Organizing Democracy: The Construction of Agency in Practice

Organizing Democracy The Construction of Agency in Practice

Edited by

Göran Sundström Associate Professor in Political Science, Stockholm University and Research Director, Stockholm Centre for Organizational Research (Score), Sweden

Linda Soneryd Associate Professor in Sociology, Stockholm University and Research Director, Stockholm Centre for Organizational Research (Score), Sweden

Staffan Furusten Associate Professor in Management, Stockholm School of Economics and Director, Stockholm Centre for Organizational Research (Score), Sweden

Edward Elgar Cheltenham, UK • Northampton, MA, USA

© Göran Sundström, Linda Soneryd and Staffan Furusten 2010 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, electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. Published by Edward Elgar Publishing Limited The Lypiatts 15 Lansdown Road Cheltenham Glos GL50 2JA UK Edward Elgar Publishing, Inc. William Pratt House 9 Dewey Court Northampton Massachusetts 01060 USA

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009937774

ISBN 978 1 84844 428 7 Typeset by Cambrian Typesetters, Camberley, Surrey Printed and bound by MPG Books Group, UK

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Contents List of contributors List of abbreviations Acknowledgements 1. 2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

vi viii x

Democracy, governance and the problem of the modern actor Göran Sundström, Staffan Furusten and Linda Soneryd Organizing participation. Establishing a discourse of local democratic governance for young people in Sweden Adrienne Sörbom Completed responsibility? Delegation, organization and accountability in Swedish export of military equipment Catrin Andersson The use of democratic values in the ISO 26000 process on social responsibility Kristina Tamm Hallström Public purchasing of complex services. Balancing democratic and market values Staffan Furusten In search of democracy. The process behind the Swedish forest-sector objectives Göran Sundström Democratic priority setting? Organizing multiple stakeholders to make decisions in the healthcare sector Ebba Sjögren and Karin Fernler By a stretch of the imagination. Public involvement in nuclear waste management Linda Soneryd Democratic values and the organizing of actors in governance structures Linda Soneryd, Staffan Furusten and Göran Sundström

References Index

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14

32

48

65

79

94

113

131

147 161

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Contributors Catrin Andersson is a Research Fellow at Stockholm Centre for Organizational Research (Score). Her research interests include public administration, public management policy, accountability, responsibility and democratic control. She has conducted empirical research in a historical perspective on the organization of the Swedish Public Administration. Karin Fernler is Assistant Professor at Stockholm School of Economics. Her present research is focused on the role of knowledge in decision-making processes at different sites and levels within the healthcare sector. She has previously studied the practice of exercising management by knowledge through the formulation of rules and guidelines. Fernler is an appointed member to the Swedish Government’s Committee on Social Affairs. Staffan Furusten is Associate Professor in Management at Stockholm School of Economics and is currently Director of Stockholm Centre for Organizational Research (Score). His research focuses on the production, diffusion, consumption and standardization of management knowledge, the standardization of organizational forms, the construction of markets and regulation, and professionalization of new forms of expertise. In addition to a number of articles, books and book chapters in these areas in English and Swedish, he has recently published a textbook in Swedish about the institutional environment (Den institutionella omvärlden, Liber 2007). Ebba Sjögren is a Research Fellow at Stockholm Centre for Organizational Research (Score) and the Stockholm School of Economics. Her primary research interest is the role of knowledge in organizational decision making, particularly in the healthcare sector. Sjögren is published in The Sociological Review, Public Management Review and Journal of Healthcare Organisation and Management. Linda Soneryd is Associate Professor in Sociology at Stockholm University and Senior Research Fellow at Stockholm Centre for Organizational Research (Score). Her research focuses on the organization of public consultation processes and risk regulation and the role of knowledge and participation in the areas of nuclear waste management, mobile telephony and GM crops. vi

Contributors

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Soneryd has published in such journals as Public Understanding of Science and Science, Technology & Human Values. Adrienne Sörbom is Senior Research Fellow and Assistant Professor in Sociology at Stockholm Centre for Organizational Research (Score). Her research interests are connected to political sociology, mainly in the areas of political commitments, youth policy and the globalization of politics. She has conducted empirical research on social movements, new forms of political participation and environmental concerns. Göran Sundström is Associate Professor in Political Science at Stockholm University and Senior Research Fellow at Stockholm Centre for Organizational Research (Score) and the Institute of Contemporary History at Södertörn University. His current research is on public management policy, the Europeanization of nation states, the development of core executives, and the role of civil servants in a transformed state. Kristina Tamm Hallström is Research Fellow at Stockholm Centre for Organizational Research (Score) and Assistant Professor in Management at the Stockholm School of Economics. Her research interests include issues such as legitimacy, authority and power in international standardization work. She has conducted empirical research on standard-setting processes in the fields of quality management system, international accounting and social responsibility. Tamm Hallström is the author of Organizing International Standardization (Edward Elgar 2004) and has recently published in Organization.

Abbreviations APP CI CSR DC ECC EIA FFV GRI ICC ILO IOE ISO ISO 9000 ISO 14000 ISO 26000 ISP ITUC KBS-3 KMI LRF LTF MBO Milkas MKG NATO NGO NOU OECD PBB RD&D

Act for Public Procurement (Lagen om offentlig upphandling) Consumers International Corporate Social Responsibility Developed Country Export Control Council Environmental Impact Assessment Förenade Fabriksverken (a Swedish state-owned company) Global Reporting Initiative International Chamber of Commerce International Labour Organization International Organization of Employers International Standardization Organization The ISO standard series on quality assurance and quality management The ISO standard series on environmental management The (future) ISO standard on social responsibility Inspektionen för strategiska produkter (Swedish Inspectorate of Strategic Products) International Trade Union Confederation Method suggested by SKB. KBS stands for Kärnbränslesäkerhet (Nuclear Fuel Safety) Krigsmaterielinspektionen (the War Matériel Inspectorate in Sweden) Lantbrukarnas Riksförbund (Federation of Swedish Farmers) Liaison Task Force (of the ISO 26000 committee) Management by Objectives Miljörörelsens kärnavfallssekretariat Miljöorganisationernas kärnavfallsgranskning North Atlantic Treaty Organization Nongovernmental organization Nämden för Offentlig Upphandling (Swedish Committee for Public Procurement) Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development Pharmaceutical Benefits Board Research, Development and Demonstration viii

Abbreviations

SAI SFA SKB SKI SPAS SR SSI SSRO UN UNIDO WBCSD WHO WP WTO WWF

Social Accountability International Swedish Forest Agency Svensk Kärnbränslehantering AB (Swedish Nuclear Fuel and Waste Management Co.) Statens kärnkraftsinspektion (Swedish Nuclear Power Inspectorate) Swedish Peace and Arbitration Society Social Responsibility Statens strålskyddsinstitut (Swedish Radiation Protection Authority) Service, Support, Research and Others – a stakeholder group United Nations United Nations Industrial Development Organization World Business Council for Sustainable Development World Health Organization Weight Project World Trade Organization World Wide Fund for Nature (World Wildlife Fund in North America)

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Acknowledgements This book is the result of continuous discussions about governance, democracy and organization among our colleagues at Stockholm Centre for Organizational Research, probably better known as Score. Our common interest in organization has contributed to our conviction that the phrase “from government to governance” connotes a displacement with very different democratic implications, which depend upon various ways of organizing and degrees of organization. This is what we aim to show in this book. The book is a genuinely collective product. Throughout the process, the authors of the empirical chapters and our other colleagues at Score have been involved in discussions about the overall framing and conclusions. We owe special thanks to Rune Premfors and Nils Brunsson, who have provided valuable comments on several chapters. We have also presented early versions of some of the chapters at workshops organized jointly between Score and researchers at Wissenschaftzentrum Berlin für Sozialforschung and Centre de Sociologie des Organisations (CSO), Paris, and we are grateful for the comments we received on these occasions. We are also grateful to Eva Sørensen, Jacob Torfing and Karl Löfgren, Roskilde University, for their careful review of and useful comments on earlier versions of the first and last chapters of this book. We are also grateful for the contribution that we received from the Swedish Research Council that covered the costs for language editing. And last but not least, our special thanks go to Nina Colwill for her patient work in correcting the English, making everything consistent and even improving our arguments. Göran Sundström, Linda Soneryd and Staffan Furusten Stockholm, April 2009

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1. Democracy, governance and the problem of the modern actor Göran Sundström, Staffan Furusten and Linda Soneryd It has often been said that modern democracies are becoming more complex, fragmented and multilayered. In recent decades we have witnessed decentralization in many organizations, increasingly complex social problems, accelerating internationalization, growing and more specialized public administration, increased demand for expertise, and rapid development of information and communication technologies. Several scholars have argued that with these changes power has slipped away from the political centre (the government) in several directions: upwards to international organizations (not least the European Union), downwards to local authorities and municipalities, inwards to semi-autonomous state agencies, and outwards to private organizations. As Rhodes (1994, 1997) would say, the state is ‘hollowing out’. In societies with hollowed-out states, decision-making processes have taken new forms, and “from government to governance” has become a catch phrase (see e.g. Rhodes 1997; Pierre & Peters 2000; Kjær 2004; Marcussen & Torfing 2007). These changes mark a shift, or one could even say a displacement, from state-centred, authoritative and hierarchical to more society-centred, egalitarian and network-based forms of decision making; and they signal the dissolution of previously established boundaries between private and public organizations. The extent to which displacement has actually occurred is widely debated (Hajer & Wagenaar 2003 p. 4). Yet it is clear that governance is an important concept in current research on state and public policies. We also believe that there is more governance today than was the case two or three decades ago, and that the focus on governance is increasing. Furthermore, the current discussion and debate includes not only researchers; today’s politicians and various types of practitioners also frequently discuss governance. And talk can be critical. As Hajer and Wagenaar point out (ibid.), the widely used language of governance can cause practitioners and researchers to ‘unlearn embedded intellectual reflexes and break out of tacit patterns of thinking’ and make them ‘rethink governing, politics and administration’. These phenomena provide strong rationale for studying governance structures. 1

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As the use of governance structures has become more common in modern societies, a question has arisen about their democratic implications. Some researchers have argued that governance structures threaten fundamental democratic values (Sørensen & Torfing 2005; Hajer and Wagenaar 2003; Przeworski et al. 1999; Strom et al. 2003; Klijn and Skelcher 2007). The representative-democratic chain of power, it is argued, has weakened as governance structures become highly self-organizing and difficult to control from the centre; the state may no longer be seen as the strong coherent organization at the centre of society. Rather, the state is described as highly fragmented, with a plurality of autonomous agencies. And when these state agencies participate in decentred decision-making processes and have frequent exchanges with other types of organizations, the boundaries between the public and private spheres become increasingly blurred, hampering such basic values as representation, transparency and accountability. This prediction of a weakened democracy has been discussed in the governance literature primarily from a top-down perspective. Few researchers have used a bottom-up, actor-driven perspective (for exceptions, see especially the work of Erik-Hans Klijn: e.g. Klijn 2008; Klijn et al. 2008). It is far from certain, we argue, that organizations participating in these highly self-organizing governance structures will passively accept the deterioration of essential democratic values. Such values may well become critical issues in policy discussions within governance structures. Thus we believe that within each policy field, different individuals participating in concrete decision-making processes will interpret, frame and negotiate the meaning of democracy in their own terms and make more or less conscious decisions about the democratic values to consider: how to balance those values, for instance, and how to trade them off against the values of the market and of administrative efficiency (see e.g. Thatcher and Rein 2004). This process, in turn, will trigger changes in the way the decision-making process is organized. Accordingly, democratic values that surface and are discussed during policy processes, and the way they are discussed, will largely determine the democratic content of the processes. In this sense, democracy is actually formed and reformed in ongoing practices. It is unclear, however, how much democratic values are actually being discussed, and how and why they are discussed. There is a shortage of empirical studies addressing these questions. The aim of this study is to increase our understanding of the shaping of democracy in different types of organizational settings within governance structures. By studying contemporary decisionmaking processes in these structures, our goal was to locate and discuss important mechanisms behind the surfacing of democratic values in governance structures. We address the research questions using a specific theoretical perspective:

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the construction of the modern actor. Most governance scholars take their theoretical stand in the rational choice tradition and through ideas about the modern actor. This actor is ascribed certain capabilities, particularly the ability to articulate interests and preferences and to obtain perfect knowledge about future consequences of choice options. This means that the potential to uphold democratic values in decision-making processes is high; failure to do so is interpreted as a managerial problem such as lack of time or commitment, inappropriate working routines or misunderstandings. We think that this view is much too simplistic to explain social behaviour. In contrast, we take the perspective of social constructivism, based upon the idea that the identities, interests and preferences of individuals, organizations and states are typically unclear and unstable (Berger & Luckmann 1966; Powell & DiMaggio 1991; March & Olsen 1976). We further assume that perfect knowledge is unattainable, because knowledge is ambiguous and contested (Jasanoff 2006; Haas 2004). Thus the potential for participants to uphold democratic values in decision-making processes is not high. And failure to uphold these values will not necessarily be seen as a managerial problem, but as a problem connected to the expectations for participants to act as modern actors.

THE AIM AND DESIGN OF THE STUDY We undertook this study in order to increase our understanding of how and why various democratic values are discussed or not discussed in decisionmaking processes within governance structures. We pursue this question through a number of detailed empirical studies of decision-making processes within various policy fields in various organizational settings, in which, for example, standards are established, objectives formulated and priorities set. We have posed the following empirical questions to guide our studies. • Which democratic values are discussed in the decision-making process? • Who brings values to the scene? • When do democratic values become an issue: at the beginning or end of the process? • Are values perceived as contradictory and difficult to combine? • How are value conflicts resolved? The empirical studies presented in Chapters 2 to 8 are single case studies of longer or shorter decision-making processes in various organizational settings. They are critical cases, chosen because they exhibit basic characteristics of governance structures. Thus they all focus on decision-making processes that

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occur at a considerable distance from the political centre and involve a number and variety of participants who have extensive exchanges with each other.

DEMOCRACY AND GOVERNANCE In this section, we discuss how governance structures may challenge democratic values. We also highlight efforts made by governments in recent years to strengthen democracy. This review is intended to facilitate our understanding of the decision-making processes we have studied and to help us focus our analyses on the democratic values most likely to arise as issues in the process of our study. In governance structures, policies are viewed as resulting from decentred cooperation among many types of organizations – public, private and voluntary (political, social and administrative), which interact on the basis of mutual dependencies, institutional incentives and shared conceptions that facilitate negotiations and joint decision making (Torfing 2007a p. 1). This cooperation is marked by rich and informal exchanges, which tend to blur traditional boundaries between politics and administration, administrative units and states, and public and private organizations (see e.g. Scharpf 1994; Djelic and Sahlin-Andersson 2006; Hall and Biersteker 2002; Slaughter 2005). Because of the collaborative character of the processes, the nature of the rules through which policies are expressed can change: traditional hard rules are giving way to soft rules (Mörth 2004). Governance is often seen as a threat to democracy. One central idea within the governance perspective is the notion that the representative-democratic chain of power becomes weaker in governance structures, as they are seen as highly self-organizing and difficult to control from the centre. Rod Rhodes (1996) has even claimed that governance is ‘governing without government’. Not all governance scholars are prepared to concur with Rhodes’ extreme claim (see e.g. Pierre & Peters 2000; Kooiman 2003); many of them would argue that the state can no longer be viewed as the strong coherent organization in the centre, but merely as one organization among others. As Jacob Torfing says: The state has gradually lost its status as the sovereign centre of politics. In many policy fields it has, at best, become primus inter pares in decentred networks of quasi-autonomous delivery agencies, interest organisations, private corporations, social movements, local citizen groups, and transnational organisations that are engaged in the formulation and implementation of public policy and governance. (Torfing 2007a p. 4)

The liberal-representative democratic model is based largely upon clarity in

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political steering and control and upon rules and organizational boundaries, not least of which is the boundary between public and private organizations. Governance structures imply a more fragmented state, however, with a plurality of relatively autonomous agencies working in a largely uncoordinated way on various societal levels, thereby increasing the distance between politicians and civil servants (Jacobsson & Sundström 2009; Christensen and Lægreid 2006; Pollitt et al. 2004). And when these autonomous agencies participate in decentred decision-making processes and have frequent exchanges with other types of organizations, the boundaries between the public and private spheres become increasingly blurred (Dunn 1999; Hall & Biersteker 2002), and it becomes more difficult for politicians to define activities and formulate clear and stable goals for the agencies. It also becomes more difficult for politicians to delimit and control who does what and to assess if the measures taken have had the intended effect (de Bruijn 2002). Thus transparency and accountability problems arise (Behn 2001; Lewin 2007). Although the state may have lost its status as the coherent sovereign centre of politics, it does not necessarily follow that the political centre has lost its power to control activities in governance structures. Several governance scholars prefer to talk about a shifting rather than a shrinking role for governments. Politicians can maintain the democratic chain of power, but in order to do so they must acknowledge the limitation of more traditional hierarchical steering and control methods and assume the role of ‘meta-governors’ (Jessop 2003; Sørensen 2006). This approach requires politicians to steer at arm’s length by defining problems, creating incentive structures, mobilizing stakeholders, building networks, shaping identities and meanings, and other such actions. Thus governance networks need not be incompatible with representative democracy (Klijn and Skelcher 2007). It is noteworthy that governments around the world have been trying to reinforce and strengthen hierarchical structures within the public sector. These efforts are reflected in titles like ‘Back to the centre? Rebuilding the state’ (Peters 2004); ‘Investigating power at the centre of government’ (Weller 2005); ‘Hollowing out or filling in?’ (Taylor 2000); and ‘Joined-up government’ (Bogdanor 2005). Such efforts to strengthen the centre have included attempts to identify responsible and accountable organizations by specifying and delimiting organizations and processes (Brunsson and Sahlin-Andersson 2000). Public organizations have been classified into units and subunits; “owners” of processes and results have been appointed; objectives and result requirements have been specified for each unit; systems for measuring and examining performances and results have been developed; and systems for quality assurance have been introduced (de Bruijn 2002; Radin 2006; Sundström 2006). This “managerialization” of the state is aimed at making public organizations more controllable from the top.

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Various types of market mechanisms have been introduced in the public sector as another way of trying to strengthen the political centre (Brunsson and Olsen 1998). In the area of service provision, the most important mechanisms are outsourcing (competitive tendering and contracting out), Public-Private Partnership, and vouchers (Pollitt & Bouckaert 2004; OECD 2005 Chapter 5). Governments have also tried to change civil servants’ role perceptions of both themselves and citizens. Thus civil servants should no longer act as stereotypically old and mossy bureaucrats, but as managers, modelled after the private sector, and citizens should be regarded as customers. From a liberal democratic point of view, this market turn is intended to strengthen democracy by unloading decisions and activities from the shoulders of politicians to those of civil servants, enabling politicians to concentrate on more important matters, by increasing pluralism, by empowering people to engage in governance networks, and by ‘unleashing individual and collective energies, resources and ideas that have been suppressed by years of top-down government’ (Torfing 2007 p. 91–92). It appears, then, that governance structures threaten the democratic values of transparency, accountability and a weakened representative-democratic chain of power. The values of inclusion and representation are also threatened. These threats may be of particular interest to governance scholars who argue that assessments of governance structures should be based on both liberalrepresentative democracy and deliberative democracy, claiming that these two perspectives are necessary to capture the democratic potential of governance structures fully (Elster 1998; Hirst 1993; Sørensen & Torfing 2005; Hajer & Wagenaar 2003). It should also be noted that governments around the world have tried to strengthen democracy by increasing and intensifying the exchanges between the public and private sectors. Citizens have been given increased opportunities to express their opinions on public administration activities through surveys and interviews and through experiments with new forms of public participation. High hopes have been placed on the Internet; the creation of E-government is today a central ingredient within the public management policies of numerous states (6 2004; Rethemeyer 2007; Chadwick & May 2003; Hood and Margetts 2007). Former British Prime Minister Tony Blair, for example, strongly underlined this citizen orientation in his 1999 white paper, Modernising Government (Cabinet Office 1999 p. 16): Rather than defending policies, government should lead a debate on improving them. This means developing new relationships between Whitehall, the devolved administrations, local government and the voluntary and private sectors; consulting outside experts, those who implement policy and those affected by it early in the policy making process so we can develop policies that are deliverable from the start.

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The Swedish government, in its 2000 white paper, An Administration in the Service of Democracy, made similar statements (Government Office 2000 p. 10): ‘Public authorities should meet high standards for availability and compliance, be able to declare what services they offer and in what forms, and give citizens opportunities to dialogue and submit opinions on public activities that concern them.’ (This and all other translations in this chapter are ours.) It should also be noted that the Swedish government has supported this citizen orientation with a new “democracy policy”. In its most recent democracy bill of 2002, the government declared that public activities should be organized and evaluated not only from the traditional representative democratic model, but from other democratic models as well. Thus within the boundaries of representative democracy, the government advocates ‘a participatory democracy with deliberative characteristics’ (Government Bill 2001/2002: 27). As Christopher Pollitt (2003 p. 52) argues, this citizen orientation, which can be observed in various countries, evokes a different picture of the state than that evoked by both old and new public management policies: Government is now a good neighbour – someone who informs you about new developments that might affect you, cooperates with you, enables you to realize your own projects, supports you when you are in difficulty, learns from your experience – but hardly ever, it seems, orders you about or invokes the law to force you to do something you don’t want to do.

Thus some hopes are ascribed to various deliberative arrangements designed to strengthen democracy. Deliberative democracy, however, places extensive demands on inclusion and representation (Gastil and Levine 2005; Levine et al. 2005). According to this model, democratic legitimacy is attained if all citizens that are affected by a public policy are given the opportunity to participate effectively in the making of the policy through thoughtful deliberation. Deliberation is thus a discursive approach to decision making in which citizens collaborate in an open and noncoercive environment, identifying and discussing public problems and their possible solutions. This type of group reflection should ultimately result in consensus over the best course of action (Habermas 1996), or at least in decisions based on mutual understanding of the participants’ positions and values (Dryzek 2000). There is one difficulty inherent in deliberative decision making: deciding whom to include in the deliberation. How much and in what ways must a citizen be affected by a policy in order to be included (Noble & Jones 2006)? And who should decide on the appropriate questions about inclusion? Another problem is that deliberative groups can easily turn into competing and closed elites (Rhodes 2007). Group members often tend to develop a common language and shared understandings of how things should be done: shared

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administrative expertise. In order for one’s voice to be heard, it is important to know the appropriate words and acronyms to use, whom to talk to, which meetings to attend, and what has been said and tried before (Thedvall 2006). It can be difficult for newcomers who do not know the history of a group or a network to enter it and participate effectively in its discussions. Another problem concerns size. In modern societies, many people are affected by numerous policies that require them to form groups and appoint group representatives. Not all citizens have the same capability, however, of forming or representing groups. Some groups and organizations do not enjoy the financial resources that allow them to participate actively in all relevant activities, and some lack the capacity to define and express clear and wellanchored interests (Halpin 2006; Rhodes 2007). The risk does exist, therefore, that decision making in decentred groups or networks will give structural advantages to some interests and greater power to the already powerful (Greenaway et al. 2007; Klijn & Skelcher 2007). Not all individuals and organizations have the same incentive to participate in policy making. Deciding on rules often entails negotiations, compromises and some degree of steering and control. This can be a difficult reality for some groups or organizations to accept, because it infringes on their autonomy and identity, both of which are central to ‘the modern organization’ (Mörth & Sahlin-Andersson 2006). It can be highly frustrating for competing firms to cooperate with each other and to try to reach agreement on rules; and it can be problematic for interest organizations to cooperate with big business and governments, given that they often see their primary task as criticizing them. Whether the rules decided upon are soft or hard may also determine the incentive for individuals or organizations to participate in policy making. Soft rules such as standards, goals and advice depend upon voluntariness; because they lack explicit sanctions, the actors are free to follow them or not (Brunsson & Jacobsson 2000; Mörth 2004), allowing the rule makers to escape demands for accountability. On the other hand, lack of accountability can render agreedupon rules toothless and ineffectively implemented, leading to stronger demands for rule makers in governance structures to claim responsibility for the rules. And there is an increasing number of organizations in the world, such as Greenpeace, Amnesty International and Transparency International (Dahl 2007) that are designed to monitor adherence to soft rules. Furthermore, accountability is, in itself, a highly institutionalized idea in contemporary society (Przeworski et al. 1999; Boström and Garsten 2008); citizens, politicians, and various organizations want to know who is responsible for what, and they want to be able to control activities. Studies within the so-called postbureaucratic school of organizational theory also demonstrate that processes which include several interdependent organizations – processes in which people employed in other organizations can easily pursue the regular tasks in

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an organization – tend to create problems with accountability and control (Furusten and Werr 2005). Who is accountable for a decision or a service implemented by different organizations performing different tasks? Is it one or several of the organizations involved? Or is it perhaps some superior “organizer”? But to what extent is it possible to organize and control these amorphous constellations from above? As previously mentioned, some governance scholars suggest that the political centre should try to develop strategies to control these constellations, preferable by acting as meta-governors. But can such relatively loose, indirect and distant control mechanisms be followed by strict accountability (Klijn and Skelcher 2007)? To this point we have discussed the democratic values of representation, inclusion, transparency and accountability, which can be expected to arise in governance structures; and we have explained from a top-down perspective why these values are expected to be difficult to uphold. Now we return to a bottom-up, actor-driven perspective and a discussion about the construction of the modern actor: how it can help us to understand why certain democratic values appear in some decision-making processes but not in others.

GOVERNANCE AND THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE MODERN ACTOR Governance is informed by a range of theories (Sørensen and Torfing 2007; Bevir 2009), not least by organization theory. One of its basic theoretical concepts is resource dependency (Rhodes 2007; Kjær 2004; Lowndes & Skelcher 1998), which is an essential and longstanding idea within organization theory (see e.g. Thomson 1967; Pfeffer & Salancik 1978). Thus government departments, professions, special-interest organizations, trade unions and private companies are seen as highly dependent on each other for creating and delivering public services for which they have shared interests. This dependency causes them to form policy networks. Participants in governance structures are often described as interdependent but operationally autonomous “actors”, who interact through negotiations that take the form of repeated “game playing”, and these games contribute to the production of public purpose (Torfing 2007a s. 5; Sørensen & Torfing 2007 p. 9; see also Hajer & Wagenaar 2003). Some actors may be more powerful than others, but because participation in policy-making processes is voluntary and the actors are mutually dependent and will meet repeatedly, the more powerful actors cannot rely on pure force to get their way. So, even though negotiations can take the form of hard-nosed bargaining, the need to reach joint decisions (or at least decisions that are

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acceptable to all participants) means that the negotiations must be ‘embedded in a framework of deliberation that can facilitate learning, mutual understanding and the development of generalized trust’ (Torfing 2007a p. 6). And learning is restricted not only to substantial matters; it also includes strategic and institutional matters (Koppenjan and Klijn 2004). Substantial learning is technical in nature, and concerns matters such as the nature of causes and effects within a policy field, how the field is regulated, and who is concerned with the problems at hand. Strategic learning, on the other hand, concerns the opinions and preferences of other actors, the nature of dependencies within the network, and the effectiveness of the actors’ own applied strategies in helping them get their way. Through strategic learning, therefore, actors will learn the extent to which and in which ways they must consider the opinions and preferences of other actors in order to reach a common decision. Institutional learning concerns the rules of the game. Because actors meet continuously in governance structures, they have the opportunity to reflect upon and discuss the most effective ways to solve conflicts, gather information, make decisions and deal with a variety of related matters. It should be clear from this brief outline that the view of individuals and organizations held by most governance scholars corresponds well with what has been called the rational or modern actor view (Blom-Hansen 1997; Meyer & Jepperson 2000). Such actors act from a logic of consequences, implying that they choose the optimal means to achieve their ends in decision-making situations, whatever those ends may be (Elster 1986). This line of thought entails a strong belief in the certainty of both ontology and epistemology – ontologically because actors are assumed to have clear and stable identities, interests and preferences (they have “ends” that they try to achieve), and epistemologically because actors are assumed to be able to obtain neutral and objective knowledge about the future consequences of various options. Such options will enable them to pick – albeit under institutional “incentives” and “constraints” understood as background factors – the option that will best fulfil their ends. Thus they will rationally – through calculations of expected consequences – choose “optimal” means. A specific feature of the modern actor is the expectation that it can act as an authorized agent for various interests (Meyer & Jepperson 2000). Under the term of a wider rationalized and universalistic culture, which claims the capacity to obtain true and undisputed scientific knowledge, modern actors are constructed as having the ability and responsibility to act as agents, not merely for their own interests (agency for the self), but also for the interests of other actors (agency for others) – even for abstractions that appear to be independent of any interest, such as truth and knowledge (agency for principle). If capabilities among real individuals and organizations in governance structures resemble the capabilities of this theoretically constructed modern

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actor, the potential to uphold democratic values will be relatively high. If, for example, individuals and organizations have clear and stable interests and preferences, it should be reasonably easy to determine which actors have an interest in specific matters. Such actors should therefore have a say in decisionmaking issues that affect them, thereby impeding inclusion from surfacing as an issue during decision-making processes. Clear and stable identities, interests and preferences will also enhance an individual representing a group of people to seek a common position among the group members and to present it to other actors in a decision-making process, impeding both representation and inclusion from surfacing as issues during the process. And because decisionmaking processes always follow a rationalistic and normative pattern, they will correspond with the way they are described in formal regulations and documents, impeding both transparency and accountability from becoming issues in the decision-making process. The modern actor will thus bring order to the scene and enhance democratic values to be upheld in decision making. But what if the world is a place marked not by certainty, but by ambiguity, as social constructivists have long argued? They believe that individuals and organizations do not have inherently clear and stable identities, interests and preferences. This does not mean that individuals and organizations are always unsure about their identity and what they want. Through processes of institutionalization, identities as well as interests and preferences can come to be perceived – by the individual or organization itself and by surrounding individuals and organizations – as relatively clear and stable, but they can also be perceived as unclear and unstable through processes of deinstitutionalization. For a social constructivist, clarity and stability of interests and preferences is always a matter of degree. Thus social constructivists perceive the whole idea of the actor and actorhood as being much too routinely treated as a given. As Meyer and Jepperson (2000) have said: ‘Assumptions about actorhood are now so taken for granted that social scientists use the term “actor” with little reflexivity to denote people or organized groups, as if such entities are by definitions actors’ (p. 101). Social constructivists do not perceive the actor as a natural entity, but as being socially constructed and constantly formed and reformed in ongoing, dynamic social processes (Berger & Luckmann 1966; Powell & DiMaggio 1991; March & Olsen 1976; Brunsson 1985). Thus individuals and organizations do not naturally possess the capabilities of the actor. Rather such capabilities must be taught and learned. Therefore an individual or an organization can never be seen as a totally accomplished actor; they must always be seen as a more or less accomplished actor. And today there are strong forces demanding that individuals and organizations learn the capabilities of the modern actor in order to fit into modern society. The modern actor is also

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a good actor. Furthermore, acting as an actor will grant individuals and organizations access to power positions and resources. Critics of the modern actor also contest the idea that individuals and organizations collect and use knowledge as neutral and objective input in their decision making (Haas 2004; March 1988). Knowledge, writes Sheila Jasanoff, ‘both embeds and is embedded in social practices, identities, norms, conventions, discourses, instruments and institutions’ (Jasanoff 2006 p. 3). Thus knowledge is not separate from or external to decision making. Rather, it is influenced by those who collect, present and discuss it and by the way it is collected, presented and discussed. There is no such thing as perfect knowledge. Knowledge professionals – or experts – constantly fail to provide decision makers with coherent facts. Multiple knowledge claims, sometimes followed by adaptation and negotiation about what should be the true and decision-relevant knowledge, seems to be the rule rather than the exception (Sjögren 2006). If capabilities among real individuals and organizations in governance structures resemble those sketched by the critics of the modern actor, the potential to uphold democratic values will not be high. We can not be sure that individuals and organizations have clear and stable interests and preferences, which means that it can be difficult to identify the individuals and organizations that ought to participate in a specific decision-making process. This may increase the chances of inclusion surfacing as an issue during the process. Ambiguity will also impede an individual who represents a group of people or an organization from seeking a common position among its members and presenting it effectively in the decision-making process. This will increase the chances of representation and inclusion surfacing as issues during the process. And if, because of knowledge ambiguity, decision-making processes do not follow a rationalistic and normative pattern, they will differ from their description in formal regulations and documents, thereby increasing the chances that transparency and accountability will become issues. Indeed, if knowledge is ambiguous and contested, the idea of actors as authorized agents for themselves, others and principals will be undermined.

THE OUTLINE OF THIS BOOK This introductory chapter is followed by seven chapters in which we present our empirical studies, roughly organized according to their methodology. The first two chapters explore longer processes of change within the general area of policy. Chapter 2, written by Adrienne Sörbom, spans three decades, and deals with the establishment and development of youth policy as a specific policy field and how, in particular, the enhancement of the democratic inclu-

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sion of young people emerged as a critical value. Chapter 3, written by Catrin Andersson, is not about bringing a new political area into being; rather it features discussions on the way democratic values changed when a policy area under close political control – Swedish weapons export – was pushed downwards to the bureaucracy (regarding decision making for allowing weapons export), and upwards to the international level (regarding ownership of the private arms industry). This process is studied with a time span of little more than a decade. The fact that some of the responsibilities in the policy area of weapons export were handed over to the industry through the encouragement of using ISO 9000 standards creates a link to Kristina Tamm Hallström’s Chapter 4, which explores trends towards regulation through standards. It focuses on attempts by the International Standardization Organization (ISO), which has traditionally dealt with technical standards, to formulate a standard for social responsibility. The chapter analyses how ISO’s departure from its more technical standard setting led to new tensions and discussions about democratic values. In Chapter 5, Staffan Furusten explores the attempt to utilize market mechanisms in processes of public purchasing and examines how these new mechanisms affect discussions about democratic values in concrete purchasing processes. In the three subsequent empirical chapters, we turn to processes that are approached in a more delimited way, as connected to specific decision-making processes. In Chapter 6, Göran Sundström addresses an attempt to identify specified objectives within the forest policy area. The process was officially described as highly decentralized and marked by inclusion, cooperation and consensus. In practice, however, it involved tensions and confusion. For example, discussions about different democratic values surfaced and had a huge impact on the evolution of the process. The last two empirical chapters also focus on specific decision-making processes, but they are also expert-dominated processes aimed at the enhancement of broader participation. Chapter 7, by Ebba Sjögren and Karin Fernler, concerns priority setting within the healthcare sector. Comparing two cases, these authors analyse problems about ways of qualifying knowledge and participants in priority-setting processes. Chapter 8, by Linda Soneryd, uses the consultation process for Swedish nuclear waste siting as a case, examining how issues previously taken for granted were discussed when new participants entered the process. Finally, in Chapter 9 the three authors of this chapter summarize the findings from the seven empirical chapters, draw conclusions based on the collective of empirical studies and develop more general theoretical ideas about the construction of the modern actor.

2. Organizing participation. Establishing a discourse of local democratic governance for young people in Sweden Adrienne Sörbom Swedish youth policy was gradually established as a policy area over the three decades between the early 1980s and the first decade of the 21st century. During this time democracy and inclusion were incorporated as core concepts within the area. In this chapter this process is traced over time. The starting point is that this policy area, and the interest that the area holds for municipal democracy, can be understood as an expression of the general trend towards an increase in local governance. I propose that youth policy in Sweden paved the way for new forms of political governance, primarily at the local, municipal level.1 First and foremost, this development occurred through the use and promotion of local user councils, youth councils and other similar organizational forms. Common to them all is their deliberative character; they are supposed to function as open arenas for young people to enter and partake of municipal politics through communication (cf. Bohman, 1996), free from party politics. Thus both user and youth councils exist on the border between representative democracy and civil society. The main purpose of this chapter is to analyse the process by which the discourse on young people and democracy within Swedish youth policy was established and took its organizational shape.2 How did youth and democracy become a field of political intervention? And how are these two areas related to the tendency towards increasing governance? My assumption is that by answering questions such as these empirically, we may gain insights into governance in practice. What discursive cogs of governance may be found in Swedish youth policy? In order to analyse and discuss this process, a discourse analysis of some central youth policy texts and doctrines has been undertaken. By discourse I refer to those practices by which a certain phenomenon is understood and produced. It can be understood as a system of rules that legitimizes certain bodies of knowledge but not others, and that distinguishes who has the right 14

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to speak and be accredited with authority (cf. Foucault, 1993). The system of rules is based on commonly held but contestable understandings of what is true or false, threatening or nonthreatening, democratic or nondemocratic, for example. When applying and reshaping these understandings in intersubjective relationships, people are subjected to control. Thus power is simultaneously inter-subjectively executed. In this chapter, I examine political discourses on young people and democracy, primarily in the area of youth policy. These discourses constitute the rationalities within the policy undertaken (cf. Rose, 1993). Although in practice a discourse may take the form of oral or written speech, and even nonverbal social practices, only written texts are analysed in this chapter. These texts are primarily governmental reports, public reports and governmental bills on the subject of youth policy and democratic inclusion. Such public reports are legion, and have often come to play a crucial role in the development of Swedish youth policy. The purpose of the empirical analysis is an understanding of how different discursive elements within youth policy came to be formulated and altered over time. The formulations and reformulations of the concepts of youth, democracy and municipal organization are the subjects of the majority of these analyses. Further analysis focuses on organizational expressions of the discourse and its alterations, and democratic implications at the organizational level. This chapter begins with a brief presentation of the organizational contexts of Swedish youth policy. The second section offers an empirical analysis of Swedish youth policy over three decades, and the third provides a short complementary examination of the governmental discourse on democracy. In the fourth section, I analytically disentangle the discursive elements on youth, democracy and municipal organization. The chapter concludes with a theoretical and normative discussion of the empirical findings.

ORGANIZATIONAL CONTEXT In order to analyse and understand how the discourse on youth policy, democracy and inclusion emerged, it is necessary to explore the organizational contexts of Swedish youth policy. Four types of actor are relevant: the state, the municipalities, organizations within civil society and the citizens. Swedish youth policy has evolved as part of and has participated in the transformation of the social landscape (Ahrne & Papakostas, 2002) constituted by these four actors. My goal, therefore, is to sketch the major features of changes that have occurred amongst them.3 The trends described cover the period 1980 to 2005. Although this overview functions only as a brief introduction, it should

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provide structure for the coming analysis of youth policy. For much of what seems to characterize the surrounding landscape can also be found within youth policy – albeit in its own particular shape. Regarding the organization of politics at the state level, two significant and internally reinforcing trends are captured by the terms “decentralization” and “ruling through goal formulation”. The first trend refers to processes by which activities that were formerly organized by the state have been transferred to the municipal level (Pierre, 2001). After long discussion, a series of reforms were undertaken during the 1980s, giving municipalities greater responsibility for their own policy making. This trend incorporated increased use of goal formulation, with monitoring as the preferred form of governing (Rothstein, 2001). Jointly, these trends have created a certain independence in policy practices for local governments vis-à-vis the state, even though costs for the implementation of policy goals were often allocated to local governments. We can identify four waves of changes within the bureaucracy of Swedish municipalities that occurred during the same period (Montin, 2006, Chapter 1). The waves have featured such concepts as local municipality boards, customer-based organizations and inclusion. The fourth wave, which is still rolling, is that of participatory democracy. During this wave, representative democracy is challenged by other forms of participation, such as referendums, e-democracy and user democracy (ibid.). One major element of these organizational waves has been discussions on the question of local bureaucracy. In the early 1970s it was argued from various sources that municipalities had become too large as organizations, preventing politicians from ruling and enhancing the rule of employees (Montin, 2006). In 1992, after a decade of local experiments, the law for municipal organization was revised, increasing self-governance in the municipalities. At the end of the decade, however, new forms of experimentation came into fashion, centring on the topic of cooperation. Experiments and projects were undertaken in many places, in order to strengthen cooperation within municipalities and between municipal bodies and actors – from the business world and civil society, for example. These experiments, often given the label of “partnership”, have been increasingly popular during the 2000s (ibid. p. 14). Parallel to these structural changes, citizens seem to have increased their interest in participating locally. For instance, the 2000–2001 figures for people contacting politicians and municipal employees over some political matter were higher than they had been ten years previously (SCB, 2003). During the same period, more people had also engaged in such political activities as writing an open letter to the local newspaper or signing a petition on a local matter (ibid.). Furthermore, there was also an increase in projects, experiments and activities undertaken locally with a goal of increasing participation (Gilljam et

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al., 2003; Montin, 2006). Although this increase may, in part, be an expression of interest among politicians to establish these types of deliberative arrangements, the trend probably also reflects a rising interest among citizens to participate locally. Local youth councils have formed an important part of this development. In 1997, for instance, 84 municipalities in Sweden had some type of forum for youth participation; by 2003, the number had risen to 157. Finally, one must consider civil society organizations in order to recognize fully the development of Swedish youth policy. For decades the policy area had set its main focus on organizations. Even today, the support of youth organizations is a chief interest at the national authority for youth policy. Over the decades, however, membership in youth organization has been steadily decreasing, and various governmental attempts have been undertaken in order to counteract this trend. Yet statistics show in concrete numbers, that these attempts have, by and large, been ignored (if ever even identified) by young people, who have continued to choose other activities and memberships than those within the frames of political youth organizations. Yet it is imperative to acknowledge the fact that these shrinking numbers comprise only one part of the larger picture. The Swedish population as a whole has become less and less active in political parties (SCB, 1996; SCB, 2003; SCB, 2006).

FROM MENACE TO POLITICAL ACTOR In this section, I begin to analyse the documents that form the empirical focus of this chapter. The texts chosen for this purpose were produced between 1981 and 2004. By analysing them chronologically, examining how actors at the national level argue, I am tracing the process of the discourses and their key elements as they evolve and transform. The texts are reports on young people and democracy that have been made public during these three decades.4 No public report on youth policy has yet been introduced during the 2000s. I have therefore chosen the 2004 governmental bill on youth policy and one text from the main official agency for youth policy (Ungdomsstyrelsen, the National Board for Youth Affairs, 2003), which preceded the bill, as empirical sources from this decennium. In the matter of democracy as policy, I have chosen the two governmental calls for inquiries that have been posed, as well as the bill to the parliament in which democracy was established as a policy area. A discursive shift – the 1980s Although youth policy is a relatively recent phenomenon, by the early 1900s one can already find policy activities directed towards young people in Sweden. These early activities were primarily related to the expansion of the

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school system and to municipal efforts to encourage and facilitate the associational activities of young people. In 1959, the head of the Ministry for Social Affairs was asked by the government to organize the coordination of youth affairs under the title of the National Youth Council. The council’s main purpose was to coordinate and stimulate free associations in its work with children and youth, in order to enhance their upbringing. Until approximately the mid-1980s, the early field of youth policy rested heavily on the discursive notion of young people as being in need of care – as a possible menace to society. This perspective spawned the idea that young people as a group were to be treated differently than adults (Nilsson, 1994). In the early 1980s, however, the Youth Council launched the report Not for Sale! (Statens ungdomsråd, 1981), and its analysis turned the established discourse upside down. Instead of young people troubling society, society was said to be causing trouble for young people. The basic argument of the report was that although the daily life and upbringing of young people had, for the most part, changed for the better through the development of modernity and a welfare society, these developments had also caused problems for young people. The key message was that young people were left with no productive role in society, rendering them outcasts with no sense of place or meaning – and making them easy targets for commercial interests. This lack of meaning in the lives of young people, it was argued, indicated that more activities were needed to address the problems of youth. The policy area required expansion, therefore, especially in the field of leisure activities. Although the report was heavily criticized, primarily for its lack of insight into the ways that young people could use the commercial media in a constructive way, it became highly influential within Swedish youth policy. The report introduced three central and recurring themes in its discussions of young people and democracy: youth living under a moratorium, the launching of “inclusion”, and new roles for organizations. First it addressed youth in industrial society as a period in life best characterized as a moratorium. During this phase, youth was seen chiefly as people waiting to be accepted into society as important contributors with a job and a place of their own. Instead of being part of productive society, young people had become consumers, and drug abuse and growing narcissism should be seen as reactions to this lack of productive meaning. Yet another consequence was the scarce contact between generations in a society that segregated people by generation. Second, the term inclusion was launched. The report argued that in order to break the evil chain that maintained youth in the role of unproductive outcast, it must be possible for young people to take responsibility for their daily lives. In the words of the report: ‘Children and youth shall have a productive and mean-

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ingful role, have duties and responsibilities, as well as develop their inherent resources, rendering life purposeful’ (Statens Ungdomsråd 1981, p. 448).5 Thus it was seen as essential that young people should be given the opportunity to, for example, cook their own food or decide about how to organize youth centres. Through these types of activities, the report contended, young people would be included in society to a greater extent. It was argued that it is a basic human right ‘to be required’ (ibid. p. 450), and that society could not be seen as democratic without young people being integrated in these ways. Third, the report suggested new roles for organizations within civil society, which should eventually render society more inclusive from the perspective of youth. The main idea was that services found between the market system and the public system, primarily household services, should be recognized and valued as productive. Shorter working hours were seen as one way to achieve this goal, as was the idea that civil society organizations could run and produce many of the services discussed. Civil society organizations were perceived as essential for a democratic society, and the report argued that their role should be strengthened. Yet the authors saw clear drawbacks to their own suggestions. There was a risk that civil society organizations would convert from demanders of societal change to protectors of what had been achieved. Establishment – the 1990s The 1990s became the decade when the central elements of discourse on the organization of young people’s political participation were actually formed and organized. The main organizational expression of this formation was the launching of the first governmental bill on youth policy (Prop. 1993/1994: 135). The decision taken by the parliament as a consequence of the bill meant that the Youth Council was reshaped into the National Board of Youth Affairs. The board, which still exists at this writing, was given a somewhat broader mandate, including the coordination across policy sectors of matters regarding the livelihood of young people. Parliament also decided that as a political area, youth policy should be steered by six guidelines – yet another step towards acknowledging youth policy as a policy area of its own. Political discussions continued, however, over the type of issues that youth policy should be handling. What actually constituted the problem for young people? Somewhat consistent with the discussions of the 1980s, the prevailing notions in these discussions were a) the view that young people had been set aside; b) the idea that young people did not represent a problem themselves, but that society caused problems for young people; and c) the understanding that large groups of young people were living in a moratorium phase between education and working life. By the 1990s, however, the question of youth and democracy was being analysed less in terms of the development of industrial society and more as a problem of influence, inclusion and power, per se.

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In their final report in 1991, the governmental Youth Committee claimed that ‘inclusion is the basis for democracy. Inclusion is and will continue to be the most important question for a well-functioning democracy’ (SOU, 1991, p. 285). Here, inclusion was seen not so much as a matter of productive meaning. Inclusion was regarded as valuable because it paved the way for influence, and hence for power. The relationship was formulated as a chain in which ‘the one who is given the chance of being included and has influence has the power to affect society’ (ibid. p. 21). This meant that focus was set more on young people, and less on the general society. Organizational changes within municipalities and governmental organizations were still suggested, but they were directed primarily towards young people and motivated by democratic problems amongst youth rather than problems in the larger population. In addition, young people’s political activities became a strongly pronounced theme. Another novel approach was the use of the concept of resources. It was argued by the committee that young people should be used; otherwise society would not only fail to be democratic; it would be missing a resource that could benefit society as a whole. In conjunction with this analysis, the report argued that three changes were pivotal in enhancing the political and societal inclusion of young people. First, a more flexible organization within municipal bureaucracy was needed. Young people, it was said, tended not to follow bureaucratic borders, and their demands were getting lost along the way (ibid. p. 270). The municipalities should therefore have the right to organize themselves internally (ibid. p. 271). Establishing municipal child and youth boards could be one crucial step. A second proposed change was to expand opportunities for user influence. The committee argued that young people easily become bored by political matters, and that ‘enhanced user influence and a better coordination of the political process’ were changes needed to include more young people (ibid. p. 271). A key step would be to minimize the time lag between propositions and decisions. As the committee somewhat jokingly put it, young people like to see a ‘decision before they move from home’ (ibid. p. 271). Third, the committee argued for the placement of political decisions closer to young people and to the population at large. The argument was based on the conclusion that there is a deep crisis in the relationships between young people and politicians in contemporary society (ibid. p. 271) and that these relationships could be improved by encouraging municipal youth councils. According to the committee, this step would not be enough to ‘resurrect young people’s confidence in politics, and make more young people participate in politics’ (ibid. p. 272), thereby relating politically to other generations. Indeed, it was argued in the report that this goal could be achieved only if young people were actually included and acquired real influence at a general level. But such a process could be improved if decisions were made as close as

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possible to the citizenry – in villages and neighbourhoods – and youth councils could function as one step towards this goal. In relation to these changes, the committee also depicted a future scenario, arguing that flexible and multidimensional societies would be those that best managed the transition into the 21st century. It was therefore considered critical for local politicians to delegate political matters directly to those concerned. Citizens should be increasingly allowed into the system. The more overarching and the most important matters, however, should still be discussed in relation to public elections. Based on the analysis presented in the report, the committee’s proposals primarily addressed changes in municipal law, which were intended to enhance the opportunity for user-directed activities and thus for the political and social inclusion of young people. Of foremost importance, the committee requested more user-directed youth centres and lawful possibilities for establishing local school boards with the right to determine their own activities. The committee wanted youth councils to be used as a tool, although it was ambivalent in this matter. It argued that young people might become disappointed if the prospect of influence was withheld. In this sense, they saw the democratic consequences of youth councils as potentially troublesome. In spite of this reflection, the main result of the Youth Committee was that the number of youth councils and other deliberative fora began to increase. Furthermore, the question of political inclusion and participation amongst young people continued to be a matter of discussion. In 1995 the first parliamentary committee on youth politics was organized. Compared to the 1991 report, the committee’s governmental instructions (Dir., 1995) regarding influence and political participation displayed a more unconditional analysis of young people and their perceptions of politics. Young people, in comparison to other groups in society, were seen as having a greater desire for other forms of political organization, which would allow them to participate more directly: Young people seem to have become increasingly sceptical towards contemporary forms of government, and often choose to withdraw rather than trying to make an impact by raising their voices. Many young people defend themselves against traditional and representative forms of political activities such as political parties or interest organizations. The perception of youth regarding political influence and participation is often characterized by a wish for uncomplicated forms of work and quick results in concrete matters (Dir., 1995, p. 7).

The committee on youth policy (SOU, 1997) accepted this description of young people and their relationships with party politics and the parliamentary system. They did, however, underscore the point that young people did not differ largely from the rest of the population. If there was a desire to enhance the inclusion of young people, it would be better to start with the population

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as a whole, as the general ideas held by young and old in these matters are comparable. Nonetheless, the committee proposed some suggestions, which, it was argued, had a clear connection to young people. According to the committee, young people do not like the traditional governing system and therefore ignore it; and this choice, it argued, must be respected. If Swedish society were to continue to be democratic, it would be necessary to introduce new and complementary forms of governing which could be of interest to young people. The committee suggested, for example, that a law on municipal consultation with young people should be analysed and discussed. It was also suggested that all municipalities should create fora for communication between politicians and young people. In relation to this proposal, the committee suggested that the National Board should be given the responsibility of following and charting municipalities in their task of including young people in municipal governing. Specifically, it was argued that the National Board should observe the presence and significance of so-called “municipal youth policy action plans” and such nonparliamentary fora as youth councils (ibid. p. 107). Finally, the committee suggested that the policy area should abandon the six guidelines adopted in 1994 in favour of three main goals: power, inclusion and influence. The new goals for the future youth policy suggested by the committee were accepted by parliament in 1999, and functioned until 2004. Importantly, at that stage, the government chose to phrase the goal related to democracy in terms of influence and inclusion – but not in terms of power, as had been suggested by the committee. The suggestions for the mandate of the National Board of Youth Affairs were also accepted, giving the board an enlarged mandate. Monitoring valuable young people – the 2000s In the 21st century, the idea that young people should be the objects of a special youth policy has come to be taken for granted. The moratorium of youth as a phase of life is now a given, as is the value of political and social inclusion. Moreover, a new turn has been taken in the formulation of the national actors, perhaps as a consequence of a firmer establishment of the policy area, with policy goals and its own state secretary. In the first decade of the 21st century, reforms or new political techniques for the inclusion of young people have been losing favour. Instead, the need for monitoring young people and their wellbeing has become strongly pronounced. Youth policy in the 2000s has thus been redirected towards monitoring young people per se – their values, political activities, mental health, standard of living, for instance – as well as monitoring other policy areas important to youth life, such as social and educational policy. Two key texts indicating these changes have been produced. The first is Ung 2003 (Young 2003), from the National Board of Youth Affairs, which provides a detailed analysis of the results of the goals set for youth policy.

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Regarding the goal of inclusion and influence, it states that there is a steadily growing number of municipalities working to establish forms of dialogue between young people and politicians. Between 1998 and 2002, the number of “fora for influence” had risen from 102 to 165, a development that the board considers positive. Yet there is ambivalence about the potential of these fora. The number of young people exercising their right to vote and the number of young people with commissions of trust continued to decrease, a troublesome trend which has not been counterweighted by rising numbers of youth councils (Ungdomsstyrelsen, 2003, p. 10). The board argued that young people should be involved in the formal arenas of parliamentary democracy if their influence is to be enhanced. In its analysis of the youth policy goals, the board stressed the need for new knowledge about the way young people view their own situation (ibid. p. 11, 104), suggesting that regular surveys should be conducted on young people’s values and apprehensions and that existing annual surveys should be enlarged to encompass matters of youth policy. In addition, future youth policy should be directed more towards local municipalities. The board ought to be given the task of encouraging municipalities to work with knowledge-based policy, the general idea being that municipalities should gather information by asking young people how they view their own situation. The second key text on youth policy is the governmental bill (Prop. 2004/05: 2) that followed the board’s report and repeated much of its contents. Young people were still seen as having unique knowledge, experiences and values (ibid. p. 29), and therefore had a right to be heard. It would be a loss for the rest of society, in fact, if young people were not included. The board’s specific suggestions on the organization of future democracy tended to be accepted by the government as well. The goals were revised in the bill, and were reduced from three to two – one relating to democracy and one to welfare. It was also specified that one of the major tasks for youth policy should be to provide information about the target group. If the required information was not to be found within the respective policy areas which together comprise youth policy (e.g. housing, education, social welfare), it should be the task of the National Board of Youth Affairs to gather it. Two more significant changes were introduced regarding the organization of political participation amongst young people. First, the goal of inclusion and influence was rephrased to read ‘young people should have access to real power’ (Prop. 2004/05: 2, p. 25), by which it was intended that young people should be able to ‘influence the development of society at large as well as their own lives and livelihood, in matters such as housing, education, working life, friends and family life’ (ibid. p. 29). Thus although the word “power” was used, it was influence that was meant; partaking in actual decision making was not mentioned. Second, activities related to this goal should be addressed and

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undertaken within the realm of the newly established democracy policy area. In the future, the state secretary on democracy was to be responsible for matters relating to young people and their attainment of real power. In combination, the two new directions of youth policy profoundly reformed the area in the direction of primarily monitoring policy activities. Youth policy thereby ceased to be the motor behind youth-related politics. Whereas youth politics earlier played the role of inspiring and discussing ways of enhancing political inclusion, it now had the general responsibility of analysing trends in other policy areas, within the state as well as within municipalities and regions.

DEMOCRACY AS POLICY The developments within Swedish youth policy since 2001 have meant that one former major task has been allocated to a new policy area – democracy – established later than youth policy, and with a shorter track record of public reports. Nevertheless, as the previous analysis indicated, it has become critical to the development of youth policy and democracy at the municipal level. This section briefly describes the general development of democracy as a policy area, and the discussions related to the theme of organizing participation amongst young people. The sources for this analysis are the Swedish government’s calls of 1985 and 1997 for two major public reports on democracy, together with the 2000 governmental bill on democracy. Collectively these texts can provide a general picture of transformations within the discourse on democracy, as expressed by the Swedish government. In 1985 the government called for a research-based governmental inquiry on power relations in Sweden (Dir., 1985). Concerns were expressed in this call that societal changes had de-democratized the country, and that power had become more unevenly spread. It referred to a ‘day-to-day democracy’ that had gradually been established in Sweden after the turn of the 20th century. In this particular form of democracy, participation in general elections and membership in, for example, the union and popular movement organizations, was the basic form of political participation. Moreover it had become, and, as the call had it, still was the democratic ideal (ibid. p. 412). More deliberative forms of participation, like youth councils or user’s councils, were not discussed. Nor was concern about political participation expressed. The focus was on the possibility of executing power rather than on citizens’ political participation. This perspective was underscored by the fact that the public report from the inquiry (SOU, 1990) was popularly called “the inquiry on power”. The report was intensely debated, even though the government did not propose any changes in response to its release. Twelve years after

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the first call, however, yet another inquiry was called for (Dir., 1997), because it was believed within the government that much of what the earlier inquiry had been based upon had changed. This time the focus was on political participation per se. Characteristically, it was termed “the inquiry on democracy”. Its main purpose was to analyse the circumstances for popular ruling and political participation in Sweden. During the 12 years that passed between 1985 and 1997, the government seems to have become less sure about how it should phrase the contemporary democratic ideal. In the call for the new investigation, it was stated that popular movements and associational life had long been seen as a guarantee of democracy in Sweden, but in later years something had changed. These types of organizations were not as popular as they had been, and democracy was challenged by new forms of political cooperation. Specifically, the government was concerned that young people and people with non-Swedish backgrounds were less inclined to participate politically. Thus the call stated that certain changes were creating a situation in which the old democratic ideal was being called into question, but that no new ideal had been proposed. It was important to understand what had happened. At the same time, the government demanded that the inquiry should introduce proposals about how to handle this precarious situation. In 2001, as a result of the inquiry, democracy was established as a separate policy area (Prop. 2000/01: 1). The goal for the area was to enhance popular ruling and the participation of citizens in the processes of political decision making. The bill specifically mentioned the need for enhancing participation among young people and the need for supporting municipalities in their search for new forms of dialogue.

DISCURSIVE COGS The empirical analysis indicates a process by which a discourse within youth policy on young people and democracy has been slowly developing. One of the major concrete outcomes of this process is the establishment of municipal democracy experiments and more permanent deliberative fora. Three interwoven discourses on youth, democracy and municipal organization may be identified in this slow development. In this section the analysis is taken further, in order to disentangle these three discourses and to discuss organizational consequences. Discourse on youth The definition of youth is always a site of struggle for power (Bourdieu, 1991). It is a discursive struggle in which youth is defined by its contrast to adulthood.

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Being a youth is, by definition, not being an adult. Adulthood, on the other hand, means integration in societal institutions: having finished one’s education, having a job, acquiring a residence of one’s own, and having a family. Living outside these institutions without being a defenceless child, can be conceived of as threatening, because it means being outside of social control. At the same time, to be a young person means to be part of the coming generation, of a future that is not yet known. Depending on the perspective chosen, this future may look more or less bright when analysing young people, their values and practices. Young people can thus be seen as both a promise and a threat. The discourse on youth within Swedish youth policy is accordingly double edged. Young people are both promising and potentially threatening, although there have been shifts regarding which aspect is more pronounced. In youth policy prior to the launching of Not for Sale in 1981, the negative aspect, youth as a menace to society, was manifest. Policy activities towards education and upbringing were organized in order to counteract the risks seen as encompassing the developments of industrial society. Dominant professionals such as physicians, teachers and social workers, as well as politicians were concerned that young people were being left alone without surveillance (Nilsson, 1994). As previously shown in this chapter, however, perceptions about young people within youth policy have changed over the last three decades. Young people have come to be seen as a source of creativity from which society must not withdraw. The perception of young people is one of competence to participate in the steering of their own lives, and it has become increasingly important for various groups in society at large, specifically politicians, to talk to young people. Parallel to this switch in perceptions, youth policy activities were multiplied, and the policy area was developed to encompass all the societal measures that affect young people in various arenas. This is a counterintuitive development. Pronouncing the positive aspects of youth could easily have meant a diminishing interest in youth policy; young people in general could have been appreciated as fully competent on their own. Instead it meant that the number of activities was augmented, and the scope of the policy area was broadened. Crucial to this switch was the concept of “moratorium”, defining youth as being in a period of waiting between life phases, between childhood and adulthood. Because it is potentially threatening to be young, in spite of the promising aspects of youth, prolonging this moratorium is troublesome. The government needed to act, therefore, and social and political inclusion of young people became political objectives. Specifically, the fact that young people became less prone to participate in formal politics was a triggering factor for politicians. Young people were perceived as being in need of policy activities in order to enhance both their political and their societal inclusion. Within the frameworks of youth policy, it

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was argued that a society could not be considered democratic if young people were not included – if they did not participate in some sort of political activity. The definition of politics within the youth policy field was limited to what were seen as acceptable activities, however: voting and membership in political organizations or youth councils, for example. Other types of activities such as demonstrations and various forms of political consumption were not discussed. According to Swedish youth policy, politics should be undertaken in the proximity of political parliaments. The policy invention of such bodies as youth councils and youth parliaments was a technique to end this seemingly self-created moratorium and to guide young people into adult political activity. Discourse on democracy Contemporaneous with the process of integrating democracy and political participation into youth policy, from the end of the 1980s the concept of democracy in governmental texts slowly altered. As indicated in the call for the first public inquiry on power relations, citizens were expected to be active in political organizations mainly through voting and membership. In 1997, by the time of the second call, however, democracy was analysed in more deliberative terms, demanding more active citizens, whether members or nonmembers. At the time of the bill on democracy in 2001, this understanding was taken yet another step. Here alternative forms for dialogue and direct political participation were advocated. The development of the governmental discourse on democracy is reflected and probably interlinked to the development of the discourse on political participation within youth policy. When the question of participation was evoked in the youth policy report of 1981, there were few references to democracy. Democracy was drawn into youth policy only at the end of that decennium, at which time it bore strong deliberative traits, advocating organizational forms for political participation which we now associate with the trends of increasing governance. The argument commonly given by national actors within the fields of youth and democracy policy is that young people are interested in another sort of politics – not in voting and membership. Young people are also described as uninterested in committing to long-term membership. Instead, it is argued, they need more direct forms for political activities. The deliberative arenas of such bodies as youth councils were the answer to this need. They were commonly described as a vehicle to enhance the political inclusion and participation of young people. To what degree and to what result is less clear; there has been little discussion about how this would be accomplished in practice. It seems as if the argument stated in the early 1990s by the Youth Committee – that to be heard is to be given the opportunity to make a change – has become a basic understanding within the two policy areas. In line with this idea, no

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national actors have argued that young people should be given the opportunity to participate in formal decision making – only that they should be given the right to raise their voices. This negative limitation indicates that youth councils and other deliberative fora are supposed to provide possibilities for talking and listening. Decision making and governing should be done elsewhere. Discourse on youth in local democracy The third key discourse in the context of organizing political participation at a local level is in regard to municipal organization. In the framework of youth policy, the core concept of municipal organization has been “flexibility”. A democratic organization such as a municipality could not be considered truly democratic if young people were not involved, at least to some degree. This democratization of the municipality could be accomplished only if municipal organizations became more flexible. This argument was based upon the view that young people are flexible and uninterested in organizational branches and limitations. Thus the organization of political participation at the municipal level needed to be augmented by new forms of organization. These new forms should not contravene the traditional form of parliamentary organization, but were to be placed in parallel to existing ones. Again, deliberative fora, such as the youth council, were seen as the solution. Together the discursive understandings of the three concepts youth, democracy and flexibility at the municipal level shaped the discourse on youth and political participation within Swedish youth policy. The basis of this discourse is the understanding of youth as something other than adults, demanding something other than the traditional organizational forms for their political participation. The fundamental discursive cog, therefore, is the idea of “otherness”. Young people are other than adults, and should be treated in other ways, and given other organizational solutions. This is the discursive cornerstone of youth policy, but it came to be used also in the policy areas of democracy and municipal organization.

FROM GOVERNANCE TO GOVERNMENTALITY In summary, it seems that the assumptions about young people and democracy which have developed over the last three decades, defining youth in terms of “otherness”, have led to an expansion of certain types of organizational solutions. Youth councils and other forms have been established in order to interest young people in political action, primarily within the framework of local municipalities. In this sense, youth councils have been considered as tools for increasing democracy in Swedish society, in a manner acceptable from a parliamentary perspective.

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At a banal level, the often-used phrase “from government to governance” indicates less government and more governance. How this tendency should be interpreted is open for discussion, however – discussions that refer partly to the matter of power and the possibility for state authorities to govern. At a theoretical level, it has been argued that this type of power has been undermined by the increasing development of network-based government (e.g. Rhodes, 1996). This argument has been criticized, however, for not acknowledging that the state is a critical factor, even in this type of ruling (e.g. Pierre & Peters, 2000; Sørensen, 2004). Most importantly, it has been argued that the networks do not come about without help. The state often participates in their construction, setting the frame for their conduct and even participating in their further existence. Sørensen (2004) calls this phenomenon ‘meta-governing’, and argues that it actually increases the possibility for the state to rule. In the case of Swedish youth policy, it seems that the term “metagovernance” quite aptly captures the development of state power. Instead of undermining this power, the government has been instrumental in establishing political structures by which young people are supposed to participate in local governing. This has been accomplished primarily with the use of governmental bills and state authorities that have been based in discourses on youth and democracy, even as they have proliferated them. To me, this process indicates that the establishment of youth councils has also led to increased possibilities for governing. That is, youth councils and youth policy adds to existing governmental structures, albeit in the organizational shape of deliberative democracy. Thus local governmental steering and control has increased rather than decreased. To describe and discuss this process from a normative perspective, it is possible to use the term “governmentality”, as inspired by Foucault (1993) to signify scepticism towards the practice of government. Foucault saw it as a troublesome characteristic of Western government to organize a form of political sovereignty that would be a government “for all and of each”, and the concerns of which would be at once to “totalize” and to “individualize” (Gordon, 1991, p. 3) – to make all and each part of governmental structures, through which individual conducts can be controlled. The processes studied in this chapter can be seen as examples of increasing governmentality. First, the youth policy field has continuously been stretched, covering ever-larger parts of the lives of young people. Second, concerning political action, an increasing interest can be discerned by which young people’s political activities or lack of activities are seen as being in need of political steering and control. Third, this increasing need for control has escalated attempts to gather information on the values and practices of young people. Over the decades youth policy has become more concerned with techniques for collecting this type of information.

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Moving to a more normative stance, I would argue, although not quite in line with Foucault, that the organizational structures created because of and as part of these processes appear to be double edged; youth policy in general and youth councils in particular are working both in support of and against the best interests of young people. A parliamentary system that is organized in such manner that it precludes the political inclusion of all may be said to have democratic flaws. It would therefore be a democratic gain for young people and for society at large should youth councils increase the participation of young people in parliamentary democracy. That would be the case, should one single young person have gained in power and social inclusion by the organization of these deliberative arenas. Then again, to be organized means to be controlled. In this sense, new organizational forms such as youth councils are attempts at control. If these attempts do not increase the actual participation of youth in decision making, but merely increase their right to be listened to from time to time, it is questionable if society has, in fact, become more democratic. To the contrary, one may argue that these solutions could decrease young people’s interest in participating in decision making; if they expect the new organizational forms to be a way of gaining power, but later discover that it was never intended that they be given power, they may lose interest in politics and political participation. Should this be the case, youth council techniques would increase control over youth without increasing their political participation. Indeed, it has been argued that Swedish youth policy is strongly overemphasizing the need to control young people (Svedberg & Trägårdh, 2007). I do not fully concur with this critique. Rather, I would like to underscore the opinion that these types of policies are ambiguous in their consequences. Democracy is a delicate social phenomenon, not easily organized from above. It is creditable that governmental authorities at the state and local level are involved in the shaping of democratic structures. It is the type of involvement that signifies a reflexive process on behalf of the state, by which the bureaucratic structures are discussed and evaluated. Yet there is a risk of establishing structures that promise power without realizing that this promise may counteract an increase in political participation among young people. In the end, it may be more promising to leave the organization of participation in the hands of young people themselves.

NOTES 1

The focus of this article on Swedish youth policy is not an attempt to minimize the importance of other policy areas in the establishment of new forms of local political governance. Youth policy is but one of several door openers. Lundqvist (2006) discussed policy making in the area of environmental sustainability as having paved the way for new modes of policy making.

Organizing participation 2 3

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5

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For early discussions and comments along the way I am most grateful to Professor Martin Börjeson at Ersta Sköndal College. The presentation does not follow any hierarchical order. The actors and organizations are equally important, and no one can theoretically be said to have a greater impact than the others. I participated as an employee at the Interior Ministry in one of the commissions, the work of which is analysed in this chapter: Politik för unga (SOU, 1997). Insights from this experience have been used when analysing this and other texts. Such close contact entails the risk of nearsightedness, however. Critical evaluations from the editors and other authors of this book have been used to counterbalance this risk and enhance the reliability of the analysis. The English translation of all quotes from Swedish documents in the empirical analyses are my own.

3. Completed responsibility? Delegation, organization and accountability in Swedish export of military equipment Catrin Andersson The focus of this chapter is the connection between accountability and the organization of essential political institutions. In the last few decades, accountability processes have become more complex. Decision making increasingly occurs in a network among actors from the private and the public spheres, resulting in more diffuse boundaries between the spheres and a greater distance from the political centre. The possibility of political and democratic control and accountability could thereby be obstructed. Sweden’s Committee on the Constitution represents a traditional form of accountability in the Swedish political context. The task of the committee is, among other things, to scrutinize the government’s handling of cases and the ministers’ exercising of their official duties. With the committee’s report as a basis, parliament decides whether or not measures must be taken.1 Predictably, one of the committee’s most extensive and difficult tasks over the past 30 years concerns the export of military equipment – a delicate and controversial policy field. The export of military equipment affects the cardinal spheres of the state: foreign affairs and security policy. A characteristic of this policy field is the heavy interdependence between state actors and actors of trade and industry. This is an area that has always been plagued with complicated responsibility and accountability issues. The defence industry requires permission from the state in order to export military equipment, and the export criteria are – at least according to some analysts – stricter in Sweden than in any other Western European country (SOU, 2005, p. 109). There are two survival issues here. The Swedish state relies upon the defence industry for its national security and defence policy. But the defence industry relies upon the sale of military matériels to other countries in order to survive; the Swedish market is simply not large enough to support the industry. Since 1989 the complexity has been amplified through increased cooperation among defence industries across Western countries, primarily because of the shrinking market that occurred with the end of the Cold War. As the complexity of the situation increased, so too did the difficulties that have arisen when Swedish law 32

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meets less strict foreign law. Swedish law also embodies contradictory values, and every granting of an export licence requires a judgement about the values that should be given priority. The controversial character of this policy field is reflected in its organization. Between 1949 and 1996 the government, and in exceptional cases individual ministers, used to decide who could be issued an export licence. The authority preparing the cases, Krigsmaterielinspektionen (KMI: War Matériel Inspectorate) was an organizational part of the government offices and constituted a ministry unit of the trade division of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. For a long time, therefore, the organization of this policy field differed from the prevalent Swedish administration model, which implies that the government makes the principal decisions but delegates a large part of the responsibility for routine business to separate authorities. The exception from the Swedish administration model was based on the idea that the government should be able to steer the practice in such an important domain more directly. In 1996, however, a radical reorganization was conducted, and decision making was delegated downwards, from the government to a central state authority. In this chapter, I argue that the reorganization had crucial consequences for the examinations made by the committee, and consequently for traditional parliamentary accountability. Three overall questions are addressed in this chapter. How is parliamentary accountability towards the executive (the government) affected when cases are being delegated downwards to the administration? How do the participants involved in the process discuss these potential effects? What values are at stake and discussed by the participants? The empirical material that this study draws upon consists of all the examinations of the policy field made by the Committee on the Constitution between 1990 and 2000. Because the material is extensive, typical cases have been chosen to illustrate certain essential problems. The following section presents a short account of the rules and regulations in the field and the organization. An analysis follows: first the period up to 1996, then the proposed reorganization and the discussion connected to it. The essential bodies to which the proposal was referred for consideration were also affected by the proposal; their comments on the proposal clarify their interests, their view on the division of responsibility, and what values are being defended by which actors. A third empirical section contains the examinations made by the committee after the reorganization and up to 2003.

THE REGULATION: MORE BUT SOFTER RULES Swedish military export policy rests on a general prohibition against the export of military equipment. Opinions differ, however, on whether or not

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Sweden still practices such prohibition. Swedish law states that exceptions to a general prohibition on military equipment can be made only ‘for security policy or defence policy reasons and provided that it does not conflict with Sweden’s foreign policy’ (Law on military equipment: 1§). Thus there is a potential conflict between Swedish foreign policy on one hand and the security and defence policies on the other. When the security and defence policies are considered, the value of export in order to secure a domestic need for military equipment is emphasized. When considering foreign policy, however, the emphasis is on the protection of human rights. The government must deal with this conflict, and tensions between the two goals have been manifested on several occasions in examinations by the Committee on the Constitution. The law has been conceived as general in character. There are, however, some clarifications of the law in specific guidelines for the policy field, and the formulation of the guidelines has since been perceived as being difficult to grasp (SOU, 2005). There is a distinction made in the guidelines between conditional and unconditional obstacles to exporting. The unconditional obstacles consist of international agreements, decisions made by the Security Council of the United Nations and rules of public international law regarding prohibition against export from a neutral state in wartime. If any of these circumstances prevail, Sweden is not allowed to export. There is also an absolute prohibition against certain kinds of weapons. Chemical weapons and antipersonnel mines are prohibited, for example, and each prospective recipient state is rigorously scrutinized. Conditional obstacles to export are specified in the guidelines – the recommendations that certain circumstances should be considered when judging a state to be a suitable recipient of Swedish military equipment. Within these guidelines, an unsuitable state would be one that exhibits extensive and gross violation of human rights, internal armed disturbances, armed conflict with another state, or involvement in international conflict that may be considered to lead to armed conflict. Hence, it is primarily in situations in which conditional obstacles arise that the government – and, after 1996, the independent authority – are required to make decisions in which value conflicts may appear. It has been noted that the guidelines are vague and that ‘every word has been weighed’ in an attempt to ‘reflect the resolution to regulate while simultaneously securing the Swedish supply of military equipment’ (SOU, 2005). There is also some confusion about whether or not the guidelines are strict regulations that must be followed or if they are softer, approximate norms: ‘[T]he general character of the guidelines’ formulations may give rise to different views on the application. The guidelines are written in general terms and are therefore difficult to interpret’ (KU30, 1996/97). The general character of the law, it has been emphasized, can justify the government involving itself in every case. It has been seen as crucial that the government make the intentions of the law concrete and direct the development

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of practice by making decisions in all cases. Because a change in practice may have severe consequences for Sweden’s foreign and security policies, a distinct political responsibility has been considered critical (SOU, 2005, p. 201, p. 210–211). Since the beginning of the 1990s, the rules and regulations in this field have become more complex. The rules have increased in number as well, primarily because of a more extensive international regulation of the domain (SOU, 2005, p. 9). These changes do not necessarily imply stricter regulations, however; the international guidelines are mainly recommendations. There is a reluctance to relinquish power to an international body, because the area affects national security and sovereignty of the state (SOU, 2005).

THE ORGANIZATION: A COMPLEX STRUCTURE The organization of this policy field is relatively complex. Until 1996 a Swedish company wishing to export matériel classified as military equipment was required to submit an application to KMI, which constituted a ministry unit of the trade division of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. The process often involved other ministries in the government offices. The case was prepared by KMI and led by a war matériel inspector; and at the end of the drafting process, an advisory committee tied directly to KMI was called into the process. This advisory committee – formed until 1996 by parliamentarians from the Social Democratic Party, the Moderate Party, the Centre Party and the Liberal Party – then made a statement, which was sent to the government for the final decision. The Advisory Council on Foreign Affairs was usually contacted as well before the government made the decision. This was the structure of the formal procedure. In order to maintain continuity and homogeneity in Sweden’s foreign, defence and security policy, there has been a goal of consensus across party borders and bloc borders. If one of the members of the parliamentarycomposed council rejected a case, the government – almost without exception – rejected the company’s export application. That was the way in which the informal decision-making process worked until 1996. When the composition of the council changed at the 1996 reorganization, however, the possibility of attaining consensus changed as well.

SCRUTINY OF EXPORT OF MILITARY EQUIPMENT 1990–1996 To study cases of the export of military equipment after the fact is complicated,

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partly because of the involvement of a large number of actors, making it difficult to identify who did what, who knew what, and who was responsible for what. Another complication relates to difficulties in discerning the distinct beginning of single cases, the roots of which go back in history and involve several governments. One case of this type, with deep roots back to the 1960s, was scrutinized in 1990. The then-state-owned company, Förenade Fabriksverken (FFV), had sold the recoilless anti-tank rifle system, Carl Gustaf, to Great Britain, and the system had then been illegally exported to a large number of other countries. The report on which the committee’s scrutiny was based stated that both the government and KMI had been aware of this illegal second-hand export. Although the committee criticized KMI for ‘insufficient vigilance and suspiciousness’ and for its knowledge about this secondhand export, and although the inspector admitted knowledge of the situation, it was difficult to prove that the governments had been aware of the irregularities. The committee expressed, however, that ‘the governments should have suspected at an earlier stage that something was wrong’ (KU30, 1990/91). By using the plural, “governments”, the committee made it clear that the criticism was aimed not only at the present Swedish government. Because export of the recoilless anti-tank rifle system began in the early 1960s, ‘Declaration by End User’ legislation had yet to be developed. It was not until 1983 that the legislation included the notion that the recipient country guarantees that the exported military equipment would not be re-exported to another country. Thus it is uncertain if the 1963 export was illegal according to Swedish law at that time. FFV has continued to export military equipment since 1963. It remains unclear if succeeding governments have been aware of this continuous export, and whether or not equipment has been re-exported. Availability of information and managing conflicting targets In 1995 the committee scrutinized a case illustrating another complex problem that frequently appeared up until 1996. The case emphasized dilemmas that arise when handling conflicting targets of the laws as well as the perceived need by the government to reach a decision quickly in a competitive situation. To provide some background, in February 1994 an inquiry was made by the company Celsius Tech Systems about an export licence for a naval command and control system to Oman. The case was discussed in KMI’s advisory committee and the government’s general drafting committee. It was referred to the Advisory Council on Foreign Affairs2 and the Opposition was contacted informally. After these contacts had been made, Minister Ulf Dinkelspiel decided not to proceed with the case, and the company never received a definite answer. The company later raised the question anew, and in February 1995 KMI presented the case to the new minister, Mats Hellström. At the meeting of the government’s general drafting committee one month later, the government

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recommended that an export licence be granted. The government wanted to gain support for the decision in the Advisory Council on Foreign Affairs (the practice was to strive for consensus), but it turned out to be impossible to arrange a timely meeting with the council. And time was running short, as there was a risk that another country would obtain the order. Instead of a formal meeting with the Advisory Council on Foreign Affairs, therefore, the party leaders were contacted informally. All parties except the Liberals clearly supported the export to Oman. The Liberal Party was not prepared to support the affair because it could affect Sweden’s attitude towards export to areas in the Persian Gulf. The Liberal Party did not articulate a clear-cut “no”, however, but wanted to see the issue of exporting to the Persian Gulf and the Middle East subjected to wide public debate. In October 1995, the government made the final decision that implied the granting of an export licence, thereby violating the practice of consensus. At this time, the political situation in Oman was unstable. During the summer and autumn of 1994, there were mass arrests of fundamentalist Islamists, who, according to the Omani regime, had been engaged in subversive activities. An Amnesty report stated that the arrested people had been distributing leaflets, criticizing the regime for arranging a conference in which Israel participated. Both Amnesty International and the US State Department issued a report in February 1995, stating that ‘it could be questioned whether the arrests were arbitrary and the trials fair’ (KU30, 1994/95). According to the US report, the arrested people were exposed to ‘physical assault’ and 131 of the arrested persons were put on trial in the state security court. The report alleged that two of those arrested were sentenced to death, and the rest were sentenced to 3 to 15 years’ imprisonment, although the death sentences were later converted to lengthy prison terms. On the one hand, KMI emphasized the fact that the government shared the judgement of the situation in the Gulf States previously made by the Committee on Foreign Affairs. The committee considered the human rights situation to be ‘giving rise to significant concern’, and that it was assumed that the government ‘had attached great importance to this fact in the case of a new application for the export of military equipment’. On the other hand, KMI did not consider the events in Oman to be serious violations of human rights; rather it saw them as separate events. The arrests in Oman were not mentioned in the memorandum that KMI used as a basis for the government’s general drafting. Instead, KMI emphatically emphasized what the authority considered to be the strong reasons of the defence industry and the nature of the defence policy in favour of granting an export licence to send military equipment to Oman. Hence, the government – and, in particular, the minister responsible, Mats Hellström – was not informed of the arrests in Oman. In the material he received on human rights, ‘Oman was one of few countries to which Amnesty

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had nothing to object, that there were no internal armed disturbances, and that there had been an Islamic conspiracy in 1994 that had been solved quickly by the police’. The Amnesty report used to produce this material was an evaluation of the situation in 1993 – the year before the arrests – and there were no references to the US State Department report. Consequently this missing information was never mentioned in the minister’s presentation of reports to the Advisory Council on Foreign Affairs, nor to the government’s meetings. Hellström later stated that he did not believe this information would have changed the government’s decision. As he explained, there was a clash of the two principles: The first principle was that we should not export military equipment to countries in the Gulf area. The other principle was that an interruption of the previous export to Oman would imply an essential setback concerning defence policy points of departure. It would have negative effects on Swedish defence interests. (KU30, 1995/96)3

The first principle referred to in this statement addressed Sweden’s foreign policy and the second addressed its security policy. And in this case, the judgement was that the security policy aspect was more important than the foreign policy. Hellström shared this view with Minister for Co-ordination Jan Nygren, who had been responsible for the negotiation contacts while Hellström was abroad. Nygren considered the arrests to be ‘an evident violation of the human rights’ (KU30, 1995/96), but this fact was not considered to be sufficient for rejection; occasional human rights violations could be overlooked if the long-term tendency was positive. In the interest of reaching consensus across bloc borders and party borders, Hellström admitted that the Liberal Party had been hesitant about military exports to Oman, but argued that they had not explicitly rejected the idea. In the conclusion, the committee explained that the government was assumed to have followed the guidelines. A problem in this situation, however, was how to judge occasional violations of human rights versus a long-term “positive” tendency. The committee concluded that in light of the importance attached to the HR issue when it comes to export of military equipment, it has to be considered as remarkable that the minister responsible, Mats Hellström, . . . was not informed about the mass arrests in Oman in 1994, in time for the presentation of the case in the general drafting committee and the Advisory Council on Foreign Affairs. (KU30, 1995/96)

Responsibility without an end: Swedish rules in conflict with foreign rules Since the beginning of the 1990s, the prerequisites of the defence policy changed dramatically. The end of the Cold War was one of the most important

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change mechanisms, which resulted in reduced defence budgets (SOU, 2005). To meet decreased incomes from domestic demand, the Swedish defence industry has adopted the strategy of cooperating with defence industries abroad. This cooperation between Swedish and foreign actors creates the potential for conflict when Swedish law is at variance with the law of the collaborator. And conflict may create fewer opportunities on a national level to control and to demand accountability if mistakes have been made. In addition, the rules and regulations for export naturally differ between the states, Swedish law being considered stricter than that of most other countries (SOU, 2005, p. 109). In 1995 the committee examined a number of cases in which problems had arisen from the internationalization of the Swedish defence industry. One case of defence industry cooperation with a foreign company attracted more attention than others. The problem occurred when the parties were to agree on the countries that could be potential recipients of the products to be exported. The committee had objections to two of the countries, which Sweden had not previously approved as appropriate recipients. The government of the collaborating country ‘refused to accept such a restriction’, and Sweden’s Advisory Council on Foreign Affairs finally approved the proposed list. The committee attached great importance to the fact that the process preceding the Swedish decision had been impeccable, explicable and reconstructable; that the documentation was plain and explicit; and that the contacts between the Swedish government, KMI, the foreign government, and the companies in the two receiving countries had also been explicable. But the committee finally established that: Throughout the scrutiny, it has appeared that in some situations a foreign collaborator’s business code conflicts with the Swedish rules of approval for individual countries . . . [I]t has been possible to prove that the Swedish position towards the list of potential recipients of second-hand export has been forced to give way, implying that export may occur through the collaborator country into countries that would not be approved for direct export from Sweden. (KU30, 1995/96)

The conclusion, therefore, was that the process was handled impeccably, but that the outcome of the process resulted in a violation of Swedish rules and regulations.

A RADICAL REFORM On several occasions during this period, the committee had explained that the situation required an overhaul of the organization and control of exports. This goal was indeed accomplished in the form of a government bill presented by

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the Social Democratic Party’s government in 1995. It implied changes regarding responsibility, accountability, parliamentary control and influence, control of development of practice, and the previously established principle of consensus. Briefly, the government bill implied that scrutiny of cases concerning military equipment would be transferred to a new authority, which was later called the Swedish Inspectorate of Strategic Products (ISP). It was suggested that ISP would be a separate authority and not, like KMI, an organizational part of the government offices. The reason given for this delegation of responsibility was that pressure on the government needed to be relieved. A more fundamental discussion of the meaning of this delegation for political responsibility never occurred. Referral discussion: a proposal in the interest of trade and industry? A working group within the government offices formulated a proposal for a changed organization and distribution of responsibility. When the proposal was circulated for consideration, two groups of actors crystallized, defending partly conflicting interests and values. On the one hand were organizations representing trade and industry that mainly supported the proposal; on the other hand was a group principally comprising state authorities and the Swedish Peace and Arbitration Society (SPAS), which was considerably more sceptical. SPAS stated that export of military equipment shall be a political responsibility. Around the world people are being killed by military equipment manufactured in Sweden. The politicians shall not be able to refer this responsibility to an authority in which the director cannot be removed in general elections . . . [SPAS] therefore rejects the proposal of establishing a new authority that is going to make decisions on a large part of the Swedish export . . . (Prop 1995/96: 31, p. 56)

Like SPAS, the Chancellor of Justice also commented on the discussion about responsibility, but was more elaborate in his reasoning and not as unambiguously negative to the idea as SPAS. The chancellor assumed that the new authority would make decisions about less important cases of ‘a routine character’, and that the government would handle the cases that were more difficult to judge. But the chancellor still believed that the existing rules and regulations – mainly intact in the working group’s proposal – were insufficient for delegation of responsibility to an authority level. According to the chancellor, the government’s decisions were not ‘tied by norms in a commonly accepted meaning’, but could ‘be referred to the governing power executed by the government under constitutional responsibility’ (UD (1995) No 76087). It would not be possible, however, to keep such an order in the case of delegation of responsibility: ‘KMI is not a political instance but a public administrative authority intended for application of the law. It is therefore necessary to

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introduce material rules into the laws on military equipment . . . that establish the norms for KMI’s examinations’. The referral bodies, comprising representatives of trade and industry, had a supportive attitude towards the proposal to delegate decision making to a new authority. These bodies believed that the existing rules and regulations were far too complicated. The Federation of Swedish Industry stated that It is . . . necessary to question the existence and the function of the rules constantly in order to . . . secure the fundamental principle of free trade. The Swedish export rules have to be applied from the point of departure that competitive disadvantages for Swedish companies should not be created . . . Sweden should work for deregulation and simplification of the export control. (UD (1995) No 57860)

The government did not account for the views of either the Chancellor of Justice or the Federation of Swedish Industry in this respect. The rules and regulations were kept intact. Ten years later, in 2005, a report proposed an amendment in which the interests of trade and industry would be considered in cases concerning the export of military equipment. The working group that formulated the proposed reorganization had also suggested that the Swedish National Board of Trade rather than the new authority should handle some types of military equipment: matériel categorized as having dual-use (matériel that may be used in civilian life but also as components in weapons of mass destruction). On the whole, the referral bodies from trade and industry supported this position. The Swedish National Board of Trade was considered competent to work for the interests of trade and industry in a more clear-cut way. Finally, as it happened, ISP handled all cases. Many of the trade and industry organizations raised objections to the name proposed for the new authority – the working group had kept the previous name – Krigsmaterielinspektionen (KMI; War Matériel Inspectorate). The Stockholm Chamber of Commerce believed that it could entail competitive disadvantages for Swedish enterprises (UD (1995) No 57793). This objection was considered, and the name of the new authority was changed to the Swedish Inspectorate of Strategic Products (ISP). As for the rest of the working group’s proposal, its formulations were retained primarily in the government bill presented to the parliament in 1996, when the parliament also passed the resolution. An abandoned model and a surrendered responsibility? By introducing the new organization, Sweden abandoned a model of responsibility that was commonly used in other states. The most common model has the Ministry of Defence; the Ministry of Trade; or the Ministry of Enterprise, Energy and Communications preparing the export applications, and individual ministers, groups of ministers or the government collectively deciding upon the most important cases.

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During the years following 1996, the activities under ISP’s responsibility had transformed from ‘pure licence appeal to including participation in international negotiations’ (Dir. 2003 No 80). The new authority and the new delegation of responsibility prevented the government from influencing the decisions in individual cases, as this ‘would imply ministerial rule and be inconsistent with the Swedish constitution’ (SOU, 2005). One way for the government to maintain the comprehensive responsibility and control of the development of practice was to outline conditions for the delegation of responsibility to ISP. The authority was expected to relinquish ‘cases of essential meaning or certain importance’ to the government (Prop. 1995/96: 31). A more specific definition of the formulation “essential meaning” was never made. Following an investigation, it was learned that 15 cases of this type were handed over to the government by ISP between 1996 and 2004. Only six of these cases were directly related to export affairs. During this period, ISP examined 9813 cases, which means that the 15 cases constituted 1.5 per thousand cases. Given the small number of cases, it is difficult to perceive the government as still being in control of the development of practice.

AFTER THE REORGANIZATION, FINALIZED RESPONSIBILITY – LESS INFLUENCE? The new order implied fewer possibilities for the parliament to gain insight into and to have influence over these issues. The government had previously contacted the Advisory Council on Foreign Affairs in all important cases. It was the practice to try to reach consensus; if one party objected, it usually meant that no licence would be granted. Because few cases were now handled by the government, the Advisory Council on Foreign Affairs was rarely contacted. Moreover, there was an extension of parliamentary representation in the advisory committee – now called Export Control Council (ECC). This new way of organizing the advisory committee could be interpreted as a way of enforcing legitimacy in the policy field and the democratic influence, but in practice it had the opposite result. It affected both the council’s influence and its importance in the decision-making process. Finally the new organization had crucial consequences for the possibility of scrutinizing in a parliamentary way and claiming accountability. The reorganization was discussed in the committee on a few occasions. The first discussion concerned the appointment of members to the new parliamentaryextended ECC. Three new parties – the Green Party, the Left Party and the Christian Democrats – were to propose candidates, and all parties nominated nonparliamentarians. State Secretary Gunnar Lund required that the parties

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propose new candidates on the grounds that it was a long-established practice for members to be parliamentarians or ex-parliamentarians. The Christian Democrats and the Left Party did so, but the Green Party insisted on keeping its nominated candidate: Henrik Westander, a researcher who studied the export of military equipment. As an argument against the nomination of Henrik Westander, the minister responsible, Jan Nygren, claimed that Westander ‘by his affiliation to the Swedish Peace and Arbitration Society [SPAS] represented . . . a special interest, not in the way that the peace would be a special interest, but that SPAS constitutes such an interest’ (KU30, 1995/96). In spite of Nygren’s claim, the Green Party did not replace its candidate, and as the government did not approve of its failure to switch candidates, the Green Party had no representation in the council during the first period after the reorganization of the authority. The committee established that the government had acted in a ‘formally correct’ (KU30, 1995/96) manner, and that it was within the government’s power to decide what members to accept for a function. Yet the committee pointed out that the government ‘is expected to avoid a standardization of the composition of a board or a council’. Consensus – an abandoned practice? In 1998 – two years after the reorganization – a discussion about the consequences of a parliamentary-extended ECC was raised in the committee. The driving force was a member of the political party that had recently gained representation in the council: the Green Party’s Per Lager. He posed the question of whether or not the government had abandoned the principle of party political consensus on issues concerning Swedish export. Minister of Trade Leif Pagrotsky claimed that the government sought political consensus, but that it was not – or had not been – an ‘absolute requirement’. Pagrotsky found no support for the statement that there had been a change over time. The committee admitted this fact, and established that the interpretation must still be that a stable practice prevailed. It should be noted, however, that this judgement of stable practice was based on the cases handed over to the government by ECC (the committee had no opportunity to scrutinize the other cases after the reorganization) – and that these cases were only 12 of nearly 10,000. It was later confirmed, however, that the idea of maintaining consensus had been abandoned and that ‘the transition from the principle of consensus to advisory was a measure taken in light of the council’s expansion’ (SOU, 2005, p. 213). The inclusion of critical voices in the advisory committee not only changed the principle of consensus, but also reduced the importance of the committee in the decision-making process. Regardless of what was intended with the practice of unanimity across party borders, the ambition of reaching consensus played another important

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role: to maintain secrecy in ECC. Just like the authority as a whole, members of ECC were bound to secrecy. After the parliamentary expansion of the council, however, a leak was discovered in ECC. Examined cases after the reorganization and the government’s responsibility The character of the examinations changed after 1996. By moving the policy field from the government offices to an authority, only a small number of cases could be scrutinized by the Committee on the Constitution. The task of the committee is indeed to scrutinize the government’s handling of cases and the ministers’ exercise of their official duties, and as ISP was not part of the government offices organizationally, its activities fell outside the mandate of the committee. Illustrative of the changes is an export to India from the Swedish company, Bofors, through the Swedish company, Mipro, which was approved by the war matériel inspectorate. In 1989 India had launched an embargo against Bofors, because Bofors had previously “won” an extensive order to India through bribery. Bofors had circumvented the embargo by using Mipro. When the case was reported, there were questions about Minister of Trade Leif Pagrotsky’s knowledge that the matériel was manufactured by Bofors, which would violate the Indian embargo. Pagrotsky claimed that he had no such knowledge, and was even unaware that ISP had granted an export licence. Thus the Export Control Council had not handed this case over to the government. Because the information from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was classified, the committee could not proceed with the case, but established that Minister Pagrotsky could not be blamed. In 2000, the question of NATO’s use of Swedish weapons in the Yugoslavian conflict was introduced for discussion. Why did Sweden not consider withdrawing the licences granted to NATO countries – in this case the USA – when Swedish weapons were being used in a conflict that Sweden expressly opposed? Pagrotsky responded that ‘foreign policy interests and defence policy interests collided and had to be weighed against each other’. In addition, the issue had not been considered important for ISP; it had neither been moved from ISP to the government nor prepared in advance in consultation with ECC. To disclaim responsibility – the example of export during conflict In the last decade, the Swedish export of military equipment to Great Britain and the USA during the Iraq conflict has attracted a great deal of attention. The director general of ISP discussed this matter in the authority’s 2003 annual report:

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[T]he most difficult issue during the year was how to handle the export of military equipment to the USA and Great Britain in connection with the war in Iraq. On the one hand, there is a strong defence policy and security policy interest in a cooperation with respect to military equipment with these countries; on the other hand, Sweden took exception to the Iraq attack because of the lack of a clear mandate from the Security Council. After careful consideration . . . and in the light of statements made by the government, it was established that in an overall picture the long-term Swedish defence policy and security policy considerations were important enough to give cause for the export . . . to the USA and Great Britain to continue to be handled in the usual way. (ISP 2003, annual report, p. 1)

When the minister responsible, Gunnar Lund, was asked about exports to Iraq, he confirmed that ISP had not left the case to the government and ‘when that is not done, the decision is not a matter for the government’. It was established, therefore, that a significant change of responsibility for the export occurred through the 1996 reorganization. This shifting of responsibility downwards has not stopped, however. The government’s latest report to parliament on export control stated that responsibility is pushed outwards to the defence industry, in order to check its customers and the way in which the foreign customers intended to use the products. The task of ISP is described as being ‘to guide the companies’ quality processes – ISO 9000 – and to monitor their control processes during inspection visits’ (Government Report, 2007/2008: 114, p. 81). The role of ISP, therefore, is to support the companies’ internal control and to ‘make guideline decisions, to grant broad licences with frameworks for the activity, and to provide training, information and support to those responsible for export control at the companies’ (Government Report, 2007/2008: 114, p. 81). It is being emphasized more frequently that the companies should work with internal export control, and that it is their responsibility to stop a planned delivery ‘if they notice that a planned delivery deviates from the normal pattern in one or another way’ (ibid.). The companies find themselves in a potentially conflicting situation: they are bound to control themselves and their customers, and commercial or profit interests collide with foreign policy requirements. In other words, it is partly the companies’ task to assume responsibility for Swedish foreign and security policy.

CONCLUDING DISCUSSION Two basic questions are raised in this chapter. In what ways is parliamentary accountability towards the government affected when issues are being delegated downwards in the public administration? How do the participants involved in discussions over this reorganization raise concerns about conflicting values? It

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can be concluded that before 1996 – when the reorganization occurred – parliament often criticized the government and individual ministers, and ministers could not easily escape their criticism. Before the reform, parliament had the opportunity to criticize ministers directly in a relatively harsh way. At the same time this chapter demonstrates that the government and the ministers apply four strategies in order to escape that criticism. a) An overall strategy was to make the opposition share the blame through the idea of consensus, which was manifested organizationally in the parliamentary-comprised advisory committee. Because the opposition was also involved in making the critical decisions, its opportunities to criticize the government decreased. b) Another strategy was to refer to historical ties (as in the case of the recoilless anti-tank rifle system, Carl Gustaf). c) The government referred to the question of balance between security policy and foreign policy, as in the Oman case. The calculation behind this balancing act is delicate and difficult to articulate – a fact that benefited the government. d) The government used the strategy to create a difference between process and outcome, claiming to have followed the Swedish procedural rules. The fact that the outcome was not intended was beyond the government’s direct control, it was claimed, as it was the result of complicated ownership relationships affected by foreign regulations. Parliament’s criticism of the government has been less severe since 1996. After the organizational change, decisions are made by ISP, making it more difficult to hold the ministers accountable for decisions. The statements made by the committee are not as harsh, and the committee is often forced to retreat by declaring that the minister cannot be blamed for having made any mistake. The government and the ministers use new strategies for escaping criticism. The overall strategy is now to keep away from the questions as much as possible. The ministers argue that the cases are in the hands of an independent authority and therefore beyond their control. The committee no longer considers it to be “remarkable” that the government has not kept itself informed about individual questions, and the committee seems to be satisfied with the ministers’ assertion that ISP has not handed the cases over to the government. The possibility of handing over important cases to the government probably implies that ISP is specifically attentive to the government’s and the ministers’ statements and interchanges in informal conversations. In that way, the government has maintained influence, but has escaped responsibility. As a second strategy, the government has also made the Opposition take an even larger share of the responsibility by expanding parliamentary influence through the new Export Control Council. Yet the broadened joint responsibility is illusory, partly because fewer cases reach ECC and partly because the idea of consensus has lost its former status. Reorganization of the policy field was highly significant politically, and

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there are contradictory interests advocating opposite organizational solutions. Those who argued to maintain the established model – mainly members of the peace movement, but also the Chancellor of Justice and the parties that are critical of exporting military equipment – may be considered advocates of maintaining responsibility at a central political level. On the other side was the defence industry, the Confederation of Swedish Enterprise that defended the idea that the Swedish industry should be provided with the best opportunities possible to compete on the international market. The representatives of trade and industry were also arguing for softer regulation and for deregulation. In the long run, the actors that were critical of exporting military equipment were the biggest losers in the battle over the organization and the regulation. Some proposals presented by the defence industry were met with sympathy: the new name (a proposal with little practical but large symbolic significance) and the fact that the regulation did not become stricter. The latest report on the control of military equipment contains a proposal of another criterion apart from the recognized foreign, security and defence policy criteria for granting licences – namely an economic policy criterion. In the cases discussed in this chapter, commercial interests have generally had a greater impact than foreign policy interests have. In other words, a change in the law could be seen as a manifestation of an established order. The delegation of responsibility downwards or outwards has continued in the policy field. The defence industry now has great responsibility for the control of buyers, and the government recommended that the defence industry follow ISO 9000 standards in doing so. Thus responsibility is referred downwards, whereas rules and regulations are developing in the direction of increased use of standards. One could say that there is a responsibility vacuum – that the state does not want to leave it to organizations like the EU to form compelling laws, yet the state relinquishes the regulation and, to some extent, the control.

NOTES 1

2

3

The Committee on the Constitution cannot possibly apply sanctions against an individual minister or against the government as a whole. The committee’s examinations can be followed up by parliament, however, and can lead to a declaration of no confidence. The Advisory Council on Foreign Affairs (Utrikesnämnden) is a body for consultation between the Swedish government and the Swedish parliament. The Advisory Council on Foreign Affairs is not to be confused with the Committee on Foreign Affairs (Utrikesutskottet), which is the parliament’s body for preparing matters of foreign affairs. The English translation of all quotes from Swedish documents are the author’s own.

4. The use of democratic values in the ISO 26000 process on social responsibility Kristina Tamm Hallström This chapter presents an analysis of the discussion of democratic values in a standard-setting process in the area of social responsibility. The International Organization for Standardization (ISO), a private organization founded in 1947 and comprising various national standards bodies, hosted this process during the period 2005–10. The purpose of ISO is to contribute to economic harmonization through the development of international standards in a wide range of technical fields such as agriculture, construction, mechanical engineering, manufacturing and distribution, transport, medical devices and the latest information and communication technology developments (ISO in brief, 2006). Among ISO’s new growth areas were the environment, service sectors, security and good managerial and organizational practice through standards like the suite of quality management system standards (ISO 9000) and the equivalent suite of environmental management standards (ISO 14000). In 2005 ISO started a new working group in a new field of standardization, and it soon became the largest standard-setting group of ISO. The focus in this chapter is on the work of this group – the ISO 26000 committee – tasked to draft the ISO 26000 standard on Social Responsibility (SR), or Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) as it is often known. This ISO initiative was welcomed by the United Nations (UN), which, a few years earlier, had pronounced support for private SR standardization initiatives, emphasizing the important role played by the private sector in contributing to sustainable development (AG report 2004). In the Plan of Implementation presented at the UN World Summit on Sustainable Development in Johannesburg in 2002, states were called to encourage industry to enhance social responsibility through voluntary initiatives. ISO standards and Global Reporting Initiative (GRI) guidelines on sustainability reporting were explicitly cited as examples of such initiatives (ibid.). An obvious perceived advantage of ISO was its international membership and well-known trademark, with a wide reach among corporations globally. A future ISO standard would have the potential of actually being used worldwide. 48

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There were stakeholders that did not welcome this initiative, however. A common perception of SR is that it includes human rights, environmental sustainability and the rights of labour. These areas, it was argued, are already covered by a number of intergovernmental organizations that issue rules developed in representative work structures – intergovernmental agreements that should ideally be translated into national legislation, for example. As ISO entered this field, several stakeholders expressed concern about the potential risk of the coming ISO standard crowding out existing norms and standards, and insisted that the parameters of the standard be made abundantly clear. They argued, moreover, that ISO 26000 should not become yet another management system standard. Other stakeholders argued that ISO’s experience with ISO 9000 and ISO 14000 actually rendered it the ideal standardsetter (Tamm Hallström 2006; Tamm Hallström and Boström 2010). Indeed, as Djelic and Sahlin-Andersson (2006) have argued, there has been a growth of and competition among codes and standards published by quasi-voluntary regulatory regimes, including regulatory constellations that transcend the state/nonstate divide. This situation, in turn, means that it can be difficult to obtain an overview of the myriad rules and how they are related. And there is no organization at the transnational level with the authority to issue global rules or delegate such rule-making authority to specific organizations, authority that would include specifications of exact standards desired. Rather, each standard-setter must struggle for its own authority. In the case investigated, ISO dealt with criticism of the position of the coming ISO standard relative to intergovernmental standards by negotiating and signing a memorandum of understanding with two organizations: the International Labour Organization (ILO) and the UN Global Compact. Through this memorandum, these organizations obtained a special status in the standard-setting process – a guaranteed position in all-important decisionmaking fora and veto power on certain issues, for example (for an elaborate discussion of the contents and impact of such memoranda, see Tamm Hallström and Boström 2010). In this way at least these two organizations could protect their own positions in a norm hierarchy. There were other related concerns that caused debate, one major issue being the legitimacy of ISO. Standard setters like ISO enjoyed strong authority in technical areas, based on a principle of rationality and expertise (Schmidt & Werle 1998, Loya & Boli 1999) and principles of inclusiveness and representativeness (Tamm Hallström 2004, 2006, Boström 2006, Higgins & Tamm Hallström 2007). These principles rendered organizations such as ISO authoritative. As ISO entered the SR field, however, several stakeholders seriously questioned its legitimacy, and ISO responded by changing the organization and work procedures. For this standard-setting activity, it created a multi-stakeholder organization with a balanced representation of a fixed set of

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stakeholder categories. In a resolution taken at the first international work meeting of the ISO 26000 working group, it was noted, moreover, that: ‘there will be no voting in the WG [working group] or in any of its subsidiary bodies. All decisions will be made on the basis of consensus’ (ISO/TMB/WG SR N16, 2005, p. 6). According to ISO’s work directives, consensus is defined in the following way: Consensus: general agreement, characterized by the absence of sustained opposition to substantial issues by any important part of the concerned interests and by a process that involves seeking to take into account the views of all parties concerned and to reconcile any conflicting arguments. NOTE: Consensus need not imply unanimity. (ISO/IEC 2008)

The change process that followed these decisions gave rise to several debates over various democratic values. The question discussed in this chapter is: how and why were democratic values used in the ISO 26000 process? In short, the process, beginning in 2002 when ISO formally initiated discussion about the possibilities of entering this new field and lasting to the time of publication in 2010, can be illustrated chronologically (see Table 4.1). The analysis builds on a study of the process that occurred between 2004 and 2007. The empirical material consisted of more than 40 interviews with participants from many countries and various stakeholder categories; documents and reports from the ISO work process (e.g. issues papers, the design specification, the first and second working draft of the standard and comments on these documents); direct observations of meetings of the Swedish mirror group that follows and works in parallel to the international work process; and observations of the committee’s third and fifth international work meetings, which took place in Portugal in May 2006 and Austria in November 2007. This introduction is followed by the ISO case, the analysis of which is structured according to three democratic values that appeared in the debates. An organizational framework is used in the concluding section as a basis for discussing the actors involved and the possible motives and strategies that influence the work, including their use of arguments about democratic values.

DEMOCRATIC VALUES IN THE ISO CASE The discussions in this section occurred at various stages of the ISO process. The discussions concerned democratic values such as balanced stakeholder representation, effective participation and transparency. Intermingled with discussions on these issues is the question of who participates on what terms, representing what or whom. Thus the consequences of the various predefined

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Table 4.1 Selection of work activities of the ISO 26000 process during the period 2002–10 Year

Activity

2002

Publication of the ISO Committee on Consumer Policy Report: ‘CSR standardization is both feasible and desirable from a consumer perspective’. The UN World Summit in support of ISO.

2003–2004*

ISO investigative (advisory) group tasked to explore further the possibility of an ISO standard on CSR/SR: ‘Should ISO decide to enter the SR field it must change to more democratic work procedures’. ISO Technical Management Board decision to start drafting ISO 26000. Creation of a multi-stakeholder organization for the ISO 26000 process. Consensus as decision-making principle.

2005

1st international work meeting in Salvador; 2nd international work meeting in Bangkok. Design specification drafted to guide the standard-setting work. Mainly procedural issues debated and decided upon.

2006

1st ISO 26000 working draft published; 3rd international work meeting in Lisbon; 2nd ISO 26000 working draft published.

2007

4th international work meeting in Sydney; 3rd ISO 26000 working draft published; 5th international work meeting in Vienna.

2008

4th and final ISO 26000 working draft; 6th international work meeting in Santiago; decision to transform revised working draft into committee draft (stakeholder/expert consensus work replaced by national voting).

2010

Anticipated publication of the ISO 26000 standard.

Note:

*

Period analysed in this chapter: 2004–2007.

actor categories were constantly negotiated during the process. Six actor categories were predefined during the process (see Table 4.2). Debates over the various stakeholder categories and the different statuses attributed to participants when they were labelled by a particular category are elaborated upon in the next subsection.

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Table 4.2 Actor categories used to classify participants of the ISO 26000 process Experts

Participants invited to participate in the ISO 26000 process on a voluntary basis to discuss and write the ISO 26000 standard.* Maximum 6 experts per member country, and maximum 2 experts per liaison member allowed at the international level.

Observers

Participants invited to participate in the ISO 26000 process on a voluntary basis; not allowed to take an active part (make statements) in the consensus-making process, however. Maximum 6 observers per member country and maximum 2 observers per liaison member allowed at the international level.

Stakeholders (national)

Additional classification used for all experts and observers originating from specific countries and nominated through one of ISO’s national member bodies. Classification linked to belonging to 1 of the 6 fixed stakeholder categories (2 representatives of each stakeholder category and country – 1 expert and 1 observer – allowed at the international level.

Liaison members (international)

Specific classification used for experts and observers originating from international organizations and other ISO committees.

Administrative

Officers of ISO and its members (national standards bodies) having similar status as observers. One administrative staff allowed from each member country.

ISO 26000 secretariate

Chairman, co-chairman, secretary and co-secretary. Administration only, neutral position.

Note: * There were generally about 400 people present at international work meetings, a majority being experts.

Balanced stakeholder representation As the standards development phase was beginning in 2005, ISO categorized participants using six fixed stakeholder groups: labour, nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), government, consumer, industry and SSRO (Service, Support, Research, and Others). All these stakeholder categories were linked

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to national representation. The process was also open to stakeholders with no single national connection, and they were accepted as so-called liaison members. There were a few other ISO committees among the liaison members, but liaison members were primarily international organizations such as ILO and the UN Global Compact.1 These two liaison members were mentioned earlier as both of them managed to negotiate a memorandum of understanding with ISO. The idea of having fixed stakeholder categories was new to ISO, which had a tradition of defining participants as both experts and country representatives. This time ISO decided to add a new dimension: participants also had membership in one of six stakeholder categories. There were problems in practice with this parallel work structure, however. According to critical voices, there was still a tendency within ISO to do business as usual, meaning that industry was by far the largest group, with the power to decide the outcome of this process. In order to demonstrate that the stakeholder structure was taken seriously, therefore, the ISO secretariate responsible for the ISO 26000 work launched a series of activities aimed at securing a multi-stakeholder approach. It started to schedule time at work meetings for stakeholder debate within each stakeholder category; it encouraged specific stakeholder comments; and it started to keep track of statistics on stakeholder representation in such situations as meetings, working groups, and secretariate and chairperson positions. Following these efforts, stakeholders increasingly supported and made statements about ISO’s progress with its multi-stakeholder work. As one representative of an intergovernmental organization said: I think the division into six stakeholder categories is very, very good. It’s a tremendous achievement, the biggest as of now. It’s fantastic – as ISO deals with it. Industry may have difficulty accepting this, but they’ll learn. There are those who dominate the process, and tremendous efforts are made for the educational process for all of us. People need to be dragged into the process, encouraged, pushed. (Interview with liaison member expert representing an intergovernmental organization in Lisbon, May 2006)

One consumer representative compared this standardization process with other ISO processes, arguing that all stakeholder groups are not equally interested in participating, even though ISO needs them all to maintain legitimacy: ‘Every other ISO process is self-limiting; that is, all people who win or lose are there, but this is the first time that ISO brings people who otherwise would not have come – labour, for example’ (interview with consumer representative in Lisbon, May 2006). Judging from this quote, stakeholders were willing to participate – more or less. Looking at the figures of representation in practice, it seems as if labour representatives were among those who were less engaged. At the third inter-

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national work meeting in Lisbon in May 2006, there were close to 370 people present: 315 experts and 52 observers. Among the 65 countries represented, there were 36 developing countries and 29 developed countries, together with 32 international organizations with liaison membership in the ISO 26000 committee. Thus the overall picture looked good at that point, but when the ISO secretariate examined the rates of participation of each stakeholder group, another picture evolved. The labour group was indeed weak, with its stakeholders representing about 5 per cent of the participants at each international work meeting. Consumer stakeholders comprised about 9 per cent; government stakeholders represented around 14 per cent; and NGOs about 15 per cent. In comparison, the industry stakeholders represented about 24 per cent and participants belonging to the SSRO group 35 per cent. A special task force worked intensely to develop appropriate procedural rules for the work. It was decided that the number of experts and observers from each country and stakeholder group participating at international work meetings would be restricted to a quota of two experts and two observers from each stakeholder category of a country – a maximum delegation of 12 people from each country. That ceiling set limits on financially stronger stakeholder groups, preventing them from sending more representatives than the poorer countries could afford to send. A maximum of two experts and two observers was allowed for liaison organizations. The specific problem of involving developing countries was also an issue of debate. At an early stage of the process, several stakeholders from member countries had expressed concerns about funding arrangements for the standard development process. It was believed in some developing countries that ISO’s encouragement of member bodies to seek autonomous funds from national governments and other organizations was not applicable in many poor countries. GRI also expressed concerns about ISO funding, particularly regarding nonprofit organizations. In its comment, GRI referred to its own, more responsible funding practice: As a multi-stakeholder organisation, the GRI has provided direct funding to such organisations to ensure balanced, equitable and expert contributions from the business, labour, NGO and academic communities in its own processes, from the outset of all processes. It considers that this is the proper responsibility of any organisation hosting a balanced multi-stakeholder process. (ISO/TMB/WG SR N8, 2005)

Similar comments were received from the CI – concern about financial obstacles to the participation of NGOs and developing countries. One year later, the problem of funding was still being debated, with no satisfactory solutions. NGO representatives were among those pushing hard for the inequity to be resolved, making reference to the work of the specific task group responsible for funding issues. In addition to funding problems leading to unbalanced

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representation, there were problems at the national level. The so-called national mirror committees that were following the international work from the perspective of their countries were not encouraging balanced representation, at least not sufficiently. As one labour representative said: The national standards bodies [members of ISO that appoint the experts participating at the international level] don’t really make an effort to get all stakeholder categories engaged, not least people representing labour. It has improved a little bit now since they’ve created the Trust Fund, but that’s really something that ISO should have thought of at the outset of the process. A person who joins now, halfway through the process, must be a damn strong person to get influence. It’s a learning process, not to mention the vocabulary used. (Interview with labour representative in April 2007)2

As indicated in the previous quote, the creation of the ISO SR Trust Fund as a mechanism for raising funds and providing them to under-resourced stakeholders was made in response to these concerns. Moreover, in 2007, ISO decided to work closely with the UN Global Compact and its networks to improve stakeholder participation in the national mirror committees. A number of times – usually in connection to international work meetings – workshops were arranged for developing countries only, in order to encourage and prepare participants to engage actively in the ISO 26000 process. Although stakeholders gave their support to the ISO process, and the ISO secretariate made efforts to overcome problems occurring along the way, after three years of drafting work there were still tensions related not only to the issue of balanced stakeholder representation, but also to the role of the actor categories established for this process. It was not clear, for example, how participants understood and interpreted the concept of “representatives” or the difference between “representatives” and “experts”. This concern was raised especially during interviews. On the one hand, most participants were classified as experts, but on the other hand, they were affiliated with a stakeholder category. Were they expected to act as individual, independent experts with knowledge in a specific technical field (in the traditional ISO way) or as representatives of one of the six stakeholder categories? One NGO representative expressed criticism of ISO’s way of prioritizing expert over stakeholder work: The concept of representatives . . . You take part in different task groups as a representative of a certain stakeholder group, but you don’t have a chance to consult with your own stakeholder group. Many people who are appointed by their own stakeholder group forget that they should seek support for their views from that group. In one of the groups where I’m active right now, I often ask for a break and say ‘We have to consult our stakeholder groups for this. Let’s take a break’. But you really have to wonder about the meaning of representatives. (Interview with NGO representative in April 2007)

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The interviewee was also concerned about stakeholder views being “silenced” at a time when national committees communicated their comments on various drafts, not least the third draft, which included a great deal of substance. The reason was that, as the process proceeded, national consensus comments were increasingly encouraged by the ISO secretariate. The interviewee believed that consensus was good as a decision-making principle. Aiming for consensus, however, could mean that some important issues or aspects disappeared in the process. The interviewee therefore encouraged the members of national committees to maintain contact with their respective stakeholder groups to see if there were any such points to protect and communicate as a written comment on the third working draft. This person reminded other participants that they should see themselves primarily as representatives of their stakeholder group and only secondly as independent experts. Effective participation Related to the question of balanced representation among stakeholder groups is the fact that lack of resources and necessary language skills meant that not everyone had the same opportunity to participate effectively. A labour representative present at an ISO conference held in 2004 described the situation of many people in his stakeholder group: ISO is an open organization, but if we count people from trade unions, there aren’t many. It’s difficult to find voluntary experts from trade unions for standardization work. There are two possibilities for unions: influence the process politically or influence through standardization. But in practice, there’s really only one possibility, as standardization is not possible, practically. And English as working language is also difficult. (Statement made at the Stockholm conference on SR in June 2004)

As the standards development work began, the discussion about language problems continued. In 2005, a Spanish Translation Task Force was established, as well as a group called Official French Language Experts, and the Arabic, Russian and German Translation Task Forces were added later. In 2007 the question of simultaneous translation was raised at a plenary meeting, but consensus was not reached on this proposal. An NGO representative was critical: I’ve tried to argue about the need for direct translations, but when you propose this, others claim that you’re stupid. It would be too costly, they argue. And within ISO, English is the norm. Within the UN, for example, there are direct translations into seven languages. And of course there’s a reason behind that. But I don’t think that the secretariate has handled the issue of language problems properly, even though they’re flexible in other ways with procedural issues. I think they haven’t thought everything through, and sometimes they avoid taking responsibility by making reference to the ISO directives. (Interview with NGO representative in April 2007)

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Linked to language problems was the lack of experience in standardization work and the appropriate vocabulary and strategies for effective participation. To overcome this problem, ISO made efforts to find educational solutions – the workshops for developing countries in connection to international work meetings, for example – to enable weaker stakeholders to participate effectively. It also introduced “twinning arrangements”, by which dual leadership positions were established with one representative of a developed country and one representative of a developing country – a system that was to be applied as much as possible in various working groups and task forces. In 2007, as the third draft of the standard was being shaped and the next work phase was approaching, several stakeholders were motivated to debate the issue of effective participation even more intensely, and the debate took a new turn. It concerned the abandonment of the new multi-stakeholder structure and the consensus principle used for decisions during the drafting process that was occurring within this multi-stakeholder arrangement. The stakeholder categories would not be abandoned, but the consensus principle at the international level was soon to be replaced by ISO’s usual national system for voting and final revisions in accordance with the old ISO directives. Several stakeholders did not approve; they thought that replacing consensus as defined by ISO with a regular voting system constituted a lack of democratic procedure. The national decision-making structure, according to these commentators, would be favourable to financially stronger parties, whereas the voices of weak stakeholder groups would disappear. As the time for the final draft of the standard approached, it was clear that it would become more and more difficult to implement changes, and the issue was perceived as being increasingly problematic. In response to these concerns, the secretariate tried to find ways to maintain stakeholder influence throughout the process. A labour representative who was interviewed for this study was positive about the announcement, as he did not think that a national decision-making structure was acceptable for this process. Yet the same interviewee was highly critical of the fact that procedural rules were changed during the process: Procedural issues are extremely important to us. We are not used to working without clear structures and fixed rules from the start. In this process, ISO has started a game and the rules of the game are altered during the course of work. This is very frustrating for us, both at the national and international levels, not least as social responsibility is considered to be a soft issue. The work structure of ISO is built for the standardization of technical issues, where the various stakeholders have little to say. In this case, however, it would have been better to set the rules of the game beforehand and let stakeholders influence the entire process [rather than have them adhere to national consensus]. Now we don’t know if the stakeholders can [maintain their autonomy and] be influential throughout the process or not. (Interview with labour representative in April 2007)

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The fact that the procedures in this ISO process could change during the course of events was actually part of the procedural requirements established at the outset of the process. The investigative group that explored the need for a new SR standard reached the conclusion that ISO should undertake standardization activities in the SR field only if the organization became more representative. By 2004 the ISO board had already developed some new procedures, and a special task force was established to develop more specific rules during the work process. Importantly all stakeholders would be allowed to be part of the process and everyone would be encouraged to participate effectively, both through membership in various task groups and through communication of written comments. One problem remained, however; several experts believed that it was not easy to participate effectively. It was not always clear, for example, how comments to drafting teams, whether written or communicated at work meetings, were actually dealt with by managers of various groups or by the secretariate. In 2006, a temporary Liaison Task Force (LTF) comprising representatives of all six stakeholder groups was formed to overcome problems of inconsistencies – to outline content, tone and level of detail across documents, for example – that occurred among the various task groups responsible for different parts of the draft. LTF suggested that every drafting team should have a person informally facilitating discussions; facilitating the compilation of text; managing the document versions; tracking comments, so that they all were traceable; reminding drafters to ask for English language assistance; proposing an appropriate and realistic drafting and review timeframe; encouraging discussion, negotiation and multiple iterations of the clause; being aware of the participation of stakeholder representatives; flagging any conflicting issues; and remaining neutral throughout the process (LTF Memo-11, 2007). These measures, proposed by the LTF, aimed at ensuring effective participation; but they also supported transparency, an issue that is discussed more thoroughly later in this chapter. Moreover, in late 2007, a decision was made to continue the drafting work longer than planned by developing a fourth draft of the standard within the multi-stakeholder structure, thus postponing the time of adopting the standard ISO procedures with national voting procedures. Yet another effort to improve effective stakeholder influence was made mid-2007, when the ISO secretariate proposed a refined definition of consensus – the principle of consensus being central to ISO’s decision-making structure. As mentioned previously, consensus in the context of ISO does not mean that everyone must agree – merely that there is general agreement and an absence of sustained opposition to substantial issues. The proposed change to this definition was to add the criterion that consensus was reached only if the minority opposing a proposed decision did not represent a majority of one of the six stakeholder groups. In this way, it was hoped that under-resourced

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stakeholders would be able to exert their influence effectively, as long as they managed to agree within their own stakeholder group. Transparency At the first international work meeting of the ISO 26000 committee in 2005, there was debate over making the process transparent and accessible to all relevant stakeholders. One suggestion that was realized shortly after the meeting was public access to the so-called “ISO Livelink area” on the ISO website, on which all internal working documents were posted – a site that was previously open only to registered experts. These efforts were not sufficient to make the process completely transparent, however. There were, for example, those who were inside the process as registered members, but who, for various reasons, did not hold important positions in crucial task forces and discussion groups of the ISO 26000 committee. A consumer representative from a developing country was interviewed in 2007. He spoke little English and attended his first international work meeting of the ISO 26000 committee as an observer. He made the following remark about insufficient transparency – especially for the non-English-speaking people taking part in the process: It’s only in English. It should be in French, English and Spanish – that is, the big languages. Documents summarizing what has happened every day should be distributed, and that’s not the case. Each day all discussion points for the following day should be announced. There should be a list of participants for each day, and the names of the conveners of various group meetings should be announced. It’s a question of information, transparency and historic record. (Interview with Frenchspeaking consumer representative from a developing country, Vienna 2007)

This consumer representative believed that the lack of documents summarizing the activities of each working day at international meetings compromised transparency. He also addressed the relationship between two democratic values – transparency and effective participation – asserting that transparency is a condition for effective participation. Yet another transparency issue that generated increasing tension during the course of events concerned media participation at international work meetings, as explained by an NGO representative. Industry has had a very hard line and used its veto power through sustained objections as a whole stakeholder category. Industry has tried to block the process in this way. What is emerging is that you do not have consensus about the media issue. It’s the first issue to move the question of transparency ahead. The openness towards media isn’t satisfactory to industry, just as it isn’t satisfactory to NGOs and consumers to have it closed rather than transparent. (Interview with NGO representative in Lisbon, May 2006)

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From this quote, we see that stakeholders of the NGO and consumer groups in particular, were in favour of opening the process to media and making it more transparent, and that the industry group was against media participation in principle. The tension over the media issue reached a peak at an international work meeting in Lisbon in 2006. One week prior to this meeting, the CI circulated a one-page press release with the heading ‘Consumer groups outraged as business lobby seeks to silence media on corporate social responsibility’. It contained statements about the inappropriateness of the ISO’s closed process, especially given that the issue of standardization was about social responsibility. The message of the press release continued with a statement about the coming Lisbon meeting. The report’s findings are a clear signal of the need for transparency in the social responsibility process. But if the creation of the ISO social responsibility standard itself is not transparent, industry will continue to hold transparency in poor regard. Transparency begins at home and the ISO must resist pressure from the business lobby and allow full media access to the debate on Social Responsibility in Lisbon. (Consumers International press release of 8 May 2006)

The following week, at the time of the Lisbon meeting, the CI invited media to come to the conference centre for a press release. The action did not succeed, however – at least not in the way it was planned – as the few journalists who showed up were thrown out by security guards. The following day, a number of consumer and NGO representatives were walking around the conference building with white T-shirts labelled LET THE PRESS IN, and on the reverse side: Access = Transparency. Consumers Seeking Responsibility. There were mixed feelings among the meeting participants about this initiative. An ILO representative commented on the CI action by pointing to the difficulties of enabling a frank dialogue while keeping the process completely open. The CI press release the other day wasn’t a very constructive action. We didn’t appreciate that. It mostly created a lot of distress, which isn’t needed in a multistakeholder work like this. You know, transparency has a purpose, but open and frank dialogues [among representatives] also have a purpose. There’s serious horse trading taking place, and you need to be able to speak frankly about your positions. This is what negotiations are all about! I would give primacy to that to get somewhere. You just have to decide when are the important moments for openness and when it’s important to close. (Interview with ILO representative/liaison member in Lisbon, May 2006)

One NGO representative I interviewed considered the level of transparency to be relatively acceptable.

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You can get the impression that the work isn’t transparent. There are a lot of discussions behind the curtains, so to speak, and people get a bad impression of that. However, it’s sometimes about delicate issues, informal and often unexpected questions that need to be solved in a particular way. People who are central to the process are contacted and then the whole work appears nontransparent, whereas it concerned a delicate detail. (Interview with NGO representative in April 2007)

In response to the debate about lack of transparency, the ISO secretariate took yet another step in 2007. A new media policy was launched allowing media and researchers to be present during coffee breaks at the international work meetings to talk to experts, if the secretariate received a written request before the meeting. According to one interviewee, allowing the media into working meetings introduced the risk of journalists and researchers getting the wrong impression. If they were to attend a single meeting or a few meetings, at which a small fraction of a complicated debate was taking place, their view would be highly biased. I now leave the ISO case and accounts of democratic values present in that process, and turn to the discussion, to see if I can provide some answers to the question initially posed.

HOW AND WHY WERE DEMOCRATIC VALUES USED? Democratic values are not evident in a private standard-setting committee like the ISO 26000. As has been demonstrated, however, several values were indeed debated. In the following discussion I demonstrate how stakeholders used or avoided arguments about democratic values for various purposes, in order to influence the process towards their specific interests. Looking first at ISO as a stakeholder, it perceived pressures from many stakeholders to change its organization. ISO was dealing in an area outside of its usual, technical expertise with a much larger range of organizations than it had ever dealt with before, and the scope of the standardization involved was enormous. The authority of this private organization had, until this point, rested on expertise and output legitimacy. Entering the field of SR, however – regarded by many as a public policy area – the lack of democratic authority became a problem, and ISO had to produce a proper and transparent multistakeholder organization in which various interests were represented in a balanced way. Put simply, ISO had to complement its focus on voluntary compliance, expertise and the positive effects of standardization (output legitimacy) with a clearer focus on the way the standard-setting work was actually organized and performed (input legitimacy) (Tamm Hallström 2008, Tamm Hallström & Boström forthcoming). At the same time, it would probably not be wise to change the procedures too much. Some stakeholders might even

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have threatened to exit the process should the changes be too drastic – stakeholders that ISO needed in order for the process to be legitimate. The change into a multi-stakeholder decision-making structure during the drafting work can be seen as a change that was not considered to constitute “too much”, as ISO planned to re-introduce the usual national voting system as the standard draft approached publication. The ISO way of defining and using the principle of consensus (support from a majority of the experts) was another example of how ISO managed to maintain its usual procedures. After a few years, however, this principle was complemented by clarification on the issue of considering the voices of minorities. In more general terms, the issue of standardization was a new issue that included a global dimension and touched upon such problems as human and labour rights. Its focus was not merely, or even primarily, technical. Because ISO’s expertise lay in the technical area, there was a trial-and-error process involving continuous demands to meet democratic values that arose during the course of events. ISO’s efforts to compensate for the lack of democratic authority can also explain why we witnessed many unusual solutions: ISO changed its procedural rules as problems occurred; the role of intergovernmental organizations such as ILO and the UN Global Compact (organizations with more democratic authority) was strengthened by each organization having a memorandum of understanding with ISO; national consensus comments were increasingly encouraged; and, at the end of the standardsetting work, ISO planned to reintroduce the old, established nation-based decision-making structure. It also tried to strengthen the hierarchy in the process through several arrangements: debates were time scheduled; representations were monitored; chairman positions were divided among stakeholders; the number of representatives at meetings was restricted; funding arrangements were introduced; and a special task force was established to coordinate the process. Looking at the six stakeholder categories, a few further conclusions can be reached on the use of democratic values as strategic tools.3 Industry representatives did not typically raise democratic values as part of their argumentation; nor did representatives of the SSRO group. NGO representatives, on the other hand, frequently used values such as stakeholder and geographic representation, effective participation and transparency. Compared to the industry group, traditionally experienced and well represented in ISO work, the NGO group had relatively weak representation. Characteristic of the NGO group as well, was the large number of small organizations among its members with interests in diverse aspects of CSR. Some members focused merely on social issues, for instance, whereas others were clearly oriented towards environmental issues. Consumers primarily emphasized the lack of transparency. This group had a relatively weak representation, yet it was well organized internationally, and

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therefore better united as a group than was the NGO group, for example. What both the NGO and consumer groups had in common, however, was their use of democratic values as a way to influence the ISO 26000 process. Several government representatives, including intergovernmental organizations that managed to negotiate a memorandum of understanding with ISO, were particularly concerned with the position of the future ISO standard in a norm hierarchy, although they also emphasized the three democratic values discussed in this chapter. The smallest, or least well-represented group was the labour stakeholder group, although it was well organized and united internationally. Labour representatives made many comments about insufficient representativeness and about the important relationship between the ISO 26000 standard and the ILO labour core standards, to clarify the position of the ISO standard in a norm hierarchy. A difference between the government and labour groups was the more positive view towards standardization often held by government agencies, as they tried to find new ways of reaching out with intergovernmentally agreed-upon conventions. From their perspective, ISO was a valuable organization to cooperate with, as it had an effective reach among corporations globally. Labour representatives were generally more sceptical towards ISO as a rule-setting organization dominated by industry representatives, but also towards voluntary rule-setting solutions for labour issues. In summary, some stakeholders in the ISO 26000 process shared the same concern over democratic values, whereas others had relatively diverse views on how the work should be organized and performed in terms of democratic values. In general terms, it can be concluded that stakeholders were not equally well equipped for this process; some of them perceived language barriers, but many were also lacking experience in the ISO way of doing standardization work, and thus lacked administrative expertise. Moreover, a particular problem can be expected in multi-stakeholder processes such as this one, in which consensus solutions are sought among actors from industry, government and NGOs. Several stakeholders in the ISO process were, in fact, interest organizations that were finding it difficult to work for a consensus decision. Consensus is not – and cannot be – the final goal of an interest organization. Some would even argue that it is not suitable to have NGO and government representatives at the same table, trying to reach consensus. An interviewee representing an NGO remarked on the sometimes negative attitude towards the NGO stakeholder group NGO is not seen as a real expert group. But industry sees itself as comprising experts contributing with their experiences . . . that “real” experts come from industry. The contributions of the NGO group are charged in a negative way. We are a heterogeneous group with low expert status. Many people also see it as unthinkable to have governments and the NGO group at the same table. (Interview with the NGO representative in 2007)

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For the NGO group, being relatively small and regarded by some participants as not being as authoritative as others (as suggested by the last quote), democratic values could therefore be effective. In general terms, however, it can be concluded that democratic values were used in different ways by most stakeholder groups to push for their own specific interests. ISO, in turn, had to prove that the process was open and fair, assuring that all stakeholders could make their voices heard and could balance their inconsistent interests in a proper way. Of course ISO, by hosting this process and being a stakeholder itself, had acquired a special power to choose exactly how democratic values should be interpreted and translated into the ISO 26000 process.

NOTES 1

2 3

Examples of international organizations with liaison membership: the Consumers International (CI), the International Organization of Employers (IOE), the UN Global Compact, the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD), the European Commission, International Labour Organization (ILO), Global Reporting Initiative (GRI), the International Chamber of Commerce (ICC), United Nations Industrial Development Organizations (UNIDO), the World Business Council for Sustainable Development (WBCSD), the World Health Organization (WHO), Social Accountability International (SAI), and the ISO committee setting the ISO 14000 standards. This translation and all others in this chapter are my own. Although some groups, such as consumer and labour groups, were relatively well united within their own ranks, it should be noted that most of these groups had several diverse interests. Although the positions of these latter groups are often perceived as united, they cannot be presumed to be actors in the true sense of the word (Ruwet and Tamm Hallström 2007).

5. Public purchasing of complex services. Balancing democratic and market values Staffan Furusten The past two decades have seen increased expectations on public organizations to become more market oriented in organizing their activities. Yet the simultaneous demand of the citizenry that public organizations be agents of democracy has not diminished. Thus along with the marketization of the public sector and the transformation of bureaucratic government structures into business relationships in networks, public organizations are being increasingly clever about specifying their needs and selecting the best supplier in the market to fulfil these needs. Marketization is expected to construct a win–win situation, with more relevant services delivered at lower cost and with better quality. As an ideal this seems unproblematic, but in practice how do actors balance the dual claims for them to be both business minded and democratic? The process of purchasing is of particular interest from a democratic point of view. National legislation for the purchasing of goods and services in the public sector has been adopted in many countries worldwide over the past 10 to 15 years, and the World Trade Organization (WTO) and the European Union (EU) have developed guidelines for the content of such national acts. The basic idea behind these acts is to influence public organizations to consider values such as equality and transparency in purchasing production goods and services. Thus the goal of these acts is for public organizations to be more disciplined in implementing a marketing orientation, which can be seen as the attempt of states to exercise government in governance structures. The Swedish Act for Public Procurement (APP) outlines the country’s public procurement directives. It is suitable for situations in which public organizations purchase standardized exchangeable goods or services, such as stationery, standard components or cleaning services. As products and services become more complex, however, and the purchasing organization requires close communication with client organizations in order to specify its needs and to produce or deliver the good or service to fulfil that need, APP can be 65

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expected to be more difficult for the organization to follow. Thus I focus on the paradoxical situation faced by public organizations that must act as both an agent for democratic values and a market actor. I do that by setting purchasing processes to the fore. This chapter addresses the procurement of complex services in public organizations, using the example of management consultancy services. In particular I ask if democratic values are being considered in business situations in which public organizations engage when purchasing complex expert services. Two sources of data have been used in this study: secondary data in the form of public documents about APP, public procurements of management consulting, procurement announcements and contracts; and approximately 30 interviews with some 20 buyers in public organizations and private providers of management consulting services to public organizations. The data were analysed qualitatively. I begin this chapter with a detailed discussion of the meaning of the act for public purchasing in general, addressing the way public organizations are supposed to deal with complicated democratic values in order to fulfil business transactions when complex goods or services are being delivered. Next I discuss how the purchase of management consultancy services is handled by various public organizations. Finally, I compare the intentions of the law with the practice of public organizations and discuss democratic values in the public purchasing of management consultancy services.

APP – A FORMULA FOR SHAPING DEMOCRATIC MARKET ACTORS APP was launched on January 1, 1994. It is based on the EU’s public procurement directives developed between 1987 and 1993. These directives are, in turn, based on WTO’s Agreement on Government Procurement (WTO-AGP) for regulating procurement practices in public organizations. WTO replaced the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT) in 1995. The first Agreement on Government Procurement at this global level was signed in the frame of this organization in 1979 and entered into force in 1981. This agreement has served as the starting point for later versions ratified by WTO member organizations. The principles correspond with those of WTO, EU and other national acts. The overall aim of launching the EU procurement directives was to remove restrictions on the free trade of goods and services, and thereby create conditions for a common market with open competition and a right to settlement in case of market-related conflicts. As a starting point, conditions for competition are supposed to be central in order for the rational allocation of public assets

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to be achieved (EU Commission 1996). The act states that free market competition should, in practice, be secured through procurements made according to the democratic principles of nondiscrimination, equal treatment, transparency, proportionality and mutual recognition. In practice, this means that all suppliers should be given equal opportunities when bidding on the public procurement of goods and services within the union. They should not be treated differently because of nationality or location; they must be given the same information at the same time; qualifications, requirements and the purchase should be related to each other; and documents and certificates issued in one member state must be accepted in others (NOU 2007). Concretely, a fair interpretation is that there is an attempt through the law to prohibit nepotism, corruption, arbitrary judgements, or other phenomena that could result in an inefficient exploitation of the advantages of a common market and, in the long run, of taxpayers’ money (EU Commission 1996). The regulation most relevant for the purchase of consultant services (SFS 1992, No 1528, Chapter 6) states that public procurements must be officially advertised, so that every possible supplier has a chance to be informed of upcoming and ongoing procurements. Specific journals advertising procurement possibilities at the national and European level are available electronically. Announcements are expected to specify clearly the demands relating to the assignment, and contracting entities must carefully design the documentation on which the procurement is based – the so-called “contract documents”. Contract documents must describe the assignment in detail and list the criteria upon which the evaluation and selection of supplier will be based, preferably in order of precedence. All tenders should be subjected to a nondiscriminatory evaluation process. The buyer must award the supplier offering the cheapest or economically most advantageous option in consideration of quality, environmental concerns, technical features, running costs, or other predetermined evaluation criteria. The evaluation procedure must be documented and parts of it made public as soon as a deal is closed. Most public organizations, including the state, municipalities and county councils, must follow APP when purchasing goods and services that exceed a certain threshold value.1 Only state-owned firms and public organizations dealing with national security, such as the Ministry of Defence and affiliated organizations, are excluded. The law makes little distinction between the volume or type of a product or the type of service to be purchased. With small variations, the principles of the law apply to highly standardized products such as office supplies and building components as well as more specific, tailor-made services such as management consulting – as long as the total cost of the procurement exceeds the threshold value. Noncompliance with the law may result in the purchasing organization

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having to pay damage claims or redesign its entire procurement procedure. Deals can be contested if a supplier has suffered – or perceives a risk of suffering – a loss during a procurement process. A supplier able to demonstrate a loss can claim damages for that loss. Public organizations requiring goods and services must follow certain steps in a certain order. First, the buyer should have a clearly demonstrated need. Second, the buyer uses APP procedures to present this need on the market. Sellers anywhere in the world with the capacity to offer the goods or services that meet this need are thereby given the opportunity to make an offer. Third, the buyer evaluates all offers according to the criteria for evaluation that they stipulated when the need was presented on the market. When all criteria are considered, the buyer can select the seller with the best offer and invite that seller to deliver the service. Given the principle of public access to official records, public organizations are obligated to keep their documentation in order and available for examination by citizens, by politicians or by any service provider whose offer was rejected by the organization. Processes in public organizations must be transparent. Anyone who is suspicious that a public organization did not follow APP properly has the right to file a report on any purchasing situation with Nämden för Offentlig Upphandling (NOU; the Swedish Committee for Public Procurement). If the committee finds just cause for the report, it has the power to stop the purchasing process and force the public organization to re-evaluate the offers.

PURCHASING IN ACTION The basic idea promoted in APP is supposed to guarantee that all forms of purchasing made by public organizations are realized in a democratic way. As intimated in the introduction to this chapter, however, the steps suggested in APP may be more difficult to follow, the more complex the purchased service. One core idea in APP is that service suppliers should not be hired on the basis of personal relationships. Our empirical observations show that the opposite actually occurs, however. The personal traits of individual consultants, such as the ability to cooperate or to establish personal trust, tend to be critical criteria for the selection of service suppliers. From an APP standpoint, personal traits should not be used as selection criteria because they are not transparent, and because they are difficult to measure, evaluate and compare. Because personal capabilities cannot be evaluated without in-person meetings and discussions, equal treatment demands that the buyer meet with every possible supplier, or at least every supplier submitting a formal offer. Such a restriction makes it virtually impossible to evaluate all offers on equal terms, in a transparent economically viable

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manner. Purchasers therefore see personal capabilities as pragmatic rationale for selecting service providers. Several of the interviewees referred to procurements in which personal meetings with a selection of potential consultants had occurred, and alleged that the selection criteria had not been objective. One public buyer admitted that the consultant’s personality had been crucial in the choice of supplier, although it was not specified as a selection criterion in the contract document. The intent of APP – to force public organizations to make objective choices – means that it is technically against the law for their buyers to meet with and negotiate with potential suppliers. Our data show, however, that despite APP’s attempt to eliminate the possibility of using personal relationships as evaluation criteria, many buyers have found creative ways to bypass the intentions of the law. The problem of remaining objective according to the law while considering personal capabilities is obviously a great practical dilemma for making wise choices among suppliers of complex services. As one interviewee expressed it: ‘APP makes it difficult to evaluate personal traits. The law is not suitable for procurements when personal qualities are important’.2 This quotation also suggests that according to the buyers, APP is not suitable for the procurement of complex services. This notion corresponds well to claims made in other studies about deals between buyers and suppliers of complex management advisory services. Researchers such as Furusten and Werr (2005) have argued that it is often difficult for the buyer to be confident about the organization’s need before a relationship has been established, or to be able to identify a supplier with the capacity to fill that need. It can also be argued that it is difficult to examine the delivered complex service after the fact – to know if it really solved the problem or filled the need that was defined before the service provider was hired. In these studies and in our interviews with public sector buyers of such services, the choice of a supplier of management consulting services is seen as being dependent upon trust and confidence between the seller and the buyer. Trust and confidence are abstract qualities that are extremely difficult to objectify. It seems, therefore, that confidence in suppliers of such complex services as management consultation can be achieved only in personal meetings between the buyer and potential suppliers. Furusten and Werr (2005) argue that this circumstance represents the nature of complex services in general and management consulting in particular. If the buyers saw problems in adhering to APP in making a wise choice of supplier, the consultants were even more critical. Their general attitude was similar to that of the buyers – that APP leaves no room for personal relationship factors. The consultants declared that the market for management consulting in the private sector is characterized by personal relationships, that deals are closed between actors that get along well socially. That personal factors should not be

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equally important in the public sector seems outrageous to them, at least for those with personal relationships to build upon. As one consultant argued, ‘it is as important in the public as in the private sector that choice of supplier is based upon personal factors, as the quality of the service is dependent on how close they come to the client organizations and how well they understand its processes and culture’. Personal factors are complicated, and not only because the process is difficult to render transparent. From APP’s point of view, personal factors complicate the realization of equality, as they restrict the options for newly established consultants with no experience of public procurements to offer their services. It is commonly known among consultants, however, that the drafters of APP have inadvertently made it more difficult for newcomers to meet potential suppliers in the evaluation process, to establish confidence, and to win contracts. As the buyers place greater and greater weight on experience and references in their selection process, it becomes increasingly difficult for newcomers to establish themselves. Instead of supporting equality, then, APP supports unequal treatment. As one consultant commented: ‘In the public sector our international experience isn’t worth anything. If you don’t have the experience of working with Swedish authorities, it’s almost impossible to win a contract’. Another consultant noted: ‘Since you can’t meet the buyers, it’s difficult to gain credibility if you’re not already known to them’. Consultants who have already established a relationship with public buyers do not need personal meetings in order to present themselves. In such cases, APP becomes nothing more than a formality, a formal obstacle to be overcome, or as one state authority buyer put it: ‘The law is easy to get around in order to maintain established supplier relations, but it takes a great deal of energy’. Thus both buyers and consultants admit that the law can easily be ignored. Acting as “outlaws” – in a democratic mode Both public purchasing organizations and service providers try to find ways to bypass the procurement laws when complex services are being purchased. There are, however, allowed and disallowed ways of doing this. The most common legal way to avoid the full procurement procedure is to use framework agreements in which the buying organization (or several buying organizations) signs long-term agreements with several preferred suppliers. The buyer may then purchase directly from these suppliers whenever needed without having to comply with APP regulations in a process called “direct procurement”. If the framework agreement is procured according to APP, this is a legally permitted way to avoid following APP in every case. Framework agreements allow the buyer to turn to a recognizable core of potential service providers. They do not have to invest costly resources evalu-

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ating a large number of offers every time they need external assistance. As one municipal buyer expressed it: ‘We use framework agreements because individual procurements according to APP are far too costly, in terms of both time and administrative input’. Buyers and consultants agree that it is faster and more cost efficient to acquire a core of preferred suppliers and choose service suppliers through framework agreements. Framework agreements typically extend over several years, enabling buyers to cooperate with specific suppliers over long periods and to maintain valuable supplier relationships. Although framework agreements are commonly used, it is remarkable to note that most agreements fail to mention how often or to what extent the consultants would be used within the period. The agreements examined for this study were often vaguely specified and broad enough to cover several areas within the general category of organizational and business development. Such vagueness can serve as another strategy for circumventing the act. Compared to single procurements, this type of agreement is rarely based upon a specific needs analysis. It is more likely to have broad delimitations that leave room for future consultancy needs in other areas. That framework agreements earn positive reactions from the favoured consultancies is not remarkable. Neither is it astonishing that some suppliers point out certain disadvantages of framework agreements. These agreements make it more difficult for excluded consultants to enter the market, yet offer no guarantee to the preferred supplier in a framework agreement that any assignment will be forthcoming. Yet it does increase the opportunity of establishing personal relationships with buyers, and increases the opportunity for personal offers. Illusive procurements I have argued that close relationships is the preferred method for consultants and buyers for defining needs and choosing service suppliers to provide a decent quality of service. One could, of course, interpret this strategy as demonstrating that the decision had already been made. Because the organization is obliged to announce a possible assignment in a specific manner, and to consider at least three offers that come close to fulfilling the defined evaluation criteria, buyers frequently make illusive procurements for the sake of appearances. If they have established a relationship with a consultant they trust, they can use this strategy to continue that business relationship. Because the need for complex services is difficult to specify and often includes an analysis of the problem to be solved, consultants are frequently hired to assist organizations in defining their need for further services. If the buyer is satisfied with the work of the consultant, and if they are socially compatible, it is common to want that consultant to deliver the solution to the

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problem as well. Because this is a new business situation, however, a new procurement is required. It is common for the buyer to tailor the evaluation criteria to fit the preferred supplier perfectly. As in a case described by one consultant, the buyer may require that the consultant have a PhD, be located in the same region, and have an understanding of the buyer’s industry – knowing beforehand that few suppliers other than the preferred one could possibly meet that set of requirements. As the consultants I interviewed for this study explained, this illegal tailoring procedure is ‘very common’. As one public buyer described, tailoring strategies can also be used in the procurement of framework agreements: We formulated the evaluation criteria in the contract document so that Supplier X would fit perfectly. Many of our framework agreement users wanted to work with Supplier X. If X had not been included, the users would probably turn to that firm directly, so then what is the point of framework agreements?

This public buyer was suggesting that the framework agreement could also be illusive. The client organization wants to hire a specific approved supplier, and would do so even if this supplier were not included in the framework agreement. It seems, then, that a framework agreement is not a critical factor in a local setting for the choice of a supplier, and that in practice the decision process tends to follow routes other than those defined in APP. Another frequently used method referred to by buyers and consultants in this study was to split assignments into smaller parts, so each part falls under the threshold value and can be legally procured without adherence to APP. One consultant described a case in which the public buyer asked the consultant to divide the job into several 2000 assignments, so a public procurement in compliance with APP would not be necessary. In short, buyers and suppliers have demonstrated high levels of creativity in circumventing the intentions of the act. Because there are several frequently used ways to bypass APP, the consultants argue that APP serves only to prevent newcomers from entering the arena. Rules and action Presumably APP, supported by the EU directives and the WTO-AGP agreement, would have strong regulating power over practice. The fact that it takes the shape of law on the national level means that a system of sanctions is connected to failure to adhere. Because every step is supposed to be transparent and well documented, potential suppliers or citizens can examine procurements in the name of equality, and can appeal if they find that the buyer hired a supplier for reasons that do not correspond to the evaluation criteria defined in the first public announcement of the assignment. Thus offended suppliers and citizens are given a chance to appeal, and if the committee for public

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procurement convicts the buyer, the procurement can be found invalid and the procurement procedure can be re-announced. Although this threat should have the presumptive effect of scaring buyers into compliance, consultants (much less, uninvolved citizens) rarely chose the option of appeal. Among the consultants in the study, in fact, none had ever filed an appeal or a complaint. The suppliers suggested several reasons for consultants failing to appeal or sue for damages: they do not want to harm their reputations; they do not want to obtain contracts that are awarded under such circumstances; or they simply avoid such confrontational methods because of the financial cost. Again, this has to do with what is believed to be the nature of a market for complex services, in which deals are made and quality judged on the basis of personal trust. By appealing a buyer’s decision, a supplier runs the risk of being blacklisted, a belief that is supported in a report from the Swedish Committee for Public Procurement, in which 60 per cent of the suppliers perceived a risk of being blacklisted if they were to lodge an appeal (NOU 1998, p. 41). Paradoxically, as one municipal buyer in this study pointed out that: ‘if you don’t follow APP, there is no risk of being the subject of an appeal’. If a buyer has purchased services directly, without competitive tendering, there are no rejected suppliers to file complaints. A supplier who has not been part of the procurement process has difficulty presenting an argument of unfair treatment. To quote a buyer in the NOU report (NOU 1998, p. 41), ‘a purchasing entity that tries to comply with APP carries a greater risk of being punished than those who ignore the law completely’. The problem with the sanction system, then, is that only a rejected supplier is able to appeal (which is not the case with a direct procurement) and must be willing to appeal (which is seldom the case). As an instrument for governance, therefore, the act provides little authority over those it is supposed to regulate. To summarize, whether APP has an impact on the selection of suppliers differs considerably depending on whom one asks. According to the buyers, they adhere to APP even though they do not necessarily select the cheapest supplier. Instead they argue that the chosen supplier is the most economically favourable according to their cost-benefit analysis. It is not surprising to hear the buyers report that their procurement procedures are in accordance with APP. Many of them note, however, that the law is not easily applied to consultancy services, as it does not allow buyers to consider established supplier relationships, confidence and personal trust when selecting suppliers. Because the consultants are not required to adhere to any law, their description of the actual procurement procedures may be even more revealing. For many consultants, APP poses no threat to the maintenance of good business relationships or to the prospect of obtaining new contracts. Yet for others the law makes it difficult to present themselves to potential clients and gain the opportunity of establishing trust and confidence.

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The APP requirement for not allowing prior relationships to play a decisive role in the selection process does not seem to have had the intended impact. Several consultants criticized the law with comments like: ‘Suppliers are awarded contracts thanks to their business relationships anyway’ or ‘the law is just bureaucracy, relationships are crucial in the public sector as well’. APP does have some impact on the procurement process, however. Two ways of handling public procurements are evident from this study – one in which the buyers adhere strictly to the rules of APP, and another in which the rules are more or less ignored. In the latter case, the parties have made an active choice not to adhere to the rules, which means that the law has an impact here as well. In both cases, however, the law has an impact other than the one intended. In cases in which APP has a significant impact, the process is perceived as extremely resource demanding, unsuitable for the procurement of management consultancy services, unpredictable, risky, and not focused on the problem at hand. In cases in which APP has a lesser impact – cases in which buyers actively bypass the law through framework agreements or other methods – APP is perceived as bureaucratic and a waste of resources. In both cases, it is evident that established business relationships direct the market. Whenever possible, buyers and consultants try to meet on a continuous basis in order to discuss problems and possible solutions. This is the type of business rationality that both buyers and consultants strive to live by, as they agree that the quality of the service is at its best when buyer and seller have confidence in each other. A disciplinary failure The intent of APP can be interpreted, from the state’s point of view, as a formula for disciplining democratic market actors. In a formal sense, this means that public authorities use the act as a vehicle to discipline public organizations to behave as business-minded agents of democracy. The basic idea is that democratic values such as nondiscrimination, equal treatment, transparency, proportionality and mutual recognition, together with market values such as efficiency and productivity, are supposed to be realized through market mechanisms. Competition is supposed to be the core natural mechanism that triggers all actors in the market to do their best. Thus APP has the character of a disciplinary instrument. What type of actorhood is APP supposed to construct, then? First, public organizations are supposed to emphasize rationality in all situations and do all they can to follow the act – which means that at all times they are supposed to buy the most economically sensible option that satisfies quality of service and the needs of Swedish citizens. Thus purchasing organizations are supposed to act as cost-effective, rational rule followers. Studies of rule following and public-sector reforms show, however, that it is rare for organizations to follow

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the rules or the reform literally (see, for example, Brunsson and Olsen 1992/1998; Czarniawska and Sevón 1996; Fernler 1996; Blomqvist 1996; Erlingsdottir 1999; Røvik 2000). Instead, it has been observed that they tend either to decouple what they say from what they do or to translate the rule or reform into versions of rather than copies of an original (Furusten 2007). As implied in this chapter, it appears that public purchasing organizations are no keener to follow rules than are organizations in general. Does government’s failure to govern the purchasing procedures of complex services mean that Sweden’s public organizations fail to be democratic market actors? Being business minded How is it possible for public organizations to take responsibility for democracy in processes if they purchase management consultancy services as demonstrated in this chapter? Although required to follow the act of public purchasing, they also have responsibility to deliver service of the highest possible quality to the public at a reasonable price. Can these objectives be combined in one process? To purchase a complex service is a time-consuming process. When the central administration for Swedish student aid hired a consultant to deliver a service employing a new administrative system, for instance, it took ‘two years of running in and out of offices, up and down the stairs, in order to convince them that they had a need for my service’ the consultant said (Furusten 2003, p. 164). This quotation points to two characteristics of management consultancy services. a) They are often so complex that the purchasing organization does not realize that they need them, and b) the process of being convinced to hire and going about hiring a consultant can take some time. It seems that persuading an organization that it has particular needs is a skill related to personal factors (Clark 1995), partly because the general characteristics of such services are intangible. The service providers must therefore make the effort to inform potential buyers that their consulting services are valuable – a task that requires the personal factor (Furusten and Werr 2005). The organization wants to hire Mrs Johnson, for instance, and no one else, because it is well known within the organization that she is a pleasant and reliable person who is easy to work with (Alexius and Furusten 2005). Both the need for a management consultancy service and the buyer’s perception of the supplier’s quality and experience tend to be closely related to the purchasing organization’s confidence in the service provider (Furusten and Werr 2005). This suggests that the importance of the personal factor in the choice of a service to purchase and the ability of the service provider to deliver is not always a matter of service content. Even more important, perhaps, is who the service provider is, an issue that has been cultivated in the critical

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literature on management consulting, in which consultants have been variously seen as witchdoctors (Clark and Salaman 1996); as carriers of fads and misunderstandings (Kieser 2002); as sellers of phrases (Czarniawska-Joerges 1988); and generalized “others” who produce and distribute ideas and rules (Meyer 1994; 1996). To define clearly, and in general terms, an organization’s need for a witchdoctor or a phrase salesman is not an easy task. A functionalist could argue that there is obviously a need, as the industry for management consulting has gradually increased, particularly during the past two decades. The critical literature offers some of the roles that management consultants play: scapegoats (Clark and Salaman 1996), agents of meaning (CzarniawskaJoerges 1988), and agents of stability (Furusten 2003; 2009). Other literature cultivates more mainstream ideas about what consultants are: problem definers, problem solvers and agents of change (Greiner and Metzger 1983), for instance. It is not always obvious when the need for a consultant exists. Moreover, the needs of a specific organization are often determined in collaboration with the consultant. In their study of the construction of needs and trust in management consulting, Furusten and Werr (2005) suggest that the need for a management advisory service in a particular organization is a result of negotiations in three dimensions: the individual, the organizational and the institutional. There are always personal relationships between a consultant and a representative for the organization in business situations in which the consultant’s persuasive skills may be of great value, whether the client perceives a need for the consultant’s services or not. This relationship may occur because of the temporally institutionalized beliefs in the society, such as management fads that trigger organizations to turn to service providers who clearly declare that they offer services that match contemporary popular models. This relationship can also be explained by circumstances in the organization and the consultancy, such as decision-making structures, division of responsibilities or personal relationships that create certain situations. Thus an organization’s need for management advisory services is constructed through interplay among these three parallel dimensions. This suggests that a particular organization’s need for management advisory services may be difficult to define before a business relationship with a service provider has begun. To be business minded in the management consulting market means that consultants and their clients together form the content and type of services to be delivered and that their negotiations occur in both an organizational and an institutional context that forms the roles of the actors to perform in and the ideas and models to build upon. The ideology behind APP promises democratic public procurement through the values of transparency and equality that aim to prevent nepotism and corruption. Yet the argument outlined in this chapter about the workings of the

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market for complex services such as management consulting, implies that it is extremely difficult to be a business-minded actor while following the steps prescribed in APP. The functioning of the market, in fact, leads buyers and service providers to believe that the best choice of service occurs in relationships of trust. It is difficult for a public organization engaged in the hiring of complex services to follow the steps outlined in APP if they want to be business minded and realize democratic values. The model for purchasing on which APP is based does not really suit the functioning of the market for complex management advisory services. The procurement of consulting services from external service providers in a way that satisfies the need for quality service requires an atmosphere of trust. Thus business rationality, at least according to the way actors in the management consulting market in Sweden do business, is infused with a large proportion of perception and negotiation.

BEING DEMOCRATIC: TRANSPARENCY AND EQUALITY IN A BUSINESS-MINDED WAY How can we understand the practice of public purchasing of complex services in terms of democratic values? Public organizations are supposed to act as democratic market actors, but how is APP disciplining them to act in that way if the supposed democratic market actors do not follow the rules of APP in practice? Does the mismatch mean that equality and transparency are not considered in practice? Or is the practice a construction of how practitioners deal with the dual task faced by a public organization with a duty to serve citizens with the best possible service and an organization with a duty to realize cost effectiveness, and rational decision making based on perfect market conditions? If the market situation expressed in APP does not suit real market functions, where is the problem? Does the problem reside in APP when procuring organizations seek to purchase complex services? Would the democratic values be more safely dealt with if APP were followed literally? Or is it possible that compliance with APP would risk the realization of equality by focusing too stringently on transparency? Perhaps public organizations in Sweden, finding themselves in such situations, are risking over-rationalization, while important market mechanisms, such as the importance of trust in complex situations, are being avoided. In the procurement of consulting services, it is not always the delivery of a particular service that is the need to be fulfilled; part of the need is encompassed in the way that service is delivered, how it is enacted, and the internal and external consequences it generates. It is possible that the hiring of a pleasant and clever service supplier is more important than the hiring of the most expert

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purveyor of a particular technique. It may well be that the real need of the organization is not that technique; perhaps the real need is for the ear of a competent person who understands the organization. Because the formal procedures in Sweden’s APP are not followed in practice, however, it is difficult to know. An experiment in which public organizations were forced to follow APP procedures in their purchasing of complex services might yield some valuable answers. The purchasing of competence in complex services is more frequent in both public and private organizations than it was at the turn of the millennium. Knowledge about potential service suppliers in particular areas of purchasing departments is more complete. A tendency towards the professionalization of purchasing procedures is likewise on the move, and the ideas inherent in APP represent the content of this organizing movement. Changes in the practice of public purchasing may be on the horizon. But whether or not democratic values such as transparency and equality are better fulfilled in this way is still open to debate.

NOTES 1

2

The threshold value for services within the EU is about €170 000. According to Chapter 6 in the Act on public procurement (SFS 1992, No 1528), however, procurements in Sweden under the threshold value must also adhere to APP as long as the total amount exceeds 2 to 4 times the basic amount: 80 000 to 160 000 SEK (€8000 to 16 000). All translations in this chapter are my own.

6. In search of democracy. The process behind the Swedish forest-sector objectives Göran Sundström In May 2004, the Swedish Forest Agency (SFA) published a 15-page brochure under the title Forest-sector Objectives (SFA 2004).1 It states that the Swedish parliament and the Swedish government had formulated two general objectives for the forest sector: that forests should be utilized efficiently, with the aim of achieving a sustainable yield of high market values; and that the biological diversity and genetic variation of the forest should be preserved and secured for the future. It also states that parliament and the government have exhibited no interest in specifying these general objectives, and have assigned SFA to concretize them if required. The forest-sector objectives are described as an expression of this concretizing work. The forest-sector objectives include several “interim targets”. They are relatively well-specified, and in many cases quantified, and they are to be fulfilled quickly – by 2010 at the latest. They cover many aspects of the forest, such as production, regeneration, precommercial thinning, game, protection of key habitats, forest roads, reindeer herding, ancient monuments and recreation management of urban forests. The brochure states that these interim targets represent priorities, highlighting the most important areas within Swedish forest policy. The brochure also tells us that SFA has devised the forest-sector objectives in close cooperation with various stakeholders – other state agencies, private and public companies, nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) and trade unions – with the goal of attaining ‘a well-balanced and accepted interpretation’ of the forest policy, in order to strengthen the implementation process (ibid. p. 3).2 Stating that ‘the objectives have already been widely anchored’ (ibid. p. 4), SFA seems to have been successful in its efforts to mobilize the stakeholders around these objectives. The brochure conveys a picture of forest-sector objectives developed by a wide circle of actors and a process characterized by cooperation, consensus, voluntariness and anchorage. Thus the process seems to have incorporated several features that can be attributed to both governance and democracy. 79

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SFA’s achievement is remarkable. In order to reach agreements on these relatively well-specified objectives, covering such a wide range of forest aspects, many interests, such as production and environmental protection, had to be considered. In recent years, social values have also gained ground in Swedish forest policy. Historically, such interests have been difficult to balance, especially as they are supported by various strong and well-organized interest organizations, which makes it appealing to study the process behind the objectives in greater detail. This study has been guided by several empirical questions. To what extent have democratic values been discussed in the process? How and when did these values become an issue? Who brought these values to the scene? Were there any conflicting interests regarding these or other nondemocratic values? How were these conflicts resolved? Besides trying to answer these descriptive questions, I also offer my interpretation of the course of events from an organizational perspective. I first provide a short description of Swedish forests and Sweden’s forest policy, followed by a brief description of the process behind the forest-sector objectives. In a third section, I analyse the process, bearing in mind the questions formulated in the preceding paragraph. In the concluding section, I explain the process by noting significant organizational factors. This study is based on various documents, of which memoranda from meetings in one particular council – the National Forest-Sector Council, established by SFA – have been of great importance. I have also conducted interviews with 14 key persons representing 8 organizations: SFA; the Ministry of Enterprise, Energy and Communications; the Ministry of the Environment; the Swedish Environmental Protection Agency; the Swedish Society for Nature Conservation; the Federation of Swedish Farmers; Sveaskog; and the Swedish Forest Industry Federation. Most of these interviewees have participated in the Forest-Sector Council.3

SWEDISH FORESTS AND FOREST POLICY IN SHORT Swedish forests are of great concern to many organizations throughout the country. Over half of Sweden is forestland, which should supply many things for many people for many years to come. It should supply bio-energy, sawn timber and wood pulp. It should provide living space for a variety of plants and animals. It should offer recreation for overworked people. And not least, it should provide people from all over the country with work and income (Swedish forestland has many owners; 75 per cent is owned by private actors) and strengthen Sweden’s balance of trade (the forest industry comprises 15 per cent of Sweden’s total exports). There is reason to believe that many types of

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actors have an interest in participating in policy making for the Swedish forest industry and Swedish forest owners. Forest policy is highly decentralized, as expressed through a far-reaching application of management by objectives. Two overall forest policy objectives of equal value have been set by parliament: the production of wood and the protection of environmental values. Neither parliament nor the government wanted to specify these overall objectives, so when they were formulated in 1993, SFA was assigned to balance them and ‘to work out detailed objectives to the extent to which it is required’ (Committee on Environment and Agriculture 1993). SFA was not to work out detailed objectives on its own, however. Rather, parliament expected SFA to cooperate with various stakeholders – forest owners and companies that were expected to take voluntary measures that went beyond the demands stated in Forest Law. This voluntariness included not only cooperation with the state in policy-making processes. Owners and companies were also urged to incorporate some of SFA’s information, advice and training programmes. And in order to preserve environmental values, they were expected to exclude voluntarily a considerable number of hectares of forestland from production. In line with this decentralization and the increasing freedom of action given to actors in the private sector, SFA was to be downsized. In recent years, SFA’s appropriation has also been reduced gradually, and today the agency is about half the size it was in the early 1990s. The high expectation for voluntary action can be partly explained by the fact that voluntariness has become a highly institutionalized idea in recent years within society in general (Boström et al. 2004) and fits well with other highly institutionalized ideas, such as public–private partnership (Grimsey & Lewis 2004; Wettenhall 2003) and soft law (Mörth 2004). But the expectations can also be explained from a historical perspective. Swedish forest policy has long been characterized by a laissez faire strategy. That is not a matter of course. After all, it has been – and it is still – a most important sector for Sweden, and it has been imperative for the welfare of Sweden that the forests receive proper care. Slackness and mistakes are not easily corrected, given that it takes about 100 years for a tree to grow. That may be why 95 per cent of Canada’s forestland is owned by the state. Despite the enormous values at stake, however, the Swedish state chose, in a formative moment over 100 years ago when the first Forest Law was decided, to give the private forest owners and companies considerable freedom to cultivate their forests. At the same time the state made clear that it expected owners and companies to cooperate closely with the state and to take voluntary measures that went beyond the law. Thus one can say that there is an old informal contract between the state and the private actors, implying that the state will govern the forest sector at arm’s length – using such “soft” methods as information, advice and support

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– as long as owners and companies keep their part of the bargain. If they do not, the state will not hesitate to intervene. There is strong consensus in the literature that forest owners and the forest industry took a liking to the way the forest policy area became regulated and organized. Through the years, owners and companies have generally regarded SFA as a useful adviser and informant, and as a reliable negotiation party. There have been close relationships between the state and the stakeholders, not least expressed through an extensive use of councils, in which SFA has regularly consulted owners and companies. This close cooperation has been facilitated by the actors’ common view of knowledge; expertise and scientific methods have been held in high regard by all parties (Boström 2002; Ekelund & Hamilton 2001; Törnqvist 1995).

THE PROCESS IN SHORT In late 2002, SFA began the process of developing the forest-sector objectives – not for the first time. SFA had formulated these objectives in 1994 and again in 1998, but had failed to anchor them among stakeholders. In 1998 this could be partly explained by the fact that the stakeholders, on both the environmental and the production side, were involved in a process of eco-labelling Swedish forests, a trying activity for both sides, but one that ended with the forest industry assuming the responsibility of following a number of relatively well-specified environmental targets (Boström 2003, 2006). In the late 1990s, the stakeholders were already deeply involved in a regulating process, and did not want to become involved in another. In 2002, however, the eco-labelling process had been completed, and SFA saw the opportunity of including the stakeholders in the creation of a third generation of forest-sector objectives. An important step in that direction was the creation of the Forest-Sector Council. It was established by SFA and became the focal point of discussions between the agency and the stakeholders. The council was much more inclusive than were the councils that SFA had worked with earlier – councils that had included only the big forest industries and forest owner associations. The Forest-Sector Council included as many as 17 organizations of various types – state agencies, research institutions, the forest workers’ union, NGOs, the Saami parliament, and public and private companies. Many of these organizations were large; three, in fact, were meta-organizations: organizations with organizations as their members (Ahrne & Brunsson 2008). Furthermore, virtually all the council members were men, middle-aged or older, and a large majority was educated forest officers (jägmästare). It is notable that the council did not include any officials from the government office.

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The policy-making process began in October 2002, with SFA telling the members of the Forest-Sector Council, which was meeting for the first time, about its plans to establish forest-sector objectives. SFA also clarified its view that the council was an important arena for this work (even though SFA made clear that the council had not been established merely for this task). The aim was to ‘fulfil a two-way requirement – influence and anchoring’ and to ‘reach consensus about the forest-sector objectives’ (SFA 2002a p. 4). All council members approved SFA’s ideas. At the meeting, SFA presented relatively well-specified directives for conducting the work, which was to be finalized by 1 June 2003. This date was later postponed to 1 December 2003. The preparatory work was to be done by a small working group inside the agency, which would ‘isolate the main questions, define the need for consequence analyses, and propose a structure and variables for the objectives’ (SFA 2002b p. 4). Experts were to be consulted, followed by consultations with the council. During November and December 2002, the SFA working group identified 22 priority areas for the setting of interim targets, based on its analysis of Sweden’s forest and environmental policies. The target areas were presented to the Forest-Sector Council in February 2003. Worthy of mention is the fact that the government appointed a new director general for SFA in connection with this second council meeting. In contrast to earlier director generals of the agency, this new person was not a “forest man” (an educated forest officer); his background was in the environmental sector. Although actors within the environmental sector cheered loudly, the forest owners and the industry expressed dissatisfaction with the appointment, and interpreted it as demonstrating lack of trust in their abilities. The next steps in the process consisted of the compilation and analysis of data and the writing of proposals for interim targets. This work was also completed by SFA’s working group, and included a reduction of the 22 target areas down to 15 – a step that had been suggested by the council at its February meeting. Included in these 15 areas were four environmental targets previously set by the Swedish parliament.4 This meant that there were 11 interim targets left to establish. Another target area was added later. During the next five meetings,5 these 12 interim targets were discussed intensively in the council. Each new target proposal from SFA’s working group was supported by massive and detailed information of various kinds, often seasoned with tables and diagrams. Most targets were decided in consensus after minor or larger modifications. In some cases, it was difficult to reach a decision, however, and the council was split into smaller subgroups responsible for one specific interim target. In these cases, SFA’s working group presented proposals for the subgroups more regularly. Finally, in May 2004, SFA decided to publish a brochure outlining the

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forest-sector objectives. The brochure comprised 12 complete interim targets and 4 target areas in which consensus had not yet been reached and interim targets were yet to be established. In the foreword, the Director General of SFA stated that the objectives were ‘a result of an extensive preparation process in the Forest-Sector Council to which SFA has invited forest stakeholders’ (SFA 2004). He declared that the purpose of the preparatory work had been to attain ‘a well-balanced and accepted interpretation of the Swedish forest policy’ and a ‘wide anchorage’. As he said in finishing: ‘The ForestSector Council has constructively participated in the formulation of the objectives, and to the utmost extent council members’ comments have been taken into account’ (ibid.). What the brochure did not reveal was that it took several council members by surprise. According to them, several interim targets were in need of further preparatory work. And more importantly, they had not approved the brochure’s description of the working process.

DEMOCRATIC VALUES IN THE PROCESS It is not easy to discern specific democratic values from discussions in complex policy processes, not only because such values are often discussed implicitly, but also because several values are often discussed simultaneously. This case is no exception. I think it is possible, however, to point out some events and discussions which can be interpreted as invoking specific democratic values. Enlightened understanding Some discussions that arose during the process can be interpreted as being about enlightened understanding. From the beginning, participants of the Forest-Sector Council expressed uncertainty about what they were participating in and contributing to. At the second meeting in February 2003, for example, the representative from the Federation of Swedish Farmers (Lantbrukarnas Riksförbund, LRF), one of the largest and most significant organizations in the council, asked why SFA wanted to formulate forest-sector objectives (SFA 2003). This question was indeed justified. As mentioned, parliament had urged SFA to use regulations cautiously and to devise detailed objectives only if required. This could be interpreted as parliament deciding on a main rule, which implies a world without forest-sector objectives. It also implies that each attempt to flesh out the basic law with any rules, including objectives, had to be accompanied by a thorough argument showing that every possibility of using other softer techniques (advice, information, support, training programmes) had been exhausted. No such argument had been presented by SFA, however.

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At the same meeting, LRF’s representative also posed questions about the meaning of the forest-sector objectives. How important were they? How did they relate to other types of objectives, such as those worked out by the government in various budget documents (in SFA’s appropriation directives, for example) or to the Environmental Quality Objectives set by parliament? And how did they relate to other types of rules, like formal laws and ordinances? Furthermore, was it appropriate for SFA to hold decision-making power over the balance between two such fundamental social values as forest production and environmental protection? Was that not a task better allotted to national elected politicians? The LRF representative maintained that these questions needed to be addressed before the process could continue. However, such discussions did not occur at the February 2003 meeting; neither were they held at the next meeting in August. The questions continued to be met with silence, not only from SFA, but from other council members as well. The LRF representative returned to these matters at the fourth council meeting in October 2003, however. This time he had sharpened and extended his questions, and had put them in writing. He opened with following remarks: At the prospect of working out the forest-sector objectives, I miss a humble discussion about an appropriate construction of Management by Objectives (MBO) within the forest sector, based on experiences of earlier forest policy decisions and on experiences of MBO within society in general. MBO was developed within the private sector and was later introduced in the public sector. In this case, however, it is a matter of the state using MBO to control private owners and companies, which is a much less common situation. . . . And I’ve noticed, during earlier council meetings, that there is general confusion on this subject.

It would be devastating for the project, the LRF representative argued, if these fundamental questions were left dangling. He missed a more general discussion about MBO, he said, like the connection between objectives and means. Often, he contended, the means and the ways activities are evaluated are of great importance in the construction of a successful MBO. The difficulties in breaking down overall objectives into interim targets are also well known. Furthermore, objectives are known to have unintended effects that can compete or clash with one another. According to LRF, there were issues to be attended to before moving on: how MBO was to be constructed to work efficiently, the pros and cons of using MBO, the difficulties that could be expected to arise during implementation, how different objectives stated by different actors at different levels related to each other, and the level of detail required in the objectives. The LRF representative handed his note to SFA before the October meeting. He could not attend the meeting, however, and in his absence, his note

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was totally ignored. Instead, the council proceeded to discuss various interim targets. After the October meeting, the type of questions that LRF had posed in the note disappeared from the policy process, never to be addressed. Effective participation and agenda control During the process of establishing forest-sector objectives, there were discussions that can be interpreted as being about effective participation and agenda control. The meaning of these values is that all members in a policy process must have equal and effective opportunities for sharing their views about the nature of the policy with other members and that they should have opportunity to influence what to discuss and when. These types of questions surfaced at the Forest-Sector Council’s last meeting in April 2004. The meeting started with SFA declaring that it was about to finalize the forest-sector objectives. In fact, SFA had already decided at the beginning of the year to present the objectives at a forest conference to be hosted by the agency in May. These plans had not been presented to the council, and were kept secret throughout the April meeting. At this point, the process ground to a halt. Several council members thought that there were unanswered questions requiring further discussion. There were interim targets still in need of preparatory work, and some targets were still immersed in strong conflict. The LRF representative now repeated his earlier questions about the meaning of the forest-sector objectives, and maintained that this lack of clarity should be rectified before the objectives were published. It should also be noted that SFA had taken a firm grip on the policy-making process right from the start. It not only decided that forest-sector objectives were to be established, but also who to invite to enter the policy process. SFA got off to a quick start in October 2002, establishing specific guidelines at the first council meeting for how the work was to be conducted. And by the second meeting, the SFA working group had already composed a comprehensive and detailed final draft! This level of centralization was accepted initially because the council members had a certain perception about their role in the process, which I discuss in the next section. Representation and accountability Two final democratic values that were debated intensively during the last council meeting in April 2004 were representation and accountability. From the beginning, most members saw themselves as the independent experts and saw the Forest-Sector Council as an advisory body. As independent experts in an advisory role, they felt no need to devote a more serious discussion within their own organizations to the proposals and ideas of the SFA working group. And they had no problem with SFA controlling the process. The objectives were, after all, the responsibility of SFA.

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As the process evolved, however, the council members gradually began to realize that SFA, and especially its new director general, had different views of the nature of the council, a perception that became obvious during the last meeting in April 2004. At that meeting, SFA presented drafts of a foreword written by the director general and an introduction for the planned brochure. The texts described how the objectives had been devised. SFA stated that the objectives had been established within the Forest-Sector Council and that the council had included representatives from other state agencies, the forest industry, NGOs, research organizations and trade unions. It also stated that the stakeholders had accepted most of the objectives. These formulations caused several of the council members – led by the LRF representative – to raise questions about the nature of the council. Was it a deciding or an advising body? Were the council members to be regarded as independent experts or as representatives of organizations? (Whether participants were expected to act as experts or representatives was a further topic of debate in the ISO process for formulating a standard on social responsibility; see Kristina Tamm Hallström’s Chapter 4, this volume). The proposed text gave the impression, council members argued, that the council had a decisionmaking function and that its members participated as representatives of organizations. Council members wondered if their interpretation was correct. Whose objectives were they – SFA’s or the stakeholders’? It became clear during the meeting that SFA, led by its director general, saw the council as a deciding body rather than an advisory body. According to him, the forest-sector objectives were not only the responsibility of SFA; they constituted the joint responsibility of all the organizations included in the council. Consequently, each organization was to be accountable for the eventual failure of achieving these objectives. As one of my interviewees from the forest industry remembers the last meeting in April 2004: We had a sharp discussion at the meeting. ‘What is our role actually?’ That discussion appeared very late indeed. And we believed, during the whole process, that our role was different than the Director General of the SFA imagined. Because when we declared during the meeting that ‘we don’t approve of this’, he tried to push it through. He claimed that we all had to stand by the things we had discussed and find a solution we all could support. Both the forest owners and the forest companies responded by emphasizing that the council wasn’t a decisive body. But that’s just what he thought – that we would publish the objectives together and be jointly responsible for them. We maintained that at best we were a qualified group of advisers or a reference group, and that SFA had to be responsible for the objectives. The whole day through we discussed this question.

My interviews with people within SFA confirm this clash over the nature of the Forest-Sector Council. A high official within SFA made it clear in our interview that SFA intended to take only indirect responsibility for the forestsector objectives:

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SFA’s way of describing the situation evoked a range of questions among council members. What would happen, for example, if the objectives were not fulfilled in time? Had the stakeholders tied themselves to something by participating in the process? If so, which sanctions were available? And how should dissentient opinions be handled? Would it be possible for the stakeholder organizations to criticize the objectives in the future if they were responsible for them? Furthermore, if the objectives were the responsibility of all organizations represented in the council, these organizations should have had more to say about the way the work was organized. The composition of the ForestSector Council could have been discussed, for example. Even though SFA had ensured that ‘all organizations with an interest in forest policy’ were welcome to participate in the council, it never made clear what was meant by ‘an interest in forest policy’. And was it not problematic that some members represented forestland owners (that is, the ones who actually had to ensure that the objectives were fulfilled and the ones who would have to make sacrifices), and that other members represented actors who did not own forestland (and were being given the opportunity to exercise power over the property of others)? Should that not make a difference in such factors as participation, influence, veto points, and voting equality? Moreover, several council members noted that if their organizations were formally responsible for the formulation and fulfilment of objectives, they would have needed to anchor their opinions better within their organizations throughout the process, which would have been difficult, if not to say impossible, given the amount of work and the short time limits. * In May, two weeks after the stormy April meeting, SFA published its brochure containing the forest-sector objectives – a move that was not appreciated by all council members. Indeed, it came as a surprise to several of my interviewees, who believed that there were still interim targets requiring preparatory work. And questions about the status of the objectives and the council’s function had still not been adequately addressed. The strong reactions that had surfaced at the April meeting had led to only minor changes in the introductory writings of the brochure. The council members still believed that SFA was trying to shift its responsibility onto the stakeholders.

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CONCLUDING DISCUSSION: EXPLAINING THE COURSE OF EVENTS We have now seen that several democratic values surfaced (more or less explicitly) during the process in which the forest-sector objectives were being established. The values discussed most intensively were enlightened understanding and participation and accountability. The fact that these values became such hot issues was not a result of SFA – or any other actor – conducting a systematic and thorough analysis of the project’s democratic substance. Rather, they emerged unexpectedly in situations of conflict, primarily at the end of the process. In this concluding section, I argue that it was no coincidence that enlightened understanding, participation and accountability (rather than some other democratic values) became the significant issues, that they surfaced under circumstances marked by conflict, or that they arose towards the end of the process. I believe that this can be explained through a range of organizational factors. In the process of formulating the objectives, SFA took the role of a “central organizer” – not surprisingly. Parliament had declared, after all, that it was SFA’s duty to concretize the relatively vague and contradictory goals stated in Forest Law, and that it should do so in cooperation with relevant stakeholders. At the same time, SFA had been instructed by parliament to use caution and to flesh out the law with detailed rules only if required. So, were such detailed rules required? SFA never really answered that question, even though it was posed explicitly by the LRF representative at the second council meeting. I believe that SFA ducked this question because it had no good answer. I believe that it was critical for SFA to establish the forest-sector objectives. One should remember that SFA was being severely downsized since the early 1990s. And in the new, highly decentralized and volunteer-oriented forest policy, the role of SFA was anything but clear. During the 1990s, new actors had entered the scene – actors that could be seen as SFA competitors. We saw, for example, that together with private certification firms, forest-sector stakeholders had been creating specified environmental targets in the late 1990s. This eco-labelling of the forest demonstrated that the private forest owners and companies were able to assume responsibility for a productive and environmentally sustainable forest, without SFA. The forest-sector objectives can be seen as an attempt by SFA to show that it still had the ability to take action, and that it was an important and necessary actor within the forest sector. This interpretation could explain why SFA avoided not only the question of why forest-sector objectives needed to be worked out, but also avoided questions about the meaning of the objectives and the role of the council that were posed by the LRF representative during the second council meeting: SFA

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simply had no clear answers. It was a new situation for everybody, including SFA. It was eager to begin, however, and hoped that any problems that appeared could be solved along the way on a trial-and-error basis. Thus the prospect of gaining enlightened understanding was poor from the beginning. According to my interpretation, then, SFA had a strong motive for initiating the work with forest-sector objectives. But what about the stakeholders? It was clear from the previous discussion that they all joined the Forest-Sector Council without hesitation and that at the outset of the process they unconditionally approved the idea that forest-sector objectives should be established. It is not surprising that the environmental organizations shared this goal. Several of the interim targets concerned the environment, and the environmental organizations were, of course, pleased with the opportunity to influence interim targets that would increase environmental demands on the forest industry. But why should private forest owners and companies voluntarily contribute to and assume responsibility for a number of specified objectives that placed demands on them exceeding the demands of the Forest Law? I believe that this question must be understood from a historical perspective. As mentioned previously in this chapter, Swedish forest policy has long been based on an informal contract between the state on the one hand and private forest owners and the forest industry on the other. This contract not only implies that the state – in this case SFA – can generally expect the stakeholders to turn up when SFA asks them to do so. More important is the fact that SFA and the stakeholders have had a long history of cooperation in various constellations. The stakeholders are accustomed to participating in councils established by SFA, and it became clear in my interviews that forest owners and companies have come to accept and participate habitually in councils designed by SFA. In fact it is really not given careful thought (Sundström 2005 p. 55). This habitual behaviour is also supported by the extensive credit given to forest owners, companies and environmental organizations by professional experts and scientific methods. This belief has also been nurtured through the years, as councils established by SFA have typically dealt with limited and technical questions. It is my impression that the council members placed great confidence, at least initially, in professional expertise and scientific methods, and that their attitude is reflected in this case. They believed that they would be able to agree on detailed objectives within all target areas. All it took was solid preparatory work, persistence and a bit of goodwill. And if they were stuck, they would simply increase their efforts. The creation of the subgroups described previously can be seen as an expression of such increased efforts. Specific organizational factors can therefore explain why stakeholders initially – seemingly hastily and carelessly – joined the process: SFA was in its role of a “central organizer”, eager to start the process and therefore not inter-

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ested in digging deeply into questions about the actual need for formulating forest-sector objectives, about the meaning of those objectives and about the nature of the Forest-Sector Council. And that SFA initially succeeded in eliminating these questions from the process can be explained by the fact that there was considerable institutionalized behaviour involved. In the long run, however, SFA could not stop the discussions about representation and accountability from surfacing – a fact that is not surprising in hindsight. Given the basic organizational structure of the forest sector, the very idea of creating forest-sector objectives in a process in which all stakeholders participate and assume joint responsibility was abortive. Historically, there has been an unusual relationship between the state on the one hand and the private forest owners and companies on the other. As mentioned previously, the owners and the companies have accepted the fact that the state has influenced their private properties and that the private owners and companies, in turn, have influenced the state. This influence has traditionally been canalized through SFA. Thus owners and companies have provided SFA with expertise and arguments when the state has designed new forest policies. This arrangement has worked relatively well because SFA’s primary mission has been to defend the value of wood production, whereas another state agency – the Swedish Environmental Protection Agency – has primarily had the mission of defending the value of environmental sustainability. This all changed in 1993, when the new Forest Law was adopted. The new legislation meant that the difficult task of balancing the two values of economical production and environmental sustainability was delegated to SFA, which was instructed to consider both values equally. Thus SFA could no longer act as the voice of the forest owners and companies in the hallways of government; it was supposed to act in the future as the voice of all types of forest interests. In practice, this meant that SFA was to mediate between the various forest interests and to establish soft rules in order to fulfil the general forest objectives stated in Forest Law. And of course it was imperative for SFA that the stakeholders – especially the forest owners and the industry – took responsibility for such rules. After all, 75 per cent of Swedish forestland is owned by these private stakeholders, and they must take all the concrete measures necessary in order to reach the objectives. The organizations for which SFA is to serve as mediator are not just any organizations; they are interest organizations. And this fact proved problematic for SFA. In its final meeting in April 2004, the stakeholders declared that their organizations could not usually present themselves as negotiators and compromisers; they can never place themselves in situations in which they are perceived as being content with second best. By doing so they would relinquish the opportunity of performing the task for which they were established.

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Interest organizations must always aim, the stakeholders argued, at what they believe to be the optimal solution. They must provide SFA with their best arguments in every situation. Then it is SFA’s duty to make an integrated judgement and propose new rules and policies – proposals that must be the sole responsibility of SFA. This also means that the interest organizations can criticize the proposals. * Modern organizations face different problems when the modes of governing in society are shifting from government to governance. Today’s organizations are increasingly urged – not least by states – to participate in new types of cooperation and activities that create new roles for the organizations. Old and deep-rooted notions of who they are (identities), what they want (preferences), and what they can do (strategies) are challenged. Sometimes organizations manage to assume these new roles. But as this case demonstrates, the demands placed upon them are sometimes too large. The new order – governance – does not always seem to fit old actors.

INTERVIEWS The Government Office Linda Hedlund, Ministry of Enterprise, Energy and Communications, 18 February 2004 Hans Nilsagård, Ministry of Enterprise, Energy and Communications, 3 March 2004 Roland Bjuremalm, Ministry of Enterprise, Energy and Communications, 30 March 2004 Nilla Thomsson, Ministry of the Environment, 25 March 2004 Swedish Forest Agency (SFA) Håkan Wirtén, 31 March 2004 Lars Ekberg, 31 March 2004 Erik Sollander, 23 March 2004 and 4 February 2005 Hillevi Eriksson, 23 March 2004 Gunnar Nordanstig, 3 June 2005

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Members of the Forest Sector Council Robert Andrén, The Swedish Environmental Protection Agency, 21 April 2004 Jonas Rudberg, The Swedish Society for Nature Conservation, 25 May 2005 Jan Sandström, The Federation of Swedish Farmers, 7 November 2003, 17 May 2004 and 8 February 2005 Herman Sundqvist, Sveaskog, 20 April 2004 Stefan Wirtén, The Swedish Forest Industries Federation, 4 June 2004

NOTES 1

2 3

4

5

The document, Skogliga sektorsmål, which SFA has translated into Quantitative Targets of Swedish Forest Policy, is available in English at the SFA home site http://www.skogsstyrelsen.se (accessed 6 June 2004). All the translations in this chapter are my own. This chapter is based on a more detailed report, which is available only in Swedish: Målstyrningen drar åt skogen. Om government och governance i svensk skogspolitik (Sundström 2005). (Management by Objectives Takes to the Woods. On Government and Governance within Swedish Forest Policy). At some points in this chapter, I draw conclusions from empirical material that was reported in the larger study but is not reported in this text. In 1999 the Swedish Parliament established 15 environmental quality objectives to guide Sweden towards a sustainable society. They were later increased to 16. These objectives are to work as benchmarks for all environmentally related development in Sweden, regardless of where it is implemented and by whom. The overriding aim is to solve all major environmental problems within one generation. One of the 16 objectives is sustainable forests, which has been broken down into four interim targets, included in SFA’s forest-sector objectives. These five meetings were held on 1 April 2003, 22 August 2003, 10 October 2003, 18 November 2003 and 21 April 2004.

7. Democratic priority setting? Organizing multiple stakeholders to make decisions in the healthcare sector Ebba Sjögren and Karin Fernler This chapter focuses on efforts to enact stakeholder participation in decisionmaking processes, as illustrated by a comparison of two examples of priority setting in the Swedish healthcare sector. Healthcare priorities have historically been an indirect result of ordinary political budgetary processes, and the outcome of decision making by individual medical practitioners. Thus in contrast to Göran Sundström’s chapter on forest-sector objectives, institutionalized forms for stakeholder participation did not characterize these two examples. On the contrary, the value of broad stakeholder involvement is relatively new in the field of healthcare priorities. In recent years it has been increasingly argued that more systematic and transparent processes of priority setting should replace the more traditionally closed processes by which the healthcare sector has operated (Ham 1997, Daniels and Sabin 2002). The need for broad participation in setting healthcare priorities has been argued on several grounds: normative, substantive and instrumental (cf. Stirling 2005). Broad participation is a desirable value in democratically organized societies. In addition to this normative justification, broad participation is argued for on the grounds that one’s social knowledge, values and meanings should determine the outcome of prioritization decisions. To reflect societal values – and thereby ensure substantially better outcomes – requires the participation of a wide variety of actors. A third justification has been that broad participation is needed in order to gain a general understanding of and acceptance for the outcomes of priority-setting processes. In other words, the instrumental capacity to deliver socially credible outcomes is enhanced by broad participation (Tenbensel 2000). These justifications combine a consideration for the effectiveness of the decision-making processes with the legitimacy of their outcome. Studies of attempts to undertake more transparent priority setting with broad participation suggest, however, that it is often a complicated task (Tenbensel 2002, PrioriteringsCentrum 2007). We argue in this chapter that the difficulties in achieving effective and legitimate priority setting follow partly from the prob94

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lems of fulfilling the two key sets of assumptions that underlie most attempts at organizing such processes. The first assumptions concern the participants in the process. These actors are required not only to be representative of some particular category of actors meriting participation. They are also presumed to have known and consistent values and interests, which they can articulate in a coherent and policyrelevant manner. Participants are also assumed to have coherent and policy-relevant knowledge.1 This assumption follows from a second set of ideas concerning the role of knowledge in decision-making processes and the characteristics of such knowledge. The underlying notion is that relevant knowledge about medical conditions and their successful treatment should play an essential role in determining priority decisions (Ham 1997, Tenbensel 2000). Specifically, coherent and relevant facts for discussion are presumed to exist prior to and exogenous to the decision-making processes. It is also assumed that these facts are undisputed or that, as a result of the decision-making process, they will no longer be disputed (Sjögren 2006). Thus such facts are supposed to resolve many of the fundamental value conflicts that the need for prioritization brings to the fore. In this chapter, we question these assumptions about the character of both participants and knowledge as enacted in practice. A comparison of two attempts at priority setting in the Swedish healthcare system will serve as a starting point for this discussion: the Weight Project (WP) and the Pharmaceutical Benefits Board (PBB). WP was a two-year policy initiative within a county2 that was intended to result in the formulation of guidelines for the prevention and treatment of overweight.3 PBB is a central governmental agency tasked with deciding the subsidization status of all prescription pharmaceuticals in Sweden.4 The formulation of a specific goal for WP is compared in this chapter with PBB’s efforts to decide on the subsidization status of a number of pharmaceuticals. The empirical material discussed in this chapter consists of interviews with participants, participant observations at meetings and documentation gathered over the duration of these two decision-making processes (see Fernler 2005 and Sjögren 2006 for additional details on method). WP and PBB differ in their broader organizational setting: WP is a county council initiative and PBB is a central government agency. Furthermore the phase of WP discussed in this chapter is primarily an example of a policymaking decision process, whereas the work of PBB is policy implementation. Notwithstanding these differences, the two cases concern organizing processes of decision making aimed at priority setting. The two cases reflect the idea that the setting of priorities should be based upon knowledge of medical conditions and their successful treatment and should involve a wide range of participants. Both activities are subject to the same vague prioritization principles

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(Socialutskottet 1997) agreed upon by the Swedish Parliament in 1997: equal human value (all people have an equal right to life and health); need solidarity (those with the greatest need for treatment have priority over those with lesser need); and cost effectiveness (the benefit of treatment must be reasonable in relation to its cost). Before we embark on a comparison of WP and PBB, the following section provides a brief background to the two cases, and further explanation of the activities that serve as the topic of our comparison. The subsequent section goes on to compare how the two cases tackled the dual problems of setting priorities.

BACKGROUND TO THE CASES Swedish politicians and civil servants initiated the Weight Project (WP) in a large county in Sweden. Its primary purpose was to develop a plan for prioritizing the overweight issue within the context of other health issues in the county, and determining how it could be prevented and treated. A secondary goal was to improve the needs prioritization experience and competence of the county council’s purchasers. WP was designed in two phases encompassing a two-year period. The first six-month phase was intended to formulate a specific goal for the status of overweight in the county’s population. This goal would then guide the formulation of concrete activities during the second phase. In order for the goal to serve its intended purpose, it was supposed to be realistic and knowledgebased. In this chapter we focus on the first phase of WP, leading up to the formulation of a goal. In particular, we focus on the activities of three WP working groups, which were responsible for much of the work that occurred in the first phase. These working groups were tasked with compiling knowledge about the prevalence and problems of overweight, appropriate prevention and treatment strategies and measurement of success.5 The Health Status Group, primarily comprising civil servants from the purchasing division of the county council, was responsible for providing knowledge about the present health situation of overweight citizens. The Intervention Group was instructed to compile knowledge about ways to prevent and treat overweight. Its membership was dominated by healthcare professionals recruited from various clinics and wards in the provider organization of the county council.6 The Evaluation Group, comprising civil servants, was in charge of producing a list of varyingly ambitious goals addressing the prevalence and treatment of overweight in the county’s population. We now compare the activities of the WP working groups to activities undertaken by two working groups within the Pharmaceutical Benefits Board (PBB), a Swedish governmental agency created in 2002,7 with the task of

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deciding which prescription drugs should be included in the public pharmaceutical benefits scheme. Because of a systematic oversight in the status of drug subsidization, undertaken by experts and based on a consideration of medical and economic efficiency criteria, legislators intended to achieve a more fair and effective allocation of resources in the healthcare sector (New Pharmaceutical Benefits Bill 2001). The work of evaluating pharmaceutical characteristics is typically undertaken in a dedicated working group, comprising two or more employees of PBB.8 Based on a working group’s findings, the decision-making Board of Directors of PBB9 is instructed by law to approve subsidy for those pharmaceuticals if: ‘[T]he cost of using the pharmaceutical . . . is reasonable from medical, humanitarian and socio-economic perspectives’ (SFS 2002, Section 15). If a pharmaceutical does not fulfil these criteria, it is to be denied subsidy10 or approved subsidy for those restricted uses judged to fulfil the criteria. The law does not specify what characterizes a ‘reasonable’ drug, however, or what characteristics ‘medical, humanitarian and socio-economic perspectives’ take into consideration. It is the task of PBB to interpret the legislators’ intentions (New Pharmaceutical Benefits Bill 2001). The activities that we focus on in this chapter are those of the working groups tasked with evaluating the subsidization status of pharmaceuticals used for treatment of migraine (the migraine group) and stomach-acid related disorders (the stomach-acid group). These were the pilot groups for the PBB’s product assortment review.11 We now turn to a comparison of the efforts of the WP and PBB working groups tasked with organizing participants and knowledge to enable a decision to be made. We begin by looking at the way healthcare professionals and their knowledge were organized into both processes.

ORGANIZING KNOWLEDGEABLE PARTICIPANTS: THE CONTESTED ROLE OF HEALTHCARE PROFESSIONALS The efforts to compile undisputed, coherent and relevant knowledge in WP and PBB decision-making processes raised practical issues related to determining the “facts of the matter” and the role of healthcare professionals. In both cases, healthcare professionals were perceived as an important stakeholder group whose participation was self-evident in principle. The realization of this participation in practice was less obvious, however. Healthcare professionals in relation to an administrative logic The appropriate role of healthcare professionals was discussed at an early stage of PBB. At the launch of the migraine and stomach-acid groups, PBB’s

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director general as well as its chairman of the board discussed the specific roles for this group of actors in the work process. Expressing sentiments that were later echoed in interviews with migraine and stomach-acid group members, they argued that PBB’s mandate explicitly required an administrative and aggregated perspective on subsidization and treatment choice. Although the expertise of healthcare professionals made them valuable participants, they were not to be PBB employees. Rather, they were to serve as appointed experts to the working groups, supporting the compilation of knowledge relevant to the evaluation of the status of drug subsidization. They would have no say, however, about the way their knowledge of the medical effects of pharmaceutical use was judged in relation to economic or other types of knowledge. As for healthcare professionals on the Board of the PBB, informants stressed that the combined consideration of medical, humanitarian and socioeconomic perspectives on pharmaceutical use was critical to PBB’s task. Hence, PBB could not grant special privilege to the medical participants or place greater weight on their specialized knowledge about the treatment effects of pharmaceuticals. To make appropriate decisions about a subsidy, interviewees stated, it was more important to understand the need for and means of comparing the cost of achieving a specific treatment outcome – the cost per effect for different drugs. As the health economist in the migraine group told us, economics ‘defines the playing field’.12 Thus informants acknowledged the importance of healthcare professionals’ participation on the Board of the PBB. Their value lay in their being a generic representative of an important stakeholder group, however, not in their specific knowledge about the medical effects of pharmaceuticals. Informants explicitly emphasized that the PBB decision-making process should be guided by administrative logic, particularly as expressed in knowledge of health economics. This administrative logic held precedence over the medical-professional logic that physicians and other healthcare professionals were assumed to possess. WP can also be characterized as organized in accordance with administrative logic. In contrast to PBB, however, healthcare professionals were ascribed a broader and less clear-cut role. This led to contestations regarding the delineation of the appropriate identity and behaviour of the healthcare professionals. The planned role of healthcare professionals in WP was described in various documents and outlined at the project kick-off meeting. At this meeting, the project managers explained that the overarching aim of the project was to assist the purchaser organization to prioritize overweight – the problem of overweight in the population and the issues associated with overweight. Hence, it was the purchasers’ representatives who were responsible for coordinating and leading the project.

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To aid them in realizing this task, a variety of actors had been recruited. The primary role of the healthcare professionals was to provide the project with the knowledge required for the purchasing organization to be able to prioritize the needs of overweight patients relative to other healthcare needs. A number of controversies soon emerged, however, primarily centred on the appropriate and relevant knowledge to be compiled for WP. One recurring point of contention concerned the importance of facticity – of having the correct facts. This tension was already visible at the kick-off meeting, when one of the project managers concluded a long presentation with the comment that ‘lack of physical activity is the single largest risk factor of overweight, whereas food intake is a health-preserving factor’ (Observation notes, 20 September 2000). This statement immediately evoked a discussion among a few professionals on whether lack of physical activity or food intake is the primary risk factor for overweight. All parties agreed that both factors were important. But which was most important? The debate ended when the project managers intervened to state that a full agenda and lack of time made it necessary to move on with the meeting. Yet the question of facticity continued to appear. One example was the continuous controversy between project managers and healthcare professionals on the need for compiling representative knowledge. This was evident in the debate over the knowledge compiled by the Health Status Group. The Health Status Group had originally been created as part of another project organized within one geographical area of the county. When the countywide WP was initiated, the group had been at work for a few months and had collected a significant amount of material. The group was therefore merged into the new project. Because the material referred to a limited geographic area, however, many healthcare professionals raised concerns that it was not representative of the county’s population, and argued for the need to collect more data. The project managers countered that there was neither the time nor the need to collect additional data, because the existing data were sufficiently accurate. Healthcare professionals and project managers also differed in their judgements about the need for clear and coherent assumptions underpinning the working groups’ knowledge claims. Many meetings of the Intervention Group were spent discussing how to collect knowledge about the effects of prevention and treatment methods. Should the knowledge be based on clinical guidelines produced by various research institutes and agencies? Should the members of the Intervention Group themselves collect, analyse and present summary results of a number of clinical studies? Or should the knowledge represent the Intervention Group’s consensual, expertise estimations of what was practically feasible to accomplish in the healthcare organization of the county council?

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The project managers tried repeatedly to make the participating healthcare professionals choose any criteria for knowledge and start compiling knowledge. They argued that the lack of coherent and undisputed knowledge could be handled by compiling knowledge from many perspectives. Yet attempts to make the healthcare professionals adopt more pragmatic criteria for gathering knowledge failed. They continued to strive to get “the facts” straight, while the project manager sought to move the project along according to its planned timetable. Similar controversies about the relevant scope of knowledge arose in the PBB working groups, despite the more limited role ascribed to healthcare professionals. In comparison to the WP’s conflicts, however, these controversies were less heated and seemingly less disruptive to the work processes of the migraine and stomach-acid groups. Contested delimitations of knowledge and the role of participants In the migraine group, an early discussion arose about the scope of the working group’s evaluation and, by extension, the scope of PBB’s regulatory mandate. The impetus behind this debate was the migraine group’s appointed medical experts, who expressed the need to include a more detailed evaluation of migraine treatment, which included nonpharmaceutical interventions. The other working group members argued against this suggestion, referencing PBB’s limited formal mandate: to decide the subsidization status of prescription pharmaceuticals. It was only relevant, therefore, to consider knowledge about pharmaceutical use. The limited scope won the day. Although the final report of the migraine group did include a short description of nonpharmaceutical treatments (PBB 2005), the focus was clearly on knowledge about the use of evaluated pharmaceuticals. In hindsight, the delimitation of relevant knowledge through reference to PBB’s mandate does not appear to be difficult to achieve or maintain, at least in the formal documentation emanating from the group’s work. Other questions about which knowledge to consider in the migraine and stomach-acid groups proved more challenging. From an early stage, the stomach-acid group grappled with the question of which pharmaceutical use to consider. At an early stage, the Board of PBB had expressed the relevance of considering ‘actual use’. In practice, however, what constituted the actual use of a particular drug was not evident. One source of incoherence highlighted by the project manager of the stomach-acid group was the difference between the formally approved treatment areas for the pharmaceuticals13 and physicians’ prescribing of the drug in medical practice. This inconsistency posed a problem for the stomach-acid group, because ‘unapproved use creates costs, just as approved uses do’ (Interview, health economist stomach-acid group, 23 March 2004). The “actual” effects of unapproved use

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highlighted a principle question about the relevant knowledge to be considered when evaluating the medical and economic effects of pharmaceuticals. With regard to the principle matter – how off-label prescriptions should be dealt with – the migraine group, following consultation with and instruction from the Board of PBB, concluded that although off-label use was a form of “actual” pharmaceutical usage in medical practice, it was not consistent with the formal mandate of PBB. As one interviewee noted: ‘we can’t do anything about [unapproved use] because the rule is that a product can be subsidized only for treatment of an approved diagnosis’ (Interview, project manager stomach-acid group, 14 March 2004). Knowledge about unapproved use was therefore defined as being outside the relevant scope of PBB’s evaluations. Consistent with the migraine group’s conclusion, then, contestation about the scope of relevant knowledge was resolved by referencing the purpose of PBB, as defined by formal rules and administrative logic. To summarize, the comparison of events in WP’s and PBB’s working groups illustrates how similar controversies arose over the relevant scope of knowledge and the role of healthcare professionals. Whereas these questions were ostensibly resolved in the PBB working groups, they remained more open, visible and unresolved in WP. One example was the unwillingness of WP’s healthcare professionals to discount organizational and financial considerations when compiling knowledge about overweight treatment and prevention. The project managers argued that such considerations were the responsibility of the politicians, but the healthcare professionals were of a different opinion. They noted that overweight treatment placed demands on the competence of the personnel and the structure of the organization, which the existing healthcare organization could not fulfil. It was necessary, therefore, to consider both organizational and financial issues when compiling knowledge about treatment options. The project managers’ attempts to make the participating healthcare professionals define themselves as providers of specific forms of knowledge within a political organization were met with limited success, as the following exchange illustrates: Project Manager: But we work in a political organization. We must adapt to the logic and timelines of the politicians! Healthcare Professional: You may work in a political organization. I don’t!

The recurrent refusal of the participating healthcare professionals to adapt to the administrative logic and planned timeline of the project ultimately resulted in the failure of the Intervention Group to present a coherent knowledge base about the prevention and treatment of overweight. The threat of not achieving the working group’s intended purpose was insufficient to resolve the conflicts over the role of the healthcare professionals. There was no perceived need to

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follow the timeline set by the politicians, in light of the problems of compiling coherent, relevant and undisputed facts. This situation differs from that of the PBB working groups; our interviewees from these groups expressed significant agreement over the imperative that PBB must make a decision, regardless of the state of knowledge about the effects of a pharmaceutical’s use. This ‘decision imperative’ was attributed to PBB’s governing legislation and related regulation. As Members of the Board of PBB and both working groups emphasized, delaying a decision indefinitely was not a valid course of action in the long term (Interview with project manager, migraine group, 9 September 2004 and Interview with project manager, stomach-acid group, 22 April 2005). The shared view that a decision must be made seemed to create willingness among all our interviewees to be pragmatic and to “make do” with the best knowledge available – within the constraints of time, budget and scope set by PBB’s formal mandate. Healthcare professionals’ participation: differing degrees of organization The controversies in WP’s and PBB’s working groups over the scope of relevant knowledge highlight a similar tension among the various ascribed roles for healthcare professionals participating in these decision-making processes. Yet our comparison suggests that the two cases differed in their recognition of this tension and the means for dealing with it. At an early stage, the people organizing PBB explicitly raised the topic of the role of healthcare professionals, noting a level of tension between the logic governing the PBB’s task and the logic underpinning medical practice. They also tried to organize this tension out of the process by giving healthcare professionals specific roles to fill: as appointed experts and as generic stakeholder representatives. Although this approach did not prevent controversy, our analysis suggests a greater acceptance for resolving any controversies that did arise, through reference to formal instructions. Controversy within the PBB working groups can also be characterized as being more limited than those in WP. The formal mandate of PBB was a common means for delimiting the scope of relevant knowledge. Furthermore, lack of ‘relevant’ knowledge was not considered adequate grounds for delaying a subsidy decision indefinitely. The PBB’s perceived decision imperative superseded controversies over both relevance of knowledge and lack of knowledge. In contrast, WP’s process was characterized by more open deliberations about the scope of relevant knowledge and the consequence of lack of knowledge. It was explicitly stated by the project managers, for instance, that the healthcare professionals of the Intervention Group should decide among themselves the specific character of their task, including the type of knowledge they wanted to and were capable of collecting. This ostensibly open mandate for

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participating healthcare professionals to organize their own participation, together with the project’s aggressive timetable and the lack of clarity about how to compile knowledge arguably contributed to the difficulties in closing the controversies which subsequently arose. Unlike PBB, which laboured under an acknowledged and explicit decision imperative, WP had many purposes, one of which was to learn about setting priorities. The lack of a single, ultimate purpose is noteworthy in light of the failure of the WP working groups to deliver “decision-able” knowledge. Failure to deal effectively with controversy in the WP working groups can therefore be seen to coincide with a failure to close the WP process as a whole. A comparison of the organizing of healthcare professionals’ participation in WP’s and PBB’s working groups highlights differences in how the scope and forms of participation of healthcare professionals and their knowledge was preformatted. In the following section, we consider the efforts to organize patients as participants in the working groups. These attempts also proved problematic due to lack of preformatting.

ACHIEVING APPROPRIATE REPRESENTATION: INVOLVING PATIENTS IN DECISION-MAKING PROCESSES In WP’s and PBB’s working groups, efforts to realize broad participation through the involvement of patients was complicated by questions on how to secure representative participants with coherent, objective and policy-relevant knowledge. The status of patient representation and the status of patient knowledge were recurrent topics of debate. Representing whom? The status of the patients’ representative The question of representation arose in both cases in relation to the practicality of who should represent patients. Overweight patients were initially represented in WP by a member of a patients’ association. This small association was considered to be ‘unrepresentative’ by other WP patients, however, because it organized a small minority of overweight patients – an even smaller subgroup of those who belonged to the subgroup of severely obese patients. A further problem was that the association lacked financial and other organizational resources. For example, it could not provide WP with aggregate data about the experiences, interests and needs of overweight patients. Over time, the administrators raised questions about overemphasis, not only on the severely obese, but also on the severely obese people who did not expect to lose weight, even after treatment. Perhaps the representative represented only himself. We return to these

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concerns, which ultimately led to a reorganization of patient participation in the second phase of WP. The challenges that were addressed to the patients’ representative in WP suggest an underlying question about who should be a participant if a relevant patient perspective was to be achieved. WP and PBB’s migraine and stomachacid groups all faced the same dilemma: no obvious, single counterpart that could source representative participants. In the migraine group, a perceived problem was that multiple associations claimed to represent migraine patients. In addition to the ostensibly specialized Migränförbundet (the Migraine Association), an organization called Smärtföreningen (the Pain Association) claimed to organize individuals with migraine. The project manager for the migraine group reflected that competition between these two patient organizations was detrimental to the agency’s work because ‘patient organization politics create problems of both representation and legitimacy’. The practical problem of patient representation was partly overshadowed by the principle question of whether patients should participate at all in PBB’s evaluation of their own medical condition. As one project manager noted: ‘[PBB] is instructed to take a societal view of pharmaceutical use, and from that perspective individual patient groups are “special interests” that should not be granted special consideration; we’re supposed to care about everyone.’ Thus in order to take a broad view, it was obviously not desirable for PBB to pay too much attention to any one group. Yet our interviewees acknowledged that the legitimacy of PBB’s work could suffer if there was no patient involvement. A further concern was that patients’ participation in the working groups would not necessarily lead to patients’ acceptance of PBB’s decisions, because: ‘everyone wants to have their treatments subsidized – no one wants a change from the system [in which all pharmaceutical use was subsidized]’ (health economist, stomach-acid group). In addition to these major practical concerns about obtaining representative patient participation, both WP and PBB grappled with how to use the knowledge about the patient perspective. Knowledge from the “patient perspective”: problems of usability The patient perspective in the first phase of WP was provided by one individual who participated in the general working group meetings. The patients’ representative often had a different view than the county council representatives did. One notable source of conflict concerned the role of “values and ethics” in the WP working groups. Specifically, there were different views as to whether or not values and ethics were to be included in the compilation of knowledge. The tension related to combining or separating a consideration of facts and

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values was highlighted in the Evaluation Group’s work to formulate a list of potential goals to address overweight in the county. Initially, the project managers tried to get the Evaluation Group to formulate goals associated with the population’s overweight-related health status, rather than weight reduction per se. The result was goals like ‘no overweight in the population’ and ‘no complications of overweight in the population’. Many members of the working group expressed difficulty understanding the relevance of such abstract goals. The patients’ representative expressed concern that the goals failed to address the needs of those patients who remained overweight: ‘All the goals relate to making people thinner. There is no room for us in the list of goals. Aren’t we who remain obese entitled to reasonable and dignified treatment? ’ The project managers did not see this as a concern, because the list of goals concerned the population. The actual treatment of individual patients and patient groups would be considered in treatment manuals and other practical tools that were developed in the second phase of WP. As before, the patients’ representative perceived value issues in matters that the project managers perceived to be value neutral. Within the working groups of PBB, there was no explicit and visible confrontation over the principle status of values versus facts. For one thing, there was a comparatively high level of preformatting the PBB’s formal structure and working processes, entailing the organizational and temporal separation of knowledge compilation and its evaluation. Compiling knowledge about the effects of a pharmaceutical was the formal task of the working groups, and these activities were to precede the PBB Board’s decision about the pharmaceutical’s subsidization status. Furthermore the migraine and stomach-acid groups had limited interaction with patient representatives. Anecdotal evidence suggests grounds for potential controversy, however, had such interaction occurred. In an interview following the full-day conference organized by PBB, during which the outcome of the migraine group was publicly announced, the project manager commented on a panel discussion that had occurred between members of several patients’ associations: ‘There’s a big difference in the level of sophistication in the patient associations. Some of the associations are very savvy and know what type of data we need; they undertake surveys and are very active in getting aggregate information. Other organizations haven’t caught on yet.’ Towards the end of the working group’s activities, members of the stomach-acid group speculated in a similar manner about how they could have considered the patients’ perspective on pharmaceutical use. It was not selfevident, they noted, that patients’ knowledge would have been in a usable form, given that most of the knowledge compiled by the working group comprised quantitative, aggregate data on larger patient populations. Thus it was recognized that there was a question about the status of the information

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provided by patients’ representatives – even if they were members of one of the patients’ associations. Although it was important to have information about the patients, it was not evident that the relevant information could best be obtained from the patients. In summary, attempts at securing broad participation in WP’s and PBB’s working groups through the participation of patients raised numerous and major practical problems. It is relevant to note that both cases saw the adoption of a shared solution to the problem of patient participation: the separation of the patient perspective from the working groups through the creation of a separate patient group. A shared solution: the separate organization of patients WP’s and PBB’s working groups faced many issues related to questions about how to appropriately include a patient perspective: who should be involved as participants, and, particularly in WP, how to use the knowledge provided by these participants. Initially, efforts were made to integrate patient participants in the ongoing knowledge compilation and decision-making processes. The Board of PBB formalized an instruction concerning the rights of patients’ organizations, for example; they were to participate as reviewers of working group activities. This instruction came after the completion of the migraine group, in which patient participation was acknowledged by informants to have been extremely limited. Subsequent to the completion of the stomach-acid group one year later, however, PBB created a new, separate formal organization for patients’ involvement in the PBB’s work. The Brukarrådet (User Group) is an advisory body with six permanent members appointed by the Swedish Disability Federation and two pensioner organizations. Its purpose is to supply a general patient perspective to the working groups, and to provide a forum for contacts among members of specific patient organizations who can be called to specific meetings. The creation of the User Group formalized the patient perspective as something requiring organization, because all the members of the User Group are appointed by organizations and members of patients’ associations. WP instituted a similar organizational separation of the patient perspective in the project’s second phase. In parallel to the organization of the PBB User Group, representatives were chosen from larger and more established patients’ associations – based on recommendations from the Swedish Disability Federation. These patients’ associations organized members suffering from illnesses like diabetes and epilepsy that are exacerbated by overweight. The newly recruited patients’ representatives were organized into a separate Reference Group, which could review and comment on the output of WP, but not participate in the actual formulation. As with PBB, WP’s patient perspec-

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tive came to be organizationally separate from the activities associated with the formulation of treatment policies. Patient participation was therefore acknowledged as being of major importance for WP and PBB. Both cases illustrate numerous controversies regarding the appropriate configuration of patient participants, however, as well as the appropriate formulation of patients’ knowledge. A recurring tension can be found between the demands for patients as individuals versus patients as a group. Unlike the healthcare professionals participating in the WP’s working groups and the migraine and stomach-acid groups, patients’ representatives and patient-sourced knowledge were questioned on the basis of being individual. The sourcing of patients’ representatives from large associations could be seen as an attempt to organize patients as a generic group in a more limited role ascribed to them within the context of the decision-making processes. Taken together, our comparison of efforts to enact the participation of healthcare professionals and patients in WP’s and PBB’s working groups highlight similar responses to practical problems with achieving “decision-able” participants and knowledge. In the next section, we reflect on how these empirical observations can be understood in relation to formulating and enacting rules of dialogue.

ORGANIZING “DECISION-ABLE” ACTORS AND KNOWLEDGE This chapter considers efforts to enact stakeholder participation in decisionmaking processes, as illustrated by a comparison of two examples of priority setting in the Swedish healthcare sector. In particular, we analysed the organizing of healthcare professionals and patients as participants in the studied cases. In both cases, there was a principle agreement on the importance of including both categories of actors. This idea proved challenging in practice, however. This chapter illustrates empirically how actual participants in decision-making processes do not immediately and automatically assume the role and characteristics presumed of them. Appropriate actors: formatting participants’ identity and behaviour We have highlighted tensions associated with various expectations on the identity, interest and behaviour of healthcare professionals and patients, primarily in relation to the knowledge and values appropriate for them to bring into the processes we studied. We have shown how several such conflicts were resolved in the PBB working groups through reference to and participants’ acceptance of formal rules and mandates. We have also shown, by comparison, how WP’s lack of formatted roles may have contributed to open conflicts

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and to the visible failure to resolve such conflicts over participation. In a notable example, the failure to resolve conflicts in the Intervention Group ultimately contributed to the working group’s failure to complete its formal task. To participate successfully, participants and their knowledge must be organized and formatted to fit the decision-making processes of WP and PBB. A comparison of PBB and WP suggests that the PBB working groups – despite being pilot projects – were better organized at the outset. Our comparison points to different degrees and means of formatting. In the case of PBB, an important source of preformatting was the use of formal, explicit rules delimiting PBB’s purpose, formal organizational structure, acknowledged stakeholders, and types or sources of knowledge. These rules made it comparatively easy to define in advance which actors were relevant participants – and in what organizational form they could participate. Healthcare professionals, for example, were defined as either generic representatives of a PBB stakeholder group or as appointed experts to the working groups. Because there was a clear idea about who and what should be “in”, certain conflicts were “organized out” ahead of time. The formal rules also provided a strong framework for meeting various challenges to the delimited roles and tasks they outlined. The demand to consider all steps for migraine treatment was successfully denied, for example, on the grounds that it lay outside the scope of the PBB’s mandate. In the case of patient participation in PBB, there was comparatively less preformatting – particularly as regards the scope and form of their involvement in the evaluation of specific groups of pharmaceuticals. Over time, the problem of how to involve patients was resolved through the “organizing out” of the patient perspective into a separate group. This way of organizing patients’ participation was also used in WP, where it was also unclear from the outset how to secure a patient perspective in practice. Furthermore, the organizing of patients in both cases explicitly emphasized the importance of involving well-organized patients – representatives of large, well-structured patients’ associations. In WP, the lack of role preformatting was not limited to patients. There was a general lack of formalized rules. There were, for example, multiple purposes for the project as a whole, and one of the purposes was to gain experience about how to undertake such processes. In addition, there were few explicit roles ascribed to the participants. Healthcare professionals were instructed to provide knowledge, for instance; but the type of knowledge was not specified. Rather, participants were encouraged to make their own delimitations based on a combination of professional judgement and project-related time and resource constraints. Although there were few explicit rules, the project managers can be seen to have had implicit expectations for and assumptions about the process and its

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participants. It was expected, for example, that all participants accepted the notion that the process was subject to political control and administrative logic. The recurring controversies in WP illustrate, however, that both healthcare professionals and patients were governed by alternative logics of appropriateness (March and Simon 1958). This meant that there were neither common explicit rules nor shared implicit expectations for the workings of WP. Conflicts were not “organized out” ahead of time, as was done in the case of PBB, and it proved difficult to resolve conflicts once the process had commenced. The project managers experienced limited success in developing the procedural forms for undertaking the project cooperatively, concurrent with the actual undertaking of the project. PBB was similarly required to develop its procedural forms in practice. Once more, however, this development was delimited and formatted by the formal rules established before PBB’s inception. It was with reference to legislation, for example, that the emphasis on health economics over medical-professional knowledge about pharmaceutical use was justified. There are several explanations for the formatting differences we observed. Empirically, these differences in formatting can be explained by differences in the organizational placement of the two cases. PBB was a central governmental agency, regulated by state legislation. WP, in contrast, was a county council initiative governed by locally elected politicians and their civil servants. On a more general theoretical level, PBB’s greater distance from the practice it sought to regulate provides one explanation for its more explicit and clear preformatting. This situation differs from that of WP, which was closer to practice; the initiating county council was also a purchaser and provider of overweight prevention and treatment. The participating healthcare professionals, therefore, were both regulators and presumptive “regulatees”. Similarly, the patients’ representative was both decision maker and future user of WP’s outcome. These participants were thus highly aware of the possible concrete, practical consequences of WP, and felt responsible for them (cf. Jacobsson and Noaksson 2006). This could explain the tendency for healthcare professionals and patients to attempt to broaden WP’s scope outside the framework defined by the initiating politicians and civil servants. Appropriate knowledge: formatting form and content Our comparison of WP and PBB suggests that “formatting” has important implications for what is perceived to be appropriate participation. This formatting includes both the role and “form” of participants, as well as their knowledge. The two cases illustrate the need to format knowledge in order for it to be useful in the context of a particular decision-making process (see Linda Soneryd’s Chapter 8, this volume). Whereas PBB had clear instructions about the types of knowledge that were relevant to compile in light of PBB’s

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mandate, there were few similar instructions for WP. Consequently, there were many types of knowledge that could be deemed potentially relevant – and a great deal of time was spent debating what was, in fact, relevant. As in the case of participants’ roles and form, the situation-specific preformatting of knowledge was needed in order to achieve decision-able knowledge. Knowledge was not inherently coherent, representative, relevant and correct, exogenous of the setting in which it is used (Fernler & Helgesson 2006). Realizing (democratic) participation: enacting rules of dialogue One could conclude from this chapter that the realization of the democratic value of participation through the involvement of multiple actors requires the formulation of rules of dialogue concerning the identity, interest and behaviour of (presumptive) participants. Such rules of dialogue are necessary to mediate between various logics of appropriateness that would otherwise be played out in the process (cf. Cyert and March 1963). We have also shown the need for rules of dialogue concerning knowledge: the type of knowledge that is relevant in decision-making processes, for example, and whether facts and values are to be considered concurrently or sequentially. In the cases studied, the rules of dialogue for participants and their knowledge were created in different ways. In the case of PBB, there was a higher degree of preformatting than there was in WP. This difference had consequences for the two decision-making processes and their respective outcomes. There is one overarching conclusion that can be gleaned from the studies presented in this chapter: the enactment of the democratic value of participation presumes preformatted rules of dialogue. Although one could argue in principle that there are clear democratic merits in deliberatively formulating such rules of dialogue, a comparison of PBB and WP suggest that an a priori lack of rules of dialogue risks the breakdown of the decision-making process and failure to reach a decision. Further analysis of the two cases indicates that this risk could be particularly acute when there are less institutionalized, taken-for-granted notions about why a certain category of actor or a certain type of knowledge should be part of a decision-making process. As mentioned, Stirling (2005) outlines three forms of justification for broad participation: normative, instrumental and substantive. PBB and WP differed in the way principle arguments were used to justify the inclusion of healthcare professionals and medical knowledge, on the one hand, and the involvement of patients and their lay knowledge, on the other hand. Whereas the former was justified with all three arguments both in principle and in practice, the participation of the latter group was, in practice, explicitly argued for instrumental reasons. In short, the capacity to deliver socially credible outcomes is enhanced by broad participation. There also appeared to be a much clearer idea about the practical necessity

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of involving healthcare professionals and medical knowledge. For instance, PBB explicitly discussed the need to reach decisions that were acceptable to physicians. In contrast, there was greater uncertainty about the role of patients, the status of their knowledge and the necessity of involving them. The exceptions were particularly influential groups of patients, such as diabetics, and the legitimacy of the decision would have been severely compromised without their involvement. Another conclusion is that it is relevant to separate analytically espoused theories from theories in use. Stirling (2005) makes the significant point that another way of understanding attempts to realize broad participation is the degree to which the purpose of involving participants (and their knowledge) is to “close down” or “open up” a given decision-making process. The focus of a closing down process is ‘cutting through the messy, intractable and conflictprone diversity of interests and perspectives to develop a clear, authoritative, prescriptive recommendation to inform decisions’ (Stirling 2005). In contrast, if the purpose is to open up, then, ‘instead of focusing on unitary prescriptive recommendations, approval poses alternative questions, focuses on neglected issues, includes marginalized perspectives . . . and highlights new options’ (ibid.). In PBB and WP, there was a clear emphasis on closing down the ongoing decision-making processes by adhering to the planned processes and achieving an outcome. In the case of PBB, this requirement was emphasized both formally and in practice. In the case of WP, the focus on closing down was more ambiguous. In practice, however, the pressure to finish the decisionmaking process began to dominate many discussions. Yet in both cases the various formal and “in practice” attempts were more or less successful. Notably, there was a failure in WP to deliver the desired outcomes, in terms of both compiled knowledge and a decision about a specific goal for WP. Arguably the main reason for this failure was the open character of the process, whereby a diversity of interests and perspectives were given room. One could, in fact, conclude that such openness is detrimental to reaching a decision outcome – even though it is desirable from certain normative democratic points of view. This conclusion is based on the debateable assumption that the primary or sole purpose of the decision-making processes is to reach a decision outcome. Decision making can serve several purposes other than making choices: organizational learning, mobilizing action, allocating responsibility and achieving legitimacy (Brunsson 1985). From this perspective, it is possible to see both of the decision-making processes as successful, given their different purposes. Although it had been made explicit that PBB was supposed to reach a decision outcome, WP had multiple purposes, including learning how to set priorities and “put overweight

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on the map” of the county council, by making it a legitimate medical condition that merited financial and professional support for treatment and prevention. Broad participation could be seen as critical if these other purposes of the decision-making processes were to be realized. So, whereas WP did not succeed in reaching a decision, it could be considered successful in raising awareness about overweight and raising it to the status of a matter requiring further attention and action.

NOTES 01

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Ackoff (1989) makes an analytical distinction between information, which is data that has been given meaning by way of relational connection, and knowledge, which is the appropriate collection of information, such that it’s intent is to be useful. In this chapter, we describe controversies over what information is relevant and appropriate to collect, and what knowledge is necessary for making a particular decision. However the distinction between the two categories is empirically ambiguous. Since an analysis of this categorization is outside the scope of this chapter, the concepts of information and knowledge are used interchangeably. Sweden provides its residents with a comprehensive, publicly financed system of health insurance. By law, the provision of healthcare services in Sweden is primarily the operational and fiscal responsibility of the 21 regional county councils. Medical science makes a distinction between overweight and obesity. Unless otherwise stated, “overweight” refers in this chapter to all levels of overweight, including obesity. As of 1 September 2008, following a broadening of its scope of responsibility to include the evaluation of dental treatments, the PBB was renamed the Dental and Pharmaceutical Benefits Agency. The WP plan called for the working groups’ outcomes to be presented at a consensus conference at the end of the project’s first phase, at which participants were to choose a realistic goal for the county council’s prioritization of overweight based on the compiled knowledge. The Intervention Group comprised three physicians (two obesity specialists and one general practitioner), a nurse and a psychologist who both specialized in behavioural treatment of ‘life-style diseases’, and a nutritionist specializing in population-based prevention. The Act (SFS 2002) on Pharmaceutical Benefits was passed into law on 13 December 2001. The PBB began operations on 1 October 2002. PBB employs approximately 30 individuals in this capacity, many of whom hold doctorates in pharmacy or health economics. The board has 11 members, appointed by the government on personal mandates. The combined expertise of the board members is supposed to reflect the needs of the various stakeholder groups in the healthcare sector. Members include general practitioners, health economists, medical specialists, a medical ethicist, individuals with experience from patients’ associations and county council administrators. A denial of subsidy would require the patient to pay for all outpatient use of the pharmaceutical. PBB evaluates the subsidization of two types of pharmaceuticals: those granted marketing authorization after the inception of the PBB, and those drugs that were included in the public pharmaceutical benefits scheme prior to the creation of PBB. The migraine group completed its work in February 2005. The stomach-acid group completed its work in January 2006. This and all other translations in this chapter are ours. When the Swedish Medical Products Agency (or its European equivalent, EMEA) authorizes the use of a pharmaceutical, the conditions for marketing authorization are specified in the drug’s Summary of Product Characteristics (SPC). SPC includes such information as the medical conditions a drug is approved to treat and the pharmaceutical’s approved treatment dosages.

8. By a stretch of the imagination. Public involvement in nuclear waste management Linda Soneryd Sweden’s management of its nuclear waste is often held up as an extraordinary international example. Whereas most other countries using nuclear power face local protests against planned disposal facilities, two municipalities in Sweden, Oskarshamn and Östhammar, have agreed to allow the Swedish Nuclear Fuel and Waste Management Company (SKB) to make detailed site investigations in their municipalities. According to opinion polls, a large proportion of the population in both these communities is positive towards a future nuclear waste disposal in their hometown (Sjöberg 2006). SKB is a private company owned by the nuclear power industry, and tasked with the safe management and disposal of radioactive waste from the Swedish nuclear power plants. For 30 years, its programme for fulfilling this mandate has been subject to reviews and demands for revision, and step by step it has received formal government approval. SKB has undertaken extensive research, developed a concept for final disposal, and through a range of devices such as safety analyses and full-scale experiments, has demonstrated that its current management of radioactive materials and its plans for their final storage meet the safety requirements of Swedish law – that the storage is safe for 100 000 years. The KBS-3 concept, developed by SKB, means that the spent nuclear fuel be encapsulated in copper canisters, which are to be deposited in the bedrock at a depth of 500 metres, and embedded in clay. A nuclear waste facility has substantial implications for the environment, and the developer, SKB, is subject to legislative demands to conduct an environmental impact assessment (EIA) and to consult the public. This demand potentially opens the process to a range of participants that want to be involved in discussions on the potential impact of a final disposal of nuclear waste. The environmental impact assessment will provide the basis for the Environmental Court’s decision on whether or not the planned facilities meet the EIA requirements of Swedish law and the general rules of the Environmental Code, the aim of which is sustainable development. 113

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There is a paradox in the nuclear waste case. On the one hand is a process involving experts – a process framed around safety, in which SKB’s activities are judged by a set of predefined participants and approved step by step by the Swedish government. On the other hand is a process framed around sustainable development; potentially open to a range of undefined participants that may appear along the way; and focused on activities connected to an environmental impact assessment that SKB is to conduct in a consultative spirit (see Elam and Sundqvist 2006). In this chapter, I argue that the separation of these two processes – a separation that forms a significant part of the organization of nuclear waste management in Sweden – is a relevant factor in the way democratic values are attended to in discussions about a final disposal of nuclear waste. The second section of this chapter provides a brief background to the case, and elaborates on the bifurcation of processes in the nuclear waste case. The process examined in this chapter has been ongoing for 30 years, and with the decision-making process and the implementation, construction and storage phases, it is expected to continue for at least another 60. In the third section, a small segment of this lengthy process is analysed in greater detail, based on observations and documentation of public consultation meetings and seminars held between 2005 and 2008.1 In the fourth section, conclusions are drawn about Swedish nuclear waste governance, organization and democracy.

BACKGROUND TO THE NUCLEAR WASTE CASE: TWO PROCESSES BASED ON DIFFERENT RATIONALES In response to legislation passed by the Swedish parliament in 1977, ‘the Swedish nuclear waste project’, a forerunner to SKB, initiated a programme for managing nuclear waste according to legal requirements and the polluterpays principle. The legislation stated that owners of nuclear power plants must show how and where to store spent nuclear fuel in a safe way (SFS 1977: 140). In less than a year, a technical concept was developed (Sundqvist 2002). Over the years, SKB has developed innovative techniques and methods, and the company is now demonstrating how these developments work. As required in the Nuclear Activities Act (SFS 1984), SKB runs the Research, Development and Demonstration (RD&D) programme, which is examined every three years by Swedish authorities for nuclear safety and radiation protection, the Municipalities of Oskarshamn and Östhammar, the Swedish National Council for Nuclear Waste, and environmental organizations – and finally decided upon by the Government of Sweden. The task and responsibility delegated to SKB, the stages at which information is made available and open for comments from others, the participants

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allowed to raise concerns in the formal review process, and time limits for responses are relatively well defined for the RD&D process. The RD&D process allots a significant role to experts – in this case, SKB and competent authorities. It builds on the traditional Swedish system of allowing predefined participants to review and comment upon proposals. It is based upon the notion of a traditional political decision-making structure for policy areas that are highly technical and scientifically complex, and in which the government makes decisions on the basis of expert advice. As stated in the introduction, alongside the RD&D process, the law requires SKB to conduct an environmental impact assessment (EIA). The EIA process is open to a wider range of potential participants, more fluid time limits for responses from these participants, and a wider range of issues than the RD&D process (see Elam and Sundqvist 2006: 52). The EIA requirements are procedural rules based upon the general aim within the Environmental Code to achieve ‘a sustainable development, which means that present and future generations are guaranteed a healthy, quality environment’2 (SFS 1998, Chapter 1 §1). The goal of the EIA rules is to integrate environmental considerations in planning processes in the early phases. For projects that are expected to lead to substantial environmental impact, the developer should, according to the Environmental Code Chapter 6 § 4, ‘consult competent authorities, the municipalities, the public and the organizations that are assumed to be concerned’.3 The Swedish Environmental Code has integrated the principles and demands formulated in international conventions and European law (the Aarhus Convention 1998 and the EIA Directive, for example). The definitions of a ‘concerned public’ that are offered in the Aarhus convention and the EIA Directive include individuals and organizations that are concerned about or have an interest in environmental decision-making processes. Local residents close to suggested facilities and environmental organizations are assumed to have such an interest. When the directive refers to ‘the public’, it means, in principle, everyone that wants to have a say – a potentially wider group of people than is meant by the term ‘concerned public’ (Government Proposal 2004/2005: 62–63). In the discussions preceding the adoption of the first EIA requirements in Swedish law, the benefits emphasized were equally connected to the integration of environmental considerations in planning and expected democratic gains through enhanced public involvement (Westerlund 1999: 61; GC 1978). The EIA process gathers a range of participants with the aim of openly discussing the environmental and social impact of a planned project. Compared to the RD&D process, it is much more vague about the identity of these participants and the role they will play. Initially, SKB saw its task as a scientific and technical challenge (Sundqvist

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2002). The RD&D process, safety issues and expert involvement have dominated since 1977. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, information activities such as exhibitions, leaflets and information tours targeted a broader set of actors and became a critical element in the daily activities of SKB. These activities were dominated by efforts to explain facts to a public that SKB considered to be ignorant. Later, in the latter half of the 1990s and the early 2000s, SKB began to work with more dialogue-oriented activities (Eriksson 2003). Criticism of SKB had previously been met with responses revealing SKB’s view that democracy is a non-issue, because it was already assumed that Swedish nuclear waste management is democratic. After being criticized in 1989 by Miljöpartiet (the Swedish Green Party), which implied that SKB was neither democratic nor ethical nor moral in its handling of the nuclear waste issue, the Director of SKB countered with a rhetorical question: ‘Do you not agree that SKB has been delegated the task according to a democratic order?’ (Eriksson 2003: 122). In his analysis of SKB’s communication strategies over the 20 years between 1980 and 2000, Mats Eriksson (2003) argues that SKB was receptive to the criticism and slowly moved from informing about the facts to highlighting ethical and moral issues. More specific discussions about certain democratic values did not take place, however, until the beginning of the EIA and public consultation process and until new participants entered the process. In 2002, when detailed site investigations began in Oskarshamn and Östhammar, SKB began to run consultations according to the Environmental Code.4 During the site investigations that continued until 2009, the two municipalities received financial resources from Kärnavfallsfonden (the nuclear waste fund), to be used for their engagement in the nuclear waste issue. Local residents in the Municipalities of Oskarshamn and Östhammar are being treated by SKB as equally ‘concerned’ until the final decision is made on the disposal site, after which only one of them will be treated as concerned by the planned disposal. From 2003 onwards, consultations have been extended to environmental organizations and the general public. These consultations will run until the application is submitted to the Environmental Court in 2010. According to SKB staff members working with public consultations, they are responsive to the ideas and requests of the consulted parties. In addition, they claim that the RD&D process is an open procedure in which everyone has a say. Nevertheless, SKB admits that the EIA process is more open and participatory than the RD&D process. EIA is supported with national and EU legislation as well as international conventions, and has become further institutionalized through research and practice. The idea of involving a broad set of participants in the planning process is widely accepted in international policy and research, but is only partially visible in EIA practice. The goal is to achieve better and more comprehensive knowledge about environmental

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impact and fair process, which should result in increased trust and legitimacy (see Soneryd and Weldon 2003). The bifurcation between two types of processes and rationales is manifested at public consultation meetings, as SKB constantly tries to distinguish and make clear to others what is being done according to the Environmental Code or within the RD&D process.5

PUBLIC CONSULTATIONS ON NUCLEAR WASTE DISPOSAL: ORGANIZATION AND DEMOCRATIC VALUES According to SKB’s own presentation of the consultation process, the company organizes consultations according to the Environmental Code in the form of annual or semi-annual public consultation meetings open to everyone. Regional consultation meetings attended by representatives from the County Administration Boards, municipalities and the authorities SKI (Swedish Nuclear Power Inspectorate) and SSI (Swedish Radiation Protection Authority)6 are held three or four times per year. Furthermore, there are consultations according to the Espoo Convention, which requires neighbouring countries and regions to be consulted. In addition, SKB organizes consultations – which it calls ‘special consultations’ – with SKI and SSI. SKB carefully points out that these special consultations are conducted because of a government decision, and that they are part of the RD&D process rather than the EIA process (SKB 2008a; 2008b). At these meetings, representatives from the municipalities can participate as observers. As mentioned previously, public consultations began in 2003. Environmental organizations requested financial means for their participation in the nuclear waste project and the consultation process. In 2005, a legislative change made it possible for NGOs with more than 2000 members to receive funding from the nuclear waste fund. This change in the law made it possible for new participants to mobilize and enter the process. As the requirement for receiving funds was connected to the number of members, some of the nuclear power activists and environmental organizations formed two new organizations: Miljöorganisationernas kärnavfallsgranskning (MKG) and Miljörörelsens kärnavfallssekretariat (Milkas). MKG was formed and run by five Swedish environmental organizations,7 with a proclaimed aim of working towards the best long-term solution for the management of spent fuel in Sweden, considering aspects of environment and health. Milkas was formed and run by one anti-nuclear organization and one environmental organization.8 Its aims are similar to those of MKG, and like MKG it participates in the public consultations that are part of the ongoing

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EIA process.9 When the environmental organizations entered the process, they initiated a discussion about transparency, access and agenda-setting power. Transparency, access and agenda setting power When MKG and Milkas were established at the beginning of 2005, their aim was to participate in all the fora that were available for discussions on the potential environmental impact of a planned disposal. They soon discovered that not all fora were open to them. At the beginning of the year, MKG questioned why the environmental organizations did not have access to regional consultations among SKB, the county administration board and the municipalities; nor could they attend the special consultations among SKB, SSI and SKI, to which the municipalities had access as observers.10 In order to gain access to the special consultations among SKB, SSI and SKI on the topics of site investigations, the system and safety analyses, MKG submitted statements to SKB, the authorities and the Ministry for the Environment. There was an argument that access would enable a more effective role for MKG in the consultation process – that of a critical evaluator. The response from SSI was positive. SSI replied that it could ‘see more advantages than disadvantages to the suggested proposal’ (SSI 2005). SKI, on the other hand, answered that: The consultation meetings are conducted according to a governmental decision and are not part of the consultation process that SKB is required to undertake according to the Environmental Code and the Act on Nuclear Activities, and should therefore remain open only for the parties that participate today – SKI, SSI, SKB – with the municipalities as observers. These meetings are actually technical; what is reported and discussed is recorded and documented for those who want to acquaint themselves with it. (SKI 2005)

SKB’s response, similar to that of SKI, clearly distinguished between the RD&D process and consultations within the EIA process. SKB stated that the environmental organizations were welcome to attend an upcoming regional consultation meeting, at which a formal decision would be made on whether or not they could be admitted under observer status at future meetings. Furthermore, it was stated that the consultations between SKB and the authorities were not part of the public consultation process, according to the Environmental Code: These special consultations are . . . part of the RD&D process, and it is important that they can be made under efficient working forms. With a growing number of participants, there is a risk that the forms for these meetings will be negatively affected. . . . The results of the meetings are reported in publicly available minutes; and in order to facilitate further the environmental organizations’ opportunity to follow the RD&D process, MKG and equivalent actors are offered the opportunity

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to pose sequential questions in relation to these minutes and to meet relevant experts in order to discuss the relevant issues. (SKB 2005)

Apparently the discussions concerned not only the new participants’ access to the two fora – special consultations and regional consultations. They also concerned the boundaries between the EIA process and the RD&D process and the meaning and extent of transparency. MKG did not request involvement as an equal participant at these meetings; the request was for the more limited role of observer. MKG was primarily interested in increasing transparency. The request was met by a response from both SKB and SKI, and revealed that they embraced a different and more limited meaning of transparency than MKG did. These different views represented different ideas about what should be made transparent: the end product (SKI’s and SKB’s references to publicly available minutes) or the process by which the end product is constructed (MKG’s request to be allowed to listen to the discussions and decisions as they took place). The environmental organizations have continually attempted to extend the number of fora to which they have access. In the autumn of 2005, for example, MKG argued that there should also be representation from social movement organizations in the decision-making bodies on the distribution of means for research (MKG 2005). The statement from MKG concerned a proposal formulated by the Nuclear Waste Council to the Government of Sweden to provide financial means for supporting research independent of the nuclear power industry. It was suggested that money could be taken from the nuclear waste fund, and that the Nuclear Waste Council, together with SSI and SKI, could establish a commission that would be tasked with its distribution. Moreover, requests for ‘independent’ actors and research implied a questioning of SKB’s role as an organizer with the ultimate agenda-setting power. Although SKB is obliged to consult with various parties, SKB has the opportunity to choose the issues on which they wish to consult and with whom they wish to consult at different phases of the process. SKB’s agenda-setting power was discussed and questioned at public consultation meetings in connection with the separation between the RD&D process and the EIA process. At a public consultation meeting in April 2005, a representative from Milkas raised the following concerns: I would like to raise a question concerning democracy – a question to the official from SKI. You talk about the Act on Nuclear Activities, considerations and statements, but you never mentioned the Environmental Code. How will that be used? It’s a unique legislative instrument; can you tell us how it will be used? (Public consultation 2005a)

The SKI official answered with a brief outline of the legislative process

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according to the Environmental Code, and emphasized that in order to ensure that it adheres to the code, SKI does not review the process. The following discussion focused on the formal probation process and the various parts of the application that would be reviewed according to the Act on Nuclear Activities and the Environmental Code (Public consultation 2005a). The environmental organizations were critical of the process, and argued that the issues they considered to be most important – long-term environmental impact and risks connected to radioactivity – had not been sufficiently discussed. SKB asserted that it must keep a firm hand on agenda setting in order to keep the public consultation meetings focused – that it would not be productive to discuss radioactivity and long-term risk at a consultation meeting at which the increase of trucks during the construction phase is being discussed. This was not merely a question of efficiency in consultation meetings; it also concerned a problem connected to SKB’s persistent separation of issues such as quality of life and expected nuisance and issues such as technical and short- and long-term safety problems. According to SKB, local people were experts on the former, and SKB together with the authorities were experts on the latter. Discussions during public consultation meetings also included assumptions about the capabilities of the participants; and above all, the capabilities of the environmental organizations. The capabilities of participants Some of the expected capabilities of the consulted parties were discussed during public consultation meetings, and others were left more or less implicit. Representatives of environmental organizations, for example, were expected to be professional and to contribute to the process in a substantive way. If they did not live up to these expectations, they were dismissed as unprofessional or considered to be interrupting the process. Representatives of the two municipalities that were subject to site investigations, on the other hand, were seen as ‘concerned’ and the only requirement was their willingness to engage in the process and to be a negotiating party to SKB. “Citizens”, who were first and foremost assumed to be residents living close to planned facilities, were encouraged to provide their viewpoints on the expected nuisance that the construction phase would cause them. Some local officials in the Municipalities of Oskarshamn and Östhammar emphasized that the environmental organizations are ‘a resource’, and that ‘they put issues on the agenda and are competent’ (ÖSOS 2005). This was not only an appreciation of the state of affairs, but was assumed to be the basis for the environmental organizations’ legitimate participation: ‘If you are concrete and base your statements on fact, you will be met with respect. Your knowledge of the subject has sometimes been a bit shaky’ (ÖSOS 2005). The environmental organizations’ level of competence at consultation meetings was

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also discussed among participants during coffee and lunch breaks (Public consultation 2005b; ÖSOS 2005). The environmental organizations’ involvement in the public consultation process had not been obvious until they received funding. When they did, the Administrative Director of MKG emphasized their role as ‘an established actor’ at several meetings (ÖSOS 2005; Regional consultation 2006a, for instance). The requirements for being “an established actor” in the process of finding a solution to nuclear waste disposal seemed to differ, however, depending on the participant.11 The role of the two municipalities that were subject to site investigations and the participation of politicians and officials from these two municipalities were emphasized as being particularly significant. At one regional consultation meeting (which was open for the public to observe), the President of SKB said: We who sit at the table [observers are sitting next to the table] have different roles – to review the process for instance. The municipalities have a specific role; other groups represent their interests in different ways. The opportunity for the public to provide insight into these affairs is important, but we who sit at this table have a unique position. (Regional consultation 2006b)

A representative of Oskarhamn Municipality confirmed the municipalities’ unique position and emphasized the importance of having good relations with SKB, as well as the authorities SSI and SKI: We have chosen to lie low [at public consultation meetings]. We have many other fora, like the MKB forum [the regional consultation meetings]. We meet SKB on our own playing field . . . we follow the rules that SKB has established; we don’t discuss “alternative methods” when the consultation meeting aims to focus on “the incapsulation plant”. We can place issues on the agenda in the MKB forum; it is not as open [to the public], but it is a working form that works well for us. (ÖSOS 2005) We have worked with SKI, SSI and SKB for a long time; the relationships among various parties have been established; you know who is doing what and so on. This is important to us in our contacts with the public. If this is altered, everything needs to start all over again. (Nuclear Waste Council 2006)

Although the regional consultation meetings among SKB, the authorities and the municipalities are described as a special working format, another type of interaction and other types of participants characterized the public consultation meetings. SKB stimulated a particular type of dialogue at the public consultation meetings. As a representative from SKB said: ‘It was a good meeting yesterday . . . because there were many people there and they posed concrete questions – and not so much about the process’ (Regional consultation 2005b).

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Questions concerning the local environmental impact and the expected nuisance of the construction phase of the planned facilities were assumed by SKB to be the priorities of local citizens: ‘the people who live here will be affected by drill discharges and noise. These are their questions’ . . . ‘When you discuss roads and things like that, then people become truly engaged’ (Public consultation 2005a). Local officials from the two municipalities also discussed where public meetings should be held; they assumed that ‘the public’ comprises local residents living close to the planned facilities and that citizens from other municipalities are unlikely to participate in public meetings (Regional consultation 2006a). The fact that most of the meetings occurred in the vicinity of the planned facilities was criticized by environmental organizations, primarily because they wanted the discussion to be expanded to wider groups of the Swedish population and not restricted to the local citizens of the two municipalities that are subjected to site investigations. Some expected or assumed capabilities of participants concerned the way they interacted at consultation meetings. Such participants (environmental organizations, residents living close to the planned facilities and the general public) were expected to be passive recipients of information and to ask questions that were possible for SKB to answer in clear and concise ways. At one consultation meeting, the moderator left no doubt about this expectation (Public consultation 2006b): ‘It is important that we don’t politicize the discussions too much – this goes for both those who pose questions and those who provide the answers. There are many people here that want to pose questions and get an answer, so please be brief and concise.’ This approach resulted in objections from representatives of both environmental organizations and the municipality: The discussion leader said we should not politicize, but keep to the facts – if you do that you often end up in technology – but this belongs in the RD&D process. Consultations are an opportunity to discuss how environmental objectives and so on shall be treated – so unfortunately we have to politicize a little bit. (representative of MKG) One remark to the moderator – brief and concise answers – that is not the purpose of consultations, questions with simple answers do not belong here. (representative of Östhammar Municipality)

Although SKB has often stated that it wants to engage in dialogue with all the consulted parties, it instilled the role of passive recipients of information in the consultation parties and presented its members as the people with the answers. This was accomplished by naming the statements from invited participants as questions and the statements from SKB participants as answers in the publicly available minutes from consultation meetings. Some consultation meetings are

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also referred to as a ‘repetition’ of former meetings. When one public consultation meeting was drawing to a close, a man from SKB ended the meeting by saying: ‘questions can be sent to SKB until the 16th of June . . . we have planned for two mini-repeats [of this meeting]’ (Public consultation 2006b). At another consultation meeting, the following exchange took place: Östhammar representative: I have a question concerning a meeting with the summer residents. SKB representative: that [meeting] is repetition really. Östhammar representative: we don’t agree, they were very different, but good. (Public consultation 2005c)

Some elements of a consultation meeting could be repetitive; SKB could provide the same information at two meetings targeting different audiences, for instance, yet other elements of the meeting might be more dialogue oriented. To label a meeting repetitive, however, suggests that participants are there primarily to listen and not to contribute with more substantive input – much less, to reshape agendas. Although the environmental organization MKG first proclaimed its mission as exactly that – to give substantive input and to reshape agendas – during the process MKG adjusted to the meeting format and kept a lower profile. As the Administrative Director of MKG stated at a couple of consultation meetings: ‘I have many questions, but we will submit them in writing, because we don’t want to take too much of your time’ (Public consultation 2006a) and ‘I have more questions but I don’t want to interrupt this local meeting’ (Public consultation 2008). Rather than being adjustments to ‘the rules of the game’, these statements could also be interpreted as being facetious – a way of criticizing the manner in which the consultation meetings were organized. National or local public debates Another dimension receiving critical attention was the involvement of citizens and politicians in Oskarshamn and Östhammar, where there were relatively more engagements and discussions than occurred on a national basis, where a public debate seems to have been missing. This was an issue during the entire consultation process, but it became a heightened concern during later stages of the process. Local citizens, politicians and officials were expected to spend substantial amounts of time on the nuclear waste issue, and the risk of planning fatigue was a dilemma for SKB, ever since its first contacts with people in Oskarshamn and Östhammar. As the SKB staff responsible for EIA and public contacts stated, ‘when the Environmental Code was written, it didn’t consider projects that take 30 years to plan’ (Interview 2005). At the same time there were worries expressed by the municipalities, the environmental organizations

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and SKB over the lack of a national debate and the fact that national politicians would not be prepared to make a final decision on the final disposal. Local politicians and officials in Oskarshamn and Östhammar, in particular, long requested greater involvement by national politicians. In the spring of 2007, politicians in the Swedish parliament were invited to answer the question of how they prepared for a future decision on nuclear waste disposal. One representative was present for each political party in the parliament. After a few vague answers to the question, such as ‘we go to seminars like this’ and ‘we are continuously requesting more information’, the following conversation ensued: Politician:

Moderator: Politician:

I am going to be slightly more honest than the previous speakers. We do not discuss this issue every time we meet in our committees. In fact, it hasn’t been discussed once during the past six months. This is how it looks: when things escalate, when we are getting closer, then things will start happening. When is that? We have a market every fourth year. It is similar with the decisions; it coincides. This is the reality for politicians, even for an important issue like this. (Hearing 2007)

The question of a broader national public debate arose at the same meeting. One politician made the connection between broad media coverage and a broad societal debate. Another questioned the importance of media, and referred instead to the set of participants present at the meeting as constituting a group of the public sufficient for the politicians to discuss and deliberate with. A discussion took place at the hearing about the decision-making process, and after the national politicians had made it clear that this was an issue for government rather than parliament, a representative of Oskarshamn argued: ‘If parliament makes a decision, there is a broader majority. I don’t believe this issue will ever be an important vote catcher, but we do want the topic to be discussed at a national level’ (Hearing 2007). What can be extracted from this exchange of views seems, on the one hand, to be national debate as a democratic value in itself. On the other hand, it is an idea about deliberation as the basis for a good decision made by the most central nuclear waste actors, including SKB; the environmental organizations and the municipalities; and the Government of Sweden, which makes the final decision. SKB noted that they want an enhanced national debate, but they worried that any effort from them to initiate such a debate would be understood negatively as a ‘national campaign’ (Interview 2005). An element of the nuclear waste process that could potentially counteract open dialogue, however, is a reference to legislation and to certain ways of organizing the process as “fixed by law”, which is the topic for the next section.

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Accentuating versus downplaying the importance of law Arguments that include references to legislation in the nuclear waste process are made in a way that pictures law as giving rise to various interpretations and as having a fixed meaning. SKB and other participants at consultation meetings use legislative arguments; these are also used to uphold and diffuse the boundaries between the RD&D process and the EIA process. In response to the environmental organizations’ request for an independent actor to organize the EIA process, SKB answered: ‘According to the applicable laws, the waste producer is responsible. Do you not wish to work within the framework of the law?’ and further stated that SKB, if the legislation is complied with, ‘has no choice concerning how the EIA process is organized’ (Regional consultation 2005a). In response, a representative from the environmental organizations referred to another EIA process conducted in Sweden that had been organized differently. For the Hallandsås project – a planned railway tunnel on the Swedish west coast – the EIA process and public consultations were partly hosted by an independent group for environmental monitoring. This way of organizing the process was the result of failures during the construction of the tunnel and the resulting mistrust of the developer, the Swedish Rail Administration. The Swedish Rail Administration was, in this case, still formally responsible for the EIA process; but practically, another temporary organization hosted it. In the case of nuclear waste disposal, SKB did not consider this possibility, and as the previous quote shows, it even dismissed the possibility of a reorganization of the consultation process in this direction. Discussions about the contents of the EIA document and the focus of discussions at public consultation meetings can also be subject to references to legislation, especially the issue of alternative methods and the siting of a nuclear waste disposal. Whereas SKB referred to the law as being explicit about the requirements and how to present options, the environmental organizations maintained that this is a matter of interpretation (Public consultation 2006a). When environmental organizations raised the issues of long-term safety that were discussed in the special consultations between SKB and the authorities, SKB replied that ‘these are not consultations according to the Environmental Code’ (Public consultation 2006a). When environmental organizations raised doubts about the handling of safety issues, SKB referred to legislation and competent authorities: ‘nothing illegal is taking place’; ‘we have laws that we have to comply with . . . if you have trust in the law and the competent authorities you don’t need to worry’ (Public consultation 2006a). In summary, assumptions about participants’ capabilities, expectations about their contributions at consultation meetings, and references to legislation and competent authorities when issues related to uncertainties are raised,

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determined who were to be considered legitimate actors and what their respective roles in nuclear waste management would be. The glacial time perspective is a further aspect in this process, often argued to be a unique feature of nuclear waste management. Who are the participants that are assumed to be able to grasp the long-term perspectives involved in nuclear waste management? Legitimate actors in a glacial time perspective According to Swedish law, the final storage of nuclear waste should be safe for 100 000 years – for the equivalent of two ice ages. The human capacity to grasp such time perspectives is a recurrent theme in discussions. Some of the critical points that the environmental organizations have asserted have been connected to SKB’s proposed technical concept and whether or not it actually can hold for as long as two ice ages. Alternative concepts have not been treated and investigated to the same extent as KBS-3. Similarly, SKB has not investigated other sites to the same extent as the sites in Oskarhamn and Östhammar. According to the environmental organizations, then, the best option from an environmental perspective cannot be found, because their relative impacts cannot be easily compared. At a seminar arranged by the Nuclear Waste Council in the spring of 2007, the theme for discussion was “deep drilling holes”, one of the alternatives to the KBS-3 concept that is often broached by the environmental organizations. In short, the idea of deep drilling holes is to dispose of the radioactive waste three to five kilometres into the bedrock (compared to KBS-3’s proposal of 500 meters). The argument is that deep drilling holes may be more capable of managing ice ages, but that more research is needed in order to make it a comparable option to the well-researched and demonstrated KBS-3 concept. Concerns have been raised about lack of time. The KBS-3 system has been developed over 30 years, and the deep drilling holes have not undergone such lengthy investigation. Statements raised at the seminar took the form of ‘Given 30 years, this should have been done already’; ‘If we could turn back the clock 30 years, we would have known more, and would have a very different discussion today’, ‘If there was a good analysis of deep drilling holes, we wouldn’t be here today’. On the other hand, there were statements suggesting that we have all the time in the world: ‘So what? We have time. We can look at options that may not be developed for 50 years’ (Hearing 2007). The relationship between science and politics was discussed at the seminar, and participants referred to a survey commissioned by MKG, stating that a majority of the population preferred deep drilling holes to the KBS-3 concept. As one politician stated: ‘If there was a best, scientifically proven option, it would be easy for us to make a decision’. Another politician asserted ‘I don’t value an opinion poll very much if there has been no public debate before it

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was conducted’. When a geologist present at the meeting claimed that the time span of 100 000 years is too difficult to grasp, another politician stated: It is not difficult for citizens, they make many difficult decisions all the time, weighing for and against; the issue is suited for a public debate. I have a question to [the geologist]: Is it easier to grasp 10 000 years, 1000 or 700? We have to relate to the time that the waste is being waste [as long as it is dangerous for human beings and the environment].

Participants in this discussion made different connections between science and politics and between political decision making and mechanisms for eliciting the views of citizens (aggregative, such as the opinion poll, or by public debate). In discussions over a storage that is going to last for 100 000 years, everything else – societal institutions like established rules and organizations, ethical norms, current research and technology, principles and legislation – seems to be temporary and fleeting. This was also visible in discussions over previous decisions, and current rules and legislation that shape today’s nuclear waste management. A range of decisions was taken along the way, which narrows the scope of options step by step. Nevertheless, a variety of concepts for nuclear waste disposal were still being vehemently discussed at this stage of the process. Similarly, the involved nuclear waste participants have continued to discuss other principles and legislation, even in fora in which they have little chance of exerting influence. After all, the storage is going to last “forever” and laws are changeable. This creates a process that is seemingly endless: as one of the speakers pointed out at a seminar where alternative methods were being discussed among nuclear waste actors, all the formal rules of the game, the legislation, and the ethical principles they are based upon may change over time. The “fixedness” of rules is an argument that SKB uses, however, in its contention that it has organized the process well. One significant aspect of the organization is the separation between the RD&D process and the EIA process, and this also affects how democratic values are attended to. The last and concluding section of this chapter elaborates on this point.

DEMOCRATIC VALUES AND ORGANIZATION OF NUCLEAR WASTE MANAGEMENT As argued in earlier sections of this chapter, democratic values were not discussed in a comprehensive manner until late in the process, 30 years after a concept for nuclear waste siting had been developed. At earlier stages of Swedish nuclear waste management, it was assumed that SKB had been assigned a task according to a democratic order, and therefore “democracy”

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was not something to introduce into the agenda. It was not until public consultations had begun and new participants (environmental organizations) entered the process, that certain democratic values became the object of more focused discussions. It can be argued that the separation between the RD&D process and the EIA process not only reflects the rationales of safety versus sustainability, but in this case it also reflects a decoupling of talk and action. Although it is possible to discuss any aspect of the nuclear waste storage in the EIA process, it is the KBS-3 concept that is being built, tested and demonstrated in the RD&D process. SKB presents its organization of the public consultations according to clear-cut separation between the Environmental Code and the requirements placed on EIA and the RD&D process. This is a matter of translating competing rules so that they are manageable, however. Only by making this distinction clear can SKB manage the conflicts between the two rationales. SKB can use documentation from public consultations to demonstrate that they meet the demands requested in EIA regulations. It may be a way for SKB to legitimize the process and to demonstrate that it has been open and reflective, involving many participants and critical viewpoints. This was also the main argument of environmental organizations when they demanded funding for their participation. They knew that it was risky to participate: if they participated without exerting much influence, they would simply make the process look more open and participatory than it really was. With greater resources, the environmental organizations hoped to attain a stronger position and the ability to become actors with the potential to influence the process. There were two aspects that made this possibility difficult. One aspect is connected to the fact that MKG and Milkas did not exist prior to the decision to give environmental organizations the opportunity to apply for funding for their involvement in the nuclear waste issue. After this decision was made, MKG and Milkas were established as meta-organizations (Ahrne and Brunsson 2008) – organizations with other environmental organizations as their members. One potential problem with being a meta-organization has to do with the lack of a strong identity, as the various member organizations may have slightly different goals, routines and identities. The capability of presenting itself as a strong actor and speaking with one voice may be less within a metaorganization, therefore, than it is within individual organizations. The other and probably more prominent explanation has to do with the organization of the entire process, which depoliticizes nuclear waste management step by step. This was done by separating long-term safety issues from the EIA process, by framing issues that are open for discussion as local, by treating participants as passive receivers of information rather than as subjects in a dialogue, and by using legalistic arguments and references to science. When democratic values are discussed in a depoliticized context, the organizer

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can easily dismiss them as administrative and technical matters. An EIA process is potentially open and inclusive to a broad set of participants, themes and issues. The depoliticized context in which discussion over environmental impact occurs, however, makes the organizer poorly equipped to argue that “the public” can be conceptualized as something other than mere receivers of information, and that participants in the EIA process can make substantive contributions to the discussions.

OBSERVATIONS AND INTERVIEWS Hearing 2007, Observation 14–15 March 2007. Djupa borrhål. Ett alternativ för slutförvaring av använt kärnbränsle. Organized by the Nuclear Waste Council Stockholm. Interview with a member of SKB May 2005. Nuclear Waste Council 2006, observation of seminar organized by the Nuclear Waste Council, Stockholm, 23 February 2006. ÖSOS 2005, observation of seminar jointly organized by Östhammar and Oskarshamn, 9 November 2005. Public consultation meetings, organized by SKB, observations 2005a, Oskarshamn, 5 April 2005. 2005b, Oskarshamn, 17 November 2005. 2005c, Östhammar, 14 November 2005. 2006a, Oskarshamn, 31 May 2006. 2006b, Östhammar, 1 June 2006. 2008, Östhammar, 22 October 2008. Regional consultation meetings, organized by SKB, observations 2005a, Oskarshamn, 17 November 2005. 2005b, Östhammar, 18 November 2005. 2006a, Östhammar, 10 March 2006. 2006b, Östhammar, 22 March 2006.

NOTES 01

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The case study is based upon observations and documentation of public and regional consultation meetings during 2005 and 2008, and upon an observation of a 2007 meeting arranged within the dialogue project initiated by the Swedish Nuclear Waste Council. Additional data were gathered through interviews and documentation. Sources such as interviews and public consultations are listed at the end of the chapter, not in the References section. This translation and all others in this chapter are my own. Consultations are to be conducted on the localization, scope, design and environmental

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Organizing democracy impact of the planned facility or activity and on the content and form of the environmental impact statement. The background is a letter that SKB sent in 1992 to all Swedish municipalities, asking for volunteers. After a selection process, Oskarshamn and Östhammar remained, together with Hultsfred. SKB keeps Hultsfred as a possible alternative if necessary, but no site investigations have been conducted in Hultsfred. This was particularly evident at the consultation meetings in Spring 2006 (Observation of public consultation meetings conducted in Oskarshamn and Östhammar). In 2008 the two authorities, SSI and SKI, merged into one authority, called the Swedish Radiation Safety Authority. MKG consists of the Swedish Society for Nature Conservation (SSNC); Fältbiologerna, which is an independent youth organization associated with SSNC; the regional Societies for Nature Conservation in Kalmar and Uppsala Counties; and Opinionsgruppen för säker slutförvaring (OSS), which is a local opinion group in Östhammar. Milkas consists of folkkampanjen mot kärnkraft och kärnvapen (the Swedish Anti-nuclear Movement) and Friends of the Earth Sweden. There are also Miljövänner för kärnkraft (MFK) and Sveriges Energiföreningars Riksorganisation (SERO), which participate in public consultations with less funding from the nuclear waste fund than is received by MKG and Milkas. Whereas MFK and SERO participants merely receive money to cover their travel, the funding that MKG and Milkas received also enabled them to have secretariates with a couple of employees. In Swedish, they are called särskilda samråd, and they focus on site investigations (PLUsamråd) and system-and-safety analysis (SSA-samråd). In a report from the Swedish Agency for Public Management (2008: 75) that evaluated participation by the organizations that had received funding from the nuclear waste fund, it was concluded that the environmental organizations had a) posed relevant and well-founded questions; b) added a perspective that differed from those of the local residents and organizations; and c), to some degree, affected SKB’s way of presenting decisions and influenced other consultation parties’ interests in various issues.

9. Democratic values and the organizing of actors in governance structures Linda Soneryd, Staffan Furusten and Göran Sundström This book has addressed two questions. How are democratic values attended to in governance structures? And why is this done in a particular way? We argue that a number of organizational factors challenge the notion of agency assumed by a governance model. The governance model rests on the rational myth (Meyer and Rowan, 1977) and the assumption that democratic ideals can be translated to specified democratic values, which in turn can be adhered to by democratic agents. The model suggests that democratic ideals will be realized if these agents play their cards right. In contrast to this rational model, we argue that theories about organizing and the construction of agency can be used to explain how and why democratic values are attended to in governance structures. As we stated in Chapter 1, we have undertaken this task by focusing on a number of processes related to various policy fields in which governance ideas have been used as overall organizing principles. The processes were chosen because we expected certain democratic values to be regarded as problematic in governance structures. We also expected these cases to represent situations in which organizations were required to balance conflicting values in their performances. We expected the cases to be relevant, not only in their local settings, but also as representations of typical processes of organizing in the modern organizations of the Western world. As discussed in Chapter 1, responsibility for the realization of democratic values in governance structures lies in the hands of those who run the local processes of organizing in order to deal with their daily toil. We have seen this as a situation that presupposes agency, meaning that the participants see themselves as agents of democracy and are constantly prepared to demonstrate that view. This is an ambiguous strategy for practice from a constructivist perspective, as the meaning of all practice is constructed in the setting. Thus a participant’s considerations for dealing with a practical situation are likely to be related to the participant’s experience of the situation. The purpose of this final chapter is to develop reasonable arguments about the relationship between democratic values and agency on the one hand, and processes of organizing on the other. 131

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In the first part of this concluding chapter, we seek to answer the question of whether or not democratic values are attended to in practice – and in situations in which they are, how organizations go about achieving this. We undertake this task by addressing the democratic values that have been the focus of this book: accountability, inclusion, representation and transparency. In the second part, we focus on the reason democratic values are attended to as they are. Our discussion ends in a proposal for the way tensions between modernistic assumptions and local and contextual versions of agency can be understood and a number of organizational factors that explain how and why democratic values are attended to in practice.

DEMOCRATIC VALUES IN OUR STUDIED PROCESSES: REITERATION OF OUR EMPIRICAL FINDINGS Chapters 2 to 8 in this book report on empirical observations from situations in which democratic values are discussed in various processes of organizing policy making and decision making. In this section, we summarize conclusions from each case on the three questions addressed in Chapter 1. Do the participants involved in these organization processes attend to democratic values? Which values are discussed in practice? Who brings democratic values to the scene? Our case studies differ in character. Whereas some of them primarily present discussions about reform initiatives (Adrienne Sörbom’s Chapter 2 on youth policy, for example); others (such as Staffan Furusten’s Chapter 5 on public purchasing) focus on the practitioners that are expected to implement government initiatives and legislative changes; and others equally address the initiators of a process and the involved participants and potential implementers of decisions (Göran Sundström’s Chapter 6 on forest-sector objectives and Kristina Tamm Hallström’s Chapter 4 on the ISO process for shaping a standard for social responsibility). Despite these differences, our case studies raise intricate questions about the relationships among democratic values, governance, organizing and agency. Discussions of democratic values As anticipated in the introductory chapter, we noted that issues related to inclusion, transparency, accountability and representation were at stake. Accountability was topical in Sundström’s Chapter 6 on the Swedish forestsector objectives, in which the involved participants realized that accountability issues had not been clarified, or at least had not been a topic of explicit discussion. Did they all form a deciding body that was jointly responsible for all decisions, or were they part of an advising body to other actors – those

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actors that formed the body responsible for the way its recommendations would be considered? Catrin Andersson’s Chapter 3 on Swedish weapons export examines a process of reorganizing responsibility from the government to a newly established authority – an issue that was believed to have serious implications for the possibility of democratic control and accountability. Inclusion, connected to recognizing the ability of citizens to contribute substantial knowledge and values, was a theme introduced by participants discussing youth policy in Sörbom’s chapter, processes aimed at settling health priorities in Chapter 7 by Ebba Sjögren and Karin Fernler, and a final disposal of nuclear waste in Linda Soneryd’s Chapter 8. Broad participation can also be motivated by more instrumental goals, however. By including those organizations or individuals that will be subject to rule setting or planning, implementation is expected to run more smoothly. In Tamm Hallström’s chapter on the process of formulating a standard for social responsibility, it was evident that ISO would benefit from inclusivity, as this could ensure that participants would eventually use the standard. Representation was discussed in two ways in our studied processes. Participants sometimes demanded, for instance, that elected politicians should participate in discussions that had been relocated to other organizations and fora. An improved link to parliamentary politicians can be connected to their lessening influence, however, as was the case in Andersson’s chapter on weapons export. Pressures on corporations and industry to assume greater responsibility may also obstruct or at least lead to confusion about the representative-democratic chain of power, as seen in Tamm Hallström’s ISO case. Another notion about representation was related to who represents whom and what in network-based working forms. These questions appeared in the chapters on healthcare priorities, nuclear waste, weapons export, and an ISO standard for social responsibility. Participants raised concerns about transparency in decision-making fora to which they had no direct access, or questioned why agenda setting and the purpose for initiating a certain process should be opaque to most participants (Tamm Hallström on ISO standards for social responsibility, Sundström on forest-sector objectives and Soneryd on nuclear waste). Furusten’s chapter on public purchasing illustrates the overarching values that drive EU reform; national levels of these values were related to the opportunity for introducing transparency, and ultimately to holding public officials accountable for the use of public resources. Here participants raised qualms over the risk that the reform itself could obstruct the preferred values, as compliance with the law would result in an unwieldy bureaucratic process, lower quality services and inefficient use of public resources. We expected that participants in our studied processes would raise arguments about problems connected to these values. It is not clear, however, why

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these values appeared and how one can explain the variety of ways in which conflicting values were balanced in our cases. Who brings values to the scene? In this book, we have depicted some variation in the type of participant introducing the topic of democratic values for discussion. Not surprisingly, civil servants constitute a category of participants that emphasizes democratic values. In Furusten’s chapter on public purchasing, however, the civil servants that emphasized democratic values did not play an active role in the processes of purchasing public services, but served the function of “stage designer”, leaving the practice to other parties. Social scientists formed a second category of participants that contributed to bringing democratic values into the debate. In the youth policy case analysed by Sörbom, social scientists were seen as having the authority to say something about the state of democracy and the type of problems requiring public responses. In Sörbom’s case, social scientists reported on democratic qualities that were in danger of being lost if no young people were included in politics. Their statements were followed by organized initiatives by both national and local governments. Yet another category of actors with qualms about democratic values can be termed “stakeholders”. Members of this group were sometimes the weaker parties that introduced questions about transparency, resource allocation, and agenda setting, because they felt excluded or not fully equipped with the resources to participate (see, for instance, Tamm Hallström on ISO standards, Sundström on forest-sector objectives, Sjögren and Fernler on health-sector decisions and Soneryd on nuclear waste management). Some participants initiated discussions over values – some ISO-case participants, for example, some participants who responded to the reorganization of the control of weapons export, and the buyers and sellers in public purchasing of complex services. They focused on these issues, not necessarily because they felt excluded, but simply because they believed that the objective of the whole process was wrong. Others, in the Swedish forest-sector objectives case, for instance, argued that the process was unclear. There were also examples of stakeholders that were strong actors – stakeholders with objectives and interests that fit well with the way the process was organized (see, for instance, Tamm Hallström’s chapter). This brief summary of the discussions over democratic values that appeared in the cases presented in Chapters 2 to 8 demonstrates that there are problems with governance structures – problems as understood from the perspective of the participants. Our empirical chapters are not designed to examine democratic implications of overall changes from government to governance. From our case studies, however, we can learn about what happens in practice when participants deal with contradictory demands and the type of

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organizational activities they undertake when problems appear. The tasks involved in running their daily businesses and acting as agents of democracy constitute a challenge – a challenge that requires the rationality of a “proper actor”. The remainder of this chapter addresses the way participants in our studied processes face demands inherent in being a proper actor, and suggests organizational factors that can explain when and why democratic values are being attended to and how conflicting values are balanced.

MODERNISTIC ASSUMPTIONS VERSUS CONTEXTUAL VERSIONS OF AGENCY One criticism of predominant understandings of governance is supported by findings reported in this book: the unproblematized capability of participants involved in governance structures to live up to all the demands that are placed upon them. It seems as if the notion of the proper actor is taken for granted when governance is supposed to be realized in practice. Public and private organizations as well as individuals and groups that are comparatively well organized are expected to behave as actors with clear identities, relatively stable preferences, and rationality; they are expected to behave in accordance with their preferences and the available knowledge (Meyer 1987; Brunsson & Sahlin-Andersson 2000; Jutterström 2004). Ideas about proper actorhood are institutionalized in our modern society; society is assumed to comprise actors – individuals, organizations and nation states – and modern actorhood entails a number of features seldom problematized or analysed, but simply taken for granted. Moreover, a specific feature of modern actorhood that has been emphasized by new institutionalist thinkers lies in the way the modern actor is constructed as an authorized agent for various interests, including those of the self. Not only is the single actor supposed to be a rational being with a clear identity and clear preferences, therefore, but when actors act as agents they are also supposed to represent the intended will of other actors and universal moral laws or knowledge. Thus there are tensions built into the idea of modern actorhood, as acting in accordance with one’s own preferences may be contradictory to acting in accordance with agency for others or agency for principles (Meyer and Jepperson 2000, see Chapter 1 for a brief description of various types of agency). The first conclusion we can draw from our empirical studies is confirmation of the viewpoints from a new institutionalist perspective on modern actorhood: democratic values are attended to because there is an increased expectation on actors to demonstrate that they meet the features of modern actorhood. The state may make an effort, therefore, to improve the agentic capabilities of citizens and the state. It may seek to improve decision-making

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procedures at various levels of government, for instance. Or it may devote resources to areas not directly connected to its political agendas, with the aim of improving the capacity of its citizens to be involved in politics – thus emphasizing the value of participation and the right of all to be included, as seen in the chapters on youth policy and healthcare. When, for example, environmental NGOs devote more and more time and resources to organizing themselves and their activities in order to demonstrate that they are legitimate participants, as shown in Tamm Hallström’s chapter on corporate responsibility standards and Soneryd’s chapter on nuclear waste, they, too, are engaged in refining agentic capabilities. The standardization of modern actorhood also implies that the readiness for othering (to act for other actors) is enhanced and that the forms of otherhood develop and expand. We saw many examples of othering in our studies: industries or other private organizations assuming the tasks and responsibilities that were previously those of the state, and a readiness to show that this is done in a democratic, participatory, transparent and accountable way. It is not surprising that participants in our studies are expected to and try to demonstrate that they act in accordance with rationalized and standardized ideas about how to be a proper actor – including their fulfilment of the role of agents for other actors and for democratic principles. Neither is it surprising that participants fail to live up to all the demands placed on the modern actor, and one could ask if the ideas about modern actorhood presented by Meyer and colleagues are even possible to disconfirm. Their approach is helpful, however, in order to depict institutionalized notions of actorhood that are assumed within governance models. Governance is based, for example, on the assumption that even if participants are not mobilized or organized well enough to constitute strong actors, they can become actors later. Not all participants that are invited and choose to participate in governancestructured processes necessarily meet the range of requirements that are expected from modern rational actors, but it is assumed that they may attain these capabilities during the process. There is always the possibility of attaining more resources through efforts to organize loosely connected groups of people into more formal organizations. Because processes that are characterized by governance also demand that participants be able to act in concert in the governance network, there can be conflicting demands on participants. Especially when participants believe that they have no control over the end product, they may ultimately choose to refrain from responsible actorhood. This is a problematic situation, as both the desire and the ability to be an actor or become an actor are necessary prerequisites for the governance structure to work. This brings our next critique of the ideal governance model to the fore: not all governance structures look the same. We argue that not only the complex-

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ity of transforming the ideals of actorhood and otherhood into local action in organizations complicates the realization of democratic values in organizational practice; so also do factors in the dimensions in which actions in local organizational processes are constructed. Governance structures differ, therefore, because there are various combinations of a number of organizational factors in various dimensions of organizations, which is the focus of the next section.

DIMENSIONS FOR ORGANIZATION OF ACTIONS Governance structures do not evolve naturally; they are always the result of active initiatives. These initiatives include more or less formal or informal rules and ideas about the process. The initial framing and establishment of rules for the process not only shape goals and objectives and the issues and themes that will reach high status on the agenda; they also determine who can participate and the terms under which they can participate. Thus the context for “democratic agents” to perform is complex and filled with different and sometimes contradictory demands, as well as power struggles with other actors making efforts to be involved in the shaping of actions. In other words, governance structures involve a number of dimensions of organization, and the organization of governance structures has an impact on how and why democratic values are attended to in local actions. We propose that dimensions of the organization, such as the construction of organizational identity, organizational capacity, and organizational routines, are crucial to the way democratic values are perceived in local action in organizations. According to the modernistic and rational management model, these are dimensions that the management of an organization is expected to control, but as we have seen in this book, this logic is challenged in governance structures. Organizational identity One classical perception of an organization is the expectation that it will have a clear identity, materialized into tasks, visions, objectives, plans, partnerships, collaborators and membership in meta-organizations. The identities of organizations are not always clearly identifiable to everyone concerned with their activities, and it is not always the managers of the organization who control the identity of the organization, either internally or externally. It has been argued, for instance, that there may be tensions between an organization’s formal identity – how it is presented officially – and other more culturally based elements of an organization’s identity (Meyer & Rowan, 1977). Some cases reviewed in this book are more obvious than others. Some of these organizations, by definition of their mandate, are expected to represent

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specific interests: consumer organizations, environmental organizations, and various types of branch organizations, for example. When a structured governance process has clearly predefined themes and issues that coincide with identities shared by many participating organized interest groups, there is an increased chance that these interest groups will be legitimized as actors. Defining the key issues to be dealt with in the process, then, as well as the issues that certain participants are expected to contribute may be in the hands of these interest groups. Participants legitimized as actors in this way may be forced into representing certain interests, bodies of knowledge or values. Thus participants with a clear identity that coincides with expectations of the hosting organization and other participants fit the governance model well, but such clear-cut groups do not always exist in governance structures. One example is the process analysed by Tamm Hallström, in which the task was to formulate a standard for social responsibility. This process was hosted by ISO; it was ISO that invited the participants, established procedural rules for the process (and changed the rules after various pressures from participants), and categorized the participants into ‘stakeholder groups’. The result was that some participants did not fit into the category, whereas others, for whom the category coincided with their organizational identity, fitted it well. The identity of an organization can also be crucial in determining the things it can do in a governance-structured process. If its members tend to share its identity, but its identity as a player in a governance network is more ambiguous for them, it is likely that the organization will not compromise its goals in order to reach agreement with the other participants. As we saw in Sundström’s chapter on forest-sector objectives, for example, interest organizations often work with confrontational rather than cooperative strategies, which can become troublesome when participants in governance structures are expected to assume joint responsibility for the outcome. One element of organizational identity depicted in our case studies was whether or not the participating organizations had an identity as market actors, and were willing to accept the fact that they were expected to compete on the market. In the case of public procurements analysed by Furusten, the conflicts that appeared between being a rational market actor and being transparent can be explained by a misfit between expectations of the purchasing organizations and organizational identity. The impossible task of being economically efficient on the one hand and politically responsible and transparent on the other also caused some of the participants in our studied processes to refrain from actorhood – at least in the full sense of a “proper actor”. This was accomplished either by delegating some of the responsibility to others, as in Andersson’s chapter on weapons export, or by ignoring or otherwise trying to avoid demands for transparency, as in Furusten’s case of public purchasing. Thus the construction of organizational identities does take different routes,

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and although management has the formal responsibility to control this construction, those who carry out actions in organizations have different demands to consider. When organizations deal with their tasks and problems, it is not always the identity of a participant in governance structure that they have in mind; other organizational identities may be more prominent. However strong the organization’s identity as part of a governance structure – whether or not it shapes the organization’s understanding of problems and how to solve them – has consequences for their possible legitimacy as actors in the governance structure and for the success of the entire governance system. Organizational capacity Another dimension of organization is the construction of organizational capacities – their financial and intellectual resources and abilities and their autonomy and control. From a modernistic viewpoint, the manager adapts the resources the organization requires in order to perform its tasks; and if they do this well, the organization is likely to succeed. In local organizational processes, however, it is not only the will of the managers that forms the actions taken; the capacity of organizations is related to variables in the context in which the organization operates. An organization that delegates certain tasks or purchases them from external suppliers is such an example. Having done so, its capacity for controlling the process is limited. Taking responsibility and being held accountable for activities in such arrangements is not without its problems. The organizational capacities of participants in our studied processes differ, and these differences shape the values they bring to the scene and the balance of the potential value conflicts. Governance structures imply that organizations should collaborate on certain issues in order to incorporate democratic values – a fact that adds complexity to the situation. As discussed, organizations can have identities that fit such structures; however, they are still organizations to which their own production is a highly prioritized concern. Thus they must see to their own capacities to solve their tasks and run their business. Governance networks, on the other hand, are not entities that in themselves have organizational capacity; ‘[u]nlike an organization, a network is not an actor. It cannot express itself, present its ideas or actions, or make decisions’ (Ahrne and Brunsson 2008: 165). Thus the basic meaning of a network is that no one runs it. Although a network does not have a centre, this does not mean that the construction of actions in governance structures is without hierarchy. In the processes we studied, there were always one or several actors that had the capacity, in varying degrees, to formulate the conditions for other participants, and how things were going to proceed. This was either an organization such as ISO or SKB, that both hosted and was central in the process, as discussed

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in Tamm Hallström’s chapter on a standard for social responsibility and Soneryd’s on nuclear waste management; or organizations that had delegated the task to other organizations, with rules on how the process should be organized. In these cases, the identity of the organizations fitted the structure well, which means that it was not contradictory for them to act as agents of democratic values. In these cases, discussions over democratic values therefore appeared when participants raised critical points about their lack of resources and their capacity to act as proper actors with some degree of autonomy. Thus when the identity of the involved organization fits well with its role as an actor in a governance structure, it is willing to improve its capacity, so it is better equipped to lead and to form the structure and actions taken by participants in the network, in accordance with democratic values. We have also seen that when the identities of the actors were ambiguous from a network perspective, that value conflicts appeared both within organizations and among them. In some cases, the responsible public authorities for the political area made efforts to solve this problem by authorizing a central organizer to deal with the conflicting values, and thereby organizing away the conflict. This was done by relegating to a separate organization some of the participants who voiced values that contradicted the central values of the hosting organizations. In Sjögren and Fernler’s chapter on healthcare, decisionable knowledge as the overarching value was in conflict with the effective participation of some participants – the patients – and this was dealt with by creating a separate organization for patients. In Sörbom’s chapter on youth policy, separate organizational solutions were arranged for young people because of a value conflict between representative democracy and participation by all. These conflicts appeared because of the biased capacities of participants; neither patients nor young people fitted the notion of a proper actor (i.e. proper organization). In the youth policy case, organizational forms for young peoples’ participation were based on the idea that young people should be treated differently from adults and given other organizational solutions. The organizational changes made in order to deal with this tension were not resolving the fundamental conflict; rather they reinforced the tension between ideas about the capacities of the participants and ideas about the requirements for political agency. The capacity of participants has implications not only for the legitimacy of a process, but also for the agency that is attributed to its participants. In structures in which the identities of the involved organizations fit well with the notion of a democratic agent in a governance network, the organizations also have the capacity to ensure that consideration of democratic values in local action tends to be relatively high. In political areas, however, the construction of organizational capacities is more complicated when value conflicts appear. Public authorities sometimes build a new organization or empower an existing

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one to lead the network. As we saw in Furusten’s case on public purchasing, however, it is not to be taken for granted that this organization has the capacity to overcome the conflicting demands that local purchasers must deal with in their various procurements. In Andersson’s case of Swedish weapons export, a new body was also established. In this case, the conflict between market values and democratic values was resolved by organizational means and by delegating the responsibilities for control over weapons export; and the task of resolving potential value conflicts was allotted, arguably, to the new body that was neither politically accountable nor open and transparent. This may have increased the organization’s capacity to deal with efficiency problems, but hardly its capacities to deal with the democratic values that were raised by participants in the process of implementing organizational change. Organizational routines Our third dimension of organization is the construction of organizational routines – old patterns and established cultures within an organization. Such routines are often difficult to change, and are related to the age as well as the size and identity of the organization. Old and large organizations with clear identities as producers of something specific, such as nuclear power plants producing electric power or hospitals producing healthcare, develop internal routines over time for all types of organized activities. The existence of such local routines has consequences for the way new aspects of their practice can be established. It also has consequences for how they behave in relationships with other actors. Governance structures can sometimes build on collaborations that have been long in place and in which organizational routines are established. We can expect well-established routines to engender little attention to democratic values, as procedures are taken for granted. Less wellestablished organizational routines, on the other hand, we would expect to go hand in hand with greater attention to democratic values. In some cases, organizational routines may be an explanation for why democratic values are not attended to until late in the process, as demonstrated in Sundström’s chapter on forest-sector objectives. The participants in this process were well known to each other; they had worked together in the past, and they did not hesitate to do so again. The task was different this time, however: the objective of the process was not clear, and it was particularly unclear who should be responsible for the results. For a process with less wellestablished organizational routines, such diffusion would likely cause debates over accountability or the value and efficiency of participation at the beginning of the process. Reorganizations and the introduction of new types of participants with new roles and responsibilities may address certain values over others. This was particularly evident in cases in which the rules of participation were newly established orders that were not institutionalized and taken

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for granted – such as in Tamm Hallström’s case on a standard for social responsibility, Soneryd’s chapter on nuclear waste and Sjögren and Fernler’s chapter on healthcare. Rules concerning who the participants are and on what terms they can participate can always be questioned and debated, precisely because they are based on decisions, and because they make obvious the fact that things could have been otherwise. When there are well-established routines, on the other hand, things are taken for granted and rules have become institutionalized, i.e. they no longer appear as “decisions”. How specific organizational routines appear is an important variable when organizations are about to collaborate. If routines differ among organizations, it is likely that they have difficulties in finding successful ways to collaborate. And because the idea of governance is that organizations should interact in networks, this creates a complication that hinders the ability of the system to work.

AMBIGUOUS ACTORHOOD AND MULTIPLE OTHERHOOD IN ORGANIZATIONAL PROCESSES We have emphasized the notion that ambiguities in organizational identities and capacities, as well as the existence of organizational routines, have an impact on the way democratic values are dealt with in local action. These dimensions of organization challenge the understanding of the way actions in organizations, and thereby organizations that interact in networks, are constructed. If these complications with the governance model are related to ambiguities in the practice of actorhood and otherhood, the assumed link in governance structures from ideals of democracy, represented by a number of democratic values that are carried into organizational processes by empowered agents of democracy, also becomes complicated. This can be explained by ambiguities in the type of actorhood local organizations should apply, that they are not merely agents of democracy, but must be concerned about agentic action towards other demands when they take other actions. Moreover, the governance model assumes that the interaction among a number of actors should ensure that common interests are seen to, but because networks lack organizational capacity and so cannot assume responsibility or be held accountable, the responsibility for forming local action in local organizational processes remains with the local organizations that participate. Thus we need to consider the existence of organizational variety if we want to understand how systems of governance work. Governance structures are populated not only by homogenous actors; they involve a variety of participants and various types of organizations. It can be

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problematic for participants that differ greatly in their capacities and identities to establish working forms of cooperation. If a policy area is relatively homogenous, it is likely to cause less trouble for the participants to participate as proper actors in decision-making activities. In some cases, it was clear in the governance processes that there was great variety among the organizations that were participants, and that this was one reason why participants raised qualms about democratic values. This happened, for instance, when new actors entered the process and contributed to a more heterogeneous organizational landscape. Illustrative was Soneryd’s chapter, in which environmental organizations entered the process of finding a solution to the nuclear waste problem, as well as the chapter by Sjögren and Fernler, in which patients entered the process of healthcare priority discussions. Organizational variety led to discussions over democratic values because participants had different versions of the meaning of transparency or effective participation, for instance, or the importance of accountability in relation to representativity. Not least was organizational variety a distinguishing feature of the ISO process, analysed by Tamm Hallström. Transnational standardsetting processes like this one gather a variety of participants ranging from those representing seemingly homogeneous industrial interests to less organized NGOs from poor countries. Variations among organizations involved in governance structures do appear, as there are ambiguities about the type of actor represented by an organization, which relates to complexities in the construction of organizational identities. It is not without its problems, for example, to be an organizational actor who emphasizes efficiency in fulfilling organizational objectives simultaneously, as one is expected to act as an agent for democracy both in one’s own organization and in networks with other organizations. This duality of actorhood creates a constraint on the workings of the governance model. In some of the processes studied, variety was dealt with through categorization. By categorizing participants, the organizer of a process may be able to demonstrate that certain interests and values have been considered, and thereby increase the legitimacy of the process. By “being categorized”, the participants attain a limited type of agency, which is connected to the characteristics and capacities attributed to that category. Another complexity is the multiplicity of otherhood. Organizations are not only agents of democracy; they have other forms of otherhood to consider when they take actions. They must see to the interests of citizens that form the target group for the services they produce, and must consider demands from local politicians, while being key business partners for local industry. They are therefore regional agents. Moreover, public organizations must live up to norms about the modern organization, which means that they must relate to the currently popular and fashionable managerial discourse, and become agents

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for management fashions. These forms of otherhood are not formalized, but they cannot be ignored if we want to understand what it is that forms actions taken by organizations involved in governance structures.

CONCLUDING REMARKS As mentioned in Chapter 1, governance structures are often perceived as a threat to liberal-representative democracy. It is argued that organizations of various kinds form and collaborate in networks operating at a considerable distance from elected politicians. These networks are seen as highly selforganizing and difficult to control from the political centre, and therefore undermine the representative-democratic chain of power. Even though most governance scholars seem to agree with the general structural picture of an increasing distance between (accountable) politicians and (operating) networks, and even though they seem to agree that there are blurred boundaries between private and public organizations, some scholars believe that democracy can survive in a society built on governance structures. It requires changes, however, both in the way we think about democracy and in the way politicians act. Regarding the way we think about democracy, it has been argued that assessments of governance structures should be based not only on liberalrepresentative democracy, but also on deliberative democracy. The fact that individuals and organizations collaborate closely and repeatedly should, in itself, be seen as contributing to a more democratic society. Thus what we lose in terms of democracy with the ability of politicians to control societal activities from the top and in a more instrumental way, we gain when a variety of people come together to discuss problems and solutions. Regarding the way politicians act, they need to be more active in trying to construct and influence networks. They should try harder to act as ‘metagovernors’; they should play down traditional hierarchical steering and control methods; they should think and act more strategically, trying to define problems, create incentive structures, mobilize stakeholders, build networks and shape identities and meanings. They need to think more systematically about how to organize policy areas. In this way, democracy will thrive from both a liberal-representative perspective and a deliberative perspective. How does this book contribute to this discussion? Our studies confirm that decision-making processes in governance structures are complex. The processes we have studied involve many individuals and organizations, and they move rapidly, making them difficult to recapitulate empirically and to analyse theoretically. But clearly, we have observed a great many discussions among various types of organizations and a great many state activities. This

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does not mean, however, that the processes meet the demands of deliberative democracy and liberal-representative democracy. When we analyse discussions in networks, for example, it often seems as if powerful organizations have become even more powerful, and structural demands have been placed on weaker groups with problems meeting them. And when analysing state activities, it has become clear that active states do not always, or even often, have active politicians; the state is frequently represented in networks by agencies with far-reaching autonomy vis-à-vis the politicians acting virtually on their own. Here we agree with those governance scholars who claim that politicians need to think more strategically and systematically about steering and control. Above all, they should think in new ways. Our studies show that the state has become deeply embedded in the surrounding society, on both the national and international level. The conditions for steering and control have changed. It is true that the state has long been working in network-based forms, marked by ambiguity and complexity, but these characterizations have become more prominent. The management policies in Western states in general, and control strategies in particular, have not changed. New public management techniques, such as management by objectives and results, are still in use and under refinement in most Western states. Theoretically these new public management techniques do not belong to governance, but to government. The underlying assumptions fit the idea of the modern actor: the state (and the rest of society) consists of formal organizations, hierarchically ordered and with clear boundaries that must be controlled and coordinated in an instrumental and detailed manner. Today these ideas are obsolete – the map and the terrain are becoming more and more divergent. When politicians and high-level civil servants are designing steering and control strategies, they need to be derived from theoretical assumptions other than those underpinning new public management techniques. It has been suggested that the designers should assume not that politicians can define what they want more precisely, but rather that they have only the vaguest ideas about what they want; not that state organizations and activities can be delimited and their boundaries clarified, but rather that they are hard to delimit and clarify; not that we can obtain certain knowledge about activities and their effects, but rather that knowledge is inherently disputed (see e.g. March and Olsen, 1976; Jacobsson and Sundström, 2009). Throughout this book, we have demonstrated that when planning governance-oriented steering and control strategies, the designers need to think about the basic characteristics of individuals, groups and organizations within the state as well as the characteristics of individuals, groups and organizations outside the state. If the designers want to draw on both liberalrepresentative democracy (by developing the ability of politicians to control

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governance structures from above) and deliberative democracy (by more consciously arranging that individuals, groups and organizations meet to discuss problems), they must account for the fact that individuals, groups and organizations are inherently different. Because deliberative or strong democracy builds on the idea of a pluralistic society, control strategies and models based too much on standardization and rationalization will be problematic. Many of the values embraced by strong democracy will be lost if all parts of society (individuals, groups and organizations) are treated as identical entities in an all-embracing rationalistic control system (Premfors 2000: 33). Control systems must take into account that network participants’ interests and identities are formed and shaped in interaction with others, whereas processes evolve. In this chapter, we have demonstrated how this discussion can be taken further, arguing – on the basis of the empirical studies in the book – that designers of control strategies and systems must attend to organizational capacity, organizational identity, organizational variety and organizational routines. These ideas must be further elaborated upon, of course, preferably on the basis of more empirical studies. But we are sure that if ideas are used as a point of departure, they will generate control strategies and systems other than those emanating from the new public management paradigm. And they will generate new roles for politicians and civil servants. * It is difficult to resist the idea of the modern actor from a democratic standpoint. The “actor” is currently a highly institutionalized idea, and fits the liberal-representative democratic model, which dominates contemporary Western societies. If you are not involved in discussions over societal matters as an actor, in the form of what other type of entity can you be involved? And what type of democracy is that? These are difficult questions for politicians to answer. But does that mean that politicians should refrain from trying?

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Index 6, P. 6 Aarhus Convention (1998) 115 access to meetings 118–19 accountability 2, 5, 6, 8–9, 11, 12, 32 for forest-sector objectives 86, 87–8, 89, 91, 132–3 for military equipment export policy 32, 33, 39, 40, 42, 45–7, 133 actor-driven perspective 2, 9 actors actorhood 11, 74 ambiguous actorhood 142–3 appropriate actors 107–9 autonomous actors 9, 140 categories in ISO 26000 process 50–51, 52, 55 established actors 121 identities of 11, 137–9, 140 market actors 66–8, 74–5, 138 modern actor/modern actorhood 3, 10–12, 135–6, 145, 146 negotiations among 9–10 proper actor/proper actorhood 135, 136, 138, 140, 143 administrative logic 98, 101, 102, 109 Advisory Council on Foreign Affairs 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 42 see also Export Control Council (ECC) agency authorized agent 10, 12, 135 construction of 135–7 democratic agents 137, 140, 142 types of 10, 135 agenda control 86, 119–20, 123, 133 Ahrne, G. 15, 82, 128, 139 Alexius, S. 75 Ambiguity ambiguous actorhood 142–3 ambiguous identities 11, 140 ambiguous knowledge 3, 12

Amnesty International 8, 37–8 appropriate actors 107–9 authority of ISO 49, 61–2 right to be accredited with 14–15 of social scientists 134 authorized agent 10, 12, 135 autonomous actors 9, 140 balanced representation 49–50, 52–6, 62, 63 Behn, R. 5 Berger, P.L. 3, 11 Bevir, M. 9 Biersteker, T. 4, 5 Blair, Tony 6 Blom-Hansen, J. 10 Blomqvist, C. 75 Bofors 44 Bogdanor, V. 5 Bohman, J. 14 Boli, J. 49 Boström, M. 8, 49, 61, 81, 82 Bouckaert, G. 6 boundaries, public–private 1, 2, 4, 5, 32, 49, 144 Bourdieu, P. 25 Brunsson, N. 5, 6, 8, 11, 75, 82, 111, 128, 135, 139 business relationships 65, 73, 74 capability of participants 3, 10–12, 120–23, 135–6 central organizer role 89, 90–91, 140 Chadwick, A. 6 Christensen, T. 5 civil servants 5, 6, 134, 145 civil society organizations 17, 19 Clark, T. 75, 76 Committee on Environment and Agriculture 81 161

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Committee on the Constitution 32, 33, 34 cases scrutinized by 35–9, 44 complex services, public procurement of 65–78 see also management consultancy services, public procurement of; Swedish Act for Public Procurement (APP) ‘concerned public’ 115, 116, 120 consensus principle and forest sector interim targets 83 and ISO 26000 process 50, 56, 57, 58–9, 62, 63 and military equipment export policy 37, 40, 43–4, 46 consumer stakeholders in ISO 26000 process 52, 54, 59–60, 62–3 Consumers International (CI) 54, 60 contract documents 67 Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) 48–9, 87, 133 see also ISO 26000 process on Social Responsibility corruption 67, 76 cost effectiveness 96, 98 Cyert, R.M. 110 Czarniawska, B. 75 Czarniawska-Joerges, B. 76 Dahl, M. 8 Daniels, N. 94 de Bruijn, H. 5 decentralization 1, 2, 16, 81, 89 decision imperative 102, 103, 111 decision-making process decentralization of 1, 2 democratic values in 2–12, 32, 132–5 expert-dominated 13 methods see consensus principle; voting purpose of 111–12 delegation 20 of responsibility for military equipment export policy 33, 40–42, 45, 46–7, 133 deliberative democracy 6, 7–9, 16, 29, 144, 145, 146 democracy as policy 24–5

democratic agents 137, 140, 142 depoliticization of discussions 122, 128–9 developing countries 54–5, 57 DiMaggio, P.J. 3, 11 Dinkelspiel, Ulf 36 direct procurement 70, 73 discourse on democracy 27 meaning of 14–15 on youth 25–7 on youth in local democracy 28 Djelic, M.-L. 4, 49 Dryzek, J. 7 Dunn, D.D. 5 e-democracy 16 e-government 6 eco-labelling 82, 89 effective participation in forest-sector objective-setting process 86, 89, 134 in ISO 26000 process 56–9, 62, 134 EIA Directive 115 Ekelund, H. 82 Elam, M. 114, 115 elections 21, 24 elites 7–8 Elster, J. 6, 10 enlightened understanding 84–6, 89, 90 Environmental Code 113, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119–20, 123, 125, 128 Environmental Court 113, 116 environmental impact assessment (EIA) process for nuclear waste management and participants in 115, 116–17, 129 and sustainability 113, 114, 115, 128 and public consultations 117–27 and RD&D process 114, 118–19, 120, 125, 127, 128–9 environmental organizations, participation in nuclear waste management decisions 114, 115–26, 128 Environmental Quality Objectives 85 environmental sustainability 48, 49, 81, 85, 91, 113, 114, 115, 128 environmental targets 83, 89, 90 equal human value principle 96

Index equality in public purchasing 65, 67, 68, 70, 72, 74, 76, 77, 78 Eriksson, Mats 116 Erlingsdottir, G. 75 Espoo Convention 117 established actors 121 ethics 104–5, 116, 127 EU Commission 67 European Union (EU) 1 Aarhus Convention (1998) 115 EIA Directive 115 public procurement directives 66–7, 72 expert-dominated processes 13 experts in forest-sector objective setting process 83, 86, 87, 90 in healthcare sector priority setting process 98, 100, 102, 108 in ISO 26000 process 52, 54, 55, 58, 59, 62, 87 in nuclear waste management 114, 115, 116, 120 Export Control Council (ECC) 42–4, 46 export of military equipment see military equipment, export policy for facticity 99 Fernler, K. 75, 95, 110 flexibility 20, 28 Forest Law 81, 89, 90, 91 Forest-Sector Council 80, 82–91 forest sector objectives 79–92 democratic values in the process 84–8, 134 effective participation and agenda control 86, 89, 134 enlightened understanding 84–6, 89, 90 representation and accountability 86–8, 89, 91, 132–3 interim targets 79, 83–4, 85, 86, 88, 90 meaning of 85–6, 89–90 organizational factors influencing process 89–92 process of developing 82–4 Swedish forests and forest policy in short 80–82 Foucault, M. 15, 29

163

framework agreements 70–71, 72 free market competition 66–7, 74 Furusten, S. 9, 69, 75, 76 Garsten, C. 8 Gastil, J. 7 Gilljam, M. 16–17 glacial time perspective 126–7 goal formation 16 Gordon, C. 29 governance challenges for old actors 92 and construction of the modern actor 9–12, 135–6 democratic implications of 2, 4–9, 144–5 dimensions of organization of governance structures 137–42 from governance to governmentality 28–30 increasing trend towards 1 local governance 14 Government of Sweden 114, 124 government stakeholders in ISO 26000 process 52, 54, 63 governmentality 29 Greenaway, J. 8 Greenpeace 8 Greiner, L.E. 76 Grimsey, D. 81 group size 8 Haas, P. 3, 12 Habermas, J. 7 habitual behaviour 90–91 Hajer, M.A. 1, 2, 6, 9 Hall, R.B. 4, 5 Halpin, D.R. 8 Ham, C. 94, 95 Hamilton, G. 82 healthcare and professionals, role in healthcare sector priority setting 97–103, 108, 109, 110–11 and differing degrees of organization 102–3 and organizing ‘decision-able’ actors and knowledge 107–12 and patient participation 103–7, 108, 109, 110–11

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Helgesson, C.-F. 110 Hellström, Mats 36, 37–8 Higgins, W. 49 Hirst, P. 6 historical ties 36, 46 hollowing out 1 Hood, C. 6 human rights 34, 37–8, 49, 62 illusive procurements 71–2 inclusion 6, 7, 9, 11, 12, 16, 133 ISO standards based on 49 of young people 14, 15, 18, 19, 21–3, 26, 27, 29–30, 133 industry stakeholders in ISO 26000 process 52, 54, 59–60, 62 influence 22–3 information activities 116 interest organizations 9, 21, 63, 91–2, 104, 138 international agreements/international law 34, 49 International Labour Organization (ILO) 49, 53, 60, 62, 63 International Standardization Organization (ISO) legitimacy of 49–50, 53, 61–2 purpose of 48 as stakeholder 61–2, 64 ISO see International Standardization Organizaton (ISO) actor categories in 50–51, 52, 55 criticisms of 49 democratic values in 50–64, 133, 134 legitimacy of ISO 49–50, 53, 61–2 Jacobsson, B. 5, 8, 109, 145 Jasanoff, S. 3, 12 Jeppersson, R.L. 10, 11, 135 Jessop, B. 5 Jones, R. 7 Jutterström, M. 135 Kieser, A. 76 Kjær, A.M. 1, 9 Klijn, E.-H. 2, 5, 8, 9, 10 knowledge ambiguity of 3, 12 required for priority setting in the healthcare sector 99–100

contested delimitations of 100–102 from patient perspective 104–6 preformatting of 109–10 Kooiman, J. 4 Koppenjan, J. 10 labour rights 49, 62 labour stakeholders in ISO 26000 process 52, 53–4, 56, 57, 63 Lægreid, P. 5 Lager, Per 43 language difficulties 56, 58, 59, 63 law, importance of 125–6 Law on military equipment 34 learning 10 Levine, P. 7 Lewin, L. 5 Lewis, M.K. 81 liaison members (international) in ISO 26000 process 52, 53 Liaison Task Force (LTF) 58 local governance 14 see also municipalities local residents, participation in EIA process 115, 116, 120, 122, 123–4 logics of appropriateness 98, 102, 109, 110 Lowndes, V. 9 Loya, T. 49 Luckmann, T. 3, 11 Lund, Gunnar 42–3, 45 Management by Objectives (MBO) 81, 85, 145 management consultancy services, public procurement of APP regulation relating to 67 bypassing APP 70–72 need for management consultancy services 75–6 personal factors as selection criteria 68–70, 73–4, 75–8 regulating power of APP over practice 72–4 management consulting, critical literature on 75–6 March, J.G. 3, 11, 12, 109, 110, 145 Marcussen, M. 1 Margetts, H. 6

Index market actors 66–8, 74–5, 138 market mechanisms 6, 74, 77 market values 2, 74, 141 May, C. 6 media participation 59–61, 124 medical-professional logic 98, 102 memorandum of understanding 49, 53, 62, 63 meta-governance 29 meta-governors 5, 9, 144 meta-organizations 82, 128 Metzger, R.O. 76 Meyer, J.W. 10, 11, 76, 131, 135, 137 military equipment, export policy for 32–47, 134 delegating responsibility for 33, 40–42, 45, 46–7, 133 organization of policy field 35 modern actor/modern actorhood 3, 10–12, 135–6, 145, 146 monitoring 16, 22, 24 Montin, S. 16, 17 moratorium, youth living under 18, 19, 22, 26–7 Mörth, U. 4, 8, 81 multi-stakeholder approach 49–50, 53, 54, 57, 61–2, 63 municipalities changes within 16, 20 including young people in municipal governing 22–3, 28 role in EIA process for nuclear waste management 116, 118, 121, 123–4 mutual recognition in public purchasing 67, 74 national debate 123–4 national mirror committees 50, 55 need solidarity principle 96 nepotism 67, 76 network-based governance 1 ambiguous actorhood in 143 organizational capacity in 139–41, 142 representation issues in 133 state role in 28–9, 144–5 new institutionalist perspective 135–6 New Public Management 145 Nilsson, P. 18, 26

165

Noaksson, N. 109 Noble, G. 7 nondiscrimination in public purchasing 67, 74 non-governmental organizations (NGOs) in forest-sector objective-setting process 79, 82 in ISO 26000 process 52, 54, 55, 56, 59–61, 62–4 in nuclear waste management consultations 117 refining agentic capabilities of 136 Nuclear Activities Act 114, 118, 119–20 nuclear waste management, public involvement in 113–29 Nygren, Jan 38, 43 observers in ISO 26000 process 52, 54 in public consultations within EIA process 118–19, 121 OECD 6 off-label prescriptions 101 Olsen, J.P. 3, 6, 11, 75, 145 opinion polls 113, 126–7 organizational capacity 139–41 organizational factors 137–42 organizational identity 11, 137–9, 140 organizational routines 141–2 organizational theory 9 post-bureaucratic school of 8 otherhood 136 multiple otherhood 143–4 otherness 28 outsourcing 6 Pagrotsky, Leif 43, 44 Papakostas, A. 15 participation effective participation in forest-sector objective-setting process 86, 89, 134 new forms of public participation 6–7 political participation 16–17 of young people 17, 21–8 passim, 30 stakeholder participation in healthcare sector priority setting 94–112, 134

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Organizing democracy

stakeholder participation in ISO 26000 process 53–4, 55 effective participation 56–9, 62, 134 stakeholder participation in nuclear waste management decisions 117–29, 134 see also deliberative democracy patient participation in healthcare sector priority setting 103–7 justification for 110–11 knowledge from ‘patient perspective’ 104–6 preformatting identity and behaviour 108, 109 separate organization of patients 106–7, 108 status of patients’ representative 103–4 patients’ associations 103, 104, 105–6, 107 Peters, B.G. 1, 4, 29 Peters, G. 5 Pfeffer, J. 9 Pierre, J. 1, 4, 16, 29 politicians’ role in governance structures 5, 28–9, 144–5 politics and science, relationship between 126–7 Pollitt, C. 5, 6, 7 polluter-pays principle 114 post-bureaucratic school of organizational theory 8 Powell, W.W. 3, 11 power 22, 23, 24, 28–9, 30 preformatting of form and content of knowledge 109–10 of participants’ identity and behaviour 107–9 Premfors, R. 146 proper actor/proper actorhood 135, 136, 138, 140, 143 proportionality in public purchasing 67, 74 Przeworski, A. 2, 8 public access to official records 68, 72 see also minutes of meetings public–private partnership 6, 16, 81

public procurement 65–78, 133, 134 see also management consultancy services, public procurement of; Swedish Act for Public Procurement (APP) purchasing, public see public procurement; management consultancy services, public procurement of; Swedish Act for Public Procurement (APP) Radin, E. 5 referendums 16 regional consultation meetings 117, 118–19, 121, 122, 125 Rein, M. 2 ‘repetition’ meetings 122–3 representation 2, 6, 7, 9, 11, 12, 49, 86–8, 91, 103–4, 133 balanced representation 49–50, 52–6, 62, 63 representative democracy 4–7, 16, 133, 140, 144, 145–6 Research, Development and Demonstration (RD&D) process for nuclear waste management role of experts in 114, 115, 116, 120 rules well defined in 114–15 separation between EIA process and 114, 118–19, 120, 125, 127, 128–9 traditional domination of 116 research funding, distribution of 119 resource dependency 9 resources, young people as 20 responsibility for forest-sector objectives 86–8, 91–2, 132–3 for military equipment export policy 32, 33, 35, 40–42, 45, 46–7, 133 Social Responsibility (SR) 48–9, 87, 133 see also ISO 26000 process on Social Responsibility Rethemeyer, R.K. 6 Rhodes, R.A.W. 1, 4, 7, 8, 9, 29 Rose, N. 15 Rothstein, B. 16 Røvik, K.-A. 75

Index Rowan, B. 131, 137 rules of dialogue 107–12 enacting 110–12 formatting form and content of knowledge 109–10 formatting participants’ identity and behaviour 107–9 Sabin, J.E. 94 safety concerns 114, 116, 120, 125, 128 Sahlin-Andersson, K. 4, 5, 8, 49, 135 Salaman, G. 76 Salancik, G.R. 9 Scharpf, F.W. 4 Schmidt, S. 49 science and politics, relationship between 126–7 Sevón, G. 75 SFA see Swedish Forest Agency (SFA), role in developing forest sector objectives Simon, H.A. 109 Sjöberg, Lennart 113 Sjögren, E. 12, 95 SKB (Svensk Kärnbränslehantering AB, Swedish Nuclear Fuel and Waste Management Co.), site investigations by 113–29 Skelcher, C. 2, 5, 8, 9 Slaughter, A.-M. 4 social constructivism 3, 11, 131 Social Responsibility (SR) 48–9, 87, 133 see also ISO 26000 process on Social Responsibility social scientists 134 soft rules 4, 8, 81–2, 84, 91 Soneryd, L. 117 Sørensen, E. 2, 5, 6, 9, 29 special consultations 117, 118–19 stakeholder participation in healthcare sector priority setting see healthcare sector, priority setting in stakeholder participation in ISO 26000 process 134 balanced representation among categories 49–50, 52–6, 62, 63 effective participation of 56–9, 62, 134 ISO as stakeholder 61–2, 64

167

multi-stakeholder approach 49–50, 53, 54, 57, 61–2, 63 use of democratic values as strategic tools 61–4 stakeholder participation in nuclear waste management decisions 117–29, 134 stakeholder participation in Swedish forest-sector objective-setting process 79, 81, 82, 84, 87, 88, 89, 90–92, 134 standards 8 ISO 9000 quality management system standards 45, 47, 48, 49 ISO 14000 environmental management standards 48, 49 see also ISO 26000 process on Social Responsibility state role in governance structures 5, 28–9, 144–5 steering and control 145 Stirling, A. 94, 110, 111 Strom, K. 2 Sundqvist, G. 114, 115–16 Sundström, G. 5, 90, 145 sustainable development see environmental sustainability Svedberg, L. 30 Swedish Act for Public Procurement (APP) bypassing by service providers 70–72 as formula for shaping democratic market actors 66–8, 74–5, 76, 77–8 not suitable for complex services 69–70, 76–7 rules and action 72–4 Swedish Environmental Code 113, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119–20, 123, 125, 128 Swedish Forest Agency (SFA), role in developing forest-sector objectives 79–92 agenda control by SFA 86 cooperation with owners and industry 81–2, 90 downsizing of SFA 81, 89 Forest-Sector Council established 80, 82

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Organizing democracy

Forest Sector Objectives (published 2004) 79, 83–4, 88 organizational factors influencing 89–92 policy-making process summarized 82–4 questioned on meaning of objectives 85–6, 89–90 responsibility for concretizing general objectives 79, 81, 84, 86, 89 views on nature of Forest-Sector Council 87–8π Tamm Hallström, K. 49, 61 Taylor, A. 5 Tenbensel, T. 94, 95 Thatcher, D. 2 Thedvall, R. 8 Thomson, J.D. 9 Torfing, J. 1, 2, 4, 6, 9, 10 Törnqvist, Tommy 82 trade unions 9, 24, 56, 79, 82 Trägårdh, L. 30 transparency 2, 5, 6, 9, 11, 12 in EIA process for nuclear waste management 119, 133 in ISO 26000 process 58, 59–61, 62–3, 133 in public purchasing 65, 67, 68, 70, 72, 74, 76, 77, 78, 133 trust, relationships of 68, 69, 73, 76, 77 user councils 14, 24 user democracy 16 user-directed youth centres 21 User Group (Brukarrådet) 106

voluntariness 8, 61, 63, 81–2, 89 voting 27, 50, 57, 58, 62 see also elections vouchers 6 Wagenaar, H. 1, 2, 6, 9 War Matériel Inspectorate (Krigsmaterielinspektionen, KMI) 33, 35, 36, 37, 39, 40–41, 44 Weldon, S. 117 Weller, P. 5 Werle, R. 49 Werr, A. 9, 69, 75, 76 Westander, Henrik 43 Westerlund, S. 115 Wettenhall, R. 81 youth discourse on 25–7 in local democracy 28 inclusion of 14, 15, 18, 19, 20, 21–3, 26, 27, 29–30, 133 Youth Committee 20–22, 27 youth councils 14, 17, 20, 21, 23, 24, 27, 28, 29–30 youth organizations 17, 26–7 youth parliaments 27 youth policy, discursive analysis of 14–30 democracy as policy 24–5 discursive cogs 25–8 from governance to governmentality 28–30 from menace to political actor 17–24 meaning of discourse 14–15 organizational context 15–17 social scientists’ authority in 134