from indigenous tradition. In so far as they provide them with an underpinning set of values to resist discrimination, assert their rights, and affirm that their cause is just, minorities in Japan will internalize them for their own purposes.

4. A Liberal Theory of Minority Rights for Japan? While many minorities in Japan have accepted certain liberal norms of individual human rights and minority group rights, there may nonetheless be limits on the extent to which certain liberal norms of minority rights can be applied in Japan. In particular, Kymlicka’s claim that national minorities and indigenous peoples are entitled to recognition of their own ‘nationhood’ within a larger country may not be applicable and acceptable to the majority Japanese, or indeed even to the minorities. This aspect of his theory is clearly not applicable to the Burakumins because they are, after all, ethnically and culturally Japanese, but it may not work for the Ainu and Okinawan cases either. For the theory to work in Japan, it must be acceptable to the Japanese state and society, and also to the Ainus and Okinawans. As mentioned earlier, certain Ainus did explore the idea of a separate homeland during the US Occupation. To some Ainus, this could very well be attractive. In a small homeland of their own, they can teach their language and culture to their offspring and practice their way of life. But to other Ainus, an American Indian-like reservation with its own autonomy is probably not very appealing. Moreover, it is uncertain whether 24,000 Ainus can form a critical mass for a separate nation within Japan. Kymlicka’s theory is probably most attractive and applicable to the Okinawan case. There are more than a million Okinawans living in a compact territory. Moreover, they have a distinct cultural identity of their own. Thus far, the Okinawans themselves have talked about greater Okinawan rights within two different frameworks: the exercise of Okinawan rights and interests as a prefecture within Japan (Teruya 1997; Ohta 2000) and outright Okinawan independence. Interestingly, Kymlicka’s theory offers a third option which is more attractive than Okinawa being just another one of Japan’s forty-seven prefectures and more practical than outright independence from Japan. The dream of an independent Okinawan may appeal to some idealistic Okinawans. But to many others, an independent Okinawa today is neither politically nor economically viable. Given the geostrategic interests of the United States in East Asia (even if its troop levels are significantly reduced in

242

lam peng-er

Okinawa) and the desire not to offend Japan (its key ally in Asia), Washington is unlikely to support or recognize an independent Okinawa. The Japanese state and society would probably react negatively to an independent Okinawa. The Okinawans are not prepared to pursue a war of independence against Japan, and any such unilateral secession from Japan would probably be brutally crushed. Some Okinawans might hope to pursue a peaceful and negotiated road to independence, but it is not obvious whether there are any constitutional provisions in the Japanese political system for a prefecture to secede. Kymlicka’s theory, therefore, seemingly offers a reasonable, just, and practical option for Okinawa. Thus far, the Kymlickian concept of a distinct nation within a wider political system has not taken roots in Okinawa and the rest of Japan. There are at least three reasons why it has not. First, the polarization of Okinawans between asserting their political rights and acquiescing to an economic dependence on Tokyo has also led to an ideological bifurcation: all or nothing—outright independence (as desired by a few Okinawans) or remaining as a prefecture within Japan (as desired by most). Second, the orientation of the Okinawans (and the Japanese more generally) towards the West is heavily focused on the United States: indeed, ‘the West’ is often conflated with the United States. Most Okinawan and Japanese people, including politicians, intellectuals, and other opinion shapers, probably have little knowledge of other political possibilities like the Que´be´cois enjoying their own nationhood within a country without leading to its unraveling. But given the epoch of globalization and the Internet, ideas which are unfamiliar can be disseminated very quickly if there is an organized movement to spearhead it and also find a resonance within Okinawan society. Third, and the most formidable obstacle to a Kymlickian approach to Okinawa, is the present illiberal nature of Japanese society. While Kymlicka’s idea is not as radical as outright independence, Japanese society is unlikely to be sympathetic to recognition of a separate homeland for the Okinawans and Ainus within Japan. The minorities are confronted by the indifference and ignorance of Japanese society towards those at the margins. While Kymlicka’s theory is just and ethical, the harsh reality of Japanese politics and illiberal Japanese society towards minorities means that substantial obstacles will block any aspirations for recognition of a separate nation within Japan.

Conclusion But could values not change in Japanese society? Will it not become more sensitive to international norms of minority rights? And is it possible for the conservative LDP ruling party to be ousted at the polls? The answer to all three questions is: yes. The LDP had been dethroned before in 1993 and, like

liberal-democratic state: ethnic minorities in japan

243

other one-party dominant systems in Italy, Sweden, Mexico, India, and Taiwan, it can be toppled from power. If the main opposition party, the Democratic Party of Japan (DPJ), were to capture the reins of power, it will probably be more accommodating to minority rights. But there is no evidence that the DPJ will support Okinawan and Ainu autonomous nations within Japan. Japanese state and society may yield to international trends concerning minority rights. But to extend recognition to minority rights and identity in Japan within the present political system is one thing; to grant an autonomous homeland status to them is another. Can the values of Japanese society evolve in a more enlightened direction towards minorities? It is not impossible. Barely a generation or two ago, Western liberal democratic countries including the United States and Australia held discriminatory practices and attitudes towards ethnic minorities which most of their citizens today would regard as appalling. The Australian state has jettisoned the White Australia Policy and Australian society has also become more accommodating towards ethnic pluralism. Japanese society is also evolving. Despite the persistent myth of Japanese homogeneity, it appears that most ethnic Japanese today do not look down on the Koreans, the Okinawans, and the Ainus as culturally and biologically inferior. Unfortunately, prejudices still remain against the Burakumins. It is probably no exaggeration to say that most Japanese parents would not want their offspring to marry a Burakumin even in the twenty-first century. Japanese society is rapidly ageing and facing a demographic decline due to a lower fertility rate. To maintain the same level of economic growth and social services in the next few decades, Japan has to seriously consider the option of accepting larger numbers of professionals and workers from abroad. The nation would have to change its attitude and accommodate a much larger influx of foreigners beyond the descendants of Japanese immigrants from Latin America. Japan would then face the dilemma of integrating foreign workers and their offspring into their society which is relatively more homogeneous than western Europe, Australia, New Zealand, the United States, and Canada. Would there be a xenophobic backlash against ethnic minorities as evidenced in certain western European countries? It is probable that such sentiments are likely to be held by only a minority of Japanese. Is Kymlicka’s theory of minority rights applicable to Japan? The answer is a qualified yes. Respecting not only individual but also ethnic minority rights has increasingly become a norm in Japanese state and society. The status of ethnic minorities in Japan is likely to improve as Japanese society becomes less illiberal in the years ahead. However, Japanese state and society are unlikely to accept the notion that a democratic Japan should embrace distinct, autonomous, and equal Okinawan and Ainu nations within a multicultural country.

11 Multination Federalism and Minority Rights in Sri Lanka ROH A N E D R I S I N H A

Since independence in 1948, one of the major challenges facing Sri Lanka has been to manage relations between the two largest ethnic groups on the island: the (predominantly-Buddhist) Sinhalese majority (72% of the population), and the (predominantly-Hindu) Ceylon Tamil minority (12%), historically concentrated in the north and east of the island.1 What began after independence as a peaceful struggle for enhanced Tamil representation and language rights has evolved since the mid-1970s into a violent campaign for secession of ‘Tamil Eelam’—the northern and eastern provinces claimed as the traditional homeland of the Tamil people. After more than twenty years of inconclusive and bloody civil war, the Sri Lankan government and the main rebel group Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) agreed at a meeting in Oslo in December 2002, to explore a peace settlement based on the idea of a multination federalism and internal self determination, in which the Tamils would achieve substantial autonomy within Sri Lanka.2 Some commentators doubt whether either side has truly accepted the logic of multination federalism, and hence whether the proposed agreement can be realized. This chapter discusses some of the factors that either promote or inhibit the acceptance of the ideal of multination federalism, and how this ideal challenges some of the inherited ideals and discourses that have historically dominated Sri Lankan political life. The problem in Sri Lanka is often characterized as a conflict between the strong and widespread commitment of the Sinhalese majority to the ideal of 1 A second large group of Tamils—the ‘Upcountry’ Tamils—arrived from India during British colonial rule to work on plantations, and make up a further 6 percent of the population, although most live outside the area of traditional Tamil settlement in the north and the east. 2 The Government of Sri Lanka and the LTTE agreed in the Oslo statement to explore a federal solution based on internal self determination in areas of historic habitation of the Tamil people within a united Sri Lanka. It agreed furthermore that the solution must be acceptable to all communities which was widely seen as an assurance to the Muslim community in the east that their concerns would also be addressed. Given the ambiguity of the Thimpu Principles of 1985, discussed below, this was seen as a major breakthrough.

multination federalism and minority rights in sri lanka

245

a unitary nation-state, and the equally strong and widespread commitment of the Tamil minority to the ideal of national self-determination. Moreover, these competing commitments are said to have very deep historical roots. Some Sinhalese nationalists say that Sri Lanka has always been a unitary state based on the Sinhalese language and Buddhist religion; some Tamil nationalists argue that Tamils have always viewed themselves as a separate sovereign people. When the conflict is characterized this way, the idea of multination federalism is seen as essentially foreign to the traditions and political culture of both groups, and hence an idea without any local roots. The willingness to explore federalism then is the outcome of a ‘hurting stalemate’ in the military conflict, accepted under international mediation and pressure, and is merely a temporary modus vivendi, not desired or truly accepted by either side. Indeed there are indications that the LTTE is backtracking on its commitment to the Oslo statement. The federal idea or federal mindset is also completely alien to the political culture of Sri Lanka’s two main political parties that have dominated governments of the country since independence. This picture, however, is too simple. There are historical roots, within both the Sinhalese and Tamil communities, for ideas of multination federalism. Indeed, one could argue that the ideal of a ‘unitary state’ is relatively recent within Sinhalese political culture, as is the ideology of national self-determination within Tamil political culture, although both have become quite firmly entrenched. I will try to show the contingency of these developments, and the possibilities of overcoming them. While I am cautiously optimistic about the potential for multination federalism in Sri Lanka, the obstacles are daunting. The evolution of Sri Lanka’s ethnic conflict can be likened to a snowball rolling down a hill. At the beginning it was small, but as time passed, it developed a momentum of its own, became larger and more complex, absorbed other elements, thereby making it more difficult to respond to. Sri Lanka’s ethnic conflict has evolved from one based on questions of representation and grievances based on discrimination and language, to a demand for decentralization, then to devolution and autonomy. More recently the focus has been on Tamil aspirations to nationhood, self-determination, and confederation. The response of Sri Lankan governments has invariably been too little too late. Various agreements were reached between governments and the Tamil political leadership, but they were never implemented due mainly to opposition from within the majority Sinhalese community. For example, if the Bandaranaike–Chelvanayakam Pact had been implemented in 1957, Sri Lanka might have averted the bloody and traumatic civil war that has plagued the country for many years (Loganathan 1996). The Draft Constitution of August 2000 might have actually constituted the basis for a political solution to the conflict if it had been introduced in the early 1990s.

246

rohan edrisinha

Furthermore every initiative that fails or is reneged upon, every set of talks and negotiations that collapses, creates its own dynamic of betrayal, distrust, and suspicion that makes the next venture or round of talks that much more difficult. For example, the Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution, adopted in 1987, introduced limited devolution of power to provincial councils. While applying to the country as a whole, not just to the Tamil region, this devolution scheme might have provided a promising starting point for accommodating Tamil aspirations. However, the text of the Amendment allowed the central government to unilaterally weaken the power of these provincial councils, and this has inevitably provoked a demand by the Tamils for cast-iron guarantees to prevent central encroachment on devolved powers in any future package of constitutional proposals. Today, nothing short of full-fledged federalism, with clear domestic and perhaps even international guarantees for Tamil autonomy, would be acceptable. Overcoming these legacies of distrust will require immense ingenuity and hard work. However, as I hope to show, there are resources in Sri Lankan history and culture to help meet this task.

2. The Colonial Debate The idea that Sri Lanka is a ‘unitary’ state was enshrined in the Constitution in 1972. Most proposals for overcoming the current conflict require deleting this provision, as a prelude to adopting some federal or quasi-federal devolution. For example, this was a central recommendation of the constitution reform project of 1995–2000. Yet many Sinhalese remain hostile to this change. The terms ‘united’ (‘Eksath’) and ‘unitary’ (‘Ekeeya’) are often used interchangeably in the Sinhala language. Therefore, those who advocate a departure from the unitary model are often perceived as advocates of the division of the country and secession. The fact that the campaign for federalism is identified so closely with Tamil political demands also exacerbates the problem. As a result, the ‘unitary versus federal’ cleavage is typically equated with the ‘Sinhalese versus Tamil’ cleavage. However, Sri Lanka’s history demonstrates that federalism was not advocated only by Tamil politicians, and was seriously considered as a political/ constitutional model in the early part of the twentieth century. Long before Tamil political leaders advocated federalism, the young Sinhalese leader S.W.R.D. Bandaranaike, (who later as Prime Minister negotiated the Bandaranaike–Chelvanayakam Pact of 1957) advocated federalism in the mid-1920s. Similarly, when the British government established the Donoughmore Commission in the late 1920s to consider forms of colonial self-government, representatives of the highland Kandyan Sinhalese, who had always viewed themselves as separate from the coastal Sinhalese, demanded a federal

multination federalism and minority rights in sri lanka

247

Ceylon with three provinces including a province for the northeast. The Kandyan Sinhalese in fact viewed themselves as a ‘nation’ and many of the documents of the organizations they established to advance their interests used language and arguments similar to Tamil nationalists and Tamil political parties in the more recent past. In a memorandum to the Donoughmore Commission, for example, the newly created Kandyan National Assembly declared: Ours is not a communal claim or a claim for the aggrandisement of a few: it is a claim of a nation to live its own life and realize its own destiny. . . . We suggest the creation of a federal state as in the United States of America. . . . A federal system . . . will enable the respective nationals of the several states to prevent further inroads into their territories and to build up their own nationality. (Roberts 1998)

The proposal for a federal Ceylon was rejected by the framers of the Donoughmore Constitution of 1931 and the framers of the Soulbury Constitution under which Ceylon became independent in 1948. At the time, few Tamil political leaders objected to this. While some Tamil leaders considered federalism as an option for the independence constitution, the overriding emphasis was more on power-sharing at the center, the protecting of minority rights through constitutional guarantees, and the realization of Tamil political demands through engagement and involvement with the national government. Most Tamil and Sinhalese members of the Ceylon National Congress—the organization leading the struggle for independence—shared an optimism that both groups could work together in, and benefit equally from, a strong central government. This optimism was shared by the British colonial officials who negotiated the transition to independence. Indeed, most British officials thought that, of all the British colonies in Asia, Ceylon was best-positioned to make a smooth transfer to a peaceful and prosperous democracy (de Silva 1981).

3. From Independence to Civil War: The Hardening of Positions This optimism that Tamils would be treated fairly by the central government was quickly lost. Almost immediately upon independence, the government adopted policies that were perceived as a threat to the equal status of Tamils. These included the decision in 1949 to strip citizenship from the Indian or ‘up-country’ Tamils brought from India under British colonial rule,3 and then the decision in 1956 to declare Sinhalese as the sole official language. These 3 The Sinhalese worried that these ‘outsiders’ from India would ally themselves with the ‘Ceylon Tamils’ who had lived in the northern and eastern districts of the island for centuries. Furthermore at the parliamentary elections of 1947, the Upcountry Tamil plantation workers sided overwhelmingly with left-wing political parties and groups. The newly elected

248

rohan edrisinha

policies squandered whatever feelings of goodwill had been built up between the communities during the struggle for independence, and persuaded Tamils that they could only be secure in their rights through some form of federal devolution. Tamil political leaders who had advocated a centrist approach were perceived as having failed to deliver, and ideas of federalism came to dominate Tamil political claims. The ‘Federal Party’, which was initially formed in December 1949 by S. J. V. Chelvanayakam, eventually eclipsed the older political parties and by 1960 had emerged as the main Tamil political party. Despite the growing Tamil disillusionment with the central government in the 1950s and 1960s, this had not yet led to calls for secession, let alone for a violent insurgency. Moments of disillusionment alternated with moments of hope, such as the aborted Bandaranaike–Chelvanayakam and Senanayake– Chelvanayakam Pacts of 1957 and 1965, both of which would have included substantial decentralization of power and stronger language rights for the Tamils, as well as the short period where the Federal Party was part of a governing coalition. Given these windows of opportunity, Tamil leaders remained committed to a peaceful struggle for federal autonomy within Sri Lanka. For example, during the 1970 election campaign, the Federal Party manifesto declared: The Tamil-speaking people of Ceylon also believe that the Federal-type of Constitution that would enable them to look after their own affairs alone would safeguard them from total extinction. Only under such a Constitution could the Tamilspeaking people of this country live in dignity and with our birthright to independence as equals with our Sinhala brethren.

Significantly the manifesto included a categorical rejection of secession. It is our firm conviction that division of the country in any form would be beneficial neither to the country nor the Tamil-speaking people. Hence we appeal to the Tamil-speaking people not to lend their support to any political movement that advocates the bifurcation of the country.

conservative government enacted citizenship laws that effectively disenfranchised a large number of Upcountry Tamil voters, although many remained physically in the country. In October 1964, the Prime Ministers of India and Ceylon reached an understanding whereby over 525,000 were to be repatriated to India over a fifteen year period (while 300,000 were allowed to become citizens of Ceylon). Problems remained however and until recently there were a large number of persons who were ‘stateless’ (or ‘metics’ in Kymlicka’s terminology). In recent years a concerted political campaign by trade unions representing the plantation workers and the opportunity for greater political influence as a result of the introduction of proportional representation have ensured that the community has greater acceptance and political influence.

multination federalism and minority rights in sri lanka

249

The radicalization of Tamil demands really began just after this 1970 election, which swept the Sinhalese-nationalist United Front government into power, without need for Tamil coalition support. The government established a Constituent Assembly to draft and adopt a new autochthonous Constitution. It was this new Constitution—the First Republican Constitution of 1972— that inserted the claim that Sri Lanka, the new name for the country, was a ‘unitary’ state. The Second Republican Constitution of 1978 not only reproduced the unitary label, but elevated it to the status of a specially entrenched provision whose amendment required not only a two-thirds majority vote in Parliament, but also the approval of the people at a referendum. This was almost perverse in that it was a direct affront to Tamil aspirations at the time. It was seen as an attempt to entrench Sinhalese dominance of the country, making it impossible for Tamils to achieve their aims even in those moments when they were part of the government, or when they were negotiating with a sympathetic government. There was no need to introduce the unitary label. The Soulbury Constitution contained no label, the practice in most constitutions in the democratic world. It amounted to a slap in the face of the Tamil political leadership. To make matters worse, it was introduced as Basic Resolution No. 2, very early in the proceedings of the Constituent Assembly. This Resolution was introduced by Dr Colvin R. de Silva, the veteran Trotskyist leader, who was Minister of Constitutional Affairs. He declared that ‘from the time that we can remember’ Sri Lanka had been a unitary state. He defended the introduction of the unitary label on the grounds that it was essential for the well-being of the country as a whole. The main criticism of the proposal was made by V. Dharmalingam, a Federal Party member of Parliament. He highlighted the importance of a constitution being an agreement among the people of the country and warned against the Sinhala people imposing a constitution on the Tamil people. He then presented the classic defence of a federal constitution; that it was more appropriate for a multiethnic, plural society. Dharmalingam argued that the Federal Party wanted the establishment of a federal state in Ceylon, not to divide the country, but to achieve unity in diversity. He predicted that ultimately Ceylon would have to be a federal state. While most defenders of the unitary label were Sinhalese nationalists, it is interesting to note that others defended it for socialist reasons. The United Front Government included several Marxist political parties. Representatives of these parties argued that the solution to the island’s ethnic conflict was the establishment of a centralized socialist state. The concentration of power in a powerful legislature was seen as a prerequisite for the establishment of a socialist state. The introduction of the ideology of a ‘unitary state’, along with the exaltation of the language and religion of the majority in Sri Lanka’s first

250

rohan edrisinha

autochthonous Constitution, are pivotal landmarks in the slide to the disintegration of Sri Lanka. The concentration of power in a single institution and the weakening of the traditional rival sources of political power—casting notions like ‘brakes’, ‘restraints’, ‘checks and balances’, and separation of powers, in a negative light while embracing the instrumental use of a Constitution—must also be seen as initiating the dangerous trend of executive convenience which has undermined good governance and the rule of law (Edrisinha 2003). It is, therefore, not surprising that the campaign for secession commenced soon after the promulgation of the First Republican Constitution of 1972. To many Tamil youth, the long-standing campaign led by democratic political leaders for equality and political autonomy had not only failed, but the constitutional exaltation of the language and religion of the majority coupled with the repeal of minority safeguards introduced in the Independence Constitution, and the express repudiation of federalism in the supreme law of the land had, in fact, made the situation worse.4 Soon after the promulgation of the new Constitution several Tamil political groups resolved to close ranks to form the Tamil United Front. The demand for a separate state gathered momentum. The Tamil United Front changed its name to the Tamil United Liberation Front (TULF) in 1975 and at its first convention in 1976 under the chairmanship of Chelvanayakam, ratified the Vaddukoddai Resolution. The resolution accused the United Front Government of callously ignoring the ‘last attempt . . . to win constitutional recognition of the Tamil nation without jeopardizing the unity of the country’ and called on the Tamil nation and the Tamil youth to ‘throw themselves fully in the sacred fight for freedom and to flinch not till the goal of a sovereign socialist state of Tamil Eelam is reached’. The militant phase of the Tamil nationalist struggle commenced at about this time. In short, by 1976, the two sides had shifted to the hardline positions that have defined the parameters of political debate for most of the past twenty-five years: the Sinhalese parties are committed to a ‘unitary’ state; the Tamil parties are committed to national self-determination. The diversity of views and openmindedness about different constitutional options that characterized the 1920s to 1940s has been replaced with rigid, mutually incompatible ideologies.

4. Breaking the Impasse? Given the hardening of these incompatible positions, the descent into violence was not surprising. Yet there have always been actors who have held out 4 The Sinhala language was made the sole official language of the country. Buddhism was given the ‘foremost place’.

multination federalism and minority rights in sri lanka

251

hope for a peaceful settlement that could be accepted by both the Tamil militants and the Sri Lankan government. The first such effort occurred after the tragic anti-Tamil riots of July 1983. International pressure for political reform, in particular from India, increased considerably. The Government of Sri Lanka and the main Tamil political groups met in July 1985 in Thimpu, Bhutan. The four cardinal principles placed before the Sri Lanka Government delegation at the Thimpu talks by the six Tamil organizations represented there (including the TULF and LTTE) were: 1. recognition of the Tamils of Sri Lanka as a distinct nationality; 2. recognition of an identified Tamil homeland and the guarantee of its territorial integrity; 3. based on the above, recognition of the inalienable right of self-determination of the Tamil nation; 4. recognition of the right to full citizenship and other fundamental democratic rights of all Tamils, who look upon the island as their country. Since 1985 nearly all Tamil parties including the LTTE have reiterated their commitment to these principles. The popularity of these principles among Tamil nationalist groups and parties is no doubt due to the fact that, while contemplating the possibility of Tamil self-government within Sri Lanka, they also implicitly reserve a right of secession should a negotiated settlement prove unreachable. The first three principles were rejected by the Government delegation at Thimpu on the grounds that they necessarily implied the destruction of a united Sri Lanka. The leader of the delegation, H. W. Jayewardene said: If the first three principles are to be taken at their face value and given their accepted legal meaning, they are wholly unacceptable to the Government. They must be rejected for the reason that they constitute a negation of the sovereignty and territorial integrity of Sri Lanka, they are detrimental to a united Sri Lanka and are inimical to the interests of the several communities, ethnic and religious in our country. (Loganathan 1996: 105)

This response from the government delegation was conservative and legalistic, which was perhaps not surprising as several of its members continue to this date to be wary about a negotiated settlement to the ethnic conflict and are trenchant critics of federalism.5 While no immediate progress was made at Thimpu, ongoing Indian pressure prompted the signing of the Indo-Lanka Accord in 1987, under which the Government of Sri Lanka undertook to introduce provincial councils with devolved powers within the framework of the unitary 5 See for example the recent writings of delegation members lawyers H. L.de Silva and S. L. Gunasekera.

252

rohan edrisinha

constitution. The provincial council system that was introduced in 1987 under the Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution, however, failed to introduce substantial devolution of power. The provincial legislatures and executives have failed to inspire popular confidence and indeed have contributed to widespread disenchantment with the system and, as a result, the concept of devolution as well. The main deficiencies of the new system are: 1. Provincial councils do not have complete control over any subject whatsoever. 2. The provinces have no political influence at the center. 3. Partly due to 2. above, the center has taken devolved political powers back to the center. 4. The Constitution of Sri Lanka is not supreme. There can be (and indeed there are) numerous laws that violate the Constitution, including constitutional provisions on devolution of power. 5. Provincial councils can be abolished, or their powers curtailed, by the central Parliament acting unilaterally. Furthermore the provincial council system failed in the north and the east of the country, the area where autonomy was needed the most. Tamil political groups that cooperated with the new initiative soon became frustrated with the legal deficiencies in the Amendment and the lack of political will at the center to implement the new constitutional amendment. The initial lukewarm response of the LTTE soon changed to outright opposition to the system of devolution. Therefore since 1990, no effective provincial council has functioned in the north and east of the country. In other parts of the country where there was no real demand for a second tier of government, the people have experienced no tangible benefits and tend to view the new level of administration as a waste of money. In short, the provincial council system was seen as insufficient in the Tamil-dominated areas seeking real autonomy, and unnecessary in the rest of the country where citizens supported a strong central government.6 The failure of these devolved provincial councils has simply strengthened Tamil demands for more ironclad guarantees of selfgovernment not vulnerable to the whims of the central government or the Sinhalese majority, whether in the form of federalism, secession, or a ‘twonation confederation’.7 In short, the Indo-Lanka Accord and the ensuing constitutional reform were simply unable to close the gap between the two positions. On the one hand, the Sinhalese leaders remained committed to a centralized 6 This is a familiar problem with attempts to finesse demands by national minorities for self-government through a system of across-the-board decentralization. See Kymlicka 2001: ch. 5. 7 For discussion of the ‘two-nation confederation’ proposal, see below.

multination federalism and minority rights in sri lanka

253

Constitution with a powerful Executive Presidency, an entrenched unitary label with a devolved system introduced much later primarily due to political pressure rather than commitment to principle. On the other hand, the Tamil leaders were adamant in their demands for recognition of traditional homeland, nationhood, and self-determination. A second attempt to overcome this impasse involved the preparation of a ‘framework document’, also known as the Braithwaite proposals, which was submitted both to the government and the LTTE in December 1995. The framework document was prepared by a British firm of solicitors, Bates, Wells, and Braithwaite, on the request of the Sri Lanka Peace Support Group, which consisted of Tamil academics, professionals, and clergy from the international community. The proposal provided for a confederation, the Union of Ceylon, consisting of two internally autonomous states, one for the primarily Tamil area (the north east of the country) and the other for the mainly Sinhalese areas. Certain matters would fall under the jurisdiction of the Union government— for example, foreign affairs, external defense and security, monetary policy and currency, and maintenance of relations between the states. However, most matters would fall under the jurisdiction of the two internal states, each of which would have the power to adopt its own constitution, so long as they endorsed certain core principles set out in the Preamble to the Constitution and entrenched clauses on human rights, and their own Prime Minister. The proposal provided for a Central Council of the Union to exercise power with respect to the reserved subjects and to provide a channel of communication and coordination between the two states consisting of an equal number of representatives from the states. The Council would appoint a President and Deputy President of the Union from amongst its members for a specified time with ‘agreed alternation’ between representatives of each state. The proposal also provided for a Constitutional Court consisting of an equal number of judges from each state and a suggestion that one or more non-Ceylonese judges of international repute be included as well. The main function of the Court would be to interpret the Constitution and to ensure state compliance with the provisions of the preamble and the human rights provisions of the Constitution. The proposal ended with a somewhat naı¨ve and impractical provision titled ‘Referendum and Guarantees’ which provided for each state to conduct a referendum if it wished ‘to modify the powers of the Union affecting that State.’ It also declared that the implementation of the Constitution and the maintenance of peace between the States would be guaranteed by the UN. The proposal had several ambiguous provisions that suggested that the two states were, indeed, independent sovereign entities. A provision in the Preamble for instance stated that relations between the two States would be

254

rohan edrisinha

governed in accordance with ‘generally applicable principles of international law and justice.’ The provision on the referendum might have been naı¨ve or an indirect way of including a unilateral right to secession. This Braithwaite proposal did not make much headway. If the 13th Amendment gave too little autonomy to the ‘provincial councils’ to be acceptable to the Tamils, this proposal gave too much power to the ‘autonomous states’ to be acceptable to the Sinhalese. In fact, rather than bridging the gap, it can be seen as endorsing the Tamil position that they have the right to form an internationally recognized independent state. While the proposal did not have any immediate effect, it has nonetheless exercised some influence on Tamil thinking. As we will see below, when Tamil leaders talk about ‘federalism’, it sometimes seems that Braithwaite-style confederalism is what they really have in mind. A third attempt to overcome this impasse began with the election of President Kumaratunga in 1994 on a platform of peace. When negotiations with the Tamil Tigers collapsed in 1995 she decided to press ahead with proposals to address Tamil grievances and aspirations. Several drafts of the proposals were presented and a major public education campaign was launched to persuade the majority Sinhalese in particular of the importance of a new constitution with enhanced devolution of power. The Devolution Proposals of August 1995 contained a set of general principles that suggested wide powers though when a more comprehensive second version was released in the Legal Draft of January 1996, the powers seemed less. The next significant document was the Draft Constitutional proposals of March 1997, where the provisions on devolution were strengthened, only to be whittled down again with the presentation of the Draft Constitution Bill of August 2000.8 While none of these documents used the term ‘federalism’,9 all four of them did propose the deletion of the unitary label in the Constitution and in that respect were significant. Not surprisingly this proved to be the most controversial reform and met with strong opposition from Sinhalese majority groups. They saw the term unitary as synonymous with united, and viewed constitutionalized devolution as a form of de facto federalism, which they 8

See Tiruchelvam 2000 for a discussion on these initiatives. The term ‘federalism’ was avoided primarily because it was seen as impossible to sell to the Sinhalese majority. But there was also confusion within the government about the creation of a federation. In 1996, a Cabinet Minister was confronted with the criticism that though the new proposals deleted the term ‘unitary’, they still fell short of a federal constitution. He responded that federalism was irrelevant to Sri Lanka because a federal constitution could only arise as a result of two or more previously independent nation-states coming together. This ignores the fact that federations can be established through restructuring of previously unitary states (e.g. Belgium, Spain). This is not a harmless mistake: it lends credence to the argument that a federation presupposes a division of the country and, therefore, unwittingly supports the critics of federalism. 9

multination federalism and minority rights in sri lanka

255

viewed as a stepping stone to secession. On the other side, the Tamil Tigers also opposed the new Constitution since it was not drafted in consultation with them, and also because they viewed the proposed devolution arrangements as inadequate (in part because they were not explicitly labeled as ‘federalism’). As a result, the Kumaratunga Government could not sell the new Constitution as one that would facilitate an effective peace. The Government therefore felt compelled to withdraw the Constitution Bill. Once again, the gap between the two positions remained too large. The fourth and most recent attempt at breaking the impasse is the Oslo Agreement, signed in December 2002, where the Sri Lankan government and the LTTE agreed to explore a peace settlement based on the idea of a multination federalism and internal self-determination. The significance of this Agreement is that it clarifies the positions of the two parties to the negotiations and affirms the parameters of a negotiated constitutional settlement, namely, maximum autonomy and recognition of Tamil nationalism but within a united country and with appropriate safeguards for the minorities in the Tamil majority areas. The promise of Oslo was dimmed by subsequent developments in the negotiations and on the ground. The talks collapsed just before discussions on a roadmap to realize the Oslo formula were to commence. Both sides had doubts about the bona fides of the other. For example, the Tamil Tigers were angered by unilateral initiatives to obtain international assistance in the wake of the peace process and delays in the restoration of normalcy on the ground in conflict-ravaged areas in the north and east. Many Sinhalese in the rest of the country, on the other hand, pointed to the assassination of Tamil political leaders of rival groups, child conscription, and other human rights violations in support of the claim that the Tigers could not be trusted and that a federal solution would not be viable without commitment to basic democratic and pluralistic values. Since the collapse of the direct negotiations in April 2003, the focus of attention has shifted to interim arrangements to be put in place while the negotiations on a long-term political solution take place. Attempts to recommence negotiations later in the year failed, partly due to a power struggle within the government between President Kumaratunga and Prime Minister Wickremasinghe who spearheaded the peace process since his election in 2001, and who was accused of having conceded too much to the Tamil Tigers. So while this fourth attempt at overcoming the impasse has gone farther than any previous attempt, generating at least an agreement in principle on the idea of a federal restructuring of the state and the acceptance of the principle of internal self-determination, it is too early to tell whether it will in fact take hold.

256

rohan edrisinha

5. Multination Federalism: The Obstacles and Possibilities The ultimate success of the Oslo peace process will depend on many factors, from the personality traits of the key actors to the depth of international support and engagement. But in this concluding section, I want to focus on the ideological and cultural factors at work—the habits of mind and ways of thinking in Sri Lankan political culture that can either promote or inhibit a successful transition to a democratic multination federalism. In particular, I would like to focus on three factors: (a) federal political culture; (b) securitization of ethnic issues; and (c) liberal and communitarian values.

Federal Political Culture It is often argued that a federal political system depends upon a federal political culture—that is, a political culture that values (rather than fears) diversity, and that acknowledges the importance of consensus (rather than simple majority rule). If so, it must be said that Sri Lanka confronts a major challenge. As noted earlier, the idea of federalism has historical roots in Sri Lanka, which can perhaps be revived. But today the political culture of both the Sinhalese nationalists and the Tamil nationalists is strikingly similar in their underlying drive for internal homogeneity. Both adopt a centralist, assimilationist model of government. Many Sinhalese Buddhists claim that the island is a Sinhala Buddhist nation by virtue of the fact that they constitute the majority community in the country. They would accept the fact that the minorities possess rights, possibly even equal rights, but see no contradiction in asserting that the country is Sinhala Buddhist in terms of its identity. As we have seen, it is the attempt to entrench this view in the 1972 constitution that helped trigger the thirty years of civil war. But, paradoxically, we see the same basic dynamic within the Tamil community. For a time, Tamil leaders refused to accept that the (Tamilspeaking) Muslim communities in the eastern part of the country had a separate culture and identity and did not want to be submerged or assimilated into a homogeneous ‘Tamil nation’. More generally, the LTTE remains committed to a highly centralized conception of Tamil self-government. While the LTTE has from its inception opposed the majoritarian, unitary, centralized Constitutions of Sri Lanka adopted in 1972 and 1978, it recently proposed an Interim Self Governing Authority (ISGA) for the northeastern region of Sri Lanka which in turn was majoritarian, unitarian, highly centralized, lacked basic features of constitutionalism, and included hardly any safeguards for ‘internal minorities’ including the Sinhalese and Muslim communities who live in the region.

multination federalism and minority rights in sri lanka

257

This suggests that the acceptance of federalism by both sides in the Oslo Agreement does not flow from any principled commitment to ideas of diversity, dissent, and minority rights. Whether federal political institutions can flourish in the absence of these federalist cultural values is a crucial question. But this just pushes the question back a level. Why isn’t there more support for federalist values in Sri Lanka? Here again there are many factors, but we can distinguish two broad types of explanations: geopolitical insecurity and communitarian cultural values.

Securitization of Ethnic Issues The geopolitical explanation focuses on Sri Lanka’s precarious position in the region. A history of invasions from neighboring India, and occupation by three waves of colonizers (the Portuguese, the Dutch, and the British) have generated a pervasive feeling of geopolitical insecurity, and a corresponding demand for a strong state and united citizenry to defend against hostile external powers. Any form of decentralization and group differentiation, therefore, is viewed as a potential danger to the survival of the state. Moreover, the fact that substantial autonomy is being demanded by the Tamils exacerbates this geopolitical fear. For the Tamils are seen as potential collaborators with these hostile external powers. Tamil self-government is seen not just as weakening the central state, but as forming a potential fifthcolumn for foreign intervention, particularly from India. After all, the Tamils share India’s predominant Hindu religion, and share the language of 60 million Tamil-speakers in the south of India. The idea that Sri Lankan Tamils might therefore look to India as a protector, and might even welcome intervention by India, is a recurring theme in Sinhalese political discourse. The Sinhalese are often described as being a ‘majority with a minority complex’. Though a majority in the island, the Sinhalese are acutely conscious of the fact that their language is only used in Sri Lanka, whereas the Tamil language is used in many other countries including Malaysia, Singapore, South Africa, and of course, in Tamilnadu to the north. Tamils are a minority in Sri Lanka, but if you add the 60 million Tamil-speakers living in India—just 40 kilometres away—they outnumber the Sinhalese five to one. And if we focus on religion rather than language, the result is even more striking: Hindus massively outnumber Buddhists in the region.10 As a result, many Sinhalese Buddhists feel that they are literally a small island in an ‘Indian’ Ocean. Viewed this way, the Tamils in Sri Lanka are not so much a weak and vulnerable minority, but rather part of a powerful international 10 Moreover, Sinhalese Buddhists often claim that their form of Theravada Buddhism is unique and pristine, and that they have a special right and responsibility to preserve it.

258

rohan edrisinha

Tamil diaspora which may also be a potential advance guard of a massive Indian superpower. Moreover, the idea that India would use the Sri Lankan Tamils as a ‘fifth column’ is not entirely without basis. India has played a key role in the evolution of the island’s ethnic conflict. In the early years of the militarization of the conflict, Tamil militant groups sought and received refuge and patronage in southern India. Indian pressure compelled President J. R. Jayewardene—a firm believer in a centralized, authoritarian style of leadership—to introduce a scheme of devolution of power in 1987. More recently, however, relations between India and the LTTE deteriorated after the group’s assassination of Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi and its espousal of what is in effect a two-nation, confederal model. It is widely believed that India would not be in favor of a federal arrangement that extends far beyond Indian-style federalism lest it should engender demands of a similar nature among restless states in India. (If India pushes Sri Lanka to adopt a two-nation confederal model for the Tamils, how can it reject this same model when demanded by Kashmir?). Furthermore India would probably oppose a negotiated settlement to the ethnic conflict that marginalizes other Tamil political groups that oppose the LTTE, and legitimizes its sole control of the autonomous Tamil majority areas of the northeast of Sri Lanka. The Indian factor has therefore played a key role in the evolution of Sri Lanka’s ethnic conflict and will almost certainly impact upon any solution to the conflict as well. (Muni 1993; Narayan 1994) In recent years even though Norway has played the facilitator/mediator role, Norway and the key political actors in Sri Lanka have kept India fully briefed of developments as they have recognized the tremendous influence exercised by Sri Lanka’s powerful neighbor. In short, the geopolitical context and history of foreign intervention has given rise to a ‘minoritized’ mentality amongst the Sinhalese, a feeling of insecurity, a distrust of minorities, and a desire for unity and centralized power. Federalists are therefore often seen as apologists for secession either through naivety or design. They are often branded as traitors by Sinhalese statists who believe that the preservation of the unitary nation state and the territorial integrity of the country is the prime obligation of all citizens. Federalism is seen as a stepping stone to secession as the control of the center is weakened, sovereignty is divided and ultimately the country is divided.

Liberal and Communitarian Values Whereas the geopolitical explanation for the resistance to federalist values of diversity and dissent focuses on realpolitik considerations, an alternative explanation looks to the ‘communitarian’ nature of the cultural and religious

multination federalism and minority rights in sri lanka

259

traditions of the country. The argument is often made that multination federalism in the West is a liberal federalism, strongly committed to individual rights, and hence to firm protection for diversity and dissent. By contrast, countries in Asia are said to attach more importance to collective or group rights and communitarianism. Federalism, in such a communitarian context, can provide a mechanism for two groups to share power in a modus vivendi, but is unlikely to be underpinned by any deeper principles of respect for diversity and dissent. This rather patronizing argument is simplistic and misleading in the Sri Lankan context. Over 70% of the inhabitants of the island are Buddhists while the largest religious minority is the Hindu community. Buddhism in many respects stresses individualism and values such as pluralism, tolerance, and diversity more than ‘Western’ religions such as Christianity. Buddhist worship is highly individualistic. If one were to visit a Buddhist temple on a holy day, one would see some people engaged in meditation, some offering flowers, others reciting religious stanzas. There is no order of service as in a Christian church. Each person worships as s/he desires and considers meaningful for herself. Buddhism places great emphasis on individual inquiry, free inquiry, rationality, and respect for dissent. Over 2000 years before the publication of John Stuart Mill’s On Liberty, the Buddha made the following declaration in what would today be northern India: Yes, O Kalamas, it is right for you to doubt, it is right for you to dissent, it is right for you to waver. Come, O Kalamas, do not accept anything on hearsay thinking thus we have heard it for a long time. Do not accept anything by mere tradition. Do not accept anything just because it accords with your scriptures. Do not accept anything by mere supposition. Do not accept anything by inference. Do not consider anything by merely considering appearances. Do not accept anything merely because it seems to the multitude acceptable, nor yet because the monk who preaches it is respected by you. But when you know yourselves—these things are moral, these things are blameless, these things are praised by the wise, these things when performed conduce to well being and happiness—then should you live and act accordingly. (Cited in Edrisinha 1990)

In another discourse the Buddha vividly emphasized the centrality of individualism to his teachings: In this very one-fathom long body, along with its perceptions and thoughts, do I proclaim the world, the origin of the world, the cessation of the world, and the path leading to the cessation of the world. (Buddhist Missionary Society 1977: 507)

Hinduism too, is pluralistic and accommodative. Commentators have noted that in Hinduism and the culture associated with it, because there is no

260

rohan edrisinha

supreme hierarchy or authority to impose dogma and impose penalties for violations, an individual Hindu’s tenets, rituals, and dogmas vary greatly according to personal and individual interpretation. Furthermore, the traditional customary law of the Sinhalese community in Sri Lanka, the Kandyan Law, which still operates in the central part of the island, contains many liberal features with respect to women’s rights, marriage, and divorce when compared with the general common law of the country, an amalgam of Roman-Dutch and English Law bequeathed by the Dutch and British colonial rulers. Marriage, for instance, under the Kandyan Law is a contract and therefore can be terminated like any contract. Kandyan Law even recognizes marriages in which the woman is the dominant partner in the contractual relationship (Nadaraja 1972). There are, therefore, in the religious and legal traditions of Sri Lanka and South Asia, principles and features which possibly exalt notions of individualism, pluralism, diversity, tolerance, dissent, and secular values even more than in the Judeo-Christian and Islamic traditions. However, as in all religious traditions, there is often a disparity between precept and practice and there may also be values of a communitarian and collective character (Tambiah 1992). My argument is merely that liberal values are certainly not alien to South Asian values (Wijesinha 1997). It must be noted, however, that there is a small but articulate group of intellectuals in Sri Lanka who have developed the Jathika Chinthanaya (National Vision) ideology or philosophy which is unapologetically majoritarian in outlook. The National Vision, furthermore, recognizes as legitimate only those ideas and concepts that are truly indigenous, sprung from the native soil, and not corrupted in any way by Judeo-Christian inspired thoughts and beliefs that dominate the more common ideologies and political philosophies.11 They argue that liberalism, minority rights, secular states, federalism are concepts which originate in the West and are therefore illegitimate. According to adherents of Jathika Chinthanaya, a country’s ethos and identity is inevitably shaped and influenced by the majority and the majority need not feel apologetic about it while minorities must accept such a reality. The basic assumptions of liberal-democratic multination federalism are therefore rejected. This is arguably part of a worldwide trend of growing religious fundamentalism, touching all countries, from conservative Christians in the United States to Hindu militants in India to Islamic fundamentalism in Indonesia. Sri Lankan Buddhism is not immune to this trend, but it remains a small movement. For most Sri Lankans, the source of opposition to federalism is not illiberal religious precepts or communitarian cultural values, but rather 11 See Seneviratne 2002, who notes that though one can give Jathika Chinthanaya the literal gloss, ‘National Thought’ or ‘National Ethos’, the movement’s leaders prefer the more comprehensive gloss, ‘Civilizational Consciousness’.

multination federalism and minority rights in sri lanka

261

more mundane fears about maintaining peace and stability in a difficult domestic and international context.

6. Conclusion What are the prospects for a federal Sri Lanka? There are doubts as to whether both the Government of Sri Lanka and the Tamil Tigers can internalize the federal idea and spirit. The Government of Sri Lanka and the political leadership, parties and elites, including the bureaucracy and judiciary, have become so used to a highly centralized constitutional structure and political culture that power sharing does not come easily to them. The Tamil Tigers given their military background and their poor record on human rights, democracy, and the tolerance of dissent, will face challenges in adapting to the values of pluralism and diversity, and the principle of power sharing which are inextricably linked to the federal idea. Furthermore, though both the parties to the conflict have paid lip service to the federal idea, the two sides seem to have very different conceptions of the federal idea for the country. The Government of Sri Lanka and the majority Sinhalese might have moved towards the acceptance of a somewhat orthodox federal model combining shared rule and self-rule, despite strong opposition from a small and vocal minority within the Sinhala community. The Tamil Tigers’ conception of federalism is more confederal in nature, similar to the Braithwaite proposal outlined above. It is also underscored by a strong nationalist discourse. Such a model will not only be strongly opposed by the majority community, but also the Muslim community living in the region claimed by the Tamils as their homeland. It will also undermine the efforts of Sri Lankan federalists to promote the federal idea as the best way of protecting unity in diversity, and thereby protecting the territorial integrity and unity of the island. Perhaps the logical compromise or accommodation between these two positions—orthodox federalism with several provinces and two-nation confederation—is a new Constitution with a fewer number of regions and asymmetrical federalism with special arrangements, Quebecstyle, for the northeast region as a response to the demand for internal self determination in areas of historic Tamil habitation. Multination federalism, with its twin emphasis on shared rule and self rule, and with some variations on the theme in order to accommodate demands for internal self determination, remains, in my view the constitutional and political mechanism for a peaceful solution to Sri Lanka’s ethnic conflict. Given the colonial history of countries like Sri Lanka, and indeed, India, and their religious, cultural, and political traditions, some of which were discussed above, liberal-democratic multination federalism continues to be relevant, certainly in the South Asian region. The challenge is not so much that the model is alien, but rather, whether the political elites and leadership possess the will to share power and be subject to the principles that are part of such a constitutional and political model.

12 Burma/Myanmar*: The Struggle for Democracy and Ethnic Rights ALAN SMITH

Effective respect and protection of universal human rights would go a long way in meeting the needs of persons belonging to minorities. Asbjorn Eide, UN Working Group on Minorities

Talking about the rights of minorities in Myanmar can have a strange air of unreality, for how can it make sense to articulate rights for minorities when the majority has none? Conflict over the rights of ethnic minorities in Myanmar, however, predates the overthrow of democracy, so there is a legitimate need to debate the appropriate response to ethnic demands alongside efforts to restore democratic rights to the whole people of Myanmar. Ethnic minorities in Myanmar do not assume that the restoration of democracy in Myanmar’s capital will necessarily deliver what they see as their rights. In order to understand the current debate about the relationship between democratization and minority rights in Myanmar, some historical and geographical background is required. The boundaries of the Union of Myanmar are those established by British colonial conquest. They enclose a central plains area which constitutes the ethnic Burmese or Burman heartland surrounded on the west, north and east by a horse-shoe of rugged mountains that are home to the non-Burman ethnic nationalities. The seven major nonBurman ethnic groups, nationalities, or national races—the Arakanese, Chin, Kachin, Shan, Karenni, Karen, and Mon—are each identified with states of the Union within which they constitute the majority. There is a high level of consensus concerning the need for political recognition on a territorial basis *Burma was renamed Myanmar by the SLORC military junta in 1989. I have used the name Myanmar where I am referring to the country specifically in the period from 1989, otherwise to avoid Burma/Myanmar, I have mostly referred to Burma. I have used the word Burmese to refer to the language and the people of Burma/Myanmar and the word Burman to refer to the ethnic majority population.

burma / myanmar: struggle for democracy / ethnic rights

263

of the seven major ethnic minority groups in addition to the mainly Burman lowland center. Such a framework of course oversimplifies the reality of a multiplicity of ethnic subgroups (the military emphasizes this ethnic fragmentation, often referring to 135 ethnic groups), as well as the historical factors that distinguish the ethnopolitical perspectives of each of the seven main ethnic minority groups. It also leaves out the presence of newer ‘immigrant’ groups, such as the Indians who entered during British colonial rule, and who are mainly concentrated in the cities. Nonetheless, the basic conception of Burma as a country with an ethnic Burman heartland and seven ethnic minority states is ubiquitous in public debates. The actual population figures and therefore the relative proportions of the eight major ethnic groups are contentious, since censuses conducted during the British and Japanese periods are regarded as incomplete and figures published since independence are seen by the non-Burman political community as having been distorted to minimize the strength of ethnopolitical claims. The Shan and the Karen are the two largest non-Burman ethnic groups, each with approximately 5 million. The non-Burman ethnic groups together probably make up between a third and a half of the 55 million total. Conflict between the dominant ethnic Burman population and the ethnic minorities (or, as they sometimes prefer to be called, ‘ethnic nationalities’) has been central to the country’s troubled history since independence in 1948. It takes the form of a struggle between an assimilating centralism and the demand for recognition of the right of ethnic self-determination. Armed rebellion began soon after independence and by the late 1950s all of the main ethnic minority groups were in armed rebellion. The postindependence state was faced in addition by an armed communist challenge that came from disaffected leaders of the independence movement. The communist rebellion lost momentum and, weakened by loss of support from China, ended in 1989 when the ethnic armies under Communist Party control broke with their leaders and agreed to a ceasefire (Smith 1999: 374–81). The armed ethnic struggle has been substantially contained through recent ceasefire agreements but the underlying political issues remain altogether unresolved. On top of this ethnic conflict has been overlaid a second major theme of Burma’s political history, the military’s overthrow of the democratically elected government in 1962 and the suppression of all individual political rights (with only brief moments of relaxation) until the present. Burma therefore presents a paradigm case in which the state is faced simultaneously with demands for democratization and demands for ethnocultural recognition and self-government. To date, the state has failed to deal successfully with either challenge. This chapter explores some of the historical and political factors that explain this failure, and consider the prospects for a democratic multination federalism to emerge.

264

alan smith

1. The Precolonial and Colonial periods The precolonial states of Southeast Asia were organized around a powerful center, power diminishing with distance from the center. There were no clear-cut boundaries between states. Sometimes neighboring states claimed the same area, so that boundaries overlapped. There was also a hierarchy of stronger and weaker states, with overlapping sovereignties. Lesser rulers recognized stronger rulers by paying tribute (Winichakul 1994). Politics was of an interstate kind, rather than interethnic, with the relative status of different Buddhist communities (Burman, Mon, Shan etc.) reflecting the power of their centers. Sometimes there was a gap between areas claimed by two powerful states with each preferring to regard it as a kind of no-man’s-land. This was often the case in mountainous, forest areas inhabited by upland people, who were viewed as distinct from the people of the rice-plain kingdoms. These peripheral communities, often non-Buddhist, were seen by the lowlanders (and sometimes saw themselves) as wild and culturally inferior (Brown 1994: 34–5). The power of the precolonial states waxed and waned so that overlaps, buffer areas and core communities also expanded and contracted. In the period before the coming of the British, the Burmese kingdom of Ava had been expanding, drawing more of the peripheral communities under its nominal control or into tributary relationships. The arrival of the British put an end to that expansion, but at the time of the arrival of Europeans in Burma, the power of the ethnically Burman kings meant that the various people living in the central plains saw themselves as Burman, the most powerful and culturally important community (Taylor 1987: 24). The British extended their control over Burma from India in three stages: the 1824–6 campaign led to the annexation of Arakan on Burma’s western border with India and the Tenasserim region in the southeast; the 1852–3 campaign took control of lower Burma focused on the lower reaches of the Irrawaddy; the conquest was completed with the 1886–8 capture of Upper Burma and the overthrow of the Burmese kingdom centered on Mandalay. From 1888 the British consolidated their control of Burma and defined its boundaries. Control was intense in the central plains and delta area (or ‘Burma proper’), but relied on a less intense form of indirect rule in the mountainous frontier areas. In terms of ethnic politics, the British conquest had destroyed the ethnic Burman kingdom and alienated the ruling Burman elite. The British, however, largely left intact the traditional political structures of the peripheral regions. Indeed, because the British had curtailed ethnic Burman power and depredation, British influence was largely viewed by the communities in the periphery as benign. The two administrative structures applied by the British were formalized as a distinction between ‘ministerial Burma’ in Burma proper (in which a

burma / myanmar: struggle for democracy / ethnic rights

265

limited form of parliamentary self-government was introduced and which was separated from India in 1937) and the ‘scheduled’ or ‘excluded’ (and largely neglected) frontier areas. Under the British, the old tributary relationship between the center and periphery had been replaced by a dual system, the British colonial government commanding Burma proper and the periphery by separate systems and maintaining their separateness. There were a number of developments fostered by the British that were to have significant effects on future ethnic relations in independent Burma. First, the British recruited soldiers disproportionately from the non-Burman communities, especially the Karen, Kachin, and Chin. Second, during British rule, Christian missionaries found willing converts and devoted followers amongst the same communities, especially, again, the Karen, Kachin, and Chin. The missionaries established a network of schools in the towns of Lower Burma into which the non-Burman communities, especially the Karen, flocked. As a result, ‘a dangerous resentment (which has never really gone away) was to grow amongst many Burman nationalists, who were suspicious of the close relationship the alien missionaries were developing with many Karen and, later, Kachin and Chin communities . . . This distrust was fuelled by the Karen role in the colonial army’ (M. Smith 1999: 45). Third, the British administration of Burma as a part of British India allowed large-scale immigration of Indians into Burma. By the 1930s, Indians made up approximately 5 percent of the population. This figure underestimates the impact of Indian migration, since the Indian population was concentrated in major towns, such that Indians made up more than half the population of Rangoon at that time, and dominated certain trades. There was also a much smaller Chinese minority and a very much smaller European population (Taylor 1987: 126–8). The colonial economic structure, dominated by Europeans, with Indians dominating large-scale trade and finance other than where it was held by Europeans (and petty local trade), also created a racial (or ethnic) hierarchy. As a result, ‘the main political questions in late colonial Burma were usually articulated in terms of ethnicity rather than class’ (Taylor 1987: 126). As Thant Myint-U puts it, ‘In general . . . the primary cleavage in the new Burma was not to be one of class but of ethnicity, between those seen as ‘‘foreign’’ and those seen as ‘‘native’’, and between the ‘‘native races’’ themselves . . . the vast majority. . . were seen as Burmese Buddhists . . . Old court notions of Kachins, Shans, Karens, and others largely remained, and were reinforced or somewhat changed by emergent European theories of language, race, and migration . . . The peculiar twentieth century divide between ‘‘Europeans’’, ‘‘Indians’’, the ‘‘Burmese’’, and the ‘‘minorities’’ was firmly set’ (Thant Myint-U 2001: 243–4). In short, the colonial period in Burma, as elsewhere in Asia, had a transformative effect on ethnic relations. It eroded the precolonial system of tributary relationships that had (unequally) linked ethnic Burmese with

266

alan smith

the non-Burman minorities, and reified the cultural and political distinction between the two, governing them through different systems of administration. It also played the divide and rule game, favoring certain minorities in the army, as well as migrant Indians in the economy, at the expense of the ethnic Burmese majority. The legacy was a heightened sense of antagonism and resentment that emerged during the independence struggle.

Independence, Federation and ‘Union’: The Formative Debate During World War II the mainly ethnic-Burman Burma Independence Army (formed outside Burma) entered Burma with the Japanese from Thailand, while the Karen and Karenni minorities along the border area sided with the British. So did the Kachin and Chin, and parts of their territory were never taken by the Japanese. In many cases the British military forces kindled the belief amongst the ethnic minorities that their support would ultimately be rewarded politically. The war thus had ethnic minorities and Burmans fully armed, often fighting on opposing sides. At the end of the war intercommunal distrust had been further heightened, and separate dreams for the future had been awakened. Once the British government was reconciled to Burma’s rapid move to independence, agreement was reached with the Anti-Fascist People’s Freedom League (AFPFL), the party leading the nationalist movement, about the boundaries of the new state. It was agreed that the two distinct areas of Burma administered by the British—Ministerial Burma (Burma Proper) and the Frontier Areas or Excluded Areas—should be united (rather than, as had been argued in some British circles, that independence for the Frontier Areas might be ‘postponed’). Indeed, the Japanese occupation had ended the dual British administrations of ‘Burma proper’ and the ‘frontier areas’ and the pseudo-independent Burma established in 1943 by the Japanese was a unitary state. The AFPFL had grown out of the prewar student movement, the ‘Thakins’, who had learned Marxist ideas about imperialism especially through the writings of British and Indian socialists and Marxists. It was formed in 1944 by the ‘students’ who, in 1941 had formed the Burma Independence Army (BIA), together with the Communist Party of Burma. The BIA had received military training by the Japanese and had supported the Japanese occupation of Burma, but in early 1945, the AFPFL launched an anti-Japanese uprising. The AFPFL, which can be seen as representing the Burman-led, nationalist movement, was adamantly in favor of the proposed ‘union’ of ‘Ministerial Burma’ and the Frontier Areas, but certain of the ethnic leaders within the Frontier Areas (as well as certain ethnic leaders within Ministerial Burma) were ambivalent or hostile. Thinking within the different communities was

burma / myanmar: struggle for democracy / ethnic rights

267

colored by earlier experience, which in the case of the various ethnic minorities was rather diverse. The Shan, Karenni, and Karen cases were particularly formative. The Shan States and the Karenni States were recognized by the British as distinct political entities. The traditional Shan rulers had been tributaries of the Burmese kingdom and the tributary relationship was transferred to the British. When, in 1920, the British authorities moved to introduce partial self-government in India and ‘Burma proper’, the Shan States were established nominally as a federation, removing them from the jurisdiction of the legislature, placing them more directly under the control of the British authorities, but reinforcing their appearance of being a separate entity. According to Taylor, ‘the British spent the war years planning how to consolidate the Shan States, reduce their number, make their government less autocratic, and link them to a federal Burma’ (Taylor 1994: 98). The Karenni States had been similarly recognized by the British as a distinct entity and were administered by the same authorities, under the same system, but separately from British Burma. Of all the ethnic minorities, the Karen were the most dispersed and made up a sizable minority within ‘Burma proper’, as well as a majority in part of the eastern ‘frontier area’. With the introduction of partial self-government in the 1920s, the Karen National Association, an educated Christian-led political organization, demanded and won representation of Karen interests through a separate electorate. Emerging Karen nationalism, kindled in the nineteenth century by Christian missionaries, was reflected in the proposal in 1928 by the US-educated Dr San C. Po for an ‘independent Karen State’ within some larger entity, referring to both the Swiss federation and the situation of the Welsh in Great Britain (Smith 1999: 51). Agreement was reached between the AFPFL leadership and leaders of the Kachin, Shan, and Chin at the historic Panglong meeting of February 1947 that they should achieve independence ‘together’. The British for their part arranged for a Committee of Enquiry to ascertain whether the minorities wanted to join with Ministerial Burma, although in reality this was a fait accompli and the real issue was how the minorities wanted to relate to the coming constitution-drafting process (FACE 1947).1 In the negotiations and discussions at the time of Panglong and the subsequent Frontier Areas Enquiry, representatives of various ethnic communities referred repeatedly to a voluntary ‘federating’ process, with demands for the ‘right of secession’.

The Independence Constitution Probably the most formative influence over the constitution-drafting came from within the AFPFL. At its Convention of May 1947, a draft constitution 1 Karenni was outside both ‘areas’ of British Burma but also subject to the British control and was invited in to the process.

268

alan smith

was prepared which, in turn, became the working draft for the elected Constituent Assembly when it met from June to September 1947. The AFPFL draft was apparently the work of Thakin Mya advised by U Chan Htoon who had been appointed by Aung San in early 1947 as Constitutional Advisor to the Government of Burma and had consulted extensively with Sir B. N. Rao, constitutional advisor to the Government of India (Universities Historical Research Centre 1999: 67; Maung Maung 1961: 66). The agenda of the AFPFL Convention included a major address by Aung San, the leader of the AFPFL. In his address, Aung San outlined his views on crucial issues at the heart of the constitutional draft, in particular the form of state to be adopted, namely a ‘union’. He dismissed questions as to whether the constitutional form should be recognized as ‘federal union’ on the grounds that the Burmese term for ‘union’ (pyidaungsu) was clearly different from ‘unitary’. The term ‘federal’, in his view, was redundant or unnecessary once one understood that a union-state was not a unitary state. Although he denied the need to explicitly declare the state ‘federal’, Aung San emphasized the need for satisfying the aspirations of minorities with appropriate provisions, in particular for ‘recognition’ and appropriate forms of autonomy. Aung San referred to Stalin’s definition of what constituted a national minority, and argued that a union-state should include appropriate provisions that recognized seven autonomous states (for the seven main ethnic minorities) as well as autonomous areas within these states for smaller ‘national minorities’ of various population strengths.2 In this regard Aung San referred to the prewar League of Nations recognition of national minorities where a group constituted 10 percent of total population, suggesting a more appropriate figure for Burma would be 5 percent. The draft clearly provides for a constitutional division of powers between the union and the states, but it differs from standard federalism in important respects. In particular, the ethnic Burman heartland (i.e. Burma Proper) would not have its own federal state, but rather would be ruled directly by the central Union government. It was therefore a proposal for an asymmetrical union of Burma Proper with a series of satellite states, with conditional rights of secession for the (satellite) states. The elected Constituent Assembly began its meeting on June 9, 1947 and U Nu became its President. On June 18, a drafting committee and subcommittees were formed and their working draft was approved by the AFPFL in May. It was the task of the Union and States Powers Subcommittee to resolve 2

For discussion of the constitution-drafting by the AFPFL in advance of the Constituent Assembly and subsequently by the Constituent Assembly, which led to a system of regional autonomy, rather than a federation, see Maung Maung, 1961; see also Maung Maung 1990; for an ethnic viewpoint, see Lian Sakhong in ENSCC 2002. See also Universities Historical Research Centre, 1999.

burma / myanmar: struggle for democracy / ethnic rights

269

the issue of the form of the new union. (The issue is discussed at length in Universities Historical Research Centre 1999, vol. 2: 100–4). According to this source, the subcommittee minutes show that a conscious decision was made to reject a classic federal form and instead to adopt the form proposed in the AFPFL draft. A major reason cited was economy of financial and human resources. The subcommittee submitted an interim report on July 17, just two days before Aung San was assassinated on July 19, and it seems certain that the form of the future union had been determined before his death and with his support. Under the independence constitution adopted in 1947 for the Union of Burma, certain segments were granted the status of states with some autonomy. (Gone was the AFPFL’s proposed ‘union states and autonomous states’.) The constitution established Shan, Kachin, and Karenni States, a Chin Special division (i.e. the Chins had chosen to join with what had been Ministerial Burma) and made provision for the establishment of a Karen State3. It provided the right of secession for Shan and Karenni States but only after ten years from Burma’s independence. This perhaps reflected a kind of bottom-line conditionality in the position adopted by certain ethnic participants, who could see that the draft was drifting away from the classic federalism they had anticipated towards something more centralized, and hence who wanted to reserve an exit option (Maung Maung 1990: 343–58). It is not easy to fit the historical reality of Burma’s independence constitution into any neat category. The constitutional process was not a pure federating process (though there were certainly elements of it) nor was it purely a process of decentralization (though there were elements of that too). Perhaps it is more useful to see the ‘Burma plus satellites’ scheme as, consciously or otherwise, a reversion from the British colonial ‘dual’ system to that of the old expanding Burmese kingdom’s relationship between its center and its peripheral tribal areas and tributary states. The resulting Union of Burma was certainly not a classic federal system. However, it is the popular view among ethnic minorities now that classic federalism is what was promised, and that that is what ethnic people at that time thought they were getting. So they believe now that they were cheated.

Ethnic Rebellion The parliament and parliamentary elections following independence were dominated by the AFPFL, until that party split in 1958. However, by the end of the parliamentary period, most of the ethnic minority communities were 3

Because the Karen are dispersed, there was unresolved debate within the Karen community over the advantages of an autonomous (or independent) state and their recognition as a ‘minority’, as had been the case in the pre-independence period in ‘Ministerial Burma’.

270

alan smith

already in rebellion (Smith 1999). In the convoluted circumstances of widespread leftist rebellions shortly after independence, much of the country was already in rebel hands when fighting broke out in the Karenni State in August 1948, with armed groups attempting to oust the Union government. Karen forces, demanding an extensive Karen state, seized the port city of Moulmein in September 1948. The Shan insurgency began in 1959 against the backdrop of the Union army’s near full-scale war with heavily armed KMT troops intruding into Burma in the wake of the Communist victory in China and martial law in the Shan State from 1952. The Shan rebellion was followed by the Kachin in 1961. The rebellion of the Shan and the Kachin was of important symbolic significance, because unlike the Karen and the Karenni, the Shan and Kachin had opted to join the Union of Burma at the historic Panglong meeting with the AFPFL. In the case of the Kachin, ‘their decision to go underground had little to do with the existing [Communist] insurgencies. . . . Rather it was part of a growing sense of frustration, expressed by virtually all the minority peoples in Burma, with the progressively more centralized and Burmanized form of government in Rangoon, which they protested was taking little account of their opinions or needs’ (Smith 1999: 192). The Kachin (and following them, the Chin) complained of the neglect of their economic development, and Christian ethnic leaders watched U Nu’s moves towards declaring Buddhism a state religion with dismay. In the case of the Shan, the main issue was the behavior of the Burma Army as a de facto occupying army. In short, even before the military takeover, the basic terms of political coexistence between the central government (seen by the ethnic minorities as representing the Burman majority) and the ethnic minorities were already deeply and indeed violently contested.

Military Takeover The first military government was established in 1958 under army chief, General Ne Win, as a ‘caretaker’ government, due to the internal crisis in the elected government of Prime Minister U Nu. The military ‘caretaker’ government withdrew after the elections of 1960 that returned U Nu to power. The new government resumed discussions instigated by the non-Burman nationalities concerning the need for a looser, more federal form of government and U Nu announced his projected formation of states for the Mon and for Arakan.4 Ne Win, who in 1959 had tried to persuade the Shan to give up once and for all their secession ‘right’, sought to justify his 1962 coup, which was 4 It is often said in Myanmar that U Nu and Ne Win were both deeply impressed with the apparent success at that time of Tito’s federal Yugoslavia.

burma / myanmar: struggle for democracy / ethnic rights

271

launched before the conclusion of a major federalism conference, by reference to the threat of national disintegration. The current junta, the State Peace and Development Council (SPDC) still justifies its political role as ‘preventing the disintegration of the union’. In the aftermath of the 1962 coup, the military set out to neutralize the numerous armed insurrections, communist and ethnic, through peace talks. Overall this failed, though in the sixties, as in the fifties, there were armed groups who did find their way to ‘return to the union’, disillusioned with the pain inflicted on their community as well as their followers. In a number of cases, leaders of such groups were absorbed into the administration of ethnic states and the local economy. Their position was not easy: they were always subject to suspicion from both sides and with the declining economy it was hard for them to deliver to their communities the reward which they hoped would result from ending hostilities. In the eyes of many ethnic people, the failure of these peace agreements was inevitable, since the military was looking for justifications to escalate its counterinsurgency war approach to dealing with opposition. While the political and economic strategy adopted by Ne Win was largely drawn from non-Western sources, the military strategy seems to be similar to the ‘strategic hamlets’ programme being applied at that time in Vietnam and the ‘new village’ concept applied by the British earlier in Malaya (Smith 1999: 259). To support its military campaign, it was made unlawful to have any contact with the resistance groups. In ethnic areas where conflict occurred, counterinsurgency strategy involved forcibly relocating ethnic villagers. Food crops and villages were periodically destroyed so as to prevent people from remaining in areas where they could still be in contact with the insurgents. Slowly the insurgents were forced back into the mountains and jungles and into the remote border areas and the ethnic population was brought under closer government control. Under military rule, ethnic aspirations were seen as a threat to security; ethnic minority people were seen as potentially separatist insurgents, a threat to the integrity of the state, and not to be trusted in senior positions in the state structure. Ne Win ruled from 1962 until 1974 through a revolutionary council without a constitution. Then, in 1971, under the direction of the military’s Burma Socialist Programme Party (BSPP), a new constitution was drawn up and publicly endorsed in 1974 in a carefully staged referendum. The new oneparty Socialist Republic of the Union of Burma maintained the ‘Burma Proper and satellite states’ system providing nominally autonomous ‘states’ for the non-Burman nationalities. The ‘union’ had not become any more federal, but the new constitution did express broad agreement among the ‘big’ ethnic minority groupings—that is the Shan, Karen, Kachin, Chin, Karenni, Mon, and Arakan communities—concerning the appropriate number of ethnic satellite states.

272

alan smith

General Ne Win had steered Burma into an authoritarian, xenophobic autarchy. It involved systematic nationalization of the economy, and increasing economic decline. Educational institutions were also nationalized and as a result, the highly regarded Christian schools, which had provided ethnic communities an alternative to the government schools (and also provided influential positions as teachers) were brought under government control. This added a new source of minority resentment, on top of the long-standing resentment about the political domination, military occupation, and economic neglect of the ethnic states by the ethnic-Burman elite. Now there was resentment also of being forced to conform to the cultural straitjacket of government schools. In addition, during this period, the political freedoms of association and expression enjoyed during the parliamentary period were crushed, so opportunities to express and debate the sources of ethnic resentment were eliminated. Where educated ethnic minority individuals occupied senior positions, either in Rangoon or in the ethnic states, sooner or later they found themselves under suspicion of having sympathy or contact with insurgent groups, and through the late 1970s and early 1980s there was a new flight of such people to join the insurgent forces. Elections were held under the 1974 constitution at national and local levels, the system allowing voters to choose between candidates endorsed by the BSPP or independent candidates. Success for independent candidates presented them with inescapable pressure to ‘join the party’. In the case of independent candidates successfully elected by ethnic constituencies, a number joined the flight to the insurgent areas. Ironically, the military success against insurgent forces increasingly concentrated them in border areas. Despite being in serious military retreat, the rebels benefited from certain economic opportunities. As the economy of Burma declined, the cross-border black market trade through insurgentcontrolled border areas grew. The mystique attached to the ‘ethnic revolution’, which might have been expected to have faded after so long, was reinforced by the economic success of smuggling.

1988: Military Power Reborn Ne Win headed Burma’s government under the one party constitution as President until his retirement in 1981. He retained his dominant role through his leadership of the BSPP, the military-dominated state party, until July 23, 1988, when he resigned at the height of the 1988 popular uprising. General Sein Lwin, a close colleague of Ne Win, was then installed as his successor but was replaced after only one month after his bloody efforts to suppress the uprising failed to overcome popular opposition. Sein Lwin was replaced in turn by Dr Maung Maung, another close colleague of Ne Win and the only civilian who had risen to preeminence in the BSPP. Dr Maung

burma / myanmar: struggle for democracy / ethnic rights

273

Maung promised multiparty elections but failed to defuse popular unrest. ‘People power’ continued to grow until military Chief of Staff, General Saw Maung, in what might be called a pseudo-coup, seized power in the name of a new military junta, the State Law and Order Restoration Council (SLORC). The SLORC’s declared purpose was to restore law and order and to hold the promised multiparty elections. Despite sweeping restrictions on political activities, political parties were allowed to register in competition with the SLORC-supported National Unity Party (NUP) (effectively a renamed BSPP). The National League for Democracy (NLD) quickly emerged as the leading opposition party. The NLD was led by a dissident former general, Tin U, and by Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, daughter of Aung San, the tragically assassinated leader of the independence movement. Aung San Suu Kyi had returned to Burma in 1988 from Britain, where she lived with her British husband, to be with her sick mother. During the 1988 demonstrations and in the early period of election campaigning she emerged as a charismatic figure, spearheading attacks on Ne Win and the role of the military in politics. She was placed under house arrest on July 20, 1989 and prevented from participating in the election. Altogether 93 political parties contested the elections, held on 27 May 1990, but the NLD succeeded in gaining 392 of 485 seats while the SLORCsupported NUP won only 10. Of the 93 contesting parties, 36 referred in their names to their ethnic ‘constituency’ and the ethnic parties received considerable support at the 1990 elections. Among the 27 parties which won seats, 19 parties were claiming to represent ethnic groups. The 21-party coalition of ethnic parties making up the UNLD (United Nationalities League for Democracy) won a total of 66 seats (Khin Maung Win and A. Smith 1998: 117). Having initially given the impression of being willing to return power to the civilian winners of the election, the SLORC began openly to retreat from this position. On the eve of a meeting of victorious elected NLD members of the Pyithu Hluttaw or National Assembly, at which an amended version of the 1947 constitution was to be adopted as a provisional constitution, the SLORC issued Declaration No.1/90 stating that it held power under martial law, was not bound by any constitution, and would hold power until it had ensured that a sufficiently strong constitution was in place. By mid-1991 the SLORC had again crippled popular political party activities in Myanmar, establishing their total control of the media and rigorous surveillance of all political activity.

Democracy and Federalism: ‘Duelling’ Constitutions This then is the backdrop to current debates about democracy, federalism, and ethnic minority rights in Burma. We have witnessed a colonial period that exacerbated ethnic divisions and distrust; a post-independence

274

alan smith

constitution that was seen by some as betraying a promise to accord ‘genuine’ federalism and self-determination to the seven main minority groups; a series of armed ethnic insurgencies that have now largely been pacified by an authoritarian military regime, although the original causes of those insurgencies remain unaddressed, and indeed may now be exacerbated by increasing government restrictions on free association and expression; and a failed democratic transition that has left a popularly elected leader and party out of power. Even the military regime acknowledges that the status quo cannot be sustained indefinitely, in fact justifying its own role as paving the way for the emergence of a modern ‘disciplined’ democracy. Several attempts have been made, by international actors and from within the country, to move the agenda forward in the direction of a more stable political structure. In order to explain why these efforts have not yet borne fruit, we need to examine the central actors, including the mainstream opposition (the NLD); the military rulers; and the exiled opposition. The Mainstream Opposition: the NLD Before the May 1990 election, the NLD held a number of meetings to start drafting a new constitution that would facilitate transition to democracy following the elections. A draft was submitted to the NLD’s Central Executive Committee on April 25, 1990, with further discussion and redrafting in June and July. The process identified a series of amendments to be made to the 1947 constitution that would then serve as a 1990 Transitional Constitution. The main departure from the 1947 constitution was to annul the various sections dealing with the ethnic nationalities, proposing instead that: with authority derived from the People’s Assembly, and as contained in the League’s election statement as regards the ability for national races to resolve matters on their own and to held (sic) equal rights, call a National Convention and undertake to thoroughly coordinate comprehensive legislation by mutual agreement. [NLD CEC 1990]

In other words, the existing guarantees for minorities—such as Article 10 of the 1947 constitution dealing with secession—were to be abolished, but new guarantees would be negotiated ‘by mutual agreement’ on the basis of the free participation of the ethnic nationalities themselves. Since that time, the NLD has maintained this formula, that is, that dealing with the ethnic issue needs to be postponed until the ethnic groups themselves are able to be fully involved. The views of Aung San Suu Kyi (and the NLD) are well known with regard to the need for a return to democracy and the recognition of the rule of law and of human rights in general. Their views on ethnic grievances and remedies are less well known and although Aung San Suu Kyi herself clearly

burma / myanmar: struggle for democracy / ethnic rights

275

has a sophisticated appreciation of Western approaches, other NLD leaders have mainly shared Burma’s isolation. Many of the senior NLD figures are exTatmadaw men, sometimes erstwhile leaders of the forces fighting ethnic insurgents, and are seen as perhaps sharing the regime view of the structure of the state, while rejecting the current regime’s legitimacy. In her message on Union Day, 1996, Aung San Suu Kyi referred back both to the principles stated by her father in 1947 concerning the rights of the ethnic nationalities, and the position adopted by the NLD in the 1989–90 election period. While the tone of the statement is undoubtedly sympathetic to the rights of the ethnic nationalities, it is regarded by many ethnic leaders in exile as frustratingly ambiguous regarding specific issues that they see as contentious. For reasons relating to the history discussed earlier, these leaders would prefer to have clear minority guarantees included as part and parcel of the democracy process—alongside human rights and rule of law— rather than as something to be left to the vagaries and uncertainties of political decision-making once democracy is established. They fear that, as happened during the immediate post-independence period, the ethnic Burman majority will use their numerical preponderance to privilege their interests over those of the ethnic minorities, even in a democratic system. The Military Government: SLORC/SPDC On July 13, 1990, Major General Khin Nyunt, First Secretary of the SLORC, repudiated earlier SLORC statements concerning its intention to recognize the outcome of the election. He suggested that neither the 1947 constitution nor the 1974 constitution was necessarily ‘suitable for the emergence of a strong government’. ‘Instead’, he proposed, ‘a new constitution was to be drafted and promulgated’—a project in which the SLORC would take a keen interest, ostensibly to protect all segments of the population, especially the nationalities and ethnic minorities’ (Weller 1993: 10). The first concrete step towards what was to become the SLORC’s ‘National Convention’, however, did not emerge until after the replacement of SLORC chairman, General Saw Maung, by General Tan Shwe in April 1992. On July 10th 1992 the composition of the National Convention was announced. The 702 members had been handpicked by the SLORC and included only 99 elected representatives from the 1990 elections. The National Convention formally opened in January 1993 charged with drawing up, not a constitution, but a set of principles on which the future constitution would be based. Many of the delegates were alarmed to find that six basic principles had already been laid down by the SLORC including ‘a leading role in politics for the military’. By the end of its third, highly orchestrated, session (September 1993) the National Convention had ‘adopted’ 104 principles proposed by the SLORC, most significantly, that military appointees would make up 25 percent of the membership of representative

276

alan smith

bodies and reservation of the position of President to a person with a military background.5 Further sessions were convened in 1994 and 1995. The session scheduled to open on October 22, 1995 was postponed until November 28, and shortly afterwards the NLD demanded that the proceedings of the National Convention be liberalized. When this was rejected by the SLORC, the NLD began a boycott of the proceedings, leading in turn to the expulsion of the NLD by the SLORC. The NLD in protest stated its intention to develop its own version of a new constitution. On March 31, 1996 the National Convention was adjourned and the infamous Law 5/96 promulgated which outlaws constitution-drafting activity outside the framework of the National Convention and, in addition, outlawed more or less any action which can be regarded as negative towards the National Convention and its work.6 One significant point to emerge from those early sessions was the willingness of the regime to encourage the representatives of ‘small ethnic communities’ to put forward their claims for autonomy within the territories of the big ethnic minorities. This was envisaged in the original AFPFL draft constitution (which recommended ‘autonomous areas’ for smaller minorities within the ‘autonomous states’ for the seven large minorities) but was never adopted. It has also been envisaged in the exile opposition’s draft federal constitution, probably under the influence of advisors familiar with modern international norms regarding minorities. In 1997 following the admission of Myanmar to ASEAN, the military junta was reconstructed and reemerged as the SPDC. However no further moves towards a new constitution emerged until mid-2003. In an unfortunate culmination of the spasmodic dialogue between the junta and the NLD that had been engineered by UN Special Representative Razali Ismael, on May 30, 2003 Aung San Suu Kyi and other NLD leaders were violently ambushed at Depayin in northern Myanmar while on a ‘meet the people’ tour. Aung San Suu Kyi herself was not hurt, though an unknown number of deaths occurred during the bloody incident. She was then placed in detention ‘for her own protection’. The incident outraged international opinion and there were demands from every quarter that Aung San Suu Kyi and other detainees be released and that there should be tangible steps towards democratic reform. In August, the junta announced another reconstruction of the government, one that transferred the position of Prime Minister from junta leader, Senior General Tan Shwe to its third most senior leader and head of military intelligence, General Khin Nyunt. Shortly afterwards, Khin Nyunt revealed a 5

For full discussion of the outcome of the National Convention’s work, see BLC 1999. The results of these sessions of the National Convention have been compiled as The Basic Principles and Detailed Basic principles Laid Down by the National Convention Plenary sessions up to March 30, 1996. 6

burma / myanmar: struggle for democracy / ethnic rights

277

seven step ‘road map’ to democracy, beginning with the reconvening of the National Convention. This presented all political ‘actors’ inside the country with access to Myanmar’s political center with a dilemma: whether to welcome and join this new process as potentially favorable to the cause of democratization and the rights of ethnic minorities, or whether to deride and boycott it as yet another of the military’s succession of political charades. The international community was faced with the same dilemma, whether to welcome it or dismiss it. Overall, faced with assurances by the regime that the release of Aung San Suu Kyi was imminent, and that the procedures of the renewed National Convention would satisfy the NLD, there was cautious agreement between western and regional countries to welcome the National Convention and to propose what liberalizations would make it acceptable. Finally, however, the regime again demonstrated the shallowness of its assurances when the National Convention was reconvened on May 15, with no procedural reform, with Aung San Suu Kyi still under house arrest, and the NLD still sidelined. This heightened the dilemma faced by various ethnic groups invited to the National Convention. In the end some ethnic actors, especially the United Nationalities Alliance of ethnic political parties, showed their solidarity with the NLD and boycotted the proceedings. Other ethnic actors, especially a group of ethnic organizations that had signed ceasefires with the regime, including notably the KIO (Kachin Independence Organization) and NMSP (New Mon State Party), decided to participate. The participation of such groups was internally contentious, those favoring participation seeing it more as a chance to put ethnic demands on record rather than seriously expecting such demands to be met. Two months later, having accepted proposals concerning the principles that should apply to defining the powers of the central government and the states, on July 9, the National Convention was again adjourned. It was reported that the National Convention Convening Committee was disturbed by the sweeping demands put forward by the ceasefire groups concerning ‘federal style’ division of powers and had urged them to reconsider. Ultimately their proposals were presented to the plenary session but only after substantial rewording. This heightened the clamor within the ceasefire groups to withdraw their participation. In short, while the military regime has expressed a willingness to allow ethnic groups to be represented in the National Convention, and has not repudiated the idea that the seven main minority groups should have their own states, it has not (yet) done anything to actually address the underlying imbalance in power between the center and the peripheries. On the contrary, it has justified its rule precisely on the grounds that a strong central government is needed to prevent ‘national disintegration’, and so has suppressed any attempts to shift to a genuine form of autonomy for the states.

278

alan smith

The Exile Opposition: The NDF, DAB, NCGUB and NCUB The 1988 ‘people power’ uprising marked a watershed in the civil war, for the bloody crackdown on pro-democracy forces led many to flee to the border areas to join armed insurgent forces. The non-Communist elements of these forces had been grouped together since 1976 in an alliance known as the National Democratic Front (NDF). This coalescence at the border of the nonBurman nationalities and the mainly ethnic Burman democracy movement was symbolically important. The political basis of the new Democratic Alliance of Burma (DAB)—the alliance forged at the end of 1988 between armed ethnic groups and pro-democracy groups—reflected the willingness of the newly arrived exile democracy groups to support the ethnic minority vision of a future democratic and federal Burma. In 1989 the DAB set in motion a process of constitution-drafting aimed specifically at defining the nature of the ‘genuine federalism’ demanded by the insurgent ethnic nationalities. After SLORC overturned the 1990 elections and declared martial law, a new wave of arrests followed, including elected members of the victorious parties and in December 1990 a group of twelve elected members fled to the rebel-controlled Thai border area to form a government in exile, the National Coalition Government of the Union of Burma (NCGUB). In 1992 the DAB’s federal constitution-drafting exercise was given new impetus when, at a conference with a strong international expert presence, the NCGUB declared support in principle for federalism and agreed to join the DAB constitutiondrafting process. This common commitment to a federal future was celebrated in the signing of the ‘Manerplaw Agreement’ and the formation of a new peak alliance known as the National Council of the Union of Burma (NCUB).7 In May 1995, the DAB constitution-drafting committee was extended to become an NCUB committee. In addition, the Burma Lawyers Council, formed by a group of exiles in 1994, has played a highly proactive role in support. Among leaders in exile, a great deal of learning has occurred through participation in non governmental organization (NGO)-supported meetings, capacity-building training and exposure trips associated with the DAB-NCUB federal constitution-drafting process.8 More recently there have been efforts to foster state constitution-drafting processes also. Ethnic leaders in exile have therefore had many opportunities to develop their views and voice their main concerns about a new constitution for Burma. Their views are usually 7

At its formation, the NCUB included the NDF, DAB, NLD(liberated Area), and the NCGUB. 8 The scope of influences can most easily be gauged by examining the pages of the Legal Issues on Burma Journal, published by the BLC and the papers published by the Technical Advisory Network of Burma with the support of the Burma Fund.

burma / myanmar: struggle for democracy / ethnic rights

279

stated in terms of how a federal constitution would need to be formulated to satisfy them. Sometimes this is stated in terms of ‘genuine federalism’ (as distinct from what they see as phony federalism, e.g. that of the 1947 Union of Burma). The result is that amongst exile groups it has become a kind of accepted orthodoxy that there is only a very narrow range of constitutional options that could satisfy ethnic requirements. Any popular discussion of the constitutional issue in ethnic circles always produces emotional debate about a number of key issues including the secession issue. There is a similarly emotional reluctance by ethnic leaders to allow the term ‘minorities’ to be applied to them or to enter too much into discussion of ‘minority rights’, insisting instead on the language of ‘nation’ or ‘ethnic nationality’, or in some cases ‘indigenous people’, in order to be able to claim what they see as the wider rights of self-determination of ‘peoples’. This is understandable but unfortunate as the evolving United Nations human rights provisions aimed at preventing discrimination and enhancing the situation of ethnic, religious, and linguistic minorities can provide a basis for achieving many of the same substantive goals as the ‘self-determination of peoples’. In many cases, representatives of the non-Burman ethnic nationalities proudly reject the application of the term ‘minority’ to their community, seeing this as reducing their status to that of immigrant minorities such as the Chinese and Indians.9 The DAB/NCUB draft constitution is essentially a constitution of the classic federal type, envisaging a federal union comprising ‘National States and Nationalities States’ and with provision for ‘National Autonomous Regions’ and ‘Special National Territories’. It provides for self-determination for the states ‘in accordance with this constitution’—a phrasing that is intentionally vague (Constitution Drafting Committee of the NCUB 1998). Those responsible for drafting this constitution have learned from their NGO supporters and academic friends to treat the ‘right of secession’ as of dubious value and the draft contains no reference to secession. Whenever the draft is subjected to popular scrutiny in opposition/exile circles, however, there is invariably heated argument about the desirability and wisdom of such an omission.

The Freezing of Debate: Isolation and Repression These then are the three main groups of actors: the mainstream opposition within Burma; the military regime; and the exile opposition that unites 9 The place of such minorities is beyond the scope of this paper. It is a contentious issue, the responses to which are highly emotional and not easily aligned with the Burman versus ethnic minority division, or junta versus opposition division, as becomes clear every time the situation of the Muslim Rohingya population of Arakan State is discussed.

280

alan smith

outlawed pro-democracy forces with ethnic insurgents. The first avoids taking a clear stand on minority demands for federalism and self-determination, on the grounds that such decisions can only be made in consultation with minorities themselves after conditions of freedom and democracy have been established; the second pays lip service to the idea of an inclusive process of constitution-drafting that includes ethnic minorities, but legitimizes its rule on the ground that strong central government is needed to prevent national disintegration; and the third is committed to the classic federalism demanded by insurgent organizations representing the big ethnic minorities as an expression of the principle of self-determination of peoples. Finding a way of reconciling these views would be difficult under the most auspicious conditions. But conditions today in Myanmar are not auspicious. Far from encouraging or enabling a free exchange of ideas and public deliberation, so as to find common ground amongst these contending actors, the government has firmly prohibited it, leading to a situation of intellectual isolation. Between the 1996 adjournment of the National Convention and its reconvening in May 2004, there was a resounding constitutional silence from the regime. Under military rule, the discussion of ethnic issues is particularly sensitive. Because of the ethnic insurgency there is a total ban on contact with illegal ethnic insurgent organizations and anybody voicing ethnic issues is prima facie suspected of contacts with such organizations. While ethnic insurgents who have entered into ceasefires can be said to enjoy access to the regime, whenever substantive issues have been raised, the government has ingenuously responded that since it is a military junta, it is unable to deal with political issues. Of course, ceasefire groups and their communities are subject to the same restriction of public expression as the rest of the country. Inside Myanmar, any public discussion of ethnic rights or constitutional issues is subject to the same repressive intolerance of public debate about all political issues that has prevailed since the 1962 military coup. The period of the 1988 uprising and, to a lesser extent the period of the 1990 election campaign, were short-lived exceptions. As a result, published or broadcast views about the constitutional future of Myanmar and about ethnic rights mainly emanate from pro-democracy and ethnic exiles and are designed to extol the virtues of democracy, human rights, and federalism and to discredit the regime. Such ideas have no public dissemination inside the country (other than through external sources such as Radio Free Asia, Democratic Voice of Burma) and limited private circulation. Years of self-imposed isolation and continuing bureaucratic obstacles to travel have compounded the effects of political repression. Even within the elite very few people have had any opportunities for sustained exposure to the development of ideas and norms in the international community. There

burma / myanmar: struggle for democracy / ethnic rights

281

is no access to a modern, analytical history, or political science course, there are few independent-minded practicing lawyers; there is little knowledge, for example, of comparable situations either within the region or in other parts of the world. In such conditions, views about solutions to the ‘ethnic problem’ tend to reflect the well-worn debates of the period before the military takeover or, in private, the parochial or propaganda views about specific moments in the relations between the authorities and the ethnic insurgent organizations.10 Given this rather depressing background, it is not easy to be optimistic about the future. And yet, as noted earlier, there is a surprising consensus on a framework that provides at least nominally autonomous states for the seven main ethnic minority groups. What remains contentious is the structural relationship between the mainly Burman heartland and the ethnic states. While like a number of other countries in the region, the word ‘federalism’ is seen by the current military authorities as taboo, the state does not attempt to deny the very existence of its minorities, or deny that self-consciously ‘ethnic’ actors should be able to participate in the constitutional process. In this sense, some of the obstacles to achieving a state structure that reflects a multinational society that exist in many Asian countries do not exist in Burma. However, if there is to be a peaceful transition to a democratic multinational state structure, certain crucial issues will need to resolved. In discussion amongst ethnic community leaders and educated ethnic people, quietly inside the country as well as more openly in the border area, besides the emphasis on the need for federalism or ‘genuine’ federalism, three main themes usually emerge: (a) ethnic states occupy an inferior position in the union; (b) ethnic leaders are not represented in national (government) leadership; and (c) ethnic rights are not respected by the government and the military. (a) Ethnic States: The feeling is widespread among ethnic people that, due to Burman-dominated government policies and practices, ethnic areas are either undeveloped or exploited compared with the Burman heartland. They see their areas as lacking infrastructure and economic opportunities, or as being developed only in the sense that their natural resources are extracted in such a way that the local people are by-passed in terms of decision-making and benefits. Worse, when development does occur in ethnic areas, local people often find themselves forcibly displaced from their land, usually with highly inadequate (or nonexistent) compensation. In short, because of a lack of real autonomy, ethnic communities see themselves as treated by successive Burman/military-dominated governments with disdain. 10 For a recent account of the state of the politics of conflict between the regime and ethnic groups, see ICG 2003.

282

alan smith

(b) Ethnic Leaders: The perception of ethnic people of Myanmar is that Burmans simply assume that it is the right and responsibility of Burmans to provide national leadership. Since non-Burman ethnic leaders see politics in primarily ethnic terms, they assume that Burman leaders should self-consciously lead the Burman ethnic community. For Burmans, however, there is no ‘Burman’ political position and no effort to represent Burmans. For Burmans, politics cuts across ethnicity, and political organizations established by Burmans are usually presented as ‘all Burma’ or ‘all-Myanmar’ in nature (although their perception of ‘all-Burmese’ interests is often unconsciously shaped by their ethnic Burman background). Some non-Burmans respond to this positively; in 1990 for example, the NLD attracted non-Burman candidates and voters. Nevertheless it might be said that Burmans are ‘all-Burmese nationalists’ while non-Burmans tend to be ethnonationalists. Since ethnic leaders see political action through ethnic eyes, they assume that voters vote ethnically and fear that Burmans will inescapably dominate an elected parliament and, without special measures, will always hold (central) government power. The question then is what sorts of special measures are required. Drawing on the independence period debate, some ethnic leaders look to the solution adopted in the 1947 constitution to provide for a strong upper house of parliament weighted in favor of the non-Burman nationalities. This solution, however, requires that there be a single ‘Burman’ state to complete the ethnic political map of Burma as a federation of ‘equal’ ethnic states. They see this mechanism as having been thwarted by the formula adopted in the 1974 constitution, which created seven administrative divisions within the ethnic Burman heartland (‘Burma proper’), alongside the seven ethnic states. In their view, not only has the political power of their ethnic states been diluted by the creation of new subunits within the ethnic Burman heartland, but their symbolic status has also been lowered. They have been reduced to the same status as an administrative subdivision within the ethnic Burman heartland, rather than being seen as the embodiment of a right of national self-determination that is held equally by all the major national groups in the country. The attempt by ceasefire ethnic groups to participate in the May–July 2004 National Convention sitting seems to have been a very courageous attempt to put pro-democratic and pro-federal issues on the agenda (see above). The issues chosen appear to reflect their perception that it was necessary to take a fairly strong position in order to defuse the tension over their decision to participate, especially from within the harder line sections of their own organizations and communities. (c) Ethnic Rights: Grievances specific to the treatment of ethnic communities concern discriminatory policies and practices of the state, for example, repressive language policy in education and discriminatory recruitment and

burma / myanmar: struggle for democracy / ethnic rights

283

promotion in government employment, and access to economic opportunities. When discussion about the lack of ethnic rights does occur, it reflects the diverse situations in which ethnic people and ethnic areas are seen to be treated unfairly by Burmans, a Burman-dominated state and of course the various instruments of the state, especially the army. The language issue is of great importance to the insurgent organizations that control or have controlled territory and population. Where their control of territory has been recognized by ceasefire, as in the case of the Wa and Kachin, and where they have the will and resources to conduct their own schools, the language of schooling is in accordance with their choice— variously, their ethnic language, Burmese, English, or Chinese (in the case of the China-border area). In the case of the New Mon State Party which has sought to defend and expand its influence beyond the pockets of territory left in its control after the ceasefire, it has had to negotiate agreements with the local authorities (with mixed success) to be able to conduct Mon language and literacy classes. Ethnic Karen growing up in Myanmar have no choice but to learn Burmese and in many cases are not able to use Karen. This is deeply resented by the Karen, not so much with regard to language use per se, since being able to use the national language is recognized as having certain practical advantages, but because they see this language shift as manipulated by the authorities to count such people officially as no longer ethnic Karen. Reaction against this practice is quite extreme in the KNU-influenced areas of the eastern border area, where there is popular belief that this is a statistical method of genocide and is just part of a wider genocide policy. Popular opinion in the KNU-influenced refugee camps is strongly against learning Burmese at all. The abuse of the rights of civilians in areas of armed conflict in Myanmar, mainly ethnic areas, has been well-documented. It appears to be so widespread and systematic that it must reflect an attitude of scornful disdain for the people, for laws, and for international law on the part of the Myanmar army, its commanders, and those responsible for its behavior in the field.11 In the end, however, abuses by the military in conflict areas concern the rights of civilians in a place and time of insurgency and civil war. The remedy appears to lie, in the long term, in retraining the armed forces to instill respect for the rights of all civilians, perhaps removing responsibility for internal security from the armed forces, and of course, addressing the causes of insurgency in order to bring about peace and reconciliation.

11 See for example the reports of the Karen Human Rights Group, the Shan Human Rights Foundation and the Mon Forum published by the Human Rights Foundation of Monland. See also reports on Karen and Karenni internally displaced people by the Burma Ethnic Research Group (1998, 2000) and Risser et al. (2003) on displacement in southern Shan state.

284

alan smith

Perhaps more importantly, however, it seems clear that abuse of the rights of civilians in conflict areas now extends beyond the conflict areas and, in postconflict areas, beyond the conflict into the postconflict period. The disdainful way that the Myanmar Army has arbitrarily displaced ethnic civilian populations as part of its counterinsurgency operations against ethnic insurgents, is a habit that now seems to have become the norm in the way the military authorities treat civilian populations who happen to be in the way of their needs or plans. Everywhere, in the interests of national development, much celebrated in the government’s media, the authorities seek to create or expand infrastructure. Undoubtedly this is necessary and frequently, if not always, an advantage to the local population as well as the authorities. Civilian populations are usually called on to provide labor and/or materials, all too often without payment or (in belated response to the International Labour Organization (ILO)’s anti-forced labor campaign) with only a fac¸ade of payment. However, this approach to development also extends the disdainful displacement of people in conflict areas to displacement of people from land that is required for development. Land for infrastructure, for the endless expansion of military bases and the surrounding land required to make them self-supporting, land for establishing commercial plantations and other economic enterprises—all such land is simply treated as owned by the state and previous occupants’ rights ignored. This does not happen only in ethnic areas, but it is of greatest extent and significance in ethnic areas where development projects are fostered by the military as part of its occupation of previous conflict areas and resettling and securing the civilian population. In short, any long-term resolution of the ethnic conflicts in Myanmar will require not simply the creation of meaningful territorial autonomies, but also reforming the disdainful way the state treats its minority citizens on a range of issues, from resource development to power-sharing at the center to respect for human rights. This in turn will require overcoming a long-history of denigration, distrust, and repression and the emergence of real processes of dialogue.

The International Response: Dialogue is a much used term when there is talk about political transformation in Myanmar. This reflects the resolutions emerging consistently from the annual UN General Assembly debates on Myanmar, which since 1994 have called for the military regime to solve the country’s political problem through tripartite dialogue, dialogue with the mainstream opposition NLD and with leaders of ‘ethnic forces’. The mainstream opposition and the exile alliance groups accept this formula. In principle, in response to international diplomatic efforts, the military regime also has declared itself as willing to

burma / myanmar: struggle for democracy / ethnic rights

285

enter into dialogue with the NLD, but despite several years of shuttle diplomacy by the UN Secretary General’s emissaries, there is little sign of any substantive dialogue emerging. Most observers therefore conclude that there is a need for a stronger international role with regard to bringing about change. The question is, ‘how’? To date, the international response to the twin political problems of Myanmar has been unsurprisingly, but unimaginatively, fixated on the position of Aung San Suu Kyi. While Western and regional responses to the ethnic issue have been to endorse the position put forward through the UN resolutions that Myanmar’s problems should be resolved through tripartite dialogue, this endorsement has always been halfhearted on the part of both, though for different reasons. The West’s fixation on Aung San Suu Kyi and its encounters with a Burman-dominated pro-democracy leadership of the exile opposition, has reinforced its distaste for ethnic politics, leading Western organizations to conclude that the ethnic issue is definitely the secondary one, better postponed until there is a democratic government to deal with it. Western diplomatic observers complain of the difficulty of coming to terms with the plethora of ethnic groups and organizations, and disparate and ill-tutored voices among them. While interested in the outcome of ceasefire negotiations, there never has been any serious Western initiative to find a solution or to initiate any alternative to the established process of bilateral ceasefire negotiations between the regime and the various ethnic insurgent organizations nor to find a way to bring representatives of ethnic minorities into the spasmodic dialogue between the NLD and the military. Responses from official observers in the region, apprised of Myanmar’s ethnic problems, tend to reflect their own view that such problems are volcanic and best dealt with firmly, perhaps in the way the SLORC/SPDC is doing (i.e. in the way they would probably do themselves) for fear of fanning separatist claims in other places in the region. Responses from more independent observers in the region, for example, regional NGOs and actively pro-democratic political parties, tend to reflect that of the West, which as we have seen, prioritizes the democracy issue. The Association of South East Asian Nations (ASEAN), seemingly best placed to influence Myanmar, and constantly troubled in its relations with the West by the adverse effect of Myanmar’s regular involvement in its major meetings, has been challenged from within to adopt a more proactive stance with regard to Myanmar. However, it has always in the end stepped back from the challenge, to avoid appearing to ‘interfere’ overtly in Myanmar’s internal affairs, which is seen as a basic principle of ASEAN. Therefore, it has had nothing also to offer regarding the ethnic conflict. Thailand has from time to time applied pressure on insurgent organizations to pursue ceasefires seriously, most notably and successfully on the

286

alan smith

NMSP in 1995 (South 2002). More recently, Thailand’s Thaksin administration has both applied pressure and offered to ‘assist’ the KNU to achieve a ceasefire. The offer to assist by being actively involved in the ceasefire talks was rejected by Myanmar’s military. It can be said, however, that while the Chuan government’s approach was to emphasize the need for the restoration of democracy and policies going beyond the soft ASEAN approach, the succeeding Thaksin government favors very soft diplomacy and sees economic development as holding the key. One way or another, it can be inferred that the growing economic and military dependence of the SPDC on China extends to Chinese views on structuring a multiethnic state, which allow for nominal cultural rights and local autonomy so long as they do not challenge the hegemony of the ruling party. In short, very few international or regional actors are currently pushing Myanmar to seriously address minority claims. At best, they assume that minority rights can best be dealt with after democratization has taken place. This may be a strategic error. Given the situation in Myanmar, the lengthy period under authoritarian rule, the lack of experience of public debate, the isolation of the country and its elite as well as its people from international norms, and the apparent determination of the regime to withstand and ignore international pressure, it may be necessary to search for the most hopeful seeds of dialogue. I believe that it is from the ad hoc negotiations between the military authorities and the various elements of the ethnic minorities, insurgent organizations, ceasefire groups, and community based organizations, that confidence in real dialogue is most likely to emerge. This is partly, of course, for the depressing reason that the regime shows such complete intransigence towards Aung San Suu Kyi and other senior NLD leaders (some of whom, as mentioned above, are themselves ‘defectors’ from the military leadership). On the other hand, negotiations between ethnic minorities and the military are likely to be focused on a wide range of issues of practical concern to ethnic communities but which can be discussed without calling into question the role of the military as government. This kind of dialogue could bring about realization on the part of both the military and ethnic leaders that in many cases solutions that accommodate ethnic rights and interests can be achieved through negotiated agreement, rather than by constitutional design. Much has been made in Myanmar’s opposition circles of the argument, derived from numerous other cases of political transition, about whether and how to provide the military leaders with a ‘safe exit’, in order to open up the opportunity for a political transition. There has been little discussion of the argument about how to respond to the military’s determination to have itself recognized as ‘final arbiter’ concerning the shape of the future state of Myanmar. While there is good reason to recognize that the selfish interests of military leaders may need to be reckoned with, there is good reason also to

burma / myanmar: struggle for democracy / ethnic rights

287

take into account the key political values that the military have appointed themselves to uphold and have used to justify their hold on power. The key issue is that of ‘the threat of disintegration of the nation’ as represented by the ethnic minorities. The ethnic issue can in that way be seen as perhaps not so much the primary as the preliminary issue, rather than the secondary one. This preliminary issue needs to be defused and finding a way to defuse the ethnic issue may in fact be a necessary condition for the military to be willing to commence substantive dialogue with politicians about political transition, when they seriously believe politicians are not to be trusted to defend the integrity of the nation. The potentially most suitable structure to accommodate regionally concentrated ethnic minorities may well be some form of ‘federal’ or quasifederal structure (though the Karen in Myanmar are not much regionally concentrated). Federal structures will not automatically solve the ‘ethnic problems’ outlined above—specific forms and processes need to be designed into a federal framework to deal with such problems, and such forms and processes can very likely even be designed into the union framework of the kind Myanmar has experienced. In addition, ethnic conflicts can hardly be solved by federalism if many members of the elite (and of the larger public) are not persuaded of the need for federalism, and/or where they have competing views about the acceptability of federalism (Smith 1997). What is required from all interested parties is a willingness to explore possible models of autonomy and protection of minorities free from preconceived and dogmatic ideas about ‘the only possible solution’ (Smith 2003). There is an emerging consciousness of the potential in this approach among both exile and ‘inside’ ethnic groups and it is also encouraging that the military was willing to countenance, even in a limited way, the contribution of the ceasefire groups to the May 2004 session of the National Convention. It may be useful for the international community to foster exploration of experiences in the region with different models of autonomy as well as emerging initiatives. It might then be possible to bring various parties from Myanmar into such discussions. For such an initiative to emerge requires an acknowledgement by many interested parties that resolving the ethnic issue is a prerequisite to any real movement towards democracy in Myanmar, rather than a desirable but secondary outcome.

13 Indian Exceptionalism or Indian Model: Negotiating Cultural Diversity and Minority Rights in a Democratic Nation-State G U R P R E E T M A H A JA N

Can democratic nation-states accommodate cultural diversity while sustaining a sense of collective identity? Does public recognition of cultural community differences pose a threat to the unity and integrity of the nation-state? Should liberal democracies be concerned about the fate of cultural minorities living within their boundaries? Will the application of majority–minority framework deepen democracy and nurture peace? Can cultural diversity be protected and nourished without compromising national well-being and the commitment to equality? These are questions that confront democracies all over the world today. Even though the western world is becoming increasingly sensitive to the presence of cultural majoritarianism in liberal polities, there is still little agreement on how should minorities, and the cultural diversity that they represent, be accommodated within a democracy. This chapter seeks to intervene in this debate by drawing upon and reflecting on the experience of India. India is, in some respects, quite unique, with enormous diversities of religion, language, and culture. Yet, as we think about a framework of democracy that is sensitive to the concerns of cultural minorities and respectful of differences, the experience of India may well provide some valuable input both for understanding the importance of a multicultural structure and for refining existing theories of multicultural accommodation.

1. Mandating a New Path India was among the first few democracies to embark on the multicultural path. At a time when Western liberalism advocated neutrality and differenceblind approach, India acknowledged the rights of minorities and valued cultural diversity. This was an innovative and bold initiative that defied the

indian exceptionalism indian model

289

dominant thinking of its time. After all independence of the country in 1947 had come with partition of her territory. The creation of Pakistan, as a separate homeland for the Muslim population, had resulted in mass migrations and unprecedented communal violence that left more than a million people dead. In this situation of charged communal passions there was a strong case for constructing an ethnonationalist state: one where the national identity was anchored in the culture of the Hindu majority. Indeed several prominent individuals argued that now we have Pakistan as a Muslim state, India could legitimately be a Hindu state. However, this proposal met with little support even from those leaders of the Indian National Congress (INC) who were known to be attentive to the sentiments of the Hindu community. Sardar Patel, to take one example, responded to these suggestions firmly with the statement: ‘I do not think it is possible to consider Hindustan as a Hindu state. . . . We must not forget that there are other minorities whose protection is our primary responsibility. The state must exist for all irrespective of caste and creed (Patel to B. M. Birla 10 June 1947, quoted in Mahajan 2001: 5; emphasis added). Creating a state that is rooted in the culture of the majority was one clear option. The second was to follow the classical liberal model and efface all reference to socially ascribed identities. There were strong voices in favor of this alternative too. They advocated that individuals be treated merely as citizens of the country and that rights be granted to them only in their capacity as citizens. Effectively this meant that no consideration be given to caste and community affiliations and all persons as citizens be treated alike by law. This option too was discussed but eventually it was agreed that while all persons as citizens would enjoy a set of core political and civil rights, minority populations have special concerns, particularly about the fate of their culture and possible pressures to assimilate into the majority. The path that India adopted selfconsciously therefore was one that acknowledged persons as citizens of the state as well as members of specific cultural communities. While political rights of participation were extended to all, nevertheless on other matters due consideration was given to community affiliations and membership. The language of majority and minority was not new to the Indian setting. During the British Raj community affiliations were factored into the political process, and as was the case in many other colonies, here too the electorate was differentiated along community lines. However, the multicultural path that India embarked on after independence was neither an extension of the colonial policy nor merely a pragmatic response to the political circumstances of the time. The latter certainly figured and weighed in the deliberations, but it was the emphasis on sustaining cultural diversity within a unified and integrated polity that gave the policy a new edge. In the eighteenth century, the East India Company operated with ‘European understandings of world history’ (Rudolph and Rudolph 2001: 39). They

290

gurpreet mahajan

believed that Hindus and Muslims represent two ancient and distinct civilizations, comparable to the civilizations of ancient Greece and Rome. Consequently, they treated the two communities as diverse cultural wholes and applied the customary laws of the relevant religious community while dealing with its members. However, by the nineteenth century, the British orientation had changed in two significant ways. First, the liberal individualist tradition came to dominate the colonial policy and this brought in a different assessment of India and her people. The colonized subjects were now uniformly represented as ‘people without a history’, ‘barbaric’, incapable of self-governance, and, above all, possessing little that was worthy of respect as knowledge.1 Second, the Revolt of 1857 revealed resistance to the British presence in India. Confronted with the issue of maintaining their control over the colony, the British began to differentiate between the Hindus and the Muslims—the two major communities in India (Desai 1976: 312–4). This was initially prompted by the desire to penalize and alienate those who were associated with the revolt, but subsequently it became an effective way of keeping the two communities apart. To quote General Rose (1801–1885): We maintain our power by playing off one section of Indians against another and we shall continue to do so. The inborn antagonism between the Indian races is a factor contributing to our strength. The divisive spirit must be kept alive and intact. For, if the whole of India were to stand up against us, then how could we continue to assert ourselves? (in von Pochhammer 1981: 387).

Consequently, even though the British initiated several group-differentiated policies, including separate electorate for the Muslims, these were often conceived and viewed as measures intended to draw a wedge between the two major communities; or at the very least, to win the support of a community (Chandra et al. 1989: 142, 290–1, 418–9). But even more significantly, these initiatives were not prompted by a respect for difference. The colonial policies were, by the nineteenth century, homogenizing in intent. Representing their task as a ‘civilizing mission’ the British hoped to ‘form a class of persons, Indian in blood and colour, but English in taste, in opinions, morals, and in intellect’ (Macaulay in Rudolph and Rudolph 2001: 41–2). Quite obviously, the diversity that the various communities represented was not here regarded to be either valuable or worthy of protection. It was at best a way of making the task of governing a foreign nation easier. In sharp contrast to this, the democratic framework of independent India was shaped by a positive evaluation of the different religions and cultures that existed here. Further, the structures and institutions were devised with the 1 Thomas Babbington Macaulay alleged that ‘all the historical information which has been collected from all the books written in Sanskrit language is less valuable than what can be found in the most paltry abridgements used at preparatory schools in England’ (quoted in Rudolph and Rudolph 2001: 41).

indian exceptionalism indian model

291

understanding that the diverse communities must be treated as equals in the public arena. Equal treatment for different communities meant that all should be at liberty to live in accordance with their culture, without being compelled to assimilate into the culture of the majority. To give some substance to this commitment, minority communities received special representation in the Constituent Assembly that undertook the task of framing the Constitution of independent India. In particular, members of minority communities were inducted into the Advisory Committee on Fundamental Rights for the explicit purpose of discussing and incorporating their claims and concerns.2 There was thus an effort to include members of different communities, particularly, religious and cultural minorities separately, so that they could have institutional recognition and their voice could be counted in the Indian polity. This was a radical departure from accepted liberal practices of that time and it was intended to give minorities a sense of belonging as equal partners in the polity. At a time when the tragedy of partition and community-based violence yielded considerable unease with internal differences, this initial effort of involving members of various communities in the deliberative process provided a cementing factor, that gave legitimacy to the Constitution which was subsequently framed and endorsed. Besides providing legitimacy, the participation of different communities bestowed recognition upon the many communities that composed the Indian nation-state. It openly accepted that India was a culturally diverse country, and that the diversity represented by the different ways of life would be expressed and protected in the public arena. This was the first gesture that aimed to assure the minorities that the culture of the majority would not be thrust upon them; and, they would have access to their culture. The Constitution of India eventually formalized these assurances and provided, on the one hand, safeguards to curb cultural assimilation, and, on the other, rights that enabled minority communities to protect and promote their distinct way of life. Cultural diversity was thus acknowledged: indeed, it was seen as an

2 On January 24, 1947, moving the resolution to set up the Advisory Committee, Govind Ballabh Pant elaborated on the composition of the Committee. The Committee would comprise seventy-two members. ‘ . . . Only 12 will be representatives of the general sections. Others will represent the minorities and the Tribal and Excluded Areas. The minorities will be represented in the following manner: The Hindus of Bengal, Punjab, NWFP, Baluchistan and Sind will have 7 representatives; the Muslims of the seven Provinces of U. P, Bihar, C. P, Madras, Bombay, Assam, and Orissa will have similarly 7 representatives; the Depressed or the Scheduled Castes will have 7 representatives; the Sikhs will have 6; Indian Christians will have 4; Parsis will have 3; Anglo-Indians will have 3; and the Tribal Areas and Scheduled Areas will have 13’ (Shiva Rao 1967: 59–60). 10 seats were to be filled through nominations by the President so that ‘he may nominate such persons as may conduce to the successful working of the Committee, and whose contributions may be helpful in reaching sound decisions’ (ibid.).

292

gurpreet mahajan

essential and indispensable characteristic of the Indian polity—one that was desirable and worthy of being preserved and cherished.

2. From a Plural Society to a Multicultural Polity In contemporary theories of multiculturalism and liberal pluralism, minorities receive special consideration for a variety of different reasons. In some cases, special treatment is justified on grounds of self-respect and the need for recognition (Taylor 1992: Carens and Williams 1996); while in other cases, it is the concern for justice for oppressed groups that provides the rationale for special rights (Spinner 2001). In India, it was an acceptance of the existing cultural plurality along with a positive evaluation of diversity that provided the rationale for the multicultural framework. The fact that cultural diversity was valued, affirmed, and even protected here, while most other countries in the region pursued more aggressive and assimilationist policies of nationbuilding, has prompted many scholars to explain the distinctiveness of the Indian path in terms of the religious traditions of the country. The tolerance and respect for differences that informed the Constitution of independent India is here considered to be an expression of the plural and accommodative nature of Hinduism—the religion of the dominant majority comprising more than 80 percent of the population. There is no doubt that within the geographical space that comprises contemporary India, Hinduism has coexisted with ‘Judaism . . . for nearly two thousand years, Christianity from the time before it went to Europe, and Zoroastrianism for over twelve hundred years’ (Nandy 1998: 336). Also, that Hinduism is a nonproselytizing religion; it has no institutionalized hierarchy of the kind that structures Roman Catholicism; and, it is polytheistic in nature and does not impose upon its members any specific creed or sacred text. Hence, as a religion Hinduism is extremely plural and allows space for other religious communities to exist without imposing its own truths upon them. Yet it is not the Hindu way of life or religious tradition that propelled the pursuit of the multicultural path. Nor was the multicultural framework that India endorsed at the time of independence a natural corollary of Hindu tolerance. Indeed, the period immediately before independence saw the growth of a more aggressive and exclusionary Hinduism, one that found its most articulate expression in the writings and speeches of Vir Savarkar and Hedgewar. The framers of the Indian Constitution eventually rejected this expression of Hinduism and chose to emphasize the desirability of living with differences. As was mentioned earlier, India was a land of many religions, languages, and sects. The rulers who conquered the land and settled here often enriched the existing plurality by endorsing existing customs and practices. But there were also moments of conflict. Since the

indian exceptionalism indian model

293

seventeenth century particularly, we have the emergence of a distinct Hindu consciousness that posits itself in opposition to the prevailing Muslim rule. These sporadic, but steadily increasing, articulations of difference over the next two centuries helped to build and consolidate a Hindu identity that is more cohesive and less accommodative of otherness. When India gained independence it is these assertions of Hindu religion and community identity that come to the negotiating table, and the path of diversity and accommodation is eventually endorsed by setting aside these voices of Hindu community that express an attitude of cultural majoritarianism. The compulsions that pushed the political leadership in the direction of a multicultural polity were many. Negotiating with several politically assertive and mobilized communities, and witnessing the costs of mass population transfers across boundaries underlined the urgency of holding the country together by taking cognizance of the voices that came from diverse communities. Beyond these pressures of the immediate context, there were considerations that had propelled the struggle for national independence to recognize and affirm diversity. In the course of the anticolonial struggle, the political leadership had to take note of the internal plurality of India and to make an effort to represent it. In fact, the INC continuously presented itself as the voice of the Indian people as a whole, and to give credence to their claim that the British should negotiate with them, they made an effort to bring into its fold people of different religions, castes, and class. One may question whether the INC was able to successfully do this, but there is little doubt that the organization, which played a critical role in leading the fight for independence and subsequently framing the Constitution of independent India, acknowledged the cultural diversity of India. Even more importantly, its leadership maintained that a strong and unified India could be built while retaining its cultural diversity. The idea that diversity could coexist with political unity along with the normative commitment to realizing this ideal, did not however translate into support for group differentiated policies, particularly, in the political arena. Often, political mobilizations on the basis of caste and religion, as well as policies of separate electorate were resisted on the ground that they encouraged separatism. Yet, even as the concern for an integrated and unified India was preeminent in their thinking, there was a firm belief that political unity could subsist with the commitment to protect cultural diversity. Unity and diversity, in other words, were not viewed as antithetical and conflicting values. They could dwell together, and this meant that India could be a multicultural or even a multinational democratic polity. It was on the basis of this understanding that the Indian National Congress, before independence, challenged the two-nation theory that was voiced to demand a separate state for Muslims, and after independence, deliberated upon the Constitution of the country.

294

gurpreet mahajan

The political leadership did play an important role in imagining a culturally diverse India, where pluralism at the social plane would survive with political unity. But this imagination was spurred as much by the experience of colonialism as by the practices of the colonizers. In the shared context of colonial subjugation it was possible to argue that the colonized people shared a historical predicament. They could, despite their differences, come together and imagine themselves as one nation with common political aspiration for independence and self-governance. Collective historical experience and a perceived common fate and future suggested that an independent India could be united and one, without asserting cultural identity and sameness.3 At another level, this assertion was an expression of liberalism that had been mediated by an encounter with the Indian reality and the practices of the British colonizers. The colonial rule had hardened community identities and made them more assertive in the political arena; as a consequence, the individual could not be seen merely as a citizen or an ‘unencumbered’ self. The existing reality compelled recognition of the fact that cultural communities defined, in part at least, the individual, and that the individual brings these collective identities and interests into the public arena. Hence, in the conception of independent India these collective identities could not be effaced; if anything they had to be factored in but in a way that did not fragment the polity. This was the challenge before the framers of the Constitution, and they met this by making an analytical distinction between heterogeneity and fragmentation, cultural situatedness and cultural nationalism. While the notion of cultural situatedness located the individual citizen as a member of a community, affirming cultural diversity meant treating members of different communities as equals. But giving substantive form to this understanding of equality and diversity posed several problems. Recognizing and asserting the value of diversity entailed respecting all forms of differences, whatever the nature of the group and the cultural practices that it endorses. When it is a question of rectifying past injustices, or giving autonomy to 3

Even within the Indian National Congress, there was one stream of thought that based respect for diversity in Indian tradition. It represented the Hindu community, which formed the majority in the country, as a tolerant society. But an argument of this kind suggested primarily that diversity of cultures was an integral part of the Indian/Hindu tradition and inheritance. Hindus could, and more importantly, they have in the past, lived with diversity, and the minorities should recognize this attribute of the majority community. Hence, they should be willing to trust the Hindu community and feel assured that their identity and religion will be protected in the future. However, what eventually prevailed, and brought in the concern for diversity with unity, was perception of a shared historical experience and the collective desire for freedom and self-governance. In a framework that reflected, in several ways, a republican spirit, it was assumed that collective participation for shared political ideals would yield a unity wherein cultural heterogeneity would not result in the fragmentation of the polity.

indian exceptionalism indian model

295

groups that had previously been discriminated against by the state, or creating a sense of belonging among marginalized groups, it is possible to distinguish between different communities and the claims that they represent. However, when diversity is cherished for itself, then such distinctions become meaningless, for the difference embodied by various cultural groups appears to be equally valuable. There is little ground for saying that the way of life articulated in some cultural forms is more worthy of our respect and protection that others. Consequently, affirming cultural diversity often raises anxieties about the fate of vulnerable groups within a community. Concerns of this kind surfaced even in India, particularly with regard to the position of women. However, what is significant is that even though these fears were expressed, the verdict was clearly in favor of protecting diversity. While designing the multicultural structure, the framers of the Indian Constitution designed a structure that protected cultural diversity but in giving content to this idea they differentiated between four kinds of communities—communities based on religion, language, caste, and tribe. Caste groups that were placed at the bottom of the hierarchy had suffered discrimination on account of social segregation and exclusion. Hence, in their case, the immediate concern was to set aside existing social prejudices so that they could have access to resources that were available to the rest of the population. In the case of tribal communities, several of whom were separated and protected from the wider society, as well as religious and linguistic communities, the focus was upon protection of diversity such that each group could live in accordance with its distinctive way of life and culture. But, within this framework, the claims and rights of religious, linguistic, and tribal communities were differentiated. What emerged, and was subsequently strengthened, was a system of differentiated rights within a federal system, and over the years, it is by building upon the latter that minority claims have been, to some extent, accommodated.

3. Accommodating Religious Diversity The multicultural framework that was initially devised protected diversity by giving communities the right to govern themselves in some respects. Religious communities received rights to govern their religious and associated social and cultural practices. All communities received equal rights to ‘profess, propagate, and practice’ their religion. Additionally, they had rights to establish and manage their own separate institutions—charitable trusts as well as educational institutions. The latter could receive financial and other kinds of assistance from the state; they could also provide religious education for their members, albeit on a voluntary basis. The Constitution, furthermore, gave official recognition to the Personal Laws of four identified

296

gurpreet mahajan

communities—Hindus, Muslims, Christians and Parsees.4 This meant that in all matters concerning family (e.g. marriage, divorce, inheritance, alimony, custody of children), individuals were to be governed by the personal laws of their respective communities. Thus, the distinctive ways of life of different religious communities were publicly recognized. Protection of diversity in their case translated into group cultural autonomy (for details, see Mahajan 1998: 40–114). The identified religious communities, which were numerically small and in this sense constituted minorities, were spread over different regions; hence, no corresponding territorial rights could be given to them.5 However, should they have some form of separate political representation? This was an issue that received serious consideration. Two options existed: (a) institution of separate electorates so that the minority population could elect its own representatives; and (b) retaining joint electorate with reserved quotas for each minority in legislative bodies. The former, it was argued, would permanently divide the citizen population, compelling them to see themselves only, or primarily, as members of different communities. While it would allow community members to determine just who would represent them, it would suggest that each community has separate and discrete interests. This assumption was found to be problematic; in fact it was seen as dividing the country permanently by suggesting that only members of a community could articulate collective interests of that group. The freedom movement had been premised on the understanding that people of India, cutting across communities, had a common interest and political goal. The leadership held on to this belief and asserted the liberal view that representatives in deliberative bodies must think of the welfare of the people as a whole, rather than of a specific group. Consequently, it was the second option that was preferred. But here the question was—should quotas be reserved in proportion to the size of a community in a given region or on the basis of its strength in the country as a whole? Region based quotas would be more representative of the reality on the ground but it would mean that a religious group, like Hindus, who 4 The Personal Laws of the Hindus and the Muslims had been homogenized and codified by the British. Before independence, the Indian National Congress had established a committee to look at the Hindu Personal Law. However, when the Constitution was framed for independent India, existing community Personal Laws, with prevailing incongruities and structures of gender inequality, came into effect. 5 In any case, India had just been partitioned to carve out a separate homeland for the Muslim minority. Under the circumstance, the political leadership was not in favor of identifying regional boundaries in a way that might allow a religious minority to be transformed into a majority. The creation of Pakistan had resulted in unprecedented communal violence, so the possibility of giving religious communities separate territorial jurisdiction over a region would have been resisted.

indian exceptionalism indian model

297

constituted a majority in the country might have seats reserved for them in a region where they were in a minority. Likewise, some groups that were a minority in the national context might not have separate representation in a given region. Hence, issues relating to the identification of the majority and the minority surfaced. Group autonomy in religious and cultural matters was easily defensible on grounds of diversity, particularly because this was not something that was extended only to minority populations. In principle all forms of diversity, including the one represented by the majority community, was considered valuable. Hence, members of all communities received the right to be governed by their distinctive religious and cultural practices. The question of separate political representation is almost always riddled with difficulties. If it has the advantage of ensuring that members of different communities are represented in decision-making bodies, it also means that minorities will always be a minority. They cannot see through any legislation without the help of other communities, particularly the majority. In India, in the final stages of deliberation, the idea of granting separate representation for minority communities was abandoned. The minorities were persuaded to withdraw this claim voluntarily. Although much has since been written about the pressures that yielded this outcome (e.g. Ansari 1999), the question that needs to be asked is: would it have been better to grant separate representation for minorities? Autonomy for religious groups in cultural matters almost always results in the subordination of women. Since most communities are patriarchal in structure, they invariably endorse laws that are biased against women. The situation in India was no different. Here too, endorsing community personal laws meant accepting a framework in which women were not, and are not, treated as equals. This has led some to argue that religious communities should have received rights in the ‘public’/political domain, perhaps in the form of separate representation, rather than rights in the ‘private’ sphere that protected the regime of inegalitarian personal laws (Ali 2000). It is a moot point whether cultural autonomy could have been interchanged for separate representation. However, if separate representation for minorities had been accepted, the Parliament would probably have had to take up the task of reforming their personal laws. At present, constitutionally sanctioned cultural autonomy along with the absence of separate minority representation have created a situation in which the state can justify nonintervention in the personal laws of the community. The minorities can also, with reason, claim that the state or the central Parliament can as a representative of the majority community legislate on the practices and personal laws of that community, but not for the minorities as they are inadequately represented in it. Today, the responsibility of altering and reforming personal laws of minority communities rests with these communities and, by and large the state has refrained from intervening in them.

298

gurpreet mahajan

There is thus a strange dialectic at work between separate political rights for nonterritorially concentrated communities and special cultural rights for them. And it is this that requires some closer consideration. In India, it was the consensus on granting special cultural rights that marked the initial compact. Consequently, in the last decade when the dominant political party in government—the BJP—has raised the issue of legislating a uniform civil code in lieu of existing community personal laws the minorities fear that the terms of their incorporation into the Indian polity are themselves being questioned. Even though a uniform civil code, along the lines recommended earlier by the Law Commission and several women’s groups, may be a way of providing justice for the marginalized women, yet doing away with the plural system of personal laws appears as a tool of homogenization. The apprehensions of the minority communities are in part fueled by the ground reality that the party mooting this change is closely associated with the agenda of consolidating the national identity around the Hindu cultural identity. Hence, there is an anxiety that the norms of the uniform civil code may be set by the cultural code and imagination of the majority Hindu community. The challenge that confronts India today is how to ensure justice for all while simultaneously retaining its multicultural identity. And it is this concern that has prompted many, even in the women’s movement, to argue for gender-just personal laws rather than a uniform civil code. Another point that needs also to be noted here is that the Indian Constitution protected diversity by protecting the religious liberty of all communities. Religious minorities were not individually identified for separate and special consideration. However, while all communities—the majority as well as the minorities—enjoyed freedom to live in accordance with their own religious and cultural practices, the state could intervene to minimize and eradicate the practice of untouchability. State intervention to end the practice of untouchability, and with it, of forced segregation and exclusion, was motivated by the concern for equality. However, since untouchability was a practice associated with Hindu beliefs and way of life, this also meant that the state was expected to interfere in aspects of Hindu religion and way of life. If we look at the record of the last fifty years, we find that the Supreme Court of India has acted to minimize unwarranted interference in the affairs of the Hindu majority community, yet there is now a growing sentiment that the minorities are ‘pampered’ and their autonomy is protected while the state intervenes in the affairs of the majority. In part this impression is an outcome of the fact the state was authorized to act against some of the injustices emanating from the caste system, but over the years, the state, seeing itself as representing the will of the majority, has also acted to alter the Hindu personal law so as to make it more fair to women. Similar interventions have not been made in the personal laws of minority communities, and one can with justification say that the assurances given to the minorities at

indian exceptionalism indian model

299

the time of making the Constitution warranted this course of action. Yet, the majority community has used this to argue that they are being unfairly and unequally treated. Such assertions on the part of the majority religious community are a means of consolidating and building a cohesive Hindu identity and of consolidating the hegemony of the majority but they are significant in so far as they highlight the problems that arise when we efface the distinction between the majority and the minorities. When the reference is to communities alone, then what is expected is identical treatment. Any deviation from that norm appears to be an expression of partiality. It is only when communities are differentiated, either as majority and minorities, however problematic these terms might be, can we justify different treatment in the interest of ensuring fair and even treatment to all.

4. Promoting Linguistic Diversity Affirmation of cultural diversity took a somewhat different form in the case of linguistic communities. Here, diversity was recognized but, at the same time, it was believed that to reinforce the unity of the country, which is inhabited by people of diverse religions, there was need for a shared language. Thus, even as the presence of different languages and linguistic communities was acknowledged, it was felt that the nation-state required a single language for communication; as such, one language had to be privileged, at least in relative terms. Armed with this perspective, the Constitution began by according official recognition to six languages that were spoken in the country but this number has since grown. Today there are eighteen languages that have been designated as official languages but only one language—namely, Hindi—has the status of national language. What is important here is that Hindi, written in Devanagri script, was chosen as the national language. As Hindustani, a combination of Hindi, Urdu and, to some extent, Punjabi, was the language spoken by an overwhelming majority there was a proposal to declare Hindustani as the national language. Alternately, it was suggested that Hindi written in the Urdu and Devanagri script could be accepted as national language. Since Urdu had, in the course of the anti-imperialist struggle, come to be associated with the Muslim community, this may have been a way of accommodating the largest minority community in the public arena. However, both proposals were rejected; the latter by a single vote. Thus, while linguistic diversity found a place in the constitutional frame, the desire to construct the nation-state around a single homogeneous identity prevailed in this respect. At the time of framing the Constitution it was agreed that for a period of fifteen years English, along with Hindi, would continue to function as a

300

gurpreet mahajan

national language. The use of English, as the medium of communication for purposes of the Union, was expected to give way to Hindi over time. But in the post-independence period the imposition of Hindi has been resisted strongly by non-Hindi-speaking states in the South and the Northeast. As a consequence, the homogenization that might have been effected through language has been checked, if not entirely thwarted. Diversity has prevailed further through the linguistic reorganization of regional states. The Constitution had given linguistic minorities6 the right to establish separate educational institutions to protect and promote their language and culture, and they could receive assistance from the state. Over the years the Supreme Court has argued that educational institutions established by linguistic minorities are not restricted to teaching only their language and culture; they can provide comprehensive education in every field of knowledge in their language. Further, and perhaps even more significantly, a series of popular assertions in the 1950s compelled a stronger recognition of linguistic diversity. A movement for recognition that began in Andhra Pradesh, and later found support in analogous mobilizations in Maharashtra, Punjab and several other regions, prompted the establishment of a Commission and the enactment of the State Re-organization Act 1956. Over the next several years, regional state boundaries were redrawn such that a linguistic community occupying contiguous territory could become a selfgoverning majority in a given region. The creation of linguistic identity based units, each with political rights to govern itself, within the framework of the federal system, was significant because it marked a departure from the thinking that informed the structure of minority rights in the Constitution. The view that prevailed in the Constitution respected diversity and wished to protect it, yet it maintained that affirmation of particularistic identities in the political sphere would fragment the country. The linguistic reorganization of states set aside this belief; it suggested, at least implicitly, that in the case of linguistic identities, cultural and political boundaries could overlap without dividing the country. This has indeed been reaffirmed from the experience of the last few decades. What is also noteworthy is that linguistic reorganization has enhanced the structure of diversity enormously. As the language of the majority linguistic community in the region became the official language of that state, the medium of instruction and public examination, communication and media 6 Linguistic minorities are identified regionally. While religious minorities were identified on the basis of their size in the total population, the Supreme Court of India identifies linguistic minorities with reference to a specific region. Thus, groups that may be a majority at the national level may nevertheless be a linguistic minority in a particular state. Granting of minority status in this way has further nurtured diversity within a region. It has created and sustained options for the people in that region: options, for instance, to read in a school where the official regional language is the medium of instruction or in an institution with a different medium of instruction, such as English or Hindi.

indian exceptionalism indian model

301

networks, it grew and flourished. On another plane, the creation of linguistically defined federal units provided opportunities to regional linguistic elites who might have remained marginalized in the national level. India is a land of enormous linguistic diversity, with over 1600 mother tongues being used in the 1950s. Quite obviously, all the languages that were in use did not receive recognition, let alone a separate territory. It is not possible to discuss here the complexities of the politics of language recognition, but gradually, mobilized and assertive linguistic communities achieved official recognition in the Eighth Schedule of the Constitution; and when possible, a ‘homestate’ (Kamat 2003: 152). The effect of granting recognized linguistic communities some autonomy over a defined territory has been extremely positive. Languages that had what may be called, a ‘homestate’ have consolidated, while languages that received recognition but no homestate have not been able to sustain themselves. To take an example: Konkani speakers in Goa diminished significantly, from being approximately 88.8 percent of the population in 1961 to 64.8 percent in 19717 (Kamat 2003: 162). Self-government rights and limited political autonomy for territorially concentrated linguistic identities have reinforced the multicultural framework and helped considerably in deepening diversity. But it has also highlighted the difficulty of the task at hand. As was mentioned earlier, eighteen languages have been recognized as official languages by the Constitution. Yet there are several languages that are waiting to receive similar recognition. Tribal languages, such as Santhali, Bhili, and Gondi, that are spoken by more than a million people, have not received similar recognition. Languages like Sindhi and Urdu have now received the status of official languages but as the speakers of these languages are distributed over several regions, there is no possibility of them having a homestate. Under the circumstances, the survival of these languages as well as the status of the users of these languages depends hugely upon the rights granted to internal minorities within a region. The principle that minorities within a region must receive the same rights as any other minority within the nation-state is often readily accepted but actual practices on the ground usually tell a different story. In India, many minority languages within the region do not have second-language status and in some cases this status has been withdrawn from previously recognized minority languages. This may seem to be a practical problem involving the 7

Goa was till the mid-1980s a union territory, with Marathi speakers enjoying a hegemonic position. In fact there were pressures to include Goa as a part of Maharashtra, but that was eventually rejected through a referendum by the people of Goa. Over the years Konkani speakers mobilized and demanded official recognition. At first recognition for the language came from the Sathiya Kala Academy and subsequently Konkani was recognized as an official langauge and included in the Eighth Schedule of the Constitution. This paved the way for an independent statehood for Goa with Konkani as the official language.

302

gurpreet mahajan

failure to implement policies that have been agreed upon, but they hint at the political construction of diversity. In a context where ninety-six languages are still nonscheduled even though these are living languages with sizable numbers of speakers, and only eighteen languages have been declared official languages, with only fifteen having some homestate territory, the role of political authority in defining and shaping diversity has been extremely crucial. As a consequence, in the struggle for recognition it is the assertive and mobilized communities, possessing some degree of political and economic power, that have been most successful in achieving their goal. Moreover, in a land of considerable scarcity and competition between elites for resources, the overlapping of cultural and political boundaries has at times yielded particularistic chauvinism. The expression of such sentiments has been the sharpest in regions where the regional linguistic elite did not occupy prestigious social, economic, and political positions. Here linguistic identity movements, on securing statehood, have endorsed exclusionary policies and been hostile to other, especially powerful, linguistic groups within the region. The fact that measures which attend to the expressivist needs of cultural communities may also be appropriated to serve instrumental needs underlines the necessity of devising a framework where the minimum rights of minority groups within the region are protected. Indeed, the ethnic violence unleashed by such expressions as ‘sons of the soil’ (Weiner 1978) movements suggest that protection of the rights of all people in the region should perhaps be a condition for granting separate rights, like those of self-governance or separate statehood, for identified national minorities. While these issues persist and they need still to be addressed in many regions effectively, there is little doubt that the linguistic reorganization of states, by converting some linguistic minorities within the national context into regional majorities, has given political recognition to popular sentiment. This may have in some cases created new forms of ethnic conflict but it has also eliminated several sites of ethnic conflict within the nation-state. Political rights of governance to linguistically defined communities have sustained diversity, and provided opportunities and options to the speakers of that language even outside the homestate. All this has enriched and deepened democracy within the nation-state, with more and more people coming into the political process and regional parties, in addition to national parties, articulating their interests.

5. Cultural Diversity and Tribal Communities The third set of communities that received attention within the multicultural structure in India was the tribal communities. During the period of colonization, the British had followed the policy of, what might be called, protect-

indian exceptionalism indian model

303

ive segregation. From time to time the government through a notification would prescribe a line that was called ‘the Inner Line . . . to protect any subject living outside the area from living or moving therein’8 (quoted in Baruah 1989: 2088). Within the area designated by the Line, tribal communities were allowed to manage their own affairs ‘with only such interference on the part of frontier officers in their political capacity as may be considered advisable with a view to establishing a personal influence for good among the chiefs and the tribes’ (ibid.). When India became independent this ‘exclusionary’ policy was followed to some extent. Since it was feared that segregation might deprive tribal communities of opportunities for development, a policy of ‘integration’ as distinct from ‘assimilation’ was formally endorsed (Heimendorf 1982). Within it, the distinctiveness of the tribal ways of life was acknowledged and diversity of cultural forms was protected. Certain areas were accordingly identified as ‘excluded’ or ‘partially excluded regions’. Here, something akin to the idea of Inner Line prevailed; that is, within the ‘excluded areas’ free movement and passage of outsiders was curtailed, and within the identified region, tribal communities were given special rights to govern themselves in accordance with their customary law and distinct social and religious practices. It was in this way that cultural difference and diversity represented by the tribal communities was protected by the Constitution. In addition to recognizing diversity it was argued that these communities, while pursuing their own way of life, must be integrated as part of the Indian federal polity. For this, separate representation was envisaged for members of the identified Scheduled Tribes. Members participating in the debate maintained that in the absence of special representation these communities might remain isolated and unrepresented in the political system. Hence, an effort was made to bring them into the political process without undermining their cultural distinctiveness. In other words, while the concern for including them into the polity took the form of special representation, ensuring the survival of their distinct cultural identity led to the granting of a special status to those regions where there was a significant concentration of the Scheduled Tribes. Over the years, the latter has enabled many vulnerable communities to survive and protect themselves from pressures that come with the large-scale influx of ‘outsiders’. It is pertinent here to note that in areas, for example, in Tripura, where similar provisions for exclusion and protection did not exist for tribal communities, their share in the total population decreased enormously from 64 percent in 1874 to just 28 percent in 1981, with migrants, particularly from the neighboring country, Bangladesh, constituting approximately 70 percent of the population. Similarly, in Assam a comparison between the census of 8 It has also been argued that the Inner Line served the additional purpose of controlling commercial activities of the British with the frontier tribes (Bose 1981: 36)

304

gurpreet mahajan

1891 and 1971 shows that more than half the population living there were either immigrants or their descendants (ibid.). Special status accorded to identified states, or regions within a state, where the Scheduled Tribes were present in significant numbers, took the form of ‘multilevel’ and ‘asymmetric’ federalism (Arora 2001). In substantive terms the latter implied that the various constituent units of the Indian federation did not possess identical powers; some, given their social and political history, received special rights and powers. While for purposes of representation at the federal or central level they were treated alike, and the same principle was applied to determine the extent of their representation, in other respects they were not considered alike. Some with special status had special powers and jurisdictions. The most striking, and in recent times the most controversial, case of special status is the state of Jammu and Kashmir. Under Article 370 of the Indian Constitution the state of Jammu and Kashmir was to be governed by its own constitution and the role of the Central Parliament was restricted primarily to foreign affairs, defense and communications (Arora 1995: 78–9). In all other matters residuary powers resided with the state legislature. Here, the special powers given to the state of Jammu and Kashmir flowed from the Instrument of Accession that the state signed with India when it joined the Union. This was clearly an exception. In other cases, particularly in the Northeast region,9 asymmetrical powers to the constituent unit were not a consequence of a political agreement or treaty. In most cases special status was accorded to protect and represent the cultural diversity of the region and to allow tribal communities to continue with their distinct customary practices. Article 371, clauses A and G, of the Indian Constitution, for instance, provided the states of Nagaland and Mizoram special rights to govern themselves in accordance with their distinct social practices, customary laws, and community control over ownership and transfer of land and its resources. Patterns of asymmetrical federalism are today not uncommon in multicultural democracies. Most theories of multiculturalism in fact advocate and justify the need to give special powers or special rights to a constituting unit with a view to enabling its members to protect their distinct way of life. Asymmetric federal arrangements work on the twin principles of separate territorial jurisdiction and special status for cultural communities that are concentrated in a particular region. It is assumed that national minorities that have lived for a long period on a specific territory must have rights over that territory, or at least some degree of political autonomy to manage their own affairs. In India, the federal structure by and large based on linguistic identities, accommodated diversity. Within this wider framework of federalism, 9 The geographical region Northeast refers to seven states of the Indian Federal polity— namely, Assam, Arunachal Pradesh, Meghalaya, Mizoram, Manipur, Nagaland, and Tripura.

indian exceptionalism indian model

305

asymmetric units were created to give special attention to the history and needs of specific groups of people. It is today most widely applied for accommodating and protecting the diversity embodied in the tribal ways of life. The Northeast region, where tribal majorities enjoy special powers through a system of asymmetric federalism, is also a region with an enormous degree of internal heterogeneity. It is estimated that more than 600 tribes live in this region. In some cases, like Manipur, nontribal communities too have a long history of living on that land. Indeed they (the Meetei community) see themselves as the original inhabitants. But they exist today with several other tribes who have made Manipur their home. In such cases of vast internal diversity territorial solutions do not always provide adequate solutions to the needs of culturally distinct communities, all of whom are a minority in the national context. When there are contending claims over a territory, or when culturally distinct groups/minorities coexist in a given region, then separate territorial jurisdiction for each cultural community may only render vulnerable, and at times, unsustainable constituent units. Such situations therefore require a different framework of accommodation. In India a structure of multilevel federations has at times been devised primarily to deal with such situations of diversity. Even though there is no coherent policy in this regard, attempts at grappling with identity-based ethnic conflict and competing claims for recognition have led to experimenting with multilevel federations. Multilevel federations are an important innovation of the system and may well provide a framework to deal with diversities that have coexisted in a region for long periods of time. In many parts of South Asia, where movement across boundaries has been less restricted and relatively more free, the claims of diverse communities living on the same territory cannot be discounted. In all such contexts, where separate territorial jurisdiction as a distinct unit of the federation is not possible, it is multilevel federations that may provide a viable way of giving some degree of self-governance to diverse communities without bestowing exclusive rights over a territory. Multilevel federation entails the creation of, what might be called, subfederation: a separate structure of governance along with powers to deliberate on issues that contribute to the distinctiveness of a cultural community. In a culturally diverse region, one option is to have separate representation in legislative bodies and other decision-making institutions for different communities. But here the minorities remain a minority in each unit and may have limited opportunity of influencing policy. By comparison, in multilevel federalism, territorially concentrated minorities in a region can enjoy certain rights to govern themselves on matters that are considered central to the survival of that community as a distinct cultural group. This gives the elites within the community power to influence decisions on crucial cultural and

306

gurpreet mahajan

political issues, and the opportunity to access valued resources and positions. Thus, a kind of dual membership is constructed: the community exists as a separate entity in a defined area but it remains, for purposes of participation and representation, a member of the regional state. In India, in some areas of the Northeast, where culturally distinct communities, such as tribal and nontribal populations, hill tribes and tribes living in the plains, live together in the same territory, multilevel federal arrangements have from time to time been designed to give voice to diverse communities. While the state constitutes the federal unit of the polity, within a state another level was added to the political and administrative structure in the form of Regional District Councils. To take an example: to accommodate the hill tribes of Assam in 1969, an ‘autonomous’ state of Meghalaya was formed within the state of Assam. This arrangement did not however last long and eventually in 1971 Meghalaya got the status of an independent state, constituting a separate federal unit. In another instance, in response to the demands of the Bodos, tribal populations living in the plains of Assam as distinct from the hill tribal communities, Bodoland Autonomous Council was formed in 1993. This was intended to provide an institutionalized structure of autonomy to the Bodos within the state of Assam, with powers to legislate on thirty-eight identified subjects, including matters related to education, ethnic and cultural affairs, social and economic issues (Dasgupta 1998: 200). Institutional arrangements of this kind have also been applied in other parts of the country: Telengana region in Andhra Pradesh being one case in point. Such frameworks of governance have, by and large, been developed in response to popular mobilizations and struggles. The success of these arrangements is heavily dependent upon the attitude of the different levels of the federation. But there is little doubt that the willingness of the state to experiment with such frameworks of federalism and decentralized governing have played a significant role both in meeting minority aspirations and minimizing ethnic discord.

6. National Unity and Group Autonomy The Indian Constitution laid the foundations of a multicultural democracy by according public recognition to cultural difference and respecting diversity. But recognition of diversity took different forms in different spheres. As would be evident from the previous sections, in the case of religious communities protecting diversity translated into group cultural autonomy. In the case of linguistic communities, cultural autonomy was subsequently combined with some degree of political and territorial autonomy. In the case of tribal communities, political and cultural autonomy was supplemented by protective measures that gave these communities special rights over their

indian exceptionalism indian model

307

land and the provision to continue with their customary social and cultural practices. Over the years, these measures, which were aimed at recognizing and protecting diversity, have yielded several problems. Cultural autonomy and corresponding rights for religious minorities have posed the question of equality for vulnerable groups within the community. In particular, the issue of equality and fair treatment for women within the community has been a matter of grave concern for the polity. Linguistically and culturally defined territorial units have raised concerns about the fate of cultural minorities who wish to retain their own identity within the region, and perhaps share power with the new elite. The Indian polity today faces the questions of ensuring equality for marginalized groups within the country and protecting the diversity represented by internal minorities within a region. Both these pose serious challenges and the inability to deal with them adequately has been a matter of deep concern. Yet, even as we recognize the tasks that lie ahead and need still to be tackled in a few regions, it is also important to note that cultural and political autonomy granted in different ways to different groups has strengthened India. If most of the communities continue to live within the country, despite prevailing situations of ethnic conflict in some regions, it is because there is a structure in place that does acknowledge diversity and a democratic system that tries to accommodate this diversity through a federal framework. What is equally noteworthy is that the multicultural structure has over the years been strengthened and enhanced. At the time of independence, diversity was accommodated but within a liberal understanding that operated with the private–public distinction. The political leadership in India applied this distinction in the case of communities to distinguish between their cultural claims and political claims. The former was more readily accepted but the latter met with several reservations. An exception was made in the case of tribal populations but religious and linguistic communities received only special rights to express and protect their cultural difference. However, in the post-independence period, this private/public divide was rethought as the linguistic reorganization of states, which started in 1956, gave political rights and some autonomy to communities that were identified on the basis of language. What is equally significant is that the Indian experience over the last fifty-five years shows that anxieties arising around claims of cultural communities for recognition need to be reconsidered. Like many twentiethcentury liberals, several leaders in India were wary of all forms of community affiliations and identities; consequently, they invoked the category of citizen and called upon democratic states to set aside all other community affiliations and consider individual members of the nation-state as citizens of the polity. But the subsequent experience has put to rest many of these fears about the possibility of cultural identity-based political units fragmenting the

308

gurpreet mahajan

polity. In fact as nonrecognition is often a source of disadvantage and discrimination, acknowledging differences in the political arena and making them the basis of governance in a federal structure has deepened democracy. It has brought new and previously marginalized groups into the political process and given them opportunities that they did not enjoy. Recognition of diversity and political rights of self-governance for cultural communities has not always come easily, and, as is often the case, it has been the product of sustained struggle and political negotiation. While the state has in many regions relied on force to deal with demands of autonomy and secession, policies involving recognition of differences, even in the political sphere, have not been abandoned. Indeed, it is when the state has been willing to strengthen the federal structure and accommodate diversity through mechanisms and innovations within the federal democratic framework, that it has been most successful in dealing with and minimizing ethnic discord and conflict. The concerns of diversity and national unity are the two poles within which the Indian state has had to negotiate and strike a balance. As a country that came into existence with the grief of partition, territory has always occupied a sacred position. Consequently, demands for secession have almost always met with great resistance. But it is striking that in a country, which at the time of independence was surrounded by more than 500 separate princely states, most of whom joined the Indian polity, there have been relatively few movements for secession. On the whole, whatever success the Indian state has had in managing and minimizing such demands is attributable almost entirely to its ability to respect and accommodate diversity within a democratic and federal structure. By comparison, it is regions where the democratic structures have been supplanted or thwarted for whatever reasons, and where the institutions of federalism could not function effectively and freely, that have been the main locus of ethnic conflict and discord. But where democracy and federalism have worked effectively and been strengthened, and dissent or demands for autonomy have been met, violent conflict has been reduced and eliminated. While discussing claims of cultural communities and conflict it is necessary also to mention that in developing societies, like India, where there is acute scarcity of resources, cultural identity-based mobilizations are often linked to, and appropriated by, groups to further their material interests. Consequently, demands for recognition are not purely claims for due acknowledgement of an identity; they articulate objective interests and are at times a means of gaining access to resources, jobs, and opportunities. In the struggle for economic and political benefits the battle is against competing elites in the region, particularly internal and external migrants, rather than the Indian State. Moreover, in a federal system, depending upon the configuration of political forces and alliances, the Indian State can be a facilitator

indian exceptionalism indian model

309

and an ally in the quest for increasing opportunities for a given community. At another level, where the demands and dissent of the people are concerned, in a functioning federal polity, they can be channeled and directed against the local ruling elite. Either way, the perceived enemy or the ‘other’ is not the Indian State. Only in cases where the regional groups and elites find the State unresponsive to their needs, interfering in the effective functioning of democratic institutions, or misrecognizing them systematically, the regional/subnational sentiment positioned itself in opposition to the Indian nation-state. In most other situations, a minority nation sentiment at the regional level has not posed a serious threat to the integrity of the nationstate. Thus, even though identity-based constituent units have raised concerns about the fate of internal minorities within the region, they have coexisted with relative ease with a pan-Indian national identity. This is not to say that there are no demands for secession. But in most cases these were first demands for giving the federal unit more powers or autonomy within the existing structure. Only the failure to meet these demands fueled, for instance, in Punjab and Kashmir, the movement for separation (see Gupta 1996; and Akbar 1985). In a few other cases, most notably, the Mizos, the creation of a homestate with some degree of political and cultural autonomy paved the way for dialogue and peaceful negotiations within the framework of the Indian polity. These experiences have shown that claims of cultural communities for territorial jurisdiction and autonomy can be addressed and accommodated without fracturing the unity of the nation-state. In particular, according a certain degree of political autonomy to linguistic groups in the form of constituent units of the federation does not pose a threat to the integrity of the nation-state. Linguistic identities easily coexist with and even supplement national identity. These are not, in other words, competing identities; in fact nonrecognition of linguistic identities and their aspirations to form self-governing units may have posed a threat to the unity and territorial integrity of the state. In India, formation of language-based regional states has, at one level, enhanced diversity. It has provided an environment in which languages, marginalized in the national context, have successfully sustained themselves and grown. At another level it has, by accommodating the felt needs of the people, minimized potential sources of conflict with the nation-state. Citizenship, as Carens points out, has multiple dimensions—legal, political, and a psychological dimension (Carens 2000: 161–76). It is only when identities which are important to the individual receive positive affirmation that individuals develop a stronger sense of belonging and identity. And vice versa, when identities remain largely unrecognized or misrecognized, then individuals may be citizens of the polity without having a corresponding feeling of patriotism or attachment. This is certainly affirmed in the Indian

310

gurpreet mahajan

case where we find that recognition of linguistic and cultural identities through frameworks of asymmetric and multilevel federalism have helped to overcome alienation, thereby inculcating a sense of belonging to the state. This has strengthened bonds of citizenship and assisted the process of building an integrated nation-state. In many cases, it has in fact made the ‘transition from insurgency and brazen violence to benign constitutionalism’ possible (Dasgupta 1998: 210). ‘Institutional processing of ethnic demands, including violent ones’ has transformed some so-called ‘dangerous enemies’ into ‘constructive contributors of the democratic processes’ (ibid.). The willingness to extend recognition to culturally distinct groups is perhaps one of the distinguishing elements of the Indian political experience. Baruah argues that as ‘a result of this policy the condition of most indigenous peoples of northeast India contrasts sharply with that of indigenous people in peninsular India and other parts of southern India. The point was underlined sharply when the leader of the Chin tribal insurgents in Burma—a group that is culturally contiguous with Mizos in India—declared ‘ . . . that the Chin National Front . . . said that ‘‘we will secede from Burma and join India, where minorities are assured of greater rights’’ ’ (Baruah 1989: 2087). Assertions of this kind may not adequately reflect the specifics of the minority issues in Burma or South Asia, but they suggest that the policy of recognizing culturally distinct groups and creating institutional structures that enable them to govern themselves, can be a way of building loyalties and support for the nation-state. In a democracy the ability to accommodate and recognize collective community aspirations play a critical role in holding the nation-state together and minimizing moments of internal dissent. The experience of India, and perhaps of all of South Asia, seems to indicate this. The willingness to accept diversity and to be favorably disposed to considering frameworks of multicultural accommodation constitute the basic minimum, without which issues of development, and at times even survival, of democracies in the region may be seriously jeopardized.

7. Three Caveats Minority communities can be disadvantaged in two fairly different ways within the nation-state: (a) through policies of cultural homogenization and nonrecognition of difference; and (b) through systematic misrecognition and selective targeting of a community and its members. In India greater attention was given to curtailing the former. A number of strategies of multicultural accommodation—such as special cultural and political rights for minorities to live in accordance with their cultural practices and to govern themselves, to set up institutions to protect and promote their language and

indian exceptionalism indian model

311

culture—were endorsed in pursuit of this end. Each of these strategies was aimed at making the public arena more heterogeneous and reflective of existing diversity within the nation-state. By comparison, little effort has been made to check negative stereotyping of minorities or to prevent targeting of certain minority community members. Indeed, in the last decade such attempts at vilifying identified minorities, designating them as ‘antinational’ has steadily increased. The fact that such minority targeting was coming from political groups closely allied with the dominant political party in government at the central level, has yielded a deep sense of anxiety and fear among the members of the major minority communities—Muslims and Christians (Hansen 1999). As a consequence, even though cultural diversity is protected, minorities face another form of marginalization and discrimination within the polity. This sense of alienation and vulnerability has been compounded by periodic episodes of communal violence, in which members of a minority community are systematically victimized, their lives threatened, and their property destroyed. Collectively, the political rhetoric of hate and incidents of targeted violence in which the state machinery is complicit or a silent spectator, have brought home to the minorities the reality of being disadvantaged and discriminated against. Quite evidently, discrimination engendered by acts of communal violence and negative imaging requires policies and strategies quite different from those that are necessary for minimizing disadvantage ensuing from state policies entailing cultural assimilation and homogenization. Special rights given with a view to protecting and promoting diversity can restrict the threat of cultural homogenization, but they do not always address discrimination that arises from stereotyping and selective targeting of minorities. In particular, combating communal violence requires a strident and unconditional defense of basic rights of individuals as citizens. However, it is here that the state has been often negligent and remiss. If the multicultural fabric of Indian federal democracy is to sustain itself then affirmation of special rights needs to go hand-in-hand with affirmation of the basic rights of individuals as citizens of the polity. Cultural difference is certainly valuable but in the absence of physical security neither homogenization nor diversity can be adequately safeguarded. The point that needs to be emphasized is that both kinds of rights are important for the individual. If the absence of public recognition of difference creates a sense of alienation and disadvantage in the public arena, then inadequate protection of the basic rights of citizenship leaves members of minority communities vulnerable. In a democracy both sets of rights complement each other, and if we are to eliminate the multiple sites of discrimination that exist in a polity, then the value of both rights needs to be understood and asserted. In developing countries like India, and perhaps in much of South Asia, where there is considerable competition for resources,

312

gurpreet mahajan

nonrecognition of difference is likely to be a rallying point for communities that are marginalized economically, politically, and culturally. At the same time, in the absence of personal security, protection of difference is likely to make communities more closed and internally united. Under the circumstances, vulnerable members of a minority community are more likely to silence all voices of dissent, even those that arise from within, and imagine themselves as a homogeneous and unified group. Such expressions are, in addition to nourishing closure and orthodoxy within the community, going to reify differences and a sense of separateness between communities. Thus, while both sets of rights are important neither is enough by itself. The future of democracy and territorial integrity in this region therefore depends vitally upon the capacity of governments to protect both basic rights of citizenship along with accommodating differences in the public and political arena. The precise form will always vary from context to context but what may remain constant is the urgency to secure both types of rights in conjunction with each other. Second, while designing a multicultural framework we need also to be sensitive to the fact that concerns of recognition are often combined with those of redistribution. Mobilizations that seek recognition for a specific language or culture are at times layered by the desire to access or corner resources and opportunities, at least within a region. In many developing societies, like India, cultural assertions are usually overdetermined by these twin concerns. Anxieties about the status of a particular cultural community or its survival at times elicit the support of groups that seek political recognition with a view to consolidating economic and political opportunities for members of that community. As and when claims of recognition are thus accompanied by concerns of, what may be called, redistribution, cultural communities tend to become exclusionary and hostile to the internal others. Consequently, when claims of recognition are met by granting separate territorial jurisdiction and cultural autonomy to a community within the federal structure, adequate safeguards need to be built-in to ensure that the newly constructed majority within the region does not follow policies that exile or annihilate other minorities within the region. This is particularly important in situations where regional majorities have a disproportionately smaller share in the holding of assets and opportunities within. In many parts of India and South Asia as a whole, regional majorities arising through reorganization of territories and political recognition have unleashed a reign of violence and terror against powerful internal minorities. Consequently, it appears that political recognition of diversity poses as many problems as it solves. The fate of internal minorities is certainly an important issue, and one that frameworks of multicultural accommodation need to address. But this problem cannot be resolved by denying recognition to diverse cultural communities and resisting political accommodation of dif-

indian exceptionalism indian model

313

ferences for the latter may only escalate ethnic conflict and violence, and that too in a shrill voice of secession. Democracies need to attend to issues of redistribution as they address concerns of recognition; and what is also important is that political autonomy and territorial jurisdiction for cultural communities may have to be linked to protection of internal minorities and their rights to live, work, and retain their distinctiveness within the region. Lastly, effectively minimizing the multiple sites of minority discrimination within the nation-state requires, in addition to measures that protect diversity, policies that initiate and encourage conversation across cultures. While it is necessary that individuals have access to their culture and the freedom to live their lives in accordance with their cultural inheritances if they so choose, some consideration needs also to be given to multigroup initiatives. Access to one’s culture must, in other words, be supplemented by awareness of the culture of other communities within the region. Given regional cultural diversity, at one stage in India it was suggested that individuals should receive education in their mother tongue, and along with it, they must also learn the national official language and a third language, preferably another language spoken in the state. The idea being that in this way the majority might well learn the language and literature of the minority and the minority might likewise learn the language and the culture of the majority. I am using this example here only to illustrate policy frameworks that may be used to nurture intercommunity conversation. The essential point being that the state needs, while protecting diversity, to devise frameworks where individuals, while being located in their own culture nevertheless open themselves to engagement with others. A secure cultural framework may be a condition necessary for undertaking this but by itself it will not translate into awareness or respect for the other. Multicultural frameworks that seek to minimize minority discrimination and enhance equal citizenship need therefore to provide access to one’s culture along with encouraging conversations and multigroup engagements. It is often assumed that public recognition will break down stereotypes and extend recognition to the ‘other’. In actuality public recognition and a heterogeneous public sphere may coexist with negative representation of minorities. Formal inclusion of minorities in the public and political arena is certainly an important step in giving them a sense of participation and equality, but if long-standing images and representations have to be challenged we may require more than formal protection of cultural difference. Collective engagement, particularly with the other, and measures that extend our horizons and take us beyond the boundaries of one’s group identity can play an important role in this. A multicultural democracy requires for its sustenance not isolated islands and multiple cultural solitudes but communities living together and participating as equal partners in the national political life.

Bibliography Advance Link Pte. Ltd. (2000). Maids Handbook: An Essential Guide to Hiring and Keeping a Foreign Domestic Helper (Singapore: Raffles). Agar, Michael H. (1980). The Professional Stranger: An Informal Introduction to Ethnography (New York: Academic Press). Aguettant, Joseph L. (1996). ‘Impact of Population Registration on Hilltribe Development in Thailand’, Asia-Pacific Population Journal, 11/4: 47–72. Ahmed, Aftab (1993). ‘Ethnicity and Insurgency in the Chittagong Hill Tracts Region’, Journal of Commonwealth and Comparative Politics, 31/3: 32–66. Ahmed, Samina (1997). ‘Centralization, Authoritarianism and the Mismanagement of Ethnic Relations in Pakistan’, in Michael Brown and Sumit Ganguly (eds.), Government Policies and Ethnic Relations in Asia and the Pacific (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press), 83–128. Akai, Takashi et al. (2002). Shitteimasuka: Burakumondai ichimon itchito [Do You Know? Buraku Problems: Questions and Answers] (Osaka: Kaiho shuppansha). Akbar, M. J. (1985). India: The Siege Within (Harmondsworth: Penguin). Ali, Amir (2000). ‘Case for Multiculturalism in India’, Economic and Political Weekly, 35/28–29, July 15: 2503–5. Amerasinghe, A. R. B. and Wijeratne S. S. (eds.) (2003). Human Rights, Human Values and the Rule of Law: Essays in Honour of Deshamanya H. L. de Silva P. C. (Colombo: Legal Aid Foundation). Anaya, S. James (1996). Indigenous Peoples in International Law (New York: Oxford University Press). Anderson, B. (2000). Doing the Dirty Work? The Global Politics of Domestic Labour (London: Zed Books). Anderson, Benedict (1991). Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso). —— (2004). ‘The Future of Indonesia’, in Michel Seymour (ed.), The Fate of the Nation-State (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press). Ansari, Iqbal A. (1999). ‘Minorities and the Politics of Constitution Making in India’, in D. L. Sheth and Gurpreet Mahajan (eds.), Minorities and the Nation-State (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 113–37. Arasaki, Moriteru (2002). ‘Okinawa’ in Buraku kaiho jinken kenkyujo, (ed.), Nihon no okeru sabetsu jinken [Discriminations and Human Rights in Japan] (Osaka: Kaiho shuppansha), 23–42. Arasaratnam, Sinnapah (1970). Indians in Malaysia and Singapore (London: Oxford University Press). Archaimbault, Charles (1970). La feˆte du T’at: Trois essais sur les rites laotiens (Vientiane: Mission franc¸aise d’enseignement et de coope´ration culturelle au Laos). —— (1973). Structures religieuses lao (rites et mythes) (Vientiane: E´ditions Vithagna).

bibliography

315

Arora, Balveer (1995). ‘Adapting Federalism in India: Multilevel and Asymmetrical Innovations’, in Balveer Arora and Douglas V. Verney (eds.), Multiple Identities in a Single State: Indian Federalism in a Comparative Perspective (Delhi: Konark Publishers), 71–104. —— (2001). ‘Coalitions, Reforms and the New Federal Polity’, Social Action, 51/3: 283–302. —— and Mukarji, Nirmal (1992). ‘Introduction: The Basic Issues’, and ‘Conclusion: Restructuring Federal Democracy’, in Nirmal Mukarji and Balveer Arora (eds.), Federalism in India: Origins and Development (Delhi: Vikas Publishing). Asian Development Bank (2001). Pre-Investment Study for the Greater Mekong Subregion East-West Economic Corridor (Manila: Integrative Report). —— /National Statistics Centre (ADB/NSC) (2001). Participatory Poverty Assessment: Lao People’s Democratic Republic (Manila: Committee for Planning and Co-operation: Vientiane/Asian Development Bank). Asian Migrant Center (2001). ‘Racial Discrimination in Hong Kong’, November 8, (http://www.december18.net/paper33Hongkong.htm) Bakan, Abigail B. and Daiva Stasiulis (eds.) (1997). Not One of the Family: Foreign Domestic Workers in Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press). Bakker, Karen (1999). ‘The Politics of hydropower: developing the Mekong’, Political Geography, 18: 209–32. Bamforth V. et al. (2000). Conflict and Displacement in Karenni: The Need for Considered Responses (Chiang Mai: Burma Ethnic Research Group). Banerjee, Ashis (1992). ‘Federalism and Nationalism’, in Nirmal Mukarji and Balveer Arora (eds.), Federalism in India: Origins and Development (Delhi: Vikas Publishing), 41–63. Barnes, R. H. (ed.) (1995). Indigenous Peoples of Asia (Ann Arbor, MI: Association of Asian Studies). Barry, Brian (2001). Culture and Equality: An Egalitarian Critique of Multiculturalism (Cambridge: Polity Press). Barthes, Roland (1972). Mythologies (New York: Hill and Wang). Baruah, Sanjib (1989). ‘Minority Policy in the North-East: Achievements and Dangers’, Economic and Political Weekly, 24/37: 2087–92. Bauer, Joanne and Bell, Daniel (eds.) (1999). The East Asian Challenge for Human Rights (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Befu, Harumi (ed.) (1993). Cultural Nationalism in East Asia (Berkeley, CA: Institute of East Asia Studies, University of California, Berkeley). Bell, Daniel A. (1996). ‘Minority Rights: On the Importance of Local Knowledge’, Dissent, Summer: 36–41. —— (1999). East Meets West (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press). —— (2001). ‘Equal Rights for Foreign Resident Workers?’, Dissent, Fall, 26–8. —— (2004a). ‘Communitarian Philosophy and East Asian Politics’, in Chua Beng Huat (ed.), Communitarian Politics in Asia (London: Routledge Curzon), 25–45. —— (2004b). ‘Is Democracy the ‘‘Least Bad’’ System for Minority Groups?’, in Susan Henders (ed.), Democratization and Identity: Regimes and Ethnicity in East and Southeast Asia (Lanham, MD: Lexington), 25–42.

316

bibliography

Bell, Gary (2001). ‘Minority Rights in Indonesia: Will Constitutional Recognition lead to Disintegration and Discrimination?’, Singapore Journal of International and Comparative Law, 5: 784–806. Benhabib, Seyla (2002). The Claims of Culture: Equality and Diversity in the Global Era (Princeton: Princeton University Press). BØteille, AndrØ (2000). ‘On the Concept of Indigenous Peoples’, Current Anthropology, 19/2: 187–97. Bhattacharya, Mohit (1992). ‘The Mind of the Founding Fathers’, in Nirmal Mukarji and Balveer Arora (eds.), Federalism in India: Origins and Development (Delhi: Vikas Publishing), 87–104. Bhruksasri, Wanat (1989). ‘Government Policy: Highland Ethnic Minorities’, in John McKinnon and B. Vienne (eds.), Hill Tribes Today: Problems in Change (Bangkok: White Lotus-Orstorm), 5–31. Bodde, Derk (1967). ‘Harmony and Conflict in Chinese Thought,’ in Arthur Wright (ed.), Studies in Chinese Thought (Chicago: University of Chicago Press), 46–7. Bose, Mani Lal (ed.) (1981). ‘Inner Line Regulation 1873’, in Historical and Constitutional Documents of North-Eastern India 1824–1973 (Calcutta: Firma KLM, Reprint), 162–4. Bounthavy Sisouphanthong and Taillard, Christian (2000). Atlas de La Re´publique de´mocratique populaire lao. Les structures territoriales du de´veloppement e´conomique et social (Paris : CNRS, GDR Liberge´o-La Documentation franc¸aise). Bowen, John (2000). ‘Should We Have a Universal Concept of ‘‘Indigenous Peoples’’?’, Anthropology Today, 16/4: 12–16. —— (2003). Islam, Law, and Equality in Indonesia: An Anthropology of Public Reasoning (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.) Bowie, Fiona (1993). ‘Wales from Within: Conflicting Interpretations of Welsh Identity’, in Sharon Macdonald (ed.), Inside European Identities: Ethnography in Western Europe (New York: Berg), 167–93. Brown, D. (1994). The State and Ethnic Politics in Southeast Asia (London: Routledge). Brown, Michael (1997). ‘The Impact of Government Policies on Ethnic Relations’, in Michael Brown and Sumit Ganguly (eds.), Government Policies and Ethnic Relations in Asia and the Pacific (Cambridge: MIT Press), 511–75. Brown, Michael and Ganguly, Sumit (eds.) (1997). Government Policies and Ethnic Relations in Asia and the Pacific (Cambridge, MI: MIT Press). —— —— (eds.) (2003). Fighting Words: Language Policy and Ethnic Relations in Asia (Cambridge, MI: MIT Press). Brysk, Alison (2000). From Tribal Village to Global Village: Indian Rights and International Relations in Latin America (Stanford: Stanford University Press). Buddhist Missionary Society, Malaysia (1977). The Buddha and His Teachings (Kuala Lumpur: Buddhist Missionary Society). Buergin, Reiner (2003). ‘Trapped in Environmental Discourses and Politics of Exclusion: Karen in the Thung Yai Naresuan Wildlife Sanctuary in the Context of Forest and Hill Tribe Policies in Thailand’ in Claudio O Delang (ed.) Living at the Edge of Thai Society: The Karen in the highland of northern Thailand (London: RoutledgeCurzon), 43–63. Buraku Kaiho Jinken Kenkyujo, (ed.) (2002a). Nihon no okeru sabetsu to jinken [Discrimination and Human Rights in Japan] (Osaka: Kaiho Shuppan Sha).

bibliography

317

—— (ed.) (2002b). Shimbun de miru buraku mondai [The Buraku Problem Seen from Newspapers] (Osaka: Nihon Deta neto), 283–7. Burma Ethnic Research Group (BERG) (1998). Forgotten Victims of a Hidden War (Chiang Mai: BERG and Friedrich Naumann Foundation). —— (2000). Conflict and Displacement in Karenni: The need for considered responses (Chiang Mai: Nopburee Press). Burma Lawyers Council (BLC) (1999). The Military and its Constitution (www. blcburma. org/). Calhoun, Craig (1998). ‘The Public Good as a Social and Cultural Project’, in W. W. Powell and E. S.Clemens (eds.) Private Action and the Public Good (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press), 20–35. Carens, Joseph (2000). Culture, Community and Citizenship: A Contextual Exploration of Justice as Evenhandedness (Oxford: Oxford University Press). —— ‘Citizenship and Civil Society: What Rights for Residents?’ Unpublished manuscript. —— and Williams, Mellissa (1996). ‘Muslim Minorities in Liberal Democracies: The Politics of Misrecognition’, in Rainer Baubock, Agnes Heller and Ari Zollberg (eds.) The Challenges of Diversity: Integration and Pluralism in Societies of Immigration (Aldershot: Avebury Press), 157–86. Castles, S. and Davidson, A. (2000). Citizenship and Migration: Globalization and the Politics of Belonging (Basingstoke: Macmillan). Central Data Library (1991). Selected Documents of Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party, 7, 1931 (Beijing: the Central Party School Press). Chalamwong, Yongyuth (2001). ‘Recent Trends in Migration Flows and Policies in Thailand’ (OECD Proceedings, International Migration in Asia: Trends and Policies OECD). —— (2002). ‘Thailand’, in Migration and the Labour Market in Asia: Recent Trends and Policies (OECD). Chamberlain, James R., Alton, Charles and Crisfield, Arthur G. (1995). Indigenous People’s Profile (Vientiane: CARE International for the World Bank). Chan, Joseph (1999). ‘A Confucian Perspective on Human Rights for Contemporary China’, in Joanne R. Bauer and Daniel A. Bell (eds.), The East Asian Challenge for Human Rights (New York: Cambridge University Press). —— (2001). ‘Territorial Boundaries and Confucianism’, in David Miller and Sohail Hashmi (eds.), Boundaries and Justice: Diverse Ethical Perspectives (Princeton: Princeton University Press), 89–111. Chan, Sin Yee (2003). ‘The Confucian Conception of Gender in the Twenty-First Century’, in Daniel A. Bell and Hahm Chaibong (eds.), Confucianism for the Modern World (New York: Cambridge University Press). Chandra, Bipan, Mukherjee, Mridula, Mukherjee Aditya et al. (1989). India’s Struggle for Independence 1857–1947 (New Delhi: Penguin Books). Chang Kyung-sup (2004). ‘The Anti-communitarian family? Everyday Conditions of Authoritarian Politics in South Korea’, in Chua Beng Huat (ed.), Communitarian Politics in Asia. (London: RoutledgeCurzon), 57–77. Chatterjee, Partha (1993a). Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse (London: Zed Books).

318

bibliography

Chatterjee, Partha (1993b). The Nation and Its Fragments. Colonial and Postcolonial Histories (Princeton: Princeton University Press). —— (1998). ‘Community of the East’, Economic and Political Weekly, February 7, 277–82. ChazØe, Laurent (1994). Shifting Cultivation in Laos: Present Systems and their Future, Vientiane. Unpublished report. Chen Qinghua and Wei Yingxue (1998). ‘Deng Xiaoping minzu lilun yanjiu huigu’ (‘Review of the Studies on Deng Xiaoping’s Theory about Nationalities’), Heilongjiang minzu congkan (Heilongjiang Nationality Series) (Ha’erbin), No. 4: 39–44. Chen, Yanbin, Liu, Jianzhong and Qiao, Li (1998). ‘Mao Zedong sixiang minzu lilun yanjiu huigu’ (Review of the Studies on Mao Zedong Thought about Nationalities), Heilongjiang minzu congkan (Heilongjiang Nationality Series) (Ha’erbin), No. 4: 33–8. Cheng, Chung-Ying (1998). ‘Transforming Confucian Virtues into Human Rights’ in W. T. de Bary and Tu Weiming (eds.), Confucianism and Human Rights (New York: Columbia University Press). Cheung, Tak Kin and Mok, Bong Ho (1998). ‘How Filipina Maids Are Treated in Hong Kong—A Comparison Between Chinese and Western Employers’, Social Justice Research, 2/2. Chin, C. (1998). In Service and Servitude: Foreign Female Domestic Workers and the Malaysian ‘Modernity’ Project (New York: Columbia University Press). China’s Ethnic Statistical Yearbook (1995). (Beijing: Ethnic Publishing House). Cholewinski, R. (1997). Migrant Workers in International Human Rights Law—Their Protection in Countries of Employment (Oxford: Clarendon Press). Christian, William and Berriel, Joseph (2000). ‘Edgar and Eunice: International Traffic in Care’, in Henk Driessen and Huub de Jong (eds.), Miniature Etnografiche (Nijmegen: SUN). Chua, Beng Huat (1995). Communitarian Ideology and Democracy in Singapore (London: Routledge). —— (1997). Housing and Political Legitimacy: Stakeholding in Singapore (London: Routledge). —— (1999). ‘Asian Values’ Discourse and the Resurrection of the Social Positions’, East Asia Cultures Critique, 7: 573–92. —— (2000). ‘Public Housing Residents as Clients of the State’, Housing Studies, 15: 45–60. Clammer, John (1993). ‘Deconstructing Values: The Establishment of a National Ideology and its Implications for Singapore’s Political Future’, in Garry Rodan (ed.), Singapore Changes Guard (New York: St Martin’s Press). Clark, John James (1997). Oriental Enlightenment: The Encounter between Asian and Western Thought (London: Routledge). Coedes, G. (1925) (tr.) ‘Documents sur l’histoire politique et religieuse du Laos Occidental (including a translation of the Jinakalamalini, Chronicle of Chieng Mai)’ BEFEO, xxv: 1–189. Cohn, Bernard S. and B. Dirks, Nicholas (1988). ‘Beyond the Fringe: The Nation State, Colonialism, and The Technologies of Power’, Journal of Historical Sociology, 1/2: 224–9.

bibliography

319

Colchester, Marcus, (1998). Forests and Indigenous Peoples of Asia (Minority Rights Group, Report 98/4, London). Condominas, Georges (1980). L’espace social a` propos de l’Asie du sud-est (Paris: Flammarion). Connor, Walker (1999). ‘National Self-Determination and Tomorrow’s Political Map’, in Alan Cairns et al. (eds.), Citizenship, Diversity and Pluralism: Canadian and Comparative Perspectives (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press), 163–76. Constable, N. (1997). Maid to Order in Hong Kong: Stories of Filipina Workers (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Constitution Drafting Committee of the ncub (1998). Commentary on the (Future) Constitution of the Federal Union of Burma (NCUB, n.p.) Crouch, Harold (1996). Government and Society in Malaysia (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press). Culas, Christian and Michaud, Jean (1997). ‘A Contribution to the Study of Hmong (Miao) Migrations and History’ in Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 153–II: 211–43. Dabla, Bashir Ahmad (1998). ‘Ethnic Plurality and Problems of Nation-Building in South Asia: A Study of the Kashmiri Problem’, in Abdulrahim Vijapur (ed.), Dimensions of Federal Nation Building (Delhi: Manak), 224–35. Dai Xiaoming (1997). ‘Guanyu minzu zizhi difang caizheng zizhi jiqi falu wenti’ (On Financial Autonomy of National Autonomous Regions and Related Legal Issues), Minzu yanjiu (Nationality Studies), No. 6: 8–17. Dalai Lama (1999). ‘Buddhism, Asian Values, and Democracy’, Journal of Democracy. 10/1: 3–7. Dale, P. N. (1986). The Myth of Japanese Uniqueness (New York: St Martin’s). Darling Frank C. (1965). Thailand and the United States (Washington: Public Affairs Press). Das, S. R. Mohan (1975). ‘Discrimination in India’, in W. Veenhoven (ed.), Case Studies on Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms Volume 2 (The Hague: Martin Nijhoff ). Dasgupta, Jyotindra (1998). ‘Community, Authenticity and Autonomy: Insurgency and Institutional Development in India’s North-East’, in Amrita Basu and Atul Kohli (eds.), Community, Conflict and the State in India (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 183–214. Davis, Michael (1999). ‘The Case for Chinese Federalism’, Journal of Democracy 10/2: 124–37. Dayang, Istiaisyah Bte Hussin (2001). ‘Textual Construction of a Nation: The Use of Merger and Separation’, Asian Journal of Social Science, 29: 301–430. De Genova, Nicholas P. (2002). ‘Migrant ‘‘Illegality’’ and Deportability in Everyday Life’, Annual Review of Anthropology, 31: 419–47. De Silva, K. M. (1981). A History of Sri Lanka (London: C. Hurst and Co). Delang, Claudio O. (ed.) (2003). Living at the Edge of Thai Society: The Karen in the Highland of Northern Thailand (London: RoutledgeCurzon) Deng Xiaoping (1993). Deng Xiaoping Wenxuan: Volume 1 and 3 (Beijing: People’s Press). Desai, A. R. (1976). Social Background of Indian Nationalism (Bombay: Popular Prakashan).

320

bibliography

Dharmadase, K. N. O. (1992). Language, Religion and Ethnic Assertiveness: The Growth of Sinhalese Nationalism in Sri Lanka (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press). Dhiravegin, Likhit (1991). ‘Nationalism and the State in Thailand’, in K. M. de Silva, Pensri Duke, Ellen S. Goldberg and Nathan Katz (eds.), Ethnic Conflict in Buddhist Societies (Boulder: Westview Press). Dreyer, June Teufel (1976). China’s Forty Millions: Minority Nationalities and National Integration in the People’s Republic of China (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press). —— (1989). ‘Unrest in Tibet’, Current History, 88/539: 281–9. Duara, Prasenjit (1993). ‘Provincial Narratives of the Nation: Centralism and Federalism in Republican China’, in Asia Program Occasional Paper, No. 37, June 11. Duncan, Christopher (ed.) (2004). Civilizing the Margins: Southeast Asian Government Policies for the Development of Minorities (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press). Edrisinha Rohan (ed.) (1990). The Value of Dissent in a Free Society (Colombo: Council for Liberal Democracy). —— (2001). Meeting Tamil Aspirations within a United Lanka: Constitutional Options (Colombo: Centre for Policy Alternatives). —— (2003). ‘Constitutions without Constitutionalism: Sri Lanka’s Crisis of Constitutional First Principles’, in A. R. B Amerasinghe and S. S. Wijeratne (eds.), Human Rights, Human Values and the Rule of Law: Essays in Honour of Deshamanya H. L. de Silva P. C. (Colombo: Legal Aid Foundation). Eriksen, Thomas H. (1993). Ethnicity and Nationalism: Anthropological Perspectives (London: Pluto Press). Etzioni, Amitai (ed.) (1998). The Essential Communitarian Reader (Boulder, CO: Rowman and Littlefield). Evans, Grant (2003). ‘Laos is Getting a Bad Rap from the World’s Media’, The Bangkok Post, July 8, 2003. —— (2003). ‘Laos: minorities’, in Colin Mackerras (ed.), Ethnicity in Asia (London: RoutledgeCurzon), 210–24. Evers, Pieter (1995). ‘Preliminary Policy and Legal Questions about Recognizing Traditional Land in Indonesia’, Ekonesia, 3: 1–24. Favell, Adrian (2001). Philosophies of Integration: Immigration and the Idea of Citizenship in France and Britain, revised edition (New York: St Martin’s Press). Feng Erkang (1992). The Biography of Yongzheng (Taipei: Taiwan Shangwu yinshuguan). Fincher, John (1972). ‘China as a Race, Culture, and Nation: Notes on Fang Hsiaoju’s Discussion of Dynastic Legitimacy’, in David C. Buxbaum and Frederick W. Mote (eds.), Transition and Permanence: Chinese History and Culture (Hong Kong: Cathay Press). Fineman, Daniel (1997). A Special Relationship: The United States and Military Government in Thailand 1947–1958 (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press). Fleiner, Lidijia, et al. (eds.) (2000). Rule of Law and Organization of the State in Asia: The Multicultural Challenge (Fribourg: Institute of Federalism). Frazer, Elizabeth (1999). The Problems of Communitarian Politics: Unity and Conflict (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Fukuyama, Francis (1992). The End of History and the Last Man (New York: Free Press).

bibliography

321

Funston, John (1980). Malay Politics in Malaysia: A Study of the United Malays National Organisation and Party Islam (Kuala Lumpur: Heinemann Educational Books). Gagliano, Felix (1970). Communal Violence in Malaysia 1969: The Political Aftermath (Athens, OH: Ohio University Centre for International Studies). Gamburd, R. (2000). The Kitchen Spoon’s Handle: Transnationalism and Sri Lanka’s Migrant Housemaids (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press). Ganesan, N. (2002). ‘Malaysia in 2002: Political Consolidation Amid Change?’, Asian Survey, 43: 147–55. Ganguly, Sumit (1997). ‘Ethnic Policies and Political Quiescence in Malaysia and Singapore’, in Michael Brown and Sumit Ganguly (eds.), Government Policies and Ethnic Relations in Asia and the Pacific (Cambridge: MIT Press), 233–72. Garfield, Jay L. (2001). Empty Words: Buddhist Philosophy and Cross-Cultural Interpretation (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Gellner, David (2001). ‘From Group Rights to Individual Rights and Back: Nepalese Struggles Over Culture and Equality’, in Jane Cowan et al. (eds.), Culture and Rights: Anthropological Perspectives (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 177–200. Ghai, Yash (2000). ‘Autonomy Regimes in China: Coping with Ethnic and Economic Diversity’, in Yash Ghai (ed.), Autonomy and Ethnicity: Negotiating Competing Claims in Multi-Ethnic States (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 77–98. —— (ed.) (2000). Autonomy and Ethnicity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Giersch, C. P. (2000). ‘The Sipsong Panna Tai and the Limits of Qing Conquest in Yunnan’, Chinese Historians, 10/17: 71–92. Glazer, Nathan (1997). We are All Multiculturalists Now (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press). Goh, Cheng Teik (1971). The May Thirteenth Incident and Democracy in Malaysia (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press). Gomez, Edmund Terence, and Jomo, K. S. (1999). Malaysia’s Political Economy: Politics, Patronage and Profits (New York: Cambridge University Press). Gomez, Terence (1990). Politics in Business: UMNO’s Corporate Investments (Kuala Lumpur: Forum). Gonzalez III, Joaquin L. (1998). Philippine Labour Migration: Critical Dimensions of Public Policy (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies). Goudineau, Yves (ed.) (1997). Resettlement and Social Characteristics of New Villages. Basic needs for resettled communities in the Lao PDR. An Orstom Survey (Vientiane: UNDP, 2 vols). —— (2000). ‘Ethnicite´ et de´territorialisation dans la pe´ninsule indochinoise: conside´rations a` partir du Laos’, Autrepart, Vol. 14: 17–31. Gray, John (1993). Post-liberalism: Studies in Political Thought (New York: Routledge). —— (1995). Enlightenment’s Wake: Politics and Culture at the Close of the Modern Age (London: Routledge). —— (2000). Two Faces of Liberalism (Cambridge: Polity Press). Grunfeld, A. Tom (1996). The Making of Modern Tibet (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe). Guha, Ramachandra (1994). ‘Fighting for the Forest: State Forestry and Social Change in Tribal India’, in The Rights of Subordinated Peoples (New Delhi: Oxford University Press).

322

bibliography

Gullick, J. M. (1987). Malay Society in the Late Nineteenth Century (Singapore: Oxford University Press). Guojia Minwei Zhengce Yanjiushi (1997). ‘Jiaqiang minzu quyu zizhi lilun yanjiu, jianchi he wanshan minzu quyu zizhi zhidu’ (Enhance the Theoretical Study on Regional National Autonomy, Uphold and Improve the System of Regional National Autonomy), Dangdai zhongguoshi yanjiu (Contemporary Chinese History Studies), No. 5: 81–4. Gupta, Dipankar (1996). The Context of Ethnicity: Sikh Identity in a Comparative Perspective (New Delhi: Oxford University Press). Gurr, Ted (1993). Minorities at Risk: A Global View of Ethnopolitical Conflict (Washington: Institute of Peace Press). —— and Harff, Barbara (1994). Ethnic Conflicts in World Politics (Boulder, CO: Westiew). Hammer, Thomas (1990). Democracy and the Nation State—Aliens, Denizens and Citizens in a World of International Migration (Aldershot: Gower). Han Sung-Joo (ed.) (1999). Changing Values in Asia: Their Impact on Governance and Development (Tokyo: Japan Center for International Exchange). Handler, Richard (1988). Nationalism and the Politics of Culture in Quebec (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press). Hanks, Lucien et al. (eds.) (1964). Ethnographic Notes on North Thailand (SEA Program Data Paper, 58, Southeast Asian Program. Cornell University, Ithaca NY. Hansen, Thomas B. (1999). The Saffron Wave (New Delhi: Oxford University Press). Hardgrave, Robert (1993). ‘India: The Dilemmas of Diversity’, Journal of Democracy, 4/4. Harrison, Selig (1960). India: The Most Dangerous Decade (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press). He, Baogang (1996). The Democratization of China (London: Routledge). —— (1998). ‘Can Kymlicka’s Liberal Theory of Minority Rights be Applied in East Asia?’, in Paul van der Velde and Alex McKay (eds.), New Developments in Asian Studies (London: Kegal Paul International), 20–44. —— (2001). ‘Why Does Beijing Reject the Dalai Lama’s Autonomy Proposal?’, Review of Asian and Pacific Studies, Seikei University, Japan, No. 22: 61–3. —— (2004). ‘Confucianism versus Liberalism over Minority Rights: A Critical Response to Will Kymlicka’, Journal of Chinese Philosophy, 31/1: 103–23. Heberer, Thomas (1989). China and its National Minorities—Autonomy or Assimilation (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe). Hefner, Robert (ed.) (2001). The Politics of Multiculturalism: Pluralism and Citizenship in Malaysia, Singapore and Indonesia (Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press). Heim, Kristi (1995). ‘Multiculturalism with Chinese Characteristics’, The Asian Wall Street Journal, December 20. Heimendorf, C. Von Furer (1982). Tribes in India: The Struggle for Survival (Delhi: Oxford University Press). Henders, Susan (ed.) (2004). Democratization and Identity: Regimes and Ethnicity in East and Southeast Asia (Lanham, MD: Lexington). Herzer, E. (1999). ‘The Practice of Autonomous and Self-government Arrangements.’ Presented at International Workshop on Tibetan Autonomy and Selfgovernment: Myth and Reality, Heritage Village, India, November 10–12.

bibliography

323

Hettige, Siri (2000). ‘Politics, Social Order and Ethnic Conflict in Sri Lanka’, in Lidija Basta Fleiner et al. (eds.), Rule of Law and Organisation of the State in Asia: The Multicultural Challenge (Institute of Federalism, Fribourg, Switzerland) 30: 187–204. Heyzer, Noeleen and Vivienne Wee (1994). ‘Domestic Workers in Transient Overseas Employment: Who Benefits, Who Profits’, in Noeleen Heyzer, Geertie Lycklamaa Nijehort and Nedra Weerakoon (eds.), The Trade in Domestic Workers (Kuala Lumpur: Asian and Pacific Development Center). Hicks, George (1997). Japan’s Hidden Apartheid: The Korean Minority and the Japanese (Aldershot: Ashgate). Hindess, Barry (2002). ‘Neo-liberal Citizenship’, Citizenship Studies, 6/2:127–43. Hirsch, Philip (1998). ‘Dams, Resources and the Politics of Environment in Mainland Southeast Asia’, in Philip Hirsch and Carol Warren (eds.), The Politics of Environment in Southeast Asia (London: Routledge), 55–70. Ho, Chin Ung (2000). The Chinese of South-East Asia (London: Minority Rights Group). Huang, S., and Yeoh, Brenda (2003). ‘The Difference Gender Makes: State Policy and Contract Migrant Workers in Singapore’, Asian and Pacific Migration Journal, 12/1–2: 75–98. Hugo, Graham (1999). ‘Undocumented International Migration in South-East Asia’ in Yen-Fen Tseng, C. Bulbeck, Lan-Hung Nora Chiang, and Jung-Chung Hsu (eds.), Asian Migration: Pacific Rim Dynamics (Taipei: National Taiwan University), Interdisciplinary Group for Australian Studies, Monograph No. 1. Human Rights Foundation of Monland: www.rehmonnya.org/ Huntington, Samuel (1996). The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order (New York: Simon and Schuster). Inoue, Tatsuo (1999). ‘Liberal Democracy and Asian Orientalism’, in Bauer and Bell (eds.), 27–59. International Centre for Ethnic Studies (ICES) (1995). Minorities in Cambodia (Minority Rights Group Report 95/2, London). International Crisis Group (ICG) (2003). Myanmar Backgrounder: Ethnic Minority Politics, ICG Asia Report, No. 52. Iredale, Robyn, Hawksley, Charles and Castle, Stephen (eds.) (2004). Migration in the Asia Pacific : Population, Settlement and Citizenship Issues (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar). Ireson, Carol J. and Ireson W. Randall, (1991). ‘Ethnicity and Development in Laos’, Asian Survey, 31/10: 920–37. Jenkins, Richard (1998). Rethinking Ethnicity. Arguments and Explorations (London: Sage Publications). Jesudason, James V. (1995). ‘Statist Democracy and the Limits to Civil Society in Malaysia’, Journal of Commonwealth and Comparative Politics, 33/3: 335–56. Jiang Yinliang (ed.) (1990). Zhongguominzushi (The History of Chinese Nationalities) (Beijing: Nationality Publisher), 138–45. Jones, Sidney (2003). ‘Aceh, Papua and Rising Nationalism in Indonesia’. Open Forum Series, United States-Indonesia Society (USINDO), Washington, DC, April 2, 2003. (www.usindo.org/Briefs/ 2003/Sidney%20Jones% 2004-03-03.htm).

324

bibliography

Jonsson, Hjorleifur (1998). ‘Forest Products and Peoples: Upland Groups, Thai Polities, and Regional Space’ Sojourn, 13/1: 1–37. Jørgensen, Anders Baltzer (1979). ‘Forest People in a World of Expansion’, Transactions of the Finnish Anthropological Society, No. 2. Kamat, A. R. (2003). ‘Ethno-Linguistic Issues in the Indian Federal Context’, in Bidyut Chakrabarty (ed.), Communal Identity in India: Its Constitution and Articulation in the Twentieth Century (New Delhi: Oxford University Press), 150–80. Kammerer, Cornellia Ann (1989). ‘Territorial Imperatives: Akha Ethnic Identity and Thailand’s National Integration’, in John McKinnon and B. Vienne (eds.), Hill Tribes Today: Problems in Change (Bangkok: White Lotus-Orstorm), 259–301. Karmel, S. (1995). ‘Ethnic Tension and the Struggle for Order: China’s Policies in Tibet’, Pacific Affairs, 68/4: 485–608. Kawamitsu, Shiichi (1987). Okinawa: Jiritsu to kyosei no shiso [Okinawa: The Philosophy of Independence and Communitarianism] (Osaka: Kaifusha). Kawamoto, Yoshikazu (2001). Buraku sabetsu o kokufuku suru shiso [A Philosophy to Overcome Burakumin Discrimination] (Osaka: Kaiho shuppansha). Kaysone, Phomvihane (1980). La Re´volution Lao (Moscou: Editions du Progre`s). Kell, Tim (1995). The Roots of Acehnese Rebellion, 1989–1992 (Ithaca: Modern Indonesia Project, Southeast Asia Program, Cornell University). Kelly, David and Reid, Anthony (eds.) (1998). Asian Freedoms: The Idea of Freedom in East and Southeast Asia (New York: Cambridge University Press). Kertzer, David (1988). Ritual, Politics and Power (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press). Keyes, Charles (ed.) (1979). Ethnic Adaptation and Identity: The Karen on the Thai Frontier with Burma (Philadelphia, PA: Institute for the Study of Human Issues). Keyes, Charles F. (1992). ‘Who Are the Lue Revisited? Ethnic Identity in Laos, Thailand, and China’ (Cambridge, MA: MIT Center for International Studies, Working Paper). —— (1995). The Golden Peninsula: Culture and Adaptation in Mainland Southeast Asia (Honolulu: School of Hawaiian, Asian and Pacific Studies, University of Hawaii Press). —— (2002). ‘Presidential Address: ‘‘The Peoples of Asia’’—Science and Politics in the Classification of Ethnic Groups in Thailand, China and Vietnam’, Journal of Asian Studies, 61/4: 1163–203. —— Hardacre, Helen and Kendall, Laurel (eds.) (1994). Asian Visions of Authority: Religion and the Modern States of East and South East Asia (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press). Khan, Arshi (1997). ‘The Importance of Article 356’, in Rasheeduddin Khan (ed.), Rethinking Indian Federalism (Shimla: Inter-University Centre for Humanities and Social Sciences), 103–31. Khan, Rasheeduddin (1997a). ‘India, the Federal State and the Kashmir Problem’, in Gunther Bachler (ed.), Federalism Against Ethnicity: Institutional, Legal and Democratic Instruments to Prevent Violent Minority Conflicts (Zurich: Verlag Ruegger), 269–89. —— (1997b). ‘Uttar Pradesh and Federal Balance in India’, in Rasheeduddin Khan (ed.), Rethinking Indian Federalism (Shimla: Inter-University Centre for Humanities and Social Sciences), 253–65.

bibliography

325

Khin, Maung Win and Smith, Alan (1998). ‘Burma’, in W, Sachsenroeder and Ulrike Frings (eds.), Political Party Systems and Democratic Development in East and Southeast Asia, Vol. 1 (Aldershot: Ashgate). Kingsbury, Benedict (1995). ‘ ‘‘Indigenous Peoples’’ as an International Legal Concept’, in R. H. Barnes (ed.), Indigenous Peoples of Asia (Ann Arbor: Association of Asian Studies), 13–34. —— (1999). ‘The Applicability of the International Legal Concept of ‘‘Indigenous Peoples’’ in Asia’, in J. Bauer and D. Bell (eds.), The East Asian Challenge for Human Rights (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 336–77. —— and Gover, Kristy (eds.) (2004). ‘Indigenous Groups and the Politics of Recognition in Asia’, special issue of International Journal on Minority and Group Rights, 11/1–2: 1–228. Kinjo, Minoru (1996). Shitte imasuka: Okinawa itsumon itsuto [Do You Know? Okinawa: One Question, One Answer] (Osaka: Kaiho shuppansha). Kirsch, A. T. (1990). ‘The quest for Tai in Tai context’, Crossroads, 5/1: 69–79. Kohli, Atul (1997). ‘The Bell Curve of Ethnic Politics: The Rise and Decline of SelfDetermination Movements in India’, in Wolfgang Danspeckgruber (ed.), SelfDetermination and Self-Administration: A Sourcebook (Boulder, CO: Lynne Reiner), 321–25. Komatsu, Katsumi (1994). Buraku mondai tokuhon [A Reader on the Burakumin Issue] (Tokyo: Meiishi shoten). Kooistra, Mieke (2001). Indonesia: Regional Conflicts and State Terror (London: Minority Rights Group). Krishna, Sankaran (1999). Postcolonial Insecurities: India, Sri Lanka and the Question of Nationhood (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press). Krishna, Sumi (1992). ‘Language Situation’, in N. Mukarji and B. Arora (eds); Federalism in India: Origins and Development (Delhi: Vikas Publishing), 64–86. Kukathas, Chandran (1992). ‘Are there any Cultural Rights?’, Political Theory, 20/1: 105–39. Kunstadter, Peter (1967). Southeast Asian Tribes, Minorities, and Nations (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press). —— and Chapman, E. C. (1978). ‘Problems of Shifting Cultivation and Economic Development in Northern Thailand’ in Peter Kunstadter, E. C. Chapman and S. Sabhasri (eds.), Farmers in the Forest: Economic Development and Marginal Agriculture in Northern Thailand, 3–23. Kwang, Han Fook, et al. (eds.) (1998). Lee Kuan Yew: The Man and His Ideas (Singapore: Times Editions). Kymlicka Will (ed.) (1995). The Rights of Minority Cultures (Oxford: Oxford University Press). —— (1989). Liberalism, Community and Culture (Oxford: Clarendon Press). —— (1992). ‘Two models of Pluralism and Tolerance’, Analysis and Kritik, 13: 33–56. —— (1995). Multicultural Citizenship: A Liberal Theory of Minority Rights (Oxford: Oxford University Press). —— (2000). ‘Nation-building and Minority Rights: Comparing West and East’, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, 26/2: 183–212.

326

bibliography

Kymlicka Will (ed.) (2001). Politics in the Vernacular: Nationalism, Multiculturalism and Citizenship (Oxford: Oxford University Press). —— (2002a). Contemporary Political Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press). —— (2002b). ‘Federalism and Nationalism in Canada: A Comparative Perspective’, in Rekha Saxena (ed.), Mapping Canadian Federalism for India (Delhi: Konark Publishers), 80–114. —— (2004a). ‘Justice and Security in the Accommodation of Minority Nationalism: Comparing East and West’, in Alain Dieckhoff (ed.), The Politics of Belonging: Nationalism, Liberalism and Pluralism (New York: Lexington), 127–54. —— (2004b). ‘Universal Minority Rights? The Prospects for Consensus’, in Morigiwa Yasutomo, Ishiyama Fumihiko and Sakurai Tetsu (eds.), Universal Minority Rights, A Transnational Approach (Archiv fu¨r Rechts-und Sozialphilosophie #96, Franz Steiner Verlag), 13–57. —— (2005a). ‘National Minorities in Postcommunist Europe: The Role of International Norms and European Integration’, in Zoltan Barany and Robert Moser (eds.), Ethnic Politics After Communism (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press), forthcoming. —— and Mar
n, Ruth Rubio (1999). ‘Liberalism and Minority Rights. An Interview’, Ratio Juris, 12/2: 133–52. —— and Norman, Wayne (eds.) (2000). Citizenship in Diverse Societies (Oxford: Oxford University Press). —— and Opalski, Magda (eds.) (2001). Can Liberal Pluralism be Exported? Western Political Theory and Ethnic Relations in Eastern Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Lamont, MichŁle and MolnÆr, VirÆg (2002). ‘The Study of Boundaries in the Social Sciences’, Annual Review of Sociology, 28: 167–95. Lapidoth, Ruth (1996). Autonomy: Flexible Solutions to Ethnic Conflicts (Washington: US Institute of Peace Press). Lau, Albert (1990). The Malayan Union Controversy 1942—1948 (Singapore: Oxford University Press). Lau, Teik Soon (1969). ‘Malaysia—Singapore Relations: Crisis of Adjustment’, Journal of Southeast Asian History, 10: 155–76. Laungaramsri, Pinkaew (1997). ‘On the discourse of Hill tribes’, paper presented at Workshop on Ethnic Minorities in a Changing Environment (Chiang Mai University, February 1997). —— (2001). Redefining Nature: Karen Ecological Knowledge and Challenge in Modern Conservation Paradigm. Chiang Mai: Chiang Mai University Regional Center for Social Science and Sustainable Development. —— (2003). ‘Constructing marginality: the ‘‘hill tribe’’ Karen and their shifting locations within Thai state and public perspectives’ in Caudio O. Delang (ed.), Living at the Edge of Thai Society: The Karen in the Highland of Northern Thailand (London: Routledge Curzon). Law, Lisa (2002). ‘Sites of Transnational Activism: Filipino Non-government Organizations in Hong Kong’, in Brenda S. A. Yeoh, Peggy Teo and Shirlena Huang (eds.), Gender Politics in the Asian-Pacific Region (London: Routledge), 65–89.

bibliography

327

Leach, E. (1954). Political Systems of Highland Burma: A Study of Kachin Social Structure (London: London School of Economics Monographs on Social Anthropology, No. 44). Lee Kuan Yew (1998 and 2000). The Singapore Story: Memoirs of Lee Kuan Yew, Two Volumes (Singapore: Times Editions). Lehman, F. K. (1979). ‘Who are the Karen, and if So, Why? Karen Ethnohistory and Formal Theory of Ethnicity’, in Charles Keyes (ed.), Ethnic Adaptation and Identity: The Karen on the Thai Frontier with Burma (Philadelphia: Institute for the Study of Human Issues). Levine, Stephen (1997). ‘Culture and Conflict in Fiji, Papua New Guinea, Vanuatu, and the Federated States of Micronesia’, in M. Brown and S. Ganguly (eds.) Government Policies and Ethnic Relations is Asia and the Pacific (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press), 457–508. Levy, Jacob (2000). The Multiculturalism of Fear (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Li Jianhui (1997). ‘Luelun zhongguo minzu zhengce tixi’ (On the System of Nationality Policies in China), Dangdai zhongguoshi yanjiu (Contemporary Chinese History Studies), No. 5: 85–103. Li, Tania (1989). Malays in Singapore: Culture, Economy and Ideology (Singapore: Oxford University Press). Li, Tania Murray (2000). ‘Articulating Indigenous Identity in Indonesia: Resource Politics and the Tribal Slot’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 42/1: 149–57. Liang Shuming (1987). Zhongguo Wenhua Yaoyi (Essentials of Chinese Culture) (Hong Kong: San Lian Shudian). Liao, H. (1995). ‘The Recruitment and Training of Ethnic Minority Cadres in Tibet’, Issues and Studies, 31/12: 55–67. Liddle, William (1997). ‘Coercion, Co-optation and the Management of Ethnic Relations in Indonesia’, in M. Brown and S. Ganguly (eds.), Government Policies and Ethnic Relations in Asia and the Pacific (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press), 273–320. Lie, John (2000). Multiethnic Japan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press). Lijphart Arend (1977). Democracy in Plural Societies: A Comparative Exploration (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press). —— (1996). ‘The Puzzle of Indian Democracy: A Consociational Interpretation’, American Political Science Review, 90/2: 258–68. Lim, L. L. and Oishi, N. (1996). ‘International Labor Migration of Asian Women: Distinctive Characteristics and Policy Concerns’, Asian and Pacific Migration Journal, 5: 85–116. Lind, Michael (2003). ‘The Cancun Delusion’, New York Times, September 12, 2003, 27. Liu Houqing (1999). ‘Confucianism and Han Wu Emperor’s Nationality Policy’, Qinghai Social Sciences, No. 2: 98–102. Liu Zehua (ed.) (1996). The History of Chinese Political Thought: Sui, Tang, Song, Yuan, Ming, Qing (Hangzhou: Zhejiang People’s Press), 457–73. Lockhart, Bruce M. (2002). Education in Laos in Historical Perspective, Unpublished Paper.

328

bibliography

Loganathan, Kethesh (1996). Sri Lanka: Lost Opportunities-Past Attempts at Resolving Ethnic Conflict (Colombo: Centre for Policy Research and Analysis, University of Colombo). Louis,Victor (1979). The Coming Decline of the Chinese Empire (New York: Times Books). Lovebond, Anne (2003). ‘Positioning the Product: Indonesian Migrant Women Workers in Contemporary Taiwan’, Working Papers Series, No. 43, April, 2003, City University of Hong Kong, Luo Qun (1991). ‘The Autonomous Rights of Tibet’, Beijing Review, 34/21, May 27–June 2. Ma Xing and Zhong He (1998). ‘Minzu quyu zizhi yanjiu huigu.’ (Review of the Studies on National Regional Autonomy) Heilongjiang minzu congkan (Heilongjiang Nationality Series) (Ha’erbin), March, 29–38. Ma Yang (2002). ‘Reconsideration on the Discourse on National Blending’, Strategy and Management, No. 5: 103–11. Mackerras, Colin (2003a). China’s Ethnic Minorities and Globalization (London: RoutledgeCurzon). —— (2003b). ‘Ethnic Minorities in China’, in Colin Mackerras (ed.), Ethnicity in Asia (London: RoutledgeCurzon). Mahajan, Gurpreet (1998). Identities and Rights: Aspects of Liberal Democracy in India (New Delhi: Oxford University Press). Mahajan, Sucheta (2001). ‘Which Swaraj? Gandhi’s RamRajya or Hindu Raj? Or the Making of Post-Independent Polity’. Paper presented at the Dialogue on Democracy and Pluralism in South Asia, New Delhi, 14–17. Manzo, Kathryn (1995). Creating Boundaries: The Politics of Race and Nation (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner). Mao Zedong (1966). Selected Works of Mao Zedong, Vol. 3 (Beijing: People Press). Margalit, Avishai and Halbertal, Moshe (1994). ‘Liberalism and the Right to Culture’, Social Research 61/3: 491–510. Marlowe, David H. (1969). ‘Upland-lowland Relationship: The Case of the S’kaw Karen of Central Upland Western Chiang Mai’, Tribesmen and Peasants in North Thailand Proceedings of the First Symposium of the Tribal Research Centre, Chiang Mai, Thailand, 53–68. Marsden, Peter (2001). Afghanistan: Minorities, Conflict and the Search for Peace (London: Minority Rights Group). Marx, Anthony (1998). Making Race and Nation: A Comparison of South Africa, the United States and Brazil (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Matthew, Anthony (2000). ‘Bougainville and Papua New Guinea: Complexities of Secession in a Multi-ethnic Developing State’, Political Studies, 48/4: 724–45. Maung Maung (1961). Burma’s Constitution (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff ). —— (1990). Burmese Nationalist Movements (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press). McCaskill, Don and Kampe, Ken (eds.) (1997). Development or Domestication?: Indigenous Peoples of Southeast Asia (Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books). McCoy, Alfred W. (1972). The Politics of Heroin in Southeast Asia (New York: Harper & Row). McGarry, John (1995). ‘Five Fallacies: Northern Ireland and the Liabilities of Liberalism’, Ethnic and Racial Studies, 18/4: 837–61.

bibliography

329

—— (1998). ‘Demographic Engineering: The State-Directed Movements of Ethnic Groups as a Technique of Conflict Resolution’, Ethnic and Racial Studies, 21/4: 615–38. —— and Brendan O’Leary (1995). Explaining Northern Ireland (Oxford: Blackwell). Mckinnon, John (1989). ‘Structural Assimilation and the Consensus: Clearing Grounds on which to Rearrange Our Thoughts’, in John McKinnon and Bernard Vienne (eds.) Hill Tribes Today: Problems in Change (Bangkok: White Lotus-Orstrom). Means, Gordon P. (1963). ‘Malaysia—A New Federation in Southeast Asia’, Pacific Affairs, 36: 138–59. —— (1970). Malaysian Politics (London: University of London Press). —— (1972). ‘Special Rights as a Strategy for Development: The Case of Malaysia,’ Comparative Politics, 5/1: 29–61. —— (1991). Malaysian Politics: The Second Generation (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press). Migrant Focus Magazine (2000). ‘The Lucrative Business That Is Labor Export’ Oct.–Dec. 1(2). —— (2001). ‘Reflections on Racism’, Jan.–March, 1(3):11. Mill, John Stuart (1947). Utilitarianism, Liberty, and Representative Government (London: J. M. Dent & Sons). Milly, Deborah J. (2000). ‘The Rights of Foreign Migrant Workers in Asia: Contrasting Bases for Expanded Protections’, in Michael Jacobsen and Ole Bruun (eds.), Human Rights and Asian Values: Contesting National Identities and Cultural Representations in Asia (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press). Milne, R. S. (1963). ‘Malaysia: A New Federation in the Making’, Asian Survey, 3/2: 76–82. —— (1966). ‘Singapore’s Exit from Malaysia: The Consequences of Ambiguity,’ Asian Survey, 11: 175–84. —— (1967). Government and Politics in Malaysia (Boston: Houghton Mufflin). —— and Mauzy, Diane K. (1983–4). ‘The Mahathir Administration in Malaysia: Discipline through Islam’, Pacific Affairs, 56/4: 260–88. Milner, A. C. (1977). Malay Raja: A Study of Malay Political Culture in East Sumatra and the Malay Peninsula in the Early Nineteenth Century (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press). Minority Rights Group (MRG) (1997). World Directory of Minorities (London: Minority Rights Group International). Moerman, Michael (1965). ‘Ethnic Identification in a Complex Society: Who are the Lue?’, American Anthropologist, 67: 1215–30. Momsen, Janet Henshall (1999). ‘Maid on the Move’, in Janet Henshall Momsen (ed.), Gender, Migration, and Domestic Service (London: Routledge). Mulhall, Stephen and Swift, Adam (1992). Liberals and Communitarians (Oxford: Blackwell). Mukarji, Nirmal and Arora, Balveer (eds.) (1992). Federalism in India: Origins and Development (Delhi: Vikas Publishing). Muni S. D. (1993). Pangs of Proximity: India and Sri Lanka’s Ethnic Crisis (New Delhi: Sage). Muscat, Robert J. (1990). Thailand and the United States: Development, Security and Foreign Aid (New York: Columbia University Press).

330

bibliography

Myers, David (ed.) (1995). The Politics of Multiculturalism in the Asia/Pacific (Darwin: Northern Territory University Press) Nadaraja, T. (1972). The Legal System of Ceylon in its Historical Setting (Leiden: E. J. Brill). Nagata, Judith (1984). The Reflowering of Malaysian Islam: Modern Religious Radicals and Their Roots (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press). Nandy, Ashis (1992). ‘Federalism, the Ideology of the State and Cultural Pluralism’, in N. Mukarji and B. Arora (eds.), Federalism in India: Origins and Development (Delhi: Vikas Publishing), 27–40. —— (1998). ‘The Politics of Secularism and the Recovery of Religious Tolerance,’ in Rajeev Bhargava (ed.), Secularism and Its Critics (New Delhi: Oxford University Press). Narayan Swamy, M. R (1994). Tigers of Lanka: From Boys to Guerillas (New Delhi: Konark Publishers). National Bureau of Statistics of China (2003). China Statistical Yearbook (Beijing: China Statistics Press). Neary, Ian (1997). ‘Burakumin in Contemporary Japan’, in Michael Weiner (ed.), Japan’s Minorities: The Illusion of Homogeneity (London: Routledge), 50–78. Neville, Robert Cummings (2000). Boston Confucianism: Portable Tradition in the LateModern World (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press). Nissan, Elizabeth (1996). Sri Lanka: A Bitter Harvest (London: Minority Rights Group). Nld Central Executive Committee (1990). ‘Statement in connection with the 1990 Temporary Constitution of the Republic of the Union of Burma, 28 July 1990’. O’Connor, R. (1990). ‘Siamese Tai in Tai Context: The Impact of a Ruling Center’, Crossroads, 5/1: 1–21. Ogasawara, Nobuyuki (1997). Ainu Sabetsu Mondai Tokuhon [A Reader on the Problem of Discrimination Against Ainus] (Tokyo: Ryokufu). Ota, Masahide (2000). Okinawa no Ketsudan [Okinawa’s Determination] (Tokyo: Asahi Shimbunsha). Ong, Aihwa (1996). ‘Cultural Citizenship as Subject-Making: Immigrants Negotiate Racial and Cultural Boundaries in the United States’, Current Anthropology, 37/5: 737–62. Onuma, Yasuaki (1992). ‘Interplay Between Human Rights Activities and Legal Standards of Human Rights: A Case Study of the Korean Minority in Japan’, Cornell International Law Journal, 25/3: 515–40. Oyama Chojo (1997). Okinawa Dokuritsu Sengen [A Declaration of Okinawan Independence] (Tokyo: Gendai shorin). Pan, Lynn (ed.) (1998). The Encyclopaedia of the Chinese Overseas (Singapore: Landmark Books). Parekh, Bhikhu (2000). Rethinking Multiculturalism: Cultural Diversity and Political Theory (Cambridge: Harvard University Press). Parrenas, Rhacel Salazar (2001). ‘Mothering from a Distance: Emotions, Gender, and Inter-generational Relations in Filipino Transnational Families’, Feminist Studies, 27/2: 361–90. Patil, S. H. (1998). ‘State Formation in Federal India’, in Abdulrahim Vijapur (ed.), Dimensions of Federal Nation Building (Delhi: Manak), 148–59.

bibliography

331

Payne, Robert (1960). The White Rajahs of Sarawak (London: Hale). Pei, Minxin (1997). ‘From Nominal Autonomy to Genuine Self-Administration: A Strategy for Improving Minority Rights in China’, in Wolfgang Danspeckgruber (ed.), Self-Determination and Self-Administraton: A Sourcebook (Boulder, Co: Lynne Rienner), 289–98. Penz, Peter (1992). ‘Development Refugees and Distributive Justice: Indigenous Peoples, Land and the Developmentalist State’, Public Affairs Quarterly, 6/1: 105–31. —— (1993). ‘Colonization of Tribal Lands in Bangladesh and Indonesia’, in Michael Howard (ed.), Asia’s Environmental Crisis (Boulder, CO: Westview Press), 37–72. Pe-Pua, R. (2003). ‘Wife, Mother, and Maid: The Triple Role of Filipino Domestic Workers in Spain and Italy’, in N. Piper and M. Roces (eds.), Wife or Worker? Asian Women and Migration (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield). Pfaff-Czarnecka, Joanna, et al. (eds.) (1999). Ethnic Futures: The State and Identity Politics in Asia (New Delhi: Sage). Pholsena, Vatthana (2002). ‘Nation/Representation: Ethnic Classification and Mapping Nationhood in Contemporary Laos’, Asian Ethnicity, 3/2: 175–97. Piper, Nicola and Iredale, R. (2003). Identification of the Obstacles to the Signing and Ratification of the UN Convention on the Protection of the Rights of All Migrant Workers 1990—The Asia Pacific Perspective (Paris: UNESCO). —— (2003). ‘Bridging Gender, Migration and Governance: Theoretical Possibilities in the Asian Context’, Asian and Pacific Migration Journal, 12/1–2: 21–48. Pochhammer, Wilhelm Von (1981). India’s Road to Nationhood: A Political History of the Subcontinent (New Delhi: Allied Publishers). Pogge, Thomas (ed.) (2001). Global Justice (Oxford: Blackwell). Pracha Khadikit, Pracha (1885). Khon Pa Ru Kha Fainua (The Wildman of the Kha in the North) (Bangkok: Wachiralet). Pratt, Geraldine (1999). (In Collaboration with the Philippine Women Center), ‘Is This Canada? Domestic Workers’ Experiences in Vancouver, BC’, in Janet Momsen (ed.), Gender, Migration and Domestic Service (London: Routledge). Presser, Harriet (2003). Working in a 24/7 Economy: Challenges for American Families (New York: Russell Sage). Proschan, Frank (1997). ‘ ‘‘We are All Kmhmu, Just the Same’: Ethnonyms, Ethnic Identities, and Ethnic Groups’, American Ethnologist, 24/1: 91–113. Purushotam, Nirmala (1997). Negotiating Language, Constructing Race: Disciplining Difference in Singapore (Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter). Qing, He (1997). ‘Nationalism and Cosmopolitanism’, Chinese Studies in Philosophy, 28/3: 75–80. Rahim, Lily Zuraida (1998). The Singapore Dilemma: The Politics and Economy of Marginality of the Malay Community (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press). Rakhmat, Jalaluddin (1991). Islam Aktual : Refleksi-sosial Seorang Cendekiawan Muslim (Bandung: Penerbit Mizan). Ramage, Douglas E. (1995). Politics in Indonesia: Democracy, Islam and the Ideology of Tolerance (London: Routledge). Rawls, John (1999). The Law of Peoples (Cambridge: Harvard University Press). Raz, Joseph (1994). ‘Multiculturalism: A Liberal Perspective’, Dissent, Winter 1994: 67–79.

332

bibliography

Reid, Anthony (1979). The Blood of the People: Revolution and the End of Traditional Rule in Northern Sumatra (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press). Renard, Ronald (1980). Kariang History of Karen-T’ai Relations from the Beginning to 1923 (Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Hawaii). —— (2000). ‘The Differential Integration of Hill People into the Thai State’, in Andrew Turton (ed.), Civility and Savagery: Social Identity in Tai States (Richmond: Curzon Press), 63–83. —— (2001). Opium Reduction in Thailand 1970–2000: A Thirty-year Journey, United Nations International Drug Control Programme Regional Centre for East Asia and the Pacific (Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books). Reynolds, Craig J. (1998). ‘Globalization and Cultural Nationalism in Modern Thailand’, in Joel S. Kahn (ed.), Southeast Asian Identities: Culture and the Politics of Representation in Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore and Thailand (New York: St Martin’s Press), 115–45. —— (2003). ‘Review Article: Tai-land and its Others’, South East Asia Research, 11/1: 113–30. Rice, E. (1980). Eastern Definitions (Garden City, NY: Anchor Books). Risser G., et al (2003). Running the Gauntlet: The Impact of Internal Displacement in Southern Shan State (Humanitarian Research Project, Asian Research Center for Migration, Institute of Asian Studies, Chulalongkorn University, Bangkok). Roberts, Michael (ed.) (1998). Sri Lanka: Collective Identities Revisited (Colombo: Marga Institute). Rodan, Garry (2001). Singapore (Aldershot: Ashgate). Rodil, B. R. (1993). The Lumad and Moro of Mindanao (London: Minority Rights Group, Report 93/2). Rodriguez, R. M. (2002). ‘Migrant Heroes: Nationalism, Citizenship and the Politics of Filipino Migrant Labor’, Citizenship Studies, 6/3: 341–56. Rotberg, Robert (ed.) (1999). Creating Peace in Sri Lanka: Civil War and Reconciliation (Washington: Brookings Institution Press). Rudolph, Susanne H. and Rudolph, Lloyd I. (2001). ‘Living with Difference in India: Legal Pluralism and Legal Universalism in Historical Context’, in Gerald James Larson (ed.), Religion and Personal Law in Secular India: A Call to Judgement (New Delhi: Social Science Press), 36–65. Ruhle, George (1964). Advisory Report on a National Park System for Thailand: 1959– 1960 (Report Prepared for the International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources and the American Committee for International Wildlife Protection, New York). Runciman, Steven (1960). The White Rajahs: A History of Sarawak from 1841 to 1946 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Saigal, K. (1992). ‘Federal Democracy and Pluralism in the North East’, in N. Mukarji and B. Arora (eds.), Federalism in India: Origins and Development (Delhi: Vikas Publishing). Sakhong, L. (2002). ‘Democracy Movement Towards Federal Union: The Role of Ethnic Nationalities in the Struggle for Democracy and Federalism in Burma’, in ENSCC Policy Papers, 2002, The New Panglong Initiative (Chiang Mai: UNLD Press).

bibliography

333

Samydorai, S. (2003). ‘Who is the Domestic Worker and How is She/He Protected?’, paper presented at the Annual Consultation with the UN Special Rapporteur for the Human Rights of Migrants, Kuala Lumpur, 30 September to 2 October. Sandhu, Kernial Singh (1969). Indians in Malaysia and Singapore: Some Aspects of Their Immigration and Settlement (London: Cambridge University Press). Sangay, L. (1999). ‘China in Tibet: Forty Years of Liberation or Occupation’, Harvard Asia Quarterly, Summer Issue. Saul, Ben (2000). ‘Cultural Nationalism, Self-Determination and Human Rights: The Case of Bhutan’, International Journal of Refugee Law, 12/3: 321–52. Sautman, Barry (1997). ‘Affirmative Action, Ethnic Minorities and China’s Universities’, Working Papers in the Social Sciences, No. 13, Hong Kong University of Science and Technology, 20 May. —— (1999). ‘Ethnic Law and Minority Rights in China: Progress and Constraints’, Law and Policy, 21/3: 283–314. Schain, Martin (1999). ‘Minorities and Immigrant Integration in France’, in Christian Joppke and Steven Lukes (eds.), Multicultural Questions (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 199–223. Schwartzberg, Joseph (1985). ‘Factors in the Linguistic Reorganization of Indian States’, in Paul Wallace (ed.), Region and Nation in India (Delhi: American Institute of Indian Studies), 155–82. Seifert, Franz (1998). ‘A Cultural Challenge to Liberal Democracy in Southeast Asia?’, Political Science Series, Institute for Advanced Studies, Vienna, No. 53. Seneviratne, H. L. (2002). ‘Buddhism, Identity and Conflict’, Lecture delivered at the ICES Auditorium, Colombo, Sri Lanka, 14 Aug. 2002. Shamsul, A. B. (1986). From British to Bumiputera Rule: Local Politics and Rural Development in Peninsular Malaysia (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies). Shan Human Rights Foundation: www.shanland.org. Shapiro, Ian and Kymlicka, Will (eds.) (1997). Ethnicity and Group Rights Nomos XXXIX (New York: New York University Press). Shastri, Amita (1997). ‘Government Policy and the Ethnic Crisis in Sri Lanka’, in M. Brown and S. Ganguly (eds.), Government Policies and Ethnic Relations in Asia and the Pacific (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press), 129–63. Sheridan, Greg (1999). Asian Values Western Dreams: Understanding the New Asia (St. Leonards, NSW: Allen & Unwin). Sheth, D. L. (1989). ‘Nation-building in Multi-Ethnic Societies: The Experience of South Asia’, Alternatives, 14: 379–88. Shih, Chih-Yu (2002). ‘The Teleology of State in China’s Regional Ethnic Autonomy’, Asian Ethnicity, 3/2: 249–56. Shiva Rao, B. (1967). The Framing of India’s Constitution: Select Documents (Delhi: Indian Institute of Public Administration). Short, Anthony (1975). The Communist Insurrection in Malaya, 1948–1960 (London: Muller). Siddiqui, T. (2001). Transcending Boundaries—Labour Migration of Women from Bangladesh (Dhaka: The University Press). Siddle, Richard (1996). Race, Resistance and the Ainu of Japan (London: Routledge).

334

bibliography

—— (1997). ‘Ainu: Japan’s Indigenous People’, in Michael Weiner (ed.), Japan’s Minorities: The Illusion of Homogeneity (London: Routledge), 17–49. Silverstein, Josef (1997). ‘Fifty Years of Failure of Burma’, in M. Brown and S. Ganguly (eds.), Government Policies and Ethnic Relations in Asia and the Pacific (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press), 167–96. —— (1997b). ‘Federalism as a Solution to the Ethnic Problem in Burma’, in Gunther Bachler (ed.), Federalism Against Ethnicity: Institutional, Legal and Democratic Instruments to Prevent Violent Minority Conflicts (Zurich: Verlag Ruegger), 261–67. Singh, Ajay Kumar (1997). ‘Jharkhand Movement: Assertion of Socio-cultural Identity and the Demand for a Separate State’, in Rasheeduddin Khan (ed.), Rethinking Indian Federalism (Shimla: Inter-University Centre for Humanities and Social Sciences), 241–52. Singh, Hari (1995). ‘UMNO Leaders and Malay Rulers: The Erosion of a Special Relationship’, Pacific Affairs, 62/2: 187–205. —— (1998). ‘Tradition, UMNO and Political Sucession in Malaysia’, Third World Quarterly, 19/2: 241–54. —— (2000). ‘Democratization or Oligarchic Restructuring? The Politics of Reform in Malaysia’, Government and Opposition, 35/4: 520–46. Sisk, Tim (1996). Power Sharing and International Mediation in Ethnic Conflicts (Washington: US Institute of Peace Press). Skinner, G. William (1957). Chinese Society in Thailand (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press). Smith, Alan (1997). ‘Ethnic Conflict and Federalism: The Case of Burma’, in Guenther Baechler (ed.), Federalism Against Ethnicity (Zurich: Verlag Ruegger), 230–59. —— (2003). ‘Ethnic Problems and Constitutional Solutions’, Legal Issues on Burma Journal, No. 15, August. Smith, Anthony D. (1991). National Identity (Harmondsworth: Penguin). Smith, Martin (1999). Burma: Insurgency and the Politics of Ethnicity (Dhaka: The University Press). —— (2002). Burma (Myanmar): The Time for Change (London: Minority Rights Group). Smith, W. (1990). ‘China’s Tibetan Dilemma’. The Fletcher Forum of World Affairs, 14/1: 78. Snyder, Jack (2000). From Voting to Violence: Democratization and Nationalist Conflict (New York: Norton). Sollinger, Dorothy (1999). ‘Human Rights Issues in Chinese Internal Migration: Insights from Comparisons with Germany and Japan’, in Joanne Bauer and Daniel Bell (eds.), The East Asian Challenge for Human Rights (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 285–312. South, A. (2002). Mon Nationalism and the Civil War in Burma: The Golden Sheldrake (London: Routledge). Spinner-Halev, Jeff (2001). ‘Feminism, Multiculturalism, Oppression and the State’, Ethics, 112/1: 84–113.

bibliography

335

Srinivasavaradan, T. C. A. (1992). ‘Pluralistic Problems in the Federal System’, in Nirmal Mukarji and Balveer Arora (eds.), Federalism in India: Origins and Development (Delhi: Vikas Publishing), 127–57. Steiner, Jurg (2001). ‘Switzerland and the European Union: A Puzzle’, in Michael Keating and James McGarry (eds.), Minority Nationalism and the Changing International Order (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 137–54. Stiglitz, Joseph E. (2002). Globalization and Its Discontents (New York: Norton). Stivens, M. (1998). ‘Sex, Gender and the Making of the New Malay Middle Classes’, in K. Sen and M. Stivens (eds.), Gender and Power in Affluent Asia (London: Routledge), 87–126. Stott, Philip (1991). ‘Mu’ang and Pa: Elite Views of Nature’, in Manas Chitakawem and Andrew Turton (eds.), Thai Constructions of Knowledge (London: School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London), 142–54. Stuart-Fox Martin (1997). A History of Laos (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). —— (1998). The Lao Kingdom of Lan Xang: Rise and Decline (Bangkok: White Lotus). —— (1999). ‘Laos: from Buddhist Kingdom to Marxist State’, in Ian Harris (ed.), Buddhism and Politics in Twentieth-Century Asia (London: Pinter), 153–72. Stubbs, Richard (1989). Hearts and Minds in Guerrilla Warfare: the Malayan Emergency 1948–1960 (Singapore: Oxford University Press). Sun Y. (1998). ‘1996–1997 nian minzu wenti lilun yanjiu zongshu’ (A summary of the Theoretical Studies on Nationalities between 1996 to 1997), Heilongjiang minzu congkan (Heilongjiang Nationality Series) (Ha’erbin), No. 3: 43–8. Supaporn Jarunpattana (1980). Phasi Fin Kap Naiyobai Kankhlang Khong Rathaban Ph.S. 2367–2468 (Opium Revenue and Fiscal Policy of Thailand 1824–1925) Unpublished MA thesis, Bangkok: Chulalongkorn University. Swaney, James and Olson, Paulette (1992). ‘The Economics of Diversity: Lives and Lifestyles’, Journal of Economic Issues, 26/2: 1–25. Taillard, Christian (1989). Le Laos: Strate´gies d’un Etat-tampon (Montpellier: Groupement d’Inte´reˆts Publics Reclus, Collection Territoires). Taira, Koji (1997). ‘Troubled National Identity: The Ryukyans/Okinawans’, in Michael Weiner (ed.), Japan’s Minorities: The Illusion of Homogeneity (London: Routledge), 140–77. Takeuchi, Wataru (2002). ‘Ainu Minzoku’ [Ainu Nation] in Buraku Kaiho Jinken Kenkyujo (ed.), Nihon no okeru sabetu to jinken, 127–46. Tambiah, S. J. (1976). World Conqueror and World Renouncer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). —— (1977). ‘The Galactic Polity: The Structure of Traditional Kingdoms in Southeast Asia’, Annals of the New York Academy of Science, No. 293: 69–97. —— (1992). Buddhism Betrayed (Chicago: University of Chicago Press). Tamir, Yael (1993). Liberal Nationalism (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Tan, Tai Yong (2001). ‘Singapore: Civil-Military Fusion’, in Alagappa, Muthiah (ed.), Coercion and Governance: The Declining Political Role of the Military in Asia (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press), 276–93. Tan, Jean (2002). ‘Report maid abuse to MoM or police’, The Straits Times, January 30.

336

bibliography

Tapp, Nicholas (1986). ‘The Hmong of Thailand, Opium People of the Golden Triangle’, Anti-Slavery Society and Cultural Survival Series, No. 4 (London). —— (1989). Sovereignty and Rebellion: The White Hmong of Northern Thailand (Singapore: Oxford University Press). —— (2000). ‘Ritual Relations and Identity: Hmong and Others’, in Andrew Turton (ed.), Civility and Savagery. Social Identity in Tai States (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press), 84–103. Taran, Patrick A. (2001). ‘Human Rights of Migrants: Challenges of the New Decade’, International Migration, 38/6: 7–51. Taras, Ray (1998). ‘Nations and Language-Building: Old Theories, Contemporary Cases’, Nationalism and Ethnic Politics, 4/3: 79–101. Taylor, Charles (1992). Multiculturalism and the Politics of Recognition (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press). —— (1994). ‘The Politics of Recognition’, in Amy Gutmann (ed.), Multiculturalism and The Politics of Recognition (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press), 25–74. —— (1995). ‘The Politics of Recognition’, in Philosophical Arguments (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press), 225–56. Taylor, R. (1987). The State in Burma (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press). Taylor, Rupert (1999). ‘Political Science Encounters ‘‘Race’’ and ‘‘Ethnicity’’ ’, in Martin Bulmer and John Solomos (eds.), Ethnic and Racial Studies Today (London: Routledge). Teraki, Nobuyaki and Noguchi, Michihiko (eds.) (2001). Buraku Mondairon he no Shotai [A Preview of the Burakumin Issue] (Osaka: Kaiho shuppan sha). Teruya Kantoku (1997). Okinawa Kenri Sengen [A Declaration of Okinawa’s Rights] (Okinawa: Sazen Puresu). Thant Myint-U (2001). The Making of Modern Burma (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Thier, Alexander (1999). ‘Afghanistan: Minority Rights and Autonomy in a Multiethnic Failed State’, Stanford Journal of International Law, 35: 351–88. Thongchai Winichakul (1993). ‘The Other Within: Ethnography and Travel Literature from Bangkok Metropolis to Its Periphery in the Late Nineteenth Century Siam’, paper presented at the Fifth International Conference on Thai Studies, SOAS, University of London, 4–10 July. —— (1994). Siam Mapped: A History of the Geo-body of a Nation (Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books). —— (2000a). ‘The Other Within: Travel and Ethno-spatial Differentiation of Siamese Subjects 1885–1910’, in Andrew Turton (ed.), Civility and Savagery: Social Identity in Tai States (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press), 38–62. —— (2000b). ‘The Quest for ‘‘Siwilai’’: A Geographical Discourse of Civilizational Thinking in the Late Nineteenth- and Early Twentieth-century Siam’, Journal of Asian Studies, 59/3: 528–49. Tibet Autonomous Region Bureau of Statistics (1990). Xizang shehui jingji tongji nianjian, 1990 (1990 Year Book of Social and Economic Statistics in Xizang) (Shijiazhuang: China Statistics Press). —— (2003). Tibet Statistical Yearbook 2003 (Beijing: China Statistics Press).

bibliography

337

Tiruchelvam, Neelan (2000). ‘The Politics of Fedaralism and Diversity in Sri Lanka’, in Yash Ghai (ed.), Autonomy and Ethnicity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 197–218. Tomonaga, Kenzo (2002). ‘Hi Sabetsu Buraku’ [Burakumin subjected to discrimination] in Nihon (ed.), Buraku Kaiho Jinken Kenkyujo ni okeru sabetsu to jinken, 3–22. Toyota, Mika (1999). Cross-border Mobility and Multiple Identity Choices: The Urban Akha in Chiang Mai, Thailand, Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Hull University, UK. —— (2000). ‘Cross-border Mobility and Social Networks: Akha Caravan Traders’, in Grant Evans et al. (eds.), Where China Meets Southeast Asia: Social and Cultural Change in the Border Regions (Singapore: ISEAS), 204–21. Toyota, Mika (2003). ‘Contested Chinese Identities Among Ethnic Minorities in the China, Burma and Thai Borderlands’, Ethnic and Racial Studies, 26/2: 301–20. —— (forthcoming). The Akha: A Transnational Ethnic Minority in the Borderlands of Thailand, Burma and China (London: RoutledgeCurzon). Tregonning, K. G. (1958). Under Chartered Company Rule: North Borneo, 1881–1946 (Singapore: University of Malaya Press). Tu, Weiming (1998). ‘Epilogue: Human Rights as a Confucian Moral Discourse’, in de Bary and Tu Weiming (eds.), Confucianism and Human Rights (New York: Columbia University Press). Tully, James (1995). Strange Multiplicity: Constitutionalism in an Age of Diversity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Universities Historical Research Centre (1999). The 1947 Constitution and the Nationalities, Vol. 2 (Yangon: Universities Historical Research Centre and Innwa Publishing House). Van Cott, Donna Lee (1996). 500 Years of Confrontation: Indigenous Rights and State Security Policy in Latin America, Institute for National Strategic Studies, McNair Paper, No. 53. Vandergeest, Peter (1996). ‘Mapping Nature: Territorialization of Forest Rights in Thailand’, Society and Natural Resources, 9: 159–75. Vidyarthi, L. P. (1976). ‘Inter-group Conflict and Tension in Contemporary India’, in W. Veenhoven (ed.), Case Studies on Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms Volume 3 (The Hague: Martin Nijhoff ). Von Geusau Alting (2000). ‘Akha Internal History: Marginalization and the Ethnic Alliance System’, in Andrew Turton (ed.), Civility and Savagery: Social Identity in Tai States (Surrey: Curzon). Von Vorys, Karl (1976). Democracy Without Consensus: Communalism and Political Stability in Malaysia (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press). Waever, Ole (1995). ‘Securitization and Desecuritization’, in Ronnie Lipschutz (ed.), On Security (New York: Columbia University Press), 46–86. Waheed, Abdul (1998). ‘Movement for Uttarkhand State: The Resurgence of Pahari Identity in Uttar Pradesh’, in Abdulrahim Vijapur (ed.), Dimensions of Federal Nation Building (Delhi: Manak), 249–58. Wakin, Erik (1992). Anthropology Goes to War: Professional Ethics and Counterinsurgency in Thailand (Madison: Center for Southeast Asia Studies Monograph, No. 7, University of Wisconsin).

338

bibliography

Wallerstein, Immanuel (2003). ‘Citizens All? Citizens Some! The Making of the Citizen’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 45/4: 650–79. Walzer, Michael (1983). Spheres of Justice: A Defense of Pluralism and Equality (Oxford: Blackwell). Wang, and D., Huang, X. (1995). ‘Minzu quyu zizhi zhengce zai xizang de weida shijian’ (Great Practice of Regional Autonomy Policy in Tibet), Xizang ribao, Tibet Daily, August 11. Weiner, Michael (ed.) (1997). Japan’s Minorities: The Illusion of Homogeneity (London: Routledge). Weiner, Myron (1978). Sons of the Soil: Migration and Ethnic Conflict in India (Delhi: Oxford University Press). —— (1998). Sons of the Soil, (second edn.) (Delhi: Oxford University Press). Weller, Marc (ed.) (1993). Democracy and Politics in Burma (Manerplaw: Government Printing Office of the NCGUB). Wijesinha, Rajiva (ed.) (1997). Liberal Values for South Asia (Colombo: Council for Liberal Democracy). Willett, Cynthia (ed.) (1998). Theorising Multiculturalism (Oxford: Blackwell). Wimmer, Andreas and Schetter, Conrad (2002). State Formation First: Recommendations for Reconstruction and Peace-Making in Afghanistan, Center for Development Research, University of Bonn, Discussion Paper, No. 45. Winichakul, T. (1994). Siam Mapped (Chiang Mai: Silkworm). Wolters, O.W. (1999). History, Culture, and Region in Southeast Asian Perspectives (Ithaca, NY: Southeast Asian Program Publications, Cornell University). Wong, Aline K. and Yeh, Stephen (eds.) (1985). Housing a Nation: 25 Years of Public Housing in Singapore (Singapore: Housing and Development Board). Yamanaka, K., and Piper, Nicola (2003). ‘An Introductory Overview’, Asian and Pacific Migration Journal, 12/1–2: 1–20. Yan, Jiaqi (1996). ‘China’s National Minorities and Federalism’, Dissent, Summer: 139–44. Yang Houdi, Wang Ping and Sui Qing (1998). Equality, Autonomy and Development: the Chinese Model of Protecting Minority Rights (Beijing: Xinhua chubanshe). Yang Jingchu and Wang Geliu (1994). ‘Woguo de minzu quyu zizhi: Mao Zedong dui Marxism’s minzu lilun de gongxian’ (National Regional Autonomy in China: Mao Zedong’s Contribution to Marxist Theory of Nationality), Minzu yanjiu (Nationality Study), No. 1: 1–8. Yeoh, B., Huang, S. and Gonzalez, J. (1999). ‘Migrant Female Domestic Workers in the Economic, Social and Political Impacts in Singapore’, International Migration Review, 33/1: 114–36. Young, Iris Marion (1990). Justice and the Politics of Difference (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Zhang Lei (1995). ‘Fanrong xingwang de kekao baozheng: Minzu quyu zizhi zhidu zai xizang de chenggong shijian’ (‘Reliable Guarantee to Prosperity: Successful Practice of Regional Autonomy Policy in Tibet’), Xizang ribao (Tibet Daily), September 15: 5–6. Zhonghua Renmin Gongheguo Xiafa (1997). (Beijing: China’s Law Press).

bibliography

339

Zhou Chuanbin (1998). ‘Minzu zhengce lilun yanjiu huigu’ (Review of the Theoretical Studies on Nationality Policies), Heilongjiang minzu congkan (Heilongjiang Nationality Series), (Ha’erbin), No. 3: 39–42. Zhou Ping (1993). ‘Minzu zizhi difang xingzheng guanli de teshuxing’ (Special Characteristics of the Administration in Autonomous Regions), Sixiang zhanxian (Thought Battlefield), No. 4, 37–8. Zhu Guobin and Yu Lingyun (2000). ‘Regional Minority Autonomy in the PRC’, International Journal on Minority and Group Rights, 7: 39–57.

This page intentionally left blank

Index

Abdul Rahman, Tunku 140–1 Aceh 3, 159–61 and Free Aceh Movement 159–60 and inappropriateness of ‘minorities’ rhetoric 160–1 and Islam 160 and nature of conflict 160–1 and rebellion by 159 adat: and Indonesia 156–8, 166–7 and Malaysia 138 affirmative action: and China 66 and Confucianism 59 and Malay-Muslim majority 142, 150 Afghanistan: and national minorities 37 and security concerns 44 African Union 55 Agai, Takashi 223 Agar, Michael H 117 Aguettant, Joseph L 120 Ahmed, Samina 40 Ainus 47, 48, 231, 232, 241 and framing of minority equality claims 240–1 Akbar, M J 309 Akha 114 Aland Islands 24 Ali, Amir 297 Alliance of Adat Communities in the Archipelago 156 Alsace 153 American Institute for Research 117 Anaya, S James 29, 49 n35 Anderson, Benedict 40, 45 n30 Anderson, Bridget 215 n35 Ansari, Iqbal A 297 Anti-Fascist People’s Freedom League (AFPFL) 266 and Burmese independence 267

and Independence Constitution 267–8 Anwar Ibrahim 144, 149 Aquino, Cory 212 Arasaki, Moriteru 229 Arasaratnam, Sinnapah 138 Archaimbault, Charles 83–4 Arifin, Busthanaul 165 Arora, Balveer 39 n15, 39 n17, 304 ascribed identity 174–5 Asia: and capitalism 179 and communitarianism 180 and diversity of 2–3 and immigrants 37 and indigenous peoples 46–52 and colonization 46–7 and definitional problems 48–9 and economic development 50–1 and role in state-formation 48 and treatment of 49–50 and use of term disputed 46, 47–8 and metics 52–3 and national minorities 36–46 and communitarianism 41–4 and multinational federalism 39–41, 46, 153 and security concerns 44–6 and suppression 38 and territorial autonomy 38 and political developments in 179–80 and rise of identity politics 3–4 Asian Development Bank (ADB) 93–4 and Greater Mekong Sub-region initiative 94 Asian values 153 and communitarianism 6, 181 Assam 39 assimilation: and Confucianism 60

342

index

assimilation (cont’d ) and immigrant groups 25 and liberal-democracy 80 and Marxism 61 and minorities in China 75–6 and nation-building 80 Association of South East Asian Nations (ASEAN) 276, 285 asymmetric federalism 304–5 asylum seekers 27 Aung San: and assassination of 269 and Independence Constitution 268 Aung San Suu Kyi 286 and detention of 276 and ethnic nationalities 274–5 and house arrest 273 and international focus on 285 Australia: and ethnic pluralism 243 and immigrant groups 25, 26 and indigenous peoples 24, 25 Austria, and metics 27 Bakan, Abigail B 211, 217 Bakker, Karen 93, 94 Baluchis 45 Banarjee, Ashis 39 n15, 39 n17 Bandaranaike-Chelvanayakam Pact (1957) 245, 248 Bandaranaike, S W R D 246 Bangladesh: and indigenous peoples 50 and national minorities, security concerns 44–5 Barnes, R H 4 n1, 49 n36 Barthes, Roland 176 n4 Baruah, Sanjib 303, 310 Basque Country 24 Bell, Daniel A 173 Bell, Gary 42, 200 n8 Benhabib, Seyla 29 Berriel, Christian 214 n32 Beteille, Andre 48 Bhattacharya, Mohit 39 n17 Bhruksasri, Wanat 117

Bodde, Derek 76 Border Patrol Police (Thailand) 116 Bose, Mani Lal 303 n8 Bowen, John 48, 159, 161, 163, 165 Bowie, Fiona 169 Braithwaite proposals (1995) 253–4 British North Borneo Company 137 Brown, D 4 n1, 264 Brown, Michael 4 n1, 38 n13 Brunei, and ethnic Chinese 53 Brysk, Alison 47 n34 Buddhism: and Laos 96–7 and premodern period 82–4 and liberal-democracy 97 and mandala system 82–3, 97 and Sri Lanka 259 Buergin, Reiner 126 Bulag, U 67 n6 Burakumin Liberation League 237, 238 Burakumins 231–2, 234–5 and framing of minority equality claims 237–8 Burma Lawyers Council 278 Burma Socialist Programme Party (BSPP) 271 Burma, see Myanmar/Burma Calhoun, Craig 195 n23 Cambodia: and ethnic Vietnamese 53 and national minorities, security concerns 44 Canada: and immigrant groups 25, 26 and indigenous peoples 24, 25 and migrant workers 209, 212 and multiculturalism 224 and multinational federalism 24 capitalism: and Asia 179 and individualizing effect of 180 and liberal individualism 179 Carens, Joseph 197, 206, 292, 309 Catalans 48 Catalonia 24, 152

index centre-periphery relations: and Confucianism 57–60 and Laos, pre-Communist 85–6 and mandala system 82–3 and pre-colonial Myanmar/ Burma 264 and upland/lowland dichotomy in Thailand 113–15, 132 Ceylon National Congress 247 Chalamwong, Yongyuth 128, 129 Chamberlain, James R 81 Chan, Sin Yee 218 n43, 219 n45 Chandra, Bipan 290 Chang Kyung-sup 177 Chatterjee, Partha 107, 195 n22 Chaze´e, Laurent 94 n21 Chelvanayakam, S J V 248, 250 Chen Kuiyuan 70 Chen Qinghua 63 Chen Yanbin 62 Cheng, Chung-Ying 59 Cheung, Tak Kin 216, 217 Chin, C 198 n5 China 13 and ethnic diversity of 56 and indigenous peoples 46 and minorities 56–7, 79 and accommodation rights 66 and assimilation 75–6 and central control 67–8 and commercialization of 78 and Confucianism 57–60 and constraints on autonomy 67 and current policy 64–8 and economic development 63 and impact of globalization 78–9 and lack of political freedom 68 and land rights 68 and Marxism 60–4 and regional autonomy 62, 63, 65–6 and Ronghe (intermingling) policy 76–8, 79 and security concerns 69–70, 79 and self-determination 61–2 and self-government 65–6

343

and self-identification 66–7 and special representation rights 66 and national minorities 37 and secessionist movements 56 and Tibet: and autonomy in practice 70–3 and changes in policy 69–70 and cultural autonomy 71–3 and economic autonomy 73 and economic development 63, 64 and evaluation of autonomy 73–4 and legal autonomy 70–1 and political autonomy 70 and reform of 62 and Ronghe (intermingling) policy 76–8, 79 and security concerns 69–70 Chinese Communist Party (CCP), and minorities 61–2 Chittagong Hill Tribes 47 choice: and asocial conception of individuals 171 and liberalism 171 Cholewinski, R 204 Chua, Beng Huat 6, 181 n8, 185, 189 n19, 194 citizenship: and foreign domestic workers 200 and hill tribes in Thailand 111, 118–19, 120–1, 124–5, 131 and immigrants 197 and immigration 25 and Laos 87 and metics 27, 52–3 and migrant workers 196–7 and multiple dimensions of 309 Clammer, John 184 n12 Clark, John James 20 n8 ‘clash of civilizations’ 20 and lack of evidence for 7 class: and China 62 and Laos 86

344

index

Coedes, G 110 Colchester, Marcus 46, 47, 49 n36, 49 n38, 51 n42 colonialism, and legacy of 1–2, 7–8 colonization, and indigenous peoples 46–7 Communism, and class 62, 86 Communist Party of Burma 266 Communist Party of Malaya 139 Communist Suppression Operation Command, and Thailand 116 communitarianism: and Asian values 6, 181 and the community 171 as counterdiscourse to liberalism 180 and cultural community 133 and cultural membership 133 as ideology of real nation 176–9 and internal restrictions 133 and multinational federalism 41–4 as national ideology 176, 180 and respect for difference 173 and single-party dominance, Singapore 193–5 and Western models of 171 and individualism 176 and liberalism 173 see also Singapore; state communitarianism; vernacular communitarianism community membership: and ascribed identity 174–5 and hierarchies of 177–8 and imposition of constraints 178–9 and limits of membership 177 as taken for granted 175–6 and vernacular communitarianism 175 Condominas, Georges 82 Confucianism: and family concept 217–18, 219, 221 and minorities 57–60 and Ronghe (intermingling) policy 76–8 and patriarchalism 218

Connor, Walker 37 consent, and unequal rights 205–6 consociational democracy, and Malaysia 136 Constable, N 198 n5 Cornell University, and hill tribes in Thailand 117 Corsica 24 and France 168 Council of Europe 55 and Framework Convention for the Protection of National Minorities 30 Crouch, Harold 139 Culas, Christian 100 n25, 101, 102 cultural community 130 and communitarianism 133 and definitional problems 133–4 and India 294 and public recognition of 288, 307–8 cultural membership 130, 146 and ascribed identity 174–5 and communitarianism 133 and personal autonomy 133 cultural situatedness 294 Cultural Survival 54 culture, and liberalism 173–4 Dabla, Bashir Ahmad 39 n19 Dai Xiaoming 73 Dalai Lama 97 and China 63–4, 69 and democracy 97 and genuine autonomy 74 Dale, P N 224 Darum Arqam (House of Arqam) 150 Das, S R Mohan 40 n22 Dasgupta, Jyotindra 306, 310 Dato Onn bin Jaffar 140 Davis, Michael 40 Dayak 47, 48, 148 Dayang, Istiaisyah Bte Hussin 187 n17 De Onis, Juan 51 n42 de Silva, Dr Colvin R 249 de Silva, H L 247, 251 n5

index decolonization: and indigenous peoples 25 and nation-state model 3 democracy: and liberalism 194 and multiculturalism 33 see also liberal-democracy Democratic Action Party (DAP, Malaysia) 140 Democratic Alliance of Burma (DAB) 278, 279 Democratic Party of Japan 243 democratization: and ethnic mobilization 3 and multiculturalism 9–11 demographics, and minority groups 31–2 Deng Xiaoping 62, 63 Deng Xiaoping: and economic development 63 and nationality question 62–3 and stability 63 Desai, A R 290 desecuritization, and multiculturalism 34–5 Dharmadase, K N O 45 n30 Dharmalingam, V 249 Dhiravegin, Likhit 120 dominant groups: and accommodation of minorities 33 and desecuritization 34–5 and liberal-democratic consensus 35–6 Donoughmore Commission 246 Dorje Tsering 69, 70 Dreyer, June Teufel 58, 64, 69, 71, 72 Duncan, Christopher 4 n1, 9, 50 East India Company 289–90 economic development: and indigenous peoples 50–1 and minority rights 63 and Laos 92–6 and Myanmar/Burma 284 Edrisinha, Rohan 40, 250, 259

345

education: and India 300 and Laos 88–9 and Malaysian minorities 147 and Myanmar/Burma 272 and Singapore 186 and Tibet 72–3 Electricite´ du Laos 93 Electricity Generating Authority of Thailand 93 Engels, F 61, 86 n9 English East India Company 137 equality, and rights-consciousness 32 Eriksen, Thomas H 91 ethnic groups, and polyethnic states 130–1 ethnic identity: and definitional problems 103–4, 134 and state’s role in determining 134 ethnic politics: and framing issues 4–5 and vocal nature of Western 33 ethnicity: and anthropological theories of 103 and nationalism 106 Etzioni, Amitai 173 n2 Evans, Grant 92, 100, 102, 114 Evers, Pieter 48 Fang Xiaoru 57 Favell, Adrian 26 n5 federalism: and asymmetric 304–5 and multilevel 305–6 see also multinational federalism Federated Malay States, and British colonization 137 Federated States of Micronesia 40 Feng Erkang 59 Fincher, John 57 foreign domestic workers (FDW): and abuses of system 206 and citizenship 200 and contract status of 199

346

index

foreign domestic workers (FDW) (cont’d) and cultural context of practice 215–22 and affective ties 216–21 and Confucian ethics 217–18, 219, 220, 221–2 and inappropriateness of rights 219–21 and patriarchalism 218–19 and preference for family-like care 215–16 and treatment as family-members 216–17, 219 and treatment by employer 216 and International Convention on the Protection of the Rights of All Migrant Workers and Members of their Families 203–5 and legal status of 198–9 and minimum wage 202 and nongovernmental organizations 200–3 and employer-employee relationship 200–2 and employment law 202 and minimum wage 202 and time-off 203 and two-week rule 202, 207 and working conditions 200–2 and political concerns of 199–203 and remittances of 212 and unequal rights 203–15 and coercion 207–8 and consent to 205–6 and desire to return home 208 and employment advantages 209–10 and harmful effects of equality 213–14 and impact of equality on illegal immigration 210–11 and impact of equality on sending countries 212–13 and justification for 214–15

and lack of demand for equality 207, 208 and liberal-democratic theorists 213 and limitation of work-visas 213 and local opposition to equality 208–9 and uninformed consent to 206–7 as violation of liberal-democratic principles 210 see also Hong Kong; Singapore framing: and ethnic politics 4–5 and minority claims in Japan 236–7 and Ainus 240–1 and Burakumins 237–8 and Okinawans 238–40 France: and Corsica 168 and immigrant groups 26 and minority nationalisms 24, 152–3 Frazer, Elizabeth 176 Fukuyama, Francis 179 Funston, John 139 Gagliano, Felix 141 galactic polities 113 Gamburd, R 198 Gandhi, Rajiv 258 Ganesan, N 150 Ganguly, Sumit 4 n1, 44 n28, 45 n30 Garfield, Jay L 97 Geddes, W R 117 Gellner, David 22 n1, 47 geopolitical insecurity 9 geopolitical security, and multiculturalism 34–5 Germany, and metics 27 Glazer, Nathan 26 globalization: and liberal-democratic values 6 and minorities in China 78–9 Goh, Cheng Teik 141 Gomez, Edmund Terence 142 Gonzalez, Joaquin L 212

index Goudineau, Yves 89, 95 Gray, John 61, 171, 173 Greater Mekong Sub-region (GMS), and Asian Development Bank 94 Greenland, and indigenous peoples 24, 25 Grunfeld, A Tom 75 guest-workers 27 Gullick, J M 137 Gunasekera, S L 251 n5 Gupta, Dipankar 309 Gurr, Ted 47 n32, 52 n45, 53 n47 Gyaincain Norbu 70 Halbertal, Moshe 29 Hammer, Thomas 200 Han Jin 57–8, 60 Han Sung-Joo 181 n8 Handler, Richard 91 Hannum, Hurst 68 Hansen, Thomas B 311 Harff, Barbara 52 n45 Harrison, Selig 40 n22 Hasan Di Tiro 160 He, Boagang 41, 74, 76, 78 Heberer, Thomas 60, 66, 69, 71, 73 Hedgewar 292 Hefner, Robert 4 n1 Heim, Kristi 78 Heimendorf, C von Furer 303 Helpers for Domestic Helpers 215 Henders, Susan 4 n1 Herzer, E 73 Heyzer, Noeleen 212 n28 Hicks, George 52 n44 Hill Tribe Welfare Committee 110 Hill Tribe Welfare Division 118 hill tribes: and concept of 110 see also Thailand Hindess, Barry 124 Hinduism: and India 292–3 and Sri Lanka 259–60

347

Hinton, Peter 117 Hirsch, Philip 93 Hitler, Adolf 32 Hmong ethnic minority in Laos 100–2 and Indochina Wars 101–2 Ho, Chin Ung 45 n30 Hokkaido 231 Hong Kong, and foreign domestic workers 198 and contract status of 199 and legal status of 198–9 and minimum wage 202, 207 and nongovernmental organizations 200 and opposition to equal rights for 208–9 and two-week rule 202, 206, 207 and working hours 219–20 House of Arqam (Darum Arqam) 150 Hu Jingtao 70 and minorities 63 Huang X 63 Human Development Index, and Laos 88 human rights: and democratization 10 and rights-consciousness 32–3 Human Rights Watch 54 identity politics, and rise of 3–4 illegal immigration 27 and hill tribes in Thailand 128–9 immigrants: and Asia 37 and citizenship 197 and international law 30 and Laos 99–100 and minority rights 98 and reactions against 54 and Western approach to 25–6 see also metics Independence of Malaya Party (IMP) 140 India 20

348

index

India (cont’d) and British Raj and colonial policy 289–90 and community affiliations 289 and divide and rule 290 and homogenizing intent 290 and caste system 298 and cultural community 294, 307–8 and cultural diversity: and concerns over 294–5 and differentiation of 295 and national unity 308–10 and political unity 293 and protection of 291–2, 308 and recognition of 291 and variable forms of recognition 306–7 and education 300 and group autonomy, concerns over 306–7 and Hinduism, influence of 292–3 and independence, communal violence 289 and Indian National Congress 289 as voice of all India 293 and linguistic diversity, promotion of 299–302 and choice of national language 299–300 and linguistic reorganization of states 300–1, 302 and official languages 299, 301 and particularist chauvinism 302 and political construction of diversity 301–2 and tribal languages 301 and minorities: and communal violence 311 and differentiated rights 295 and equal treatment of 290–1 and inclusion in constitutionmaking 291

and marginalization of 311 and nonrecognition of differences 311–12 and political representation of 296–7 and protection of rights as citizens 311, 312 and redistribution 312–13 and multicultural accommodation 310–11 and multiculturalism 288–9 and experience of colonialism 294 and intercommunity conversation 313 and pressures for 293 and redistribution 312–13 and strengthening of 307–8 and multinational federalism 39–40, 153 and national minorities 37 and security concerns 44 and national unity and cultural diversity 308–10 and partition of 289 and political unity and cultural diversity 293 and rejection of ethnonationalism 289 and religious diversity, accommodation of 295–9 and concerns over maintenance of 298 and majority concerns over 298–9 and Personal law 295–6, 297 and political representation 296–7 and religious freedom 295, 298 and untouchability 298 and women 297 and secessionist movements 308, 309 and Sri Lanka 251–2, 258 and tribal communities and cultural diversity 302–6 and asymmetric federalism 304–5 and excluded regions 303 and integration 303 and multilevel federalism 305–6

index and protective segregation under colonial rule 302–3 and Regional District Councils 306 and Schedules Tribes 303 and women 297, 307 Indian National Congress (INC) 289 as voice of all India 293 indigenous peoples: and Ainus 47, 48, 231, 240–1 in Asia 46–52 and colonization 46–7 and definitional problems 48–9 and economic development 50–1 and role in state-formation 48 and treatment of 49–50 and use of term disputed 46, 47–8 and changing nature of 134 and definitional problems 47–9 and economic development 50–1 and hill tribes in Thailand 112 and institutionalization of internal boundaries 130 and international law 29–30 and Laos 99 and minority rights 130 and romanticizing of 134–5 and Western approach to 24–5 individualism: and asocial conception of 171, 173 and communitarianism 176 and liberalism 174 and repression of group life 174 Indochina Wars, and Hmong ethnic minority 101–2 Indo-Lanka Accord (1987) 251–2 Indonesia 16–17 and Aceh 3, 159–61 and Free Aceh Movement 159–60 and inappropriateness of ‘minorities’ rhetoric 160–1 and nature of conflict 160–1 and rebellion by 159 and Alliance of Adat Communities in the Archipelago 156

349

and crisis in government legitimacy 154–5 and immigrants, local conflicts with 158 and indigenous peoples 50 and Islam: and Aceh 160 and debates within 162 and legal reform 165–6 and legal system 161–2 and mixed marriages 162–5 and language and autonomy debates 158 and minorities: and the New Order 153–4 and political decentralization 154 and national minorities 37 and religious law: and dual legal system 161–2 and mixed marriages 162–5 and self-governance: and adat-based claims 156–8, 166–7 on basis of shared norms/ values 155–6 and movements for 155 and pre-existing communities 166 and provinces 155 and religious law 167 and variety of units of 158–9 and subnational group politics: and group definitions 167 and normative convergence 167 and West Sumatran Adat Assembly 156 Indonesian Council of Ulama 165 Inoue, Tatsuo 41 integration: and immigrant groups 25–6 and metics 27 economic integration 74 intergovernmental organizations, and promotion of Western models 6 International Convention on the Protection of the Rights of All Migrant Workers and

350

index

Members of their Families (ICMR) 203–5 International Human Rights Law Group 68 International Labour Organization(ILO) and indigenous peoples 29 and minority rights 22 international law: and immigrant groups 30 and indigenous peoples 29–30 and metics 30 and minority rights 31 and national minorities 30 Iredale, Robyn 4 n1, 199 n7, 204 n15, 205 Ireson, Carol J 95 Ireson, W Randall 95 Islam: and Indonesia and Aceh 160 and debates within 162 and legal reform 165–6 and legal system 161–2 and mixed marriages 162–5 and Malaysia 145, 150, 151 and Singapore 187 as transnational community 177–8 Islamic Group ( jemmah Islamiyah) 150 Ismael, Razali 276 Jaiqi, Yan 40 Jammu and Kashmir 304 Japan 18–19 and Burakumin Liberation League 237, 238 and framing of minority equality claims 236–7 and Ainus 240–1 and Burakumins 237–8 and Okinawans 238–40 and group orientation of 225 and isolation of 225 and Komeito (Clean Government Party) 228 as liberal democracy 223

and Liberal Democratic Party 226, 242–3 and ethnic Koreans 228 and minorities: and Ainus 47, 48, 231, 232, 241 and application of liberal theory 241–2 and Burakumins 231–2, 234–5 and ethnic Koreans 52, 227–8 and Law for the Promotion of Ainu Culture 232 and marginalization of 223 and number of 225 and Okinawans 229–31, 232, 233, 241–2 and societal prejudices against 224, 232–6 and sources of inspiration for 226, 236–8, 239, 240 and minority rights, prospects for 242–3 and myth of ethnic homogeneity 224–5 and obstacles to minority rights 226–7 and absence of coalition for change 226 and immigration policy 226 and one-party dominance 226 and racialized national narrative 225 and social illiberalism 224, 233, 242 and state liberalism 224 and United Nations 232 Japan Communist Party ( JCP) 226 Japan Foundation 124 Japan Socialist Party ( JSP) 226 Jathika Chinthanaya (National Vision), and Sri Lanka 260 Jayewardene, H W 251, 258 Jemmah Islamiyah (Islamic Group) 150 Jenkins, Richard 106 Jesudason, James V 143 Jiang Yinliang 58 Jiang Zeming, and minorities 63 Jomo, K S 142 Jones, Sidney 160 Jonsson, H 114

index Jørgensen, Anders Baltzer 113 Jospin, Lionel 168 Kachin Independence Organization (KIO) 277 Kadazans 148 Kamat, A R 301 Kandyan Law, and Sri Lanka 260 Karen 113 Karen National Association 267 Karmel, S 69, 70 Kashmir 39, 309 Kawamitsu, Shiichi 239 Kawamoto, Yoshikazu 231 Kaysone, Phomvihane 87 Kell, Tim 159 Kertzer, David 96 Keyes, Charles F 82, 84, 91, 103, 107, 113, 119, 134 Khan, Rasheeduddin 39 n19 Khin Maung Win 273 Khin Nyunt, Maj Gen 275, 277 Khmer empire of Angkor 82 Khmu 104–5 Khon Pa, and security concerns over 115–16 Kim Dae Jung 228 Kingsbury, Benedict 46, 48, 49 n35 Kinjo, Minoru 229, 238 Kohli, Atul 39 n19 Komatsu, Katsumi 231, 237 Komeito (Clean Government Party) 228 Koreans, and ethnic Koreans in Japan 227–8 Krishna, Sankaran 40, 43 n27, 45 n30 Krishna, Sumi 40 n21 Kumaratunga, Chandrika 254, 255 Kumpulan Militan Malaysia (Malaysian Militant Group) 150 Kunstadter, Peter 116, 127 Kurds 45 Kymlicka, Will 8 n3, 9, 22 n2, 24 n4, 28–9, 30 n7, 35, 38, 40 n20, 40 n21,

351

41 n25, 49 n35, 51 n42, 64–5, 72, 80–1, 92, 98, 103, 104, 106–7, 107–8, 130, 133, 134, 146, 147, 156, 166, 223, 252 n6 labour market, and labour migration in East Asia 197–8 Lan Xang kingdom 82–3 land rights, and China 68 language policies: and India 299–302 and Malaysian minorities 147 and Myanmar/Burma 282, 283 and national minorities 38 and Okinawa 239 and Singapore 183, 186, 188, 190–1 and Tibet 72 Lao Front for National Construction 89, 90 Lao People’s Democratic Republic, see Laos Laos 13–14 and democratization 91 and ethnic groupings in 81–2 and state monitoring of 89–92 and foreign investment in 93 and Hmong ethnic minority 100–2 and immigrant groups 99–100 and indigenous peoples 50, 99 and Khmu 104–5 and liberal multiculturalism 97–8 and national identity 106–8 and problems of categorization 98–102, 109 and problems of ethnic identity 103–5 and Lue 103–4 and minority policy 81–2, 109 and agricultural system 94–5 and citizenship 88 and education 88–9 and mandala system 82–3 and post-1975 Communist regime 86–9

352

index

Laos ((cont’d) and post-colonial period 85–6 and precolonial kingdoms 82–4 and resettlement 95 and minority rights, obstacles to 89, 108 and national development strategy 92–6 and securitization of ethnic policies 92 and state control of ethnicity 89–92 and state-staged Buddhism 96–7 and national minorities 99 and rights-consciousness 91 Lau, Albert 139, 141 Laungaramsri, Pinkaew 115, 127 Law, Lisa 212 Lee Kuan Yew 6, 191 Lehman, F K 113 Lenin, V I 61, 86 Levy, Jacob 29 Li Jianhui 65 Li, Tania Murray 157, 191 n20 Lian Sakhong 268 Liang Shuming 218 n42 Liao, H 73, 74 Liberal Democratic Party ( Japan) 226, 242–3 and ethnic Koreans 228 liberal-democracy: and assimilation 80 and Buddhism 97 and minority nationalisms 42, 43, 44 and minority rights 64–5, 80–1, 146, 223–4 and multiculturalism 6, 29, 35–6, 223 and national minorities 223–4 liberalism: and asocial conception of individuals 171, 173 and choice 171 and culture 173–4 and democracy 194 and individualism 174

and multiculturalism as contested concept 172–3 and repression of group life 174 and social realism 174 liberation struggles, and legacy of 1–2 Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) 244, 245, 251, 252, 253, 256, 258 Lie, John 224 Lijphart, Arend 40 n22, 53 n47, 149 Lim, L L 197 Lind, Michael 214 n32 Liu Houqing 57 Liu Zehua 58 Lockhart, Bruce M 85 Lodi Gyari 74 Loganathan, Kethesh 245, 251 Louis, Victor 61 n3 Lovebond, Anne 200 n8, 209 n23, 217 n41 Lua 113 Lue, and ethnic identity 103–4 Luo Qun 66, 70, 72, 73 Ma Xing 62 Ma Yang 78 Macaulay, Thomas Babington 290 Mackerras, Colin 78, 79 Mahajan, Sucheta 289, 296 Mahathir Mohamed 144, 150, 153 and Asian values 6 Malayan Peoples’ Anti-Japanese Army 139 Malaysia 15–16 and adat (traditional customs) 138 and agama (religion) 138 and Alliance party 143 and Malay dominance of 139–40 and British colonization of 137–8 and Communist insurgency 139 and independence 139, 141 and Malay/others distinction 138 and migration into 138–9 and Residential System 137–8 and Chinese minority:

index and cultural rights 148 and interest groups 147–8 and minority rights 146–7 political organization of 139, 140 and communal organization of politics 140, 151 and communal riots (1969) 141 and Royal Commission of Enquiry 142 and state of emergency 141–2 and consociational democracy 136, 143 and Democratic Action Party 140 and economic development: and National Development Policy 142 and New Economic Policy 142 and enlargement of 141 and geography of 136 and Indian minority: and minority rights 146–7 political organization of 139 and position of 148 and indigenous peoples 50, 148 and Islam 145, 150, 151 and Malay-Muslim majority: and affirmative action 142, 150 and constitutional protection of 143 and creation under British rule 138–9 and criticism of minorities policy 142 and economic power of 142–3 and hegemony of 145–6, 151 political organization of 139 and political supremacy of 139–40, 147 and privileging of 149–50 and tensions within 149 and Malay/others distinction 138 and Malaysian Chinese Association 139 and weakened influence of 143–4

353

and Malaysian Indian Congress 139, 148 and weakened influence of 143–4 and minority policy 136, 151 and accommodation of minorities 149 and criticism of 142 and cultural rights 148 and indigenous peoples 148 and individual rights 147 and interest groups 147–8 and no basis for additional rights 146–7 and privileging of majority 149–50 protection of minorities 140 as multicultural state 136 and Muslim/other distinction 138 and National Front, absorption of other parties 143 and National Operations Council 142 and Pan Malaysian Islamic Party 140, 144–5 and political culture 145 and Sultans: under British rule 137–8 and constitutional protection of 143 and Malayan Union scheme 139 and weakening of 144 and United Malays National Organization 139, 140 and divisions within 144 and political dominance of 143–4 and weakening of 149 Malaysian Chinese Association (MCA) 139 Malaysian Indian Congress (MIC) 139, 148 and weakened influence of 143–4 Malaysian Militant Group (Kumpulan Militan Malaysia) 150 mandala system: and Buddhism as doctrine 97

354

index

mandala system: (cont’d) and pre-modern Southeast Asia 82–3 Manerplaw Agreement 278 Mannorff, Hans 117 Mao Zedong 61 and federalism 62 and primacy of class 62 and self-determination 61 Marı´n, Ruth Rubio 80, 104 Margalit, Avishai 29 Marlowe, David H 113 Marx, Karl 61, 86 n9 Marxism 2 and minorities in China 60–4 Maung Maung 268, 269 Maung Maung, Dr 272–3 Mauzy, Diane K 145 McCoy, Alfred W 126 McGarry, John 5 n2 McKinnon, John 116 Means, Gordon P 138, 139, 141, 142 Megawati Sukarnoputri 159 Meghalaya 40 Mencius 57 metics 196 n2 in Asia 52–3 and citizenship 27, 52–3 and definition of 26–7 and ethnic Koreans in Japan 227–8 and international law 30 and Western approach to 27–8 Michaud, Jean 100 n25, 101, 102 migrant workers 18 and citizenship 196–7 in East Asian societies 197 and labour migration in East Asia 197–8 and rights 196 see also foreign domestic workers (FDW) migration, and labour migration in East Asia 197–8 Mill, John Stuart 75, 259

and assimilation 75 Milly, Deborah J 211 Milne, R S 139, 141, 145 Milner, A C 143 minority nationalism 23–4 Minority Rights Group 6, 54 minority rights: and economic development 63 and Laos 92–6 and immigrants 98 and indigenous peoples 130 and institutionalization of internal boundaries 130 and international law 29–30, 31 and international standards for 22 and justification for 133, 146 and liberal-democracy 64–5, 80–1, 146, 223–4 and national minorities 98 and obstacles to: categorizing minorities 11, 98–102 geopolitical insecurity 9 legacy of colonialism 7–8 legacy of precolonial hierarchies 8–9 sequencing issues 9–11 and politics of recognition 80 and preconditions for Western models 31 and democracy 33 and demographics 31–2 and desecuritization 34–5 and liberal-democratic consensus 35–6 and rights-consciousness 32–3 and reasons for 292 and Western models of: and immigrant groups 25–6 and indigenous peoples 24–5 and internationalization of 22–3, 28–31, 54 and metics 26–8 and minority nationalisms 23–4 misrecognition, and politics of 91 Mizoram 40

index multiculturalism: and asymmetric federalism 304–5 as civil rights issue 172 and commercialization of 78 as contested concept 172–3 and different interpretations 2 and growth of rhetoric 1 and justice 130 and liberal-democracy 6, 29, 35–6, 223 and obstacles to: categorizing minorities 11, 98–102 geopolitical insecurity 9 legacy of colonialism 7–8 legacy of precolonial hierarchies 8–9 sequencing issues 9–11 and politics of recognition 172 and preconditions for Western models 31 and democracy 33 and demographics 31–2 and desecuritization 34–5 and liberal-democratic consensus 35–6 and rights-consciousness 32–3 and preferential 170–1, 174 and reactions against 54 and respect for difference 172 and Western models of 170–1 Asian interest in 5–6, 12 and immigrant groups 25–6 and indigenous peoples 24–5 and internationalization of 22–3, 28–31, 54 and metics 26–8 and minority nationalisms 23–4 multilevel federalism 305–6 multination state, and national minorities 130–1 multinational federalism 1, 152 and India 39–40, 153 and national minorities 23–4, 38 and opposition to 40–1, 46, 153 and communitarianism 41–4 and Sri Lanka 244

355

and Buddhism 259 and communitarianism 258–9 and discussed in colonial period 247 and federal political culture 256–7 and Hinduism 259–60 and historical roots of 245 and Kandyan Law 260 and lack of desire for 245 and National Vision ideology 260 and prospects for 261 and securitization of ethnic issues 257–8 Moerman, Michael 103 Mok, Bong Ho 216, 217 Momsen, Janet Henshall 205–6 Morgan, Lewis Henry 86 n9 Mukarji, Nirmal 39 n15, 39 n17 Mulhall, Stephen 171 Munawir Szadjali 164 Muni, S D 258 Myanmar/Burma 19–20, 277 and Arakanese 262 and British colonization of 264–6 and Christian missionaries 265 and impact on ethnic relations 265–6 and Indian immigrants 265 and Burma Socialist Programme Party 271 and Burman majority 262, 263 and Chin 262, 267 and Independence Constitution 269 and India 310 and Communist insurgency 270 and Democratic Alliance of Burma 278, 279 and economic decline 272 and economic development 284 and education 272 and elections (1990) 273 and ethnic groupings in 262–3 and electoral success (1990) 273

356

index

Myanmar/Burma (cont’d) and Independence Constitution 269 and population of 263 and recognition of 281 as security threat 271, 286–7 and ethnic rebellion 263, 269–70, 272 and counterinsurgency strategy 271, 284 and peace agreements 271 and exile opposition 278–9 and draft constitution 278, 279 and federalism 278–9 and Manerplaw Agreement 278 and federalism 287 and independence 266–7 and Independence Constitution 267–9 and national minorities 268 and Panglong meeting (1947) 267 and rejection of federalism 268, 269 and Union of Burma 269 and intellectual isolation 280–1 and international responses to 284–7 and Association of South East Asian Nations 285 and distaste of ethnic politics 285 and failure to address minority claims 286 and Thailand 285–6 and United Nations 284–5 and Kachin 262, 267 and ethnic rebellion 270 and Independence Constitution 269 and Karen 262, 263, 267, 283 and ethnic rebellion 270 and Independence Constitution 269 and Karenni 262, 267 and ethnic rebellion 270 and Independence Constitution 269 and military government 275–7

and abuses of civilian rights 283–4 and constitution-drafting prohibited 276 and General Ne Win 270–2 and General Saw Maung 273 and General Sein Lwin 272 and language policies 282, 283 and martial law 273 and Maung Maung 272–3 and National Convention 275–6, 277 and repudiation of election results 275 and ‘road map’ to democracy 277 and threat of national disintegration 286–7 and minority rights 262 and democratization 262 and Mon 262 and National Coalition Government of the Union of Burma 278 and National Council of the Union of Burma 278–9 and National Democratic Front 278 and National League for Democracy 273, 274–5 and draft constitution 274 and National Convention 276 and views on ethnic grievances 274–5 and national minorities 37 and National Unity Party 273 and need for military/ethnic minority dialogue 286 and New Mon State Party 277, 283 and political repression 272, 278, 280–1 and precolonial period 264 and requirements for democratic multi-national structure 281 ethnic rights 282–4 position of ethnic leaders 282 position of ethnic states 281 and Shan 262, 263, 267

index and ethnic rebellion 270 and Independence Constitution 269 and State Law and Order Restoration Council 273 and martial law 273 and National Convention 275–6, 277 and State Peace and Development Council 271 and United Nationalities Alliance 277 and United Nationalities League for Democracy 273 and World War II 266 Myers, David 4 n1 myths: and ethnic homogeneity in Japan 224–5 and inequality 83 Nadaraja, T 260 Nagata, Judith 145 Namie Amuro 230 Nandy, Ashis 38, 292 Nani Yamin 164 Narayan Swamy, M R 258 nation: as constructed idea 176 and need for stability 178 and social groups 177–8 and state communitarianism 177 National Coalition Government of the Union of Burma (NCGUB) 278 National Council of the Union of Burma (NCUB) 278–9 National Democratic Front (NDF) 278–9 National Front (Malaysia) 143 national homogenization, and resistance to 1 national identity 106–7 and individual choice 67 and citizenship n6, 67 and social groups 177

357

and transnational communities 177–8 national ideology, and communitarianism 176 National League for Democracy (NLD) 273, 274–5 and draft constitution 274 and National Convention 276 and views on ethnic grievances 274–5 national minorities: in Asia 36–46 and communitarianism 41–4 and multinational federalism 39–41, 46 and security concerns 44–6 and suppression 38 and territorial autonomy 38 and assimilation 75 and definitional problems 168–9 and international standards 30 and Laos 99 and liberal-democracy 223–4 and minority nationalisms 23–4 and minority rights 98 and multination state 130–1 and nonassimilation 75, 76 and Okinawans 229–31, 232, 233, 241–2 National Unity Party (NUP) 273 National Vision ( Jathika Chinthanaya), and Sri Lanka 260 nation-building: and assimilation 80 and symbols 96 nation-state: and perception of the nation 176–7 and postcolonialism 3 NATO 44 and geopolitical security 34 Ne Win, General 270, 273 Neary, Ian 231, 237 Nehru, Jawaharlal 39 Nepal, and indigenous peoples 49, 50 Netherlands 54 Neville, Robert Cummings 60 n2

358

index

New Mon State Party (NMSP) 277, 283 New Zealand: and immigrant groups 25, 26 and indigenous peoples 24, 25 Nissan, Elizabeth 45 n30 nonassimilation 75, 76 nongovernmental organizations: and foreign domestic workers 200–3 and employer-employee relationship 200–2 and employment law 202 and minimum wage 202 and time-off 203 and two-week rule 202, 207 and working conditions 200–2 and promotion of Western models 6 norms, and convergence of 167, 169 Northern Ireland, and framing of ‘The Troubles’ 5 Nurcholis Madjid 164 O’Leary, Brendan 5 n2 Ogasawara, Nobuyuki 231, 240 Ohta Masahide 241 Oishi, N 197 Okinawa 229 and American bases in 229–31, 238–9, 241–2 Okinawa Language Promoting Society 239 Okinawa Rape Incident 238 Okinawans 229–31, 232, 233, 241–2 and framing of minority equality claims 238–40 Olson, Paulette 51 n42 Onuma, Yasuaki 52 n44 Opalski, Magda 22 n2, 38, 103 opium trading, and Thailand 126 Organization of American States 55 and indigenous peoples 30 Oslo Agreement (2002) 255 Oyama, Chojo 237, 238 Pakistan: and creation of 289 and national minorities 37

and security concerns 44–5 Pan Malaysian Islamic Party (PAS) 140, 144–5 Pan, Lynn 138 Panchen Lama 71 Panglong meeting (1947) 267 Papua New Guinea: and linguistic diversity 2 and national minorities 37 Parekh, Bhikhu 152 Parrenas, Rachel Salazar 218 Pashtuns (Pathans) 45 Patel, Sardar 289 Pathet Lao 101 Patil, S H 39 n18 patriarchalism, and foreign domestic workers 218–19 Payne, Robert 137 Pe-Pua, R 215 n35 Penz, Peter 51 People’s Action Party (PAP) and ideological roots of 185 and political dominance of 193–5 and Singapore 181–2 and communitarianism 182 and ideological resources for communitarianism 182–5 personal autonomy, and cultural membership 133 Pfaff-Czarnecka, Joanna 4 n1 Philippines: and foreign domestic workers 218 and indigenous peoples 49 and national minorities 37 and remittances of migrant workers 212 Pholsena, Vatthana 86 Piper, Nicola 198, 199, 200, 204 n15, 205, 210 n24 Po, Dr San C 267 Pochhammer, Wilhelm von 290 Pogge, Thomas 213 n30 polyethnic states, and ethnic groups 130–1 Pracha Khadikit, Pracha 115 Pratt, Geraldine 209 n22

index precolonial hierarchies, and legacy of 8–9 preferential multiculturalism 170–1, 174 Presser, Harriet 215 n34 Proschan, Frank 104–5 Puerto Rico 24 Punjab 309 Purushotam, Nirmala 183 n10, 186 n15 racial equality, and Singapore 185–7 Rahim, Lily Zuraida 191 n20 Rakhmat, Jalaluddin 162 Ramage, Douglas E 181 n7 Rawls, John 152 Raz, Joseph 29 Razaleigh Hamzah 144 recognition, politics of: and minority rights 80 and multiculturalism 172 regional autonomy 1 and China 62, 63, 65–6 and constraints on 67 and Tibetan policy 70–4 Reid, Anthony 159 Renard, Ronald 113 representation rights, and China 66 Republic of Mongolia 63 Reunion islands 153 Reynolds, Craig J 114, 132 Rice, E 82 n1 rights-consciousness, and multiculturalism 32–3 Risser, G 283 n11 Roberts, Michael 246 Rodan, Garry 182 n9 Rodriguez, R M 200 n10 Rohingya Muslims 53 ronghe (intermingling), and minorities in China 76–8, 79 Rose, General 290 Royal Highland Development Project 116 Rudolph, Lloyd I 289, 290 Rudolph, Suzanne H 289, 290

359

Runciman, Steven 137 Sabah: and British colonization 137 and indigenous peoples 148 and joins Federation of Malaya 141 Said, Ali 163, 164 Sami 47, 48 Samydorai, S 199 Sandhu, Kernial Singh 138 Sangay, Lobsang 64 Sarawak: and British colonization 137 and indigenous peoples 148 and joins Federation of Malaya 141 Sautman, Barry 66 Savarkar, Viv 292 Saw Maung, General 273 Scandinavia, and indigenous peoples 24, 25 Schain, Martin 26 Schetter, Conrad 40 n23 Schwartzberg, Joseph 39 n18, 40 Scotland 24, 152 securitization: and Myanmar/Burma 271, 286–7 and national minorities 44–6 and Laos 92 and Thai hill tribes 115–17 and Sri Lanka 257–8 Sein Lwin, General 272 self-determination, and China 61–2 Senanayake-Chelvanayakam Pacts (1957, 1965) 248 Shamsul, A B 137 Shastri, Amita 40, 44 n28, 45 n30 Sheridan, Greg 181 n8 Shih, Chih-Yu 67 n6, 68, 78–9 Shiva Rao, B 291 n2 Short, Anthony 139 Siddiqui, T 198 Siddle, Richard 47 n33, 231, 240 Silverstein, Josef 40 Singapore 17–18 and Chinese speakers:

360

index

Singapore (cont’d) and economic marginalization 192 and linguistic minoritization of 190–1 and communitarianism: and costs of 190–3 and exit 192–3 and housing programme 189–90 and pro-family policy 190, 192 and reasons for following 181–2 and single-party dominance 193–5 and Federation of Malaya 141 and foreign domestic workers 198 and abuses of system 206 and coercion 207–8 and contract status of 199 and employer-employee relationship 200–1 and employment law 202 and legal status of 198–9 and time-off 203 and Housing and Development Board 189–90 as immigrant state 43 and Indian minority 191 and Islam 187 and language policies 183, 186, 188, 190–1 and Malays: and military service 191 and privileging of 186–7 as meritocracy 188 and model of unitary nationbuilding 43 and multiculturalism, costs of 190–3 and multiracial character of 182–3 and homogenization of 183–5 and national ideology 185 and Shared Values 184 and People’s Action Party 181–2 and communitarianism 182 and ideological resources for communitarianism 182–5 and ideological roots of 185 and political dominance of 193–5

and public housing as community interest 189–90 and racial equality 185–7 and racial harmony as public good 187–8 and repression in 181–2 and Shared Values 184, 190 and state autonomy 188 Singh, Hari 143, 144 Sisk, Tim 40 n22 Skinner, G William 131 Smith, A 40, 273, 287 Smith, Anthony 96 Smith, Martin 263, 265, 267, 270, 271 Smith, W 61 social groups: and imposition of constraints 178–9 and limits of membership 177 and the nation 177–8 Social Mass Party (Okinawa) 239 social realism 180 and liberalism 174 societal culture, and nationalism 106 Sollinger, Dorothy 52 n45 South, A 286 Southeast Asia Treaty Organization 117 Spinner-Halev, Jeff 292 Sri Lanka 19 and Bandaranaike-Chelvanayakam Pact (1957) 245, 248 and Donoughmore Commission 246 and Donoughmore Constitution 246 and ethnic conflict 244 and development of 245–6 and distrust 246 and nature of 244–5 and First Republican Constitution (1972) 249, 250 and independence to civil war 247–50 and Indo-Lanka Accord (1987) 251–2 and multinational federalism 244 and Buddhism 259 and communitarianism 258–9 and discussed in colonial period 247

index and federal political culture 256–7 and Hinduism 259–60 and historical roots of 245 and Kandyan Law 260 and lack of desire for 245 and National Vision ideology 260 and prospects for 261 and securitization of ethnic issues 257–8 and national minorities 37 and security concerns 44 and peace efforts 250–1 and Braithwaite proposals (1995) 253–4 and constitutionalized devolution (1995–2000) 254–5 and Oslo Agreement (2002) 255 and provincial council system 251–2 and Thimpu meeting (1985) 251 and provincial council system 251–2 and Second Republican Constitution (1978) 249 and Senanayake-Chelvanayakam Pacts (1957, 1965) 248 and Sinhalese majority 244 and security concerns 257–8 and unitary state demands 249–50, 252–3 and Soulbury Constitution 246, 249 and Tamil minority 244 and campaign for secession 250 and radicalization of 249 and security concerns over 257–8 and Vaddukoddai Resolution 250 Sri Lanka Peace Support Group 253 Srinivasavaradan, T C A 40 n21, 40 n22 Stalin, Joseph 268 Stasiulis, Daiva 211, 217 state communitarianism, and nationas-community 177 State Law and Order Restoration Council (SLORC) 273 and martial law 273 and National Convention 275–6

361

State Peace and Development Council (SPDC) 271 Stiglitz, Joseph E 214 n31 Stivens, M 198 n4 Stott, Philip 115 Straits Settlements, and British colonization of Malaysia 137 Stuart-Fox, Martin 83, 84 Stubbs, Richard 139 substate national groups, see national minorities Suharto, Mohammed 153–4, 181 Sun Yat-sen 63 Sun Yat-sen, and assimilation 75 Supaporn Jarunpattana 126 Swaney, James 51 n42 Swift, Adam 171 Switzerland: and metics 27 and multinational federalism 24 Taillard, Christian 84 Taira, Koji 229 Taiwan, and foreign domestic workers 213 Takeuchi, Wataru 231 Tambiah, S J 113, 260 Tamil United Front 250 Tamil United Liberation Front 250 Tamils: and campaign for secession 250 and ethnic conflict 244 and independence 3 and multinational federalism 248 and historical roots of 245 and provincial council system 252 and radicalization of 249 and security concerns over 257–8 and Thimpu meeting (1985) 251 and Vaddukoddai Resolution 250 see also Sri Lanka Tamir, Yael 29 Tan Shwe, General 276 Tan Tai Yong 191 n21 Tan, Jean 201

362

index

Tapp, Nicholas 101, 116 Taylor, Charles 28, 29, 80, 108, 172, 173, 267, 292 Taylor, R 264, 265 Teraki, Nobuyaki 231 territory, and indigenous rights 130–1 Teruya, Kantoku 241 Thailand 14–15 and Akha 114 and Border Patrol Police 116 and Communist Suppression Operation Command 116 as ethnically plural entity 132 and forestry, and hill tribes 126–8 and Hill Tribe Welfare Committee 110 and Hill Tribe Welfare Division 118 and hill tribes: and categorized as illegal immigrants 128–9 and citizenship 111, 118–19, 120–1, 124–5, 131 and classification of 121, 124 and depiction as uncivilized 115, 132 and direct action by 112 and diversity of 110 and encouragement of settled lifestyle 117 and evictions 111 and identity cards 120, 121 and impact of categorization as 117 as indigenous people 112 and integration 135 and invention of term 110, 116 and legal status of 118–25, 131 and mobility restrictions 111, 120, 129 and number of 110 and portrayed as forest destroyers 126–8 and portrayed as opium cultivators 126 and public image of 129

and recognition of equal citizenship 132 and research/surveys into 117–18 as scapegoats 125–6 and security concerns over 115–17 and indigenous peoples: and categorization problems 131 and inappropriateness of 131 and romanticizing of 134–5 and social differentiation 132 and Karen 113 and Khon Pa, security concerns over 115–16 and Land Settlement Project 117 and Laos’ policymaking 93 and Lua 113 and Myanmar/Burma 285–6 and national minorities, and security concerns 45 and Royal Forest Department 126–8 and Royal Highland Development Project 116 and Tribal Research Centre 117 and upland/lowland dichotomy 113–15, 132 and nation building 115 and US Operation Mission 116 Thakin Mya 268 Thant Myint-U 265 Thier, Alexander 40 Thongchai Winichakul 113, 115 Tibet: and China 63–4 and autonomy in practice 70–3 and changes in policy of 69–70 and cultural autonomy 71–3 and economic autonomy 73 and economic development 63, 64 and evaluation of autonomy 73–4 and legal autonomy 70–1 and political autonomy 70 and reform by 62 and Ronghe (intermingling) policy 76–8, 79

index and security concerns 69–70, 79 and secessionist movement 56 Tin U 273 Tiruchelvam, Neelan 254 n8 Tomonaga, Kenzo 231 Toyota, Mika 114, 116, 117 transnational communities, and national identity 177–8 Tregonning, K G 137 Tribal Research Centre (Thailand) 117 Tu, Weiming 59 U Chan Htoon 268 U Nu 268, 270 United Front (Sri Lanka) 249 United Kingdom, and multiculturalism 26 United Malays National Organization (UMNO) 139, 140 and divisions within 144 and political dominance of 143–4 and weakening of 149 United Nationalities Alliance 277 United Nationalities League for Democracy (UNLD) 273 United Nations (UN): and hill tribes in Thailand 117 and minority rights 22 and Myanmar/Burma 284–5 United Nations Decade of the World’s Indigenous Peoples 240 United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Persons Belonging to National or Ethnic, Religious or Linguistic Minorities (1992) 30 United Nations Draft Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples 29 United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) 124 United Nations’ Human Development Report (2004) 6 United Nations International Convention on the Protection of

363

the Rights of All Migrant Workers and Members of their Families (ICMR), and provisions of 203–4 United States: and bases in Okinawa 229–31, 238–9, 241–2 and Defense Department 117 and guest-worker programme 211 n26 and immigrant groups 25, 26 and indigenous peoples 24, 25, 35 n10 and Thailand 117 US Operation Mission, and Thailand 116 Van Cott, Donna Lee 50 n39 Vandergeest, Peter 126 vernacular communitarianism 6–7 and community membership 175 Vidyarthi, L P 40 n22 Viet Minh 101 Vietnam: and indigenous peoples 50 and national minorities, and security concerns 45 von Geusau, Alting 114 von Vorys, Karl 141 Waever, Ole 44 Waitaangi, Treaty of 25 Wakin, Erik 117 Wales 24, 168–9 Walzer, Michael 27, 133, 206–7 Wang D 63 Wang Geliu 62 Wang Tieya 68 Wee, Vivienne 212 n28 Wei Yingxue 63 Weiner, Michael 224 Weiner, Myron 40 n21, 42, 302 Weller, Marc 275 West Sumatran Adat Assembly 156 Wickremasinghe, Ranil 255 Wijesinha, Rajiva 260

364

index

Wijeyewardene, G 113 Williams, Ceri 220 n46 Williams, Melissa 292 Wimmer, Andreas 40 n23 Winichakul, T 264 Wolters, O W 82–3 women, and labour migration in East Asia 197–8 Wong, Aline K 189 n19 World Bank 6 and indigenous peoples 29, 51 and Laos 93 and minority rights 22 and remittances of migrant workers 212 World Trade Organization 78, 79 Wu Jinghua 69, 70

Xinjiang, and secessionist movement 56 Yamanaka, K 198 Yang Houdi 75, 77 Yang Jingchu 62 Yeh, Stephen 189 n19 Yeoh, B 198 n5 Yi-Xia doctrine 57–8, 60 Young, Iris Marion 28 Zhang Lei 72 Zhong He 62 Zhou Enlai 75 Zhou Ping 66, 67 Zhou Yong 4, 79