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Stories of Democracy: Politics and Society in Contemporary Kuwait
Mary Ann Tétreault
2000
Chapter 2: Citizens and States
Political traditions are complex bundles of beliefs and practices that connect a community’s collective past to the future. The importance of the past to these traditions is reflected in such terms as “national character” and “political culture,” concepts implying that a community holds particular beliefs and behaves in particular ways because of its common history. We also talk of “revolution” as signifying a break with history, a new beginning that is sought even if its particular results may not have been chosen. Yet as Alexis de Tocqueville observed in France, little about the essential nature of French politics changed as the result of the revolution of 1789. 1 This is not to say that France has not changed during its history, but that new regimes and new styles of community, in France and elsewhere, are constrained by the past. “Development” marks a fundamental discontinuity between traditional society and modernity; 2 even so, the structures of modernity are shaped both by the pattern of the culture it replaces and the manner of its disintegration. 3 Consequently, what we call “revolution” is less an event inaugurating major political and social change 4 than a particularly violent episode in an ongoing series of adjustments to changing realities.
Modernity hastens change by expanding the number of points at which adjustment occurs and the speed at which it is demanded but, even so, political change remains highly constrained. How a people understands power, authority, and community is embedded in culture, geography, institutions, and personal relationships at so many points that the results of even a sudden violent change in regime may be less momentous than contemporaries believe. How power and authority are negotiated by members of political communities is the subject of this chapter. The intersection of culture and modernity is particularly important as the locus of change and how it is shaped.
Political Participation
Human beings tell many stories to explain how civil life developed, and this practice and its meanings have not changed much since we have begun to call these stories “models” and “theories.” One describes civil society everywhere as evolving along a track from communal, kin-based relationships to contractual, interest-based associations. 5 This story is contradicted by Patricia Springborg, who argues that patterns of civil life are culturally shaped, regionally based, and continuous over time. 6 Her analysis of two “ideal types” of political community parallels distinctions made between two paradigms of political liberty, each of which underlies a radically different understanding of democracy and citizenship. 7
Springborg believes that democratic traditions arise from particular historical experiences and that the two stories of democracy she finds in the Western tradition are rooted in separate problematiques. 8 The set of myths associated with each is intended to justify a particular hierarchy of values and enjoin a particular set of practices that its adherents claim are the heart of democracy in any culture. One set tells of the evolution of the highly autonomous cultures of Mediterranean city-states; the other describes a different historical trajectory traced by political cultures whose roots are in northern Europe. Springborg distinguishes them as
properly political society—small-scale, urban, highly participatory and entrepreneurial . . . and northern European society, whose ancestry is feudal, rural, and decentralized. In these latter systems (excluding northern Italian city-states and the free cities of the Hansa League) participation in free and equal institutions is only a recent part of history, and absolutism, where the only public person was the king, was once the dominant mode. 9
Mediterranean city-states, home of “properly political society,” were the birthplaces of public life—that is, human existence embedded in face-to-face political communities and in private relationships centered on domestic life. 10 Describing the multiplicity of community life in such societies, Springborg notes that their citizens enjoyed many opportunities not only to define themselves as persons and express themselves as individuals but also to participate as members of multiple associations extending beyond the family group, relationships undertaken in part to increase security. In the absence of a powerful governing authority, individual and family security depended on such networks of mutual reliance. 11
Otto Hintze finds a similar association between city-states and participatory politics. However, he emphasizes scale rather than diversity as the defining characteristic of a political community.
What is common to ancient and modern constitutions of city-states is based, it seems to me, on the peculiar character of this political organization. Even where the foundation of a city-state was the work of a monarchical rulership, after it had come into existence it soon emancipated itself from monarchical authority; for close union simply in terms of space and intense communication among the inhabitants produced a vigorous, unified, collective political consciousness. . . .
This communal spirit is responsible for the inclination toward a republican form of government common to all city-states. 12
Hintze and Springborg, each proceeding from different national and temporal contexts, tell the story of the city-state as a unique sociopolitical form, one that carries with it an open and participatory style of political and social life. In support of this thesis, Ghassan Salamé offers a third argument, one whose problematique is located specifically in the modern Middle East. 13 Like Springborg and Hintze, Salamé believes that small communities invite political participation. However, he is less concerned with the micropolitics of face-to-face relationships than with the effects of scale on the terms of the social contract.
Salamé argues that the small state in the Middle East is one that is unable to suppress the inherent plurality of its population by asserting its authority in the context of a “historic mission.” Unlike Egypt or Iraq, countries the size of Kuwait are simply too small for their rulers to argue credibly that they can lead an international crusade in the name of a cause such as Arab nationalism or anti-imperialism. Unable to create a sense of urgency strong enough to produce unity, regimes like Kuwait’s are exposed directly to the plurality of citizens and their multiple demands; at the same time, they share a history that has made legitimacy crises endemic to the region. To rulers in this situation, democracy may look like an attractive political strategy: “It is the only system in a position to organize peaceful power sharing in a society where a hegemonic group [cannot] establish an exclusivist or, at least, an openly dominant position.” 14 Because these small states are forced to recognize and deal with “their ethno-cultural pluralism” rather than being able to deny or suppress it, they are prompted to work out “pacts” or mutual guarantees that permit limited participation and also act as checks on state authoritarianism. 15
The picture of political participation in city-state arenas is complex, with overlapping rather than sharply demarcated institutions, activities, and groups. The conceptual separation of populism and pacts as different types of politics is a legacy of a different path of political development. Empires, ancient and modern, along with modern authoritarian states, are enemies of the plurality, flexibility, and participation characteristic of the politics of city-states. Ancient city-states themselves found their politics profoundly altered by the spreading imperial power of Rome. By the second century c.e., the Stoic philosopher Epictetus could describe politics as “not in our power,” a judgment that Michael Walzer feels
represented a turning away from political interests and activity, a radical severance of private needs and aspirations from the public world of cities and empires. . . . Epictetus wrote in an age when citizenship had lost its meaning and all men had become, in one way or another, subjects, whose political existence had but one essential characteristic: that they obeyed impersonal, more or less legal commands. 16
In such a political universe, there is no politics. Where there is only one “person”—the ruler—who monopolizes the public sphere, there can be no plurality and, consequently, no political speech or action.
The division of the life of the citizen of the ancient world into public and private spheres was transformed for the subject into a division between “communal elements” viewed as common or public, and private elements that included persons with special rights—“those with immunities and privileges.” Without such immunities and privileges, the former citizen, now a subject, had neither a public existence nor private rights. Under the feudal order, what was “private” in the sense of particular or exempted from subjection became the core of the regime, though it also was referred to as “public” in the sense of publicare to claim for the lord or the ruler. 17
Sociologically, that is to say by reference to institutional criteria, a public sphere in the sense of a separate realm distinguished from the private sphere cannot be shown to have existed in the feudal society of the High Middle Ages. Nevertheless it was no accident that the attributes of lordship . . . were called “public”; not by accident did the English king enjoy “publicness”—for lordship was something publicly represented. This publicness of representation was not constituted as a social realm, that is, as a public sphere; rather it was something like a status attribute . . . its incumbent represented it publicly. He displayed himself, presented himself as an embodiment of some sort of “higher” power. 18
The European feudal order still left many sites of relatively autonomous political life. Some were the practical result of the inability of kings and princes to rule effectively throughout the territories they claimed; others resulted from overlapping claims and from a broad range of exemptions. These included the personal immunities and privileges noted above, along with the charters of cities and towns which conferred on such communities some of the social and political ambience of the ancient city-states. These sites of autonomy shrank during the early modern period, as royal absolutists, with the economic assistance of wealthy clients, acquired the military and bureaucratic capacity to control large territories and multicultural populations more effectively. The resulting restrictions and loss of “borderlands” where social control used to be multiply vested and/or highly diluted, evoked countermovements against the absolutist state.
The Parliament, the Cortes, and Estates did ordinarily incorporate the principal segments of the population which had acquired or maintained liberties, privileges sanctioned by law, in the face of the sovereign. . . . Building strong royal power meant co-opting, subordinating or destroying these institutions; that program absorbed a large part of the energy of seventeenth-century kings. . . . The result of [their effort to concentrate power in the crown] was an enormous amount of conflict and resistance. 19
John Keane identifies the equation of the early modern state with despotism as a product of eighteenth-century liberalism. 20 However, this comparison was made even earlier and by critics whose solution to tyranny was the antithesis of an expansion of privacy and personal freedom. 21 That critique was part of a social movement that produced the first modern revolution in seventeenth-century England, a movement that Walzer calls “the revolution of the saints.” Unlike liberal challenges to state power, social experiments such as Calvin’s Geneva and the movements that fueled the Puritan revolution in England were neither individualist nor hedonic. Rather than calling for negative liberty and the right to pursue happiness,
Puritan zeal was . . . a highly collective emotion and it imposed upon the saints a new and impersonal discipline. . . . Puritan ministers campaigned against . . . personal extravagance . . . and deplored the role of “private interests” in politics. . . . The new spirit of the Puritans can be defined as a kind of military and political work-ethic. 22
The Puritan critique may be difficult to recall as an attack against the absolutist state because it also was an attack against so many other things—the remnants of feudalism, the established church(es), 23 and the privacy rights increasingly claimed by bourgeois interests. Even so, the revolution of the saints was both an engine of modernity and a reaction against modernization. In contrast to Puritan efforts to eradicate private interests from public life, the liberal critique of absolutism which flowered in the eighteenth century advocated the expansion of private life and the protection of private interests through a grant of liberty that is essentially negative: freedom from—the king, the state, and even from society, described by the nineteenth-century libertarian John Stuart Mill as a “despotism . . . surpassing anything contemplated in the political ideal of the most rigid disciplinarian among the ancient philosophers.” 24 Yet the ideology advocating human freedom from state and society had its philosophical roots in Greece and the Levant, where early Christians had claimed the right to choose a life path independent of the one marked out in advance by family, society, and state. 25 As Elaine Pagels argues, this movement was co-opted first by Rome and then from within by authoritarian church fathers. During its first two centuries, however, individuals and small communities of Christians asserted “God-given rights” to freedom from all but their consciences.
The Puritan critique of the absolutist state was a renewal of the early Christian conception of individual freedom in the context of the right of the believer to interpret scripture for her or himself rather than to depend on an often corrupted clergy. It also was a descendent of what Mill criticized as the “rigid disciplinarianism” of ancient philosophers, their understanding of liberty as an affirmative quality. In Isaiah Berlin’s terms, such liberty is “positive.” It is freedom to—to be “one’s own master . . . to be a subject, not an object . . . to be . . . [responsible] for my choices and able to explain them by references to my own ideas and purposes . . . to be somebody, not nobody.” 26 In the fifth-century polis of classical Athens, negative liberty would have been meaningless because
man’s existence is irreducibly social, and . . . no conception of morality or capacity to live by it attaches to men as individuals. . . . Protagoras’ version of a naturalistic account of political society differs from the modern one in that the characteristic form of social life required for human survival is regarded as constitutive of a fully human life. That is, political society is not merely instrumental but rather essential to human well-being, and it secures not man’s mere persistence as a sentient creature, but his development as a creature capable of genuine autonomy and freedom. 27
To the seventeenth-century Puritan, increasingly hemmed in by royal absolutism and the dislocating effects of national economic integration, assertions of the right to live according to one’s religion were embedded in communities of “voluntary, highly motivated and self-policing believers.” 28 Like the voluntary associations formed by citizens of ancient city-states, these communities were designed to ensure the security of their members. However, they were intended to ensure security not just in this world but also, and more importantly, in the next. Puritan believers put themselves in opposition to powerful states, not by demanding negative freedoms that would enlarge the private sphere within which they as individuals or as congregations could do as they chose, but by demanding access to the public sphere of politics and the right to engage with others in defining a moral order that would be authoritatively enforced by the state.
The political passion of the Puritans was overtaken by the passion for individual privacy—perhaps the result of a tug-of-war between ideals and interests, but one whose exact genesis is not clear. 29 Privacy is only partially institutionalized in societies whose development was influenced strongly by Puritan ideology. As Nazih Ayubi points out, privacy is not a socially accepted norm in the Middle East where the public sphere comes closer to Habermas’s description of the publicness of representation than to civil society concepts embedded in the political development of England and North America.
In Muslim as in some Mediterranean societies, life is often “lived in public,” and all things in life acquire a certain cruel publicity. Matters of personal conduct, sex and the family are often regarded as public morals that should be enforced collectively. The family has not (yet?) developed into an island of privacy and intense intimacy in the way it has on the whole done in North European and North American societies. The “public” realm is a realm of sociability mediated by conventions that allow social distance to be maintained despite physical proximity. . . . The “public space” here is a space of symbolic display, of interaction rituals and personal ties, of physical proximity coexisting with social distance. It is not conventionally a space for collective political action and is only rarely a space of a discourse that addresses common concerns. This latter type of space I prefer to describe as civic; it is the realm of public debate and conscious collective action or, in a word, of citizenship. 30
While I agree with much of Ayubi’s conclusion here, I see perhaps a larger scope both for individual privacy and for civic life in the Kuwaiti case than he finds in his survey of the many societies of the Middle East as a whole. The lacunae that supported political autonomy in premodern Europe also supported political autonomy in premodern Kuwait. Indeed, the rapidity of modernization in Kuwait preserved these small spaces of appearance and, even more important, the expectation among city-dwellers that political life was an entitlement of Kuwaiti citizens. As I discuss at greater length in chapter 7, Islamist movements are, at least in part, movements similar to Puritanism in their grounding in popular appropriations of religious authority to curb the powers of states whose capacity for coercion of their domestic populations expanded rapidly in the twentieth century. In Kuwait the political opposition is jointly composed of merchants seeking to ensure the rights—including privacy rights—of civil society, and mass movements reacting against the immorality of an unchecked authoritarian regime. This split in ideologies and strategies for democratization is reflected in divergences in the understanding of the meaning of citizenship among Kuwaitis today.
Citizenship
In two influential lectures, T. H. Marshall deals with the multiple character of citizenship as a status enjoyed by members of a political community. He describes the citizen’s acquisition of rights as an evolutionary process. Taking the history of England as his problematique, Marshall asserts that, “in early times,” the elements of citizenship were blended together. Civil rights (freedom-from elements), political rights (freedom-to elements), and social rights (“a different order from the others, because it is the right to defend and assert all one’s rights on terms of equality with others and by due process of law”) were “wound into a single thread,” mostly because states were too small and rudimentary to support highly articulated institutions. 31
Even though citizens’ rights were conceptually undifferentiated, they were differently realized. Entitlement to rights and the capacity to exercise them depended on geographic location and social status. As early modern kings reduced the impact of locality by nationalizing politics and the economy, state institutions became increasingly differentiated. Separate institutions began to specialize in particular functions, though not all functions formerly performed by medieval communities—individual and collective welfare provision being chief among them—continued to be performed or performed as well because of “economic change.” 32 Rights associated with highly developed institutions were more fully realized than others, but access to all institutions required new “machinery” because nationalization had changed not only their character and location but also the nature of their relationship to the citizen.
Marshall defines citizenship as a relation of political equality arising from the acquisition of civil rights by an entire population. Civil status—citizenship—was “democratic, or universal . . . [and] arose naturally from the fact that it was essentially the status of freedom, and in seventeenth-century England all men were free.” 33 Civil rights such as habeas corpus, press freedom, property rights, and religious liberty were acquired one by one as elaborations of civil status—that is, they were acquired by every man when they were acquired by any man. In England, political rights, by which Marshall means essentially voting rights, depended for a long time on economic status. Their spread to the formerly disenfranchised took place in two ways. First, an individual could acquire property to meet current minimum standards; then, beginning in 1832, the property qualification itself was altered, initiating a trend of selective enfranchisement of whole sets of men formerly disqualified from voting. As Karl Polanyi also emphasizes in his discussion of the extension of the franchise in England, political rights were not seen from the outset as citizen entitlements but rather as the outcome of a struggle between citizen demands and client pressures to preserve first, the status of landlords and, subsequently, the security of capital. 34 However, despite the extension of the franchise to all adult men and all adult women (accomplished via separate acts passed in 1918), remnants of class bias in political rights remained in effect in England until 1948, when plural voting was abolished.
Social rights, according to Marshall, first took the form of universal education, itself something of a civil right in that citizens would not be able to understand or exercise other rights fully without it. More interesting than that, however, is Marshall’s analysis of social rights as “class-abatement,” that is, as an amelioration of the social effects of economic inequality. 35 Marshall notes that premodern efforts to alleviate the effects of poverty actually erased civil and political rights. Thus, the destitute lost civil rights by having to live in workhouses, poorhouses, or prisons, and political rights because they were disenfranchised. In the twentieth century, however, and increasingly so under the Labour government which assumed power after World War II, Marshall was satisfied that expanded social rights actually accomplished some degree of equalization. Means-tested benefits added directly to the income of the poor, although they also imposed a status disability that diluted their egalitarian effects. Universal flat-rate cash benefits marked a major improvement. Gains to individual citizens were inversely proportional to income, and the status disability of means-tested benefits was removed. Service benefits such as national health were even more equalizing because they were identical for all, transforming the “skyscraper” of class inequality into an egalitarian “bungalow.” 36 Class-abatement allows all citizens to think of themselves as equal participants in a common culture even though capitalism ensures the practical persistence of class differences and substantial economic inequality.
Marshall’s notions of citizenship remain highly influential despite the fact that they have been criticized on a number of counts. For example, their applicability in other settings, particularly to countries outside Europe and its colonies, has been questioned. 37 More problematic is Marshall’s conclusion that the equality implied by citizenship can coexist comfortably with the inequalities inherent in capitalism as long as they are ameliorated by social rights. Bryan Turner argues that even though civil and political rights are necessary for capitalism to flourish, they challenge neither social nor economic hierarchies. In contrast, social rights, which imply redistribution and are highly vulnerable to rollback, do challenge existing hierarchies and require a very different kind of politics. Turner also takes issue with the assumption of evolution embedded in Marshall’s story of citizenship rights, noting that the medieval Catholic Church supported a broader universalism than contemporary citizenship, and that an examination of the very different pattern of acquisition of rights by women who, even in England, had some social rights before they acquired any political rights or full civil rights, challenges the notion that civil rights are the bedrock of citizenship. 38 Barry Hindess’s criticisms of Marshall concentrate on his tendency to equate formal equality with practical equality, particularly where social rights are poorly developed: “In the absence of social rights, then, the impact of a formal equality of civil and political rights will be somewhat restricted.” 39 Hindess also criticizes Marshall’s tendency to equate principles and formal statements with reality—whether the resulting gap is normatively positive or negative, it is likely to be filled with an array of different interpretations and an even larger variety of practices. 40 As I discuss below, both points have bearing on the Kuwaiti case.
Despite these criticisms, however, Marshall’s conception that the elements of citizenship are independent allows them to be viewed as ideal types for the purpose of analysis, thereby supporting a range of narratives about how they arose and were combined in actual cases. Further, Marshall’s connection of rights with institutional development indicates how one might develop alternative narratives of priority to the one he outlined. Finally, Marshall’s observation that the provision of social rights is a strategy for reducing class conflict has a much wider applicability than to the particular case he examined. While much of what Marshall’s critics say has merit, much of what Marshall says also is meritorious and worthy of consideration. This is especially so if we take a closer look at social and political development with respect to the continuity of traditional patterns into modern times.
Citizenship and the Nation-State
Anthony Giddens differs from both Springborg and Marshall, arguing that human institutions and patterns of behavior in modernity are only marginally connected to traditional forms. Giddens defines modernity as the
institutions and modes of behavior established first of all in post-feudal Europe, but which in the twentieth century increasingly have become world-historical in their impact. “Modernity” can be understood as roughly equivalent to “the industrialized world.” . . . A second dimension is capitalism. . . . Each of these can be distinguished analytically from the institutions of surveillance, the basis of the massive increase in organisational power associated with the emergence of modern social life. . . . This dimension can in turn be separated from control of the means of violence. . . . Modernity produces certain distinct social forms, of which the most prominent is the nation-state. 41
Giddens sees all individual and institutional behavior as the outcome of “reflexivity,” a continuous pattern of internal and external reality checks that modify self-understanding, behavior, and social structures. The speed and scope of reflexivity increase with the level of modernity but, as a process, reflexivity is the same mechanism that has produced social cohesion and cultural continuity throughout the history of human communities.
All human beings routinely “keep in touch” with the grounds of what they do as an integral element of doing it. . . . This “reflexive monitoring of action” . . . [is] chronic . . . a consistent . . . monitoring of behavior and its contexts. . . . The reflexivity of modern social life consists in the fact that social practices are constantly examined and reformed in the light of incoming information about those very practices, thus constitutively altering their character. 42
Giddens, like Polanyi, ties the processes associated with modernity to the rise of the nation-state and also to the penetration of traditional cultures by dominant states; both make modernity a global phenomenon. 43 These processes are highly visible in Kuwait where great wealth provides the means for Kuwaitis to initiate connections to individuals and institutions outside their immediate environment almost at will. Through reflexivity, cultural understandings and patterns of behavior are transmitted from one society to another. In the process, they are constantly modified by adjustments to local realities and, in turn, become the grounds of subsequent transmissions and modifications. Yet although this process appears to be globally homogenizing, in reality it is highly fragmenting, nationally and globally, as individuals form communities of choice independent of kinship, locality, and other premodern bases of identity-formation.
Another source of national fragmentation arises from the coexistence of modernity with premodern ideas and structures, including with respect to those statuses and identities associated directly with citizenship. Within most and across all states, the status of members of domestic communities differs widely. 44 We can think of these statuses as ranged between two ideal types of state-inhabitant relations. One creates “citizens,” free persons, autonomous and equal partners in civil and political life. Each citizen is unique; this Arendtian plurality enables all of them together to construct their state as a corporate expression of their collective values, interests, and desires. The other ideal type creates “subjects,” persons “subjected” to someone else’s will. As Epictetus observed, subjects are neither autonomous nor partners in civil life but rather belong to the landscape of a ruler’s estate. Perhaps no state today can boast of citizens who are entirely free, equal, and fully incorporated into political life; nearly every state harbors subjects of various sorts, among them persons who are nominally citizens.
According to Benedict Anderson, subjects belong to “the dynastic realm,” a political order associated with a hierarchical and heteronomous premodern past.
Kingship organizes everything around a high centre. Its legitimacy derives from divinity, not from populations, who, after all, are subjects, not citizens. . . . In the older imagining, where states were defined by centres, borders were porous and indistinct, and sovereignties faded imperceptibly into one another. 45
Also in the dynastic realm, time is experienced differently; “now” is eternal and distinctions between past and future are seldom made. Dynastic cycles that claim legitimacy from the transmission of authority from a heavenly source to a just ruler, and life cycles during which parents produce children to take their places in a cosmically regulated pattern of recapitulation without change—without “progress”—are divinely ordained pathways of life. 46
Different understandings of the meaning of human life operate in the dynastic realm and in modernity. In Anderson’s conception of the “older imagining,” the world is monadic as well as timeless. Although each person—every thing—in it is singular, each also is iconic and essential, one self-contained facet of an eternity that embraces all of them at the same time. Destiny, one’s location in eternity, determines each life. As in Verdi’s 1861 opera La Forza del Destino, destiny may be interpreted by clerical intermediaries. However, it cannot be altered. This image of the world is captured in a Christian prayer, the Gloria: “As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end.” Muslims say, “It was written,” to convey a similar sense of a cosmic order over which human will has no power to prevail.
In contrast, the modern world is pluralistic. It exists in “homogeneous empty time . . . measured by clock and calendar.” 47 In this world, persons and things exist during a limited lifespan, each in its particularity. Cosmology is separate from history. History is materially rather than spiritually manifested and also is subject to human agency. In the modern world we speak of “individuals,” but this refers to interchangeability rather than singularity. 48 Individuals are units of society, atoms in the contingent construction of social aggregates. Unlike the “soul,” individuals are neither unique nor immortal: to paraphrase Andy Warhol, anyone can be famous, but only for fifteen minutes.
Ernest Gellner offers another hierarchical and heteronomous image of premodern social orders which he calls “agro-literate” societies. Unlike Anderson, who sees the modern citizen almost as a spontaneous product of the spread of literacy and “print capitalism” (that is, a profit-seeking, market-driven publishing industry), or Giddens, who ties the creation of self-actualizing persons to the spontaneously organized processes of global modernization, Gellner depicts the modern state as a purposeful creator of equal and functionally interchangeable citizens. He tells us that citizens are produced by “exo-socialization, education proper,” mass education provided by a national system as compared to the individualized training of agro-literate persons by parent, priest, and tutor. 49 In this view, the modern citizen is a commodity manufactured by the modern state. At the same time, modern citizens create the modern state by generating and then consuming the economic and political resources that maintain the state’s legitimacy and sovereignty.
Some citizens of modern states are autonomous and interchangeable, but others are not. Gellner calls such citizens “entropy-resistant,” marked in some obvious and unerasable way that allows their fellow citizens to reject and discriminate against them. 50 Inferior citizenship also can result from state action. For example, some citizens may be defined legally as having different entitlements to the resources of exo-socialization or access as adults to participation in the political, economic, and social life of the community. Women are persons most often so marked or legally set apart, but other groups such as members of ethnic and religious minorities also may suffer civil disabilities as a result of their entropy resistance.
Entropy resistance also can be exploited or created by political dissidents as a mark of resistance to a social and political order of which they disapprove. Anh Nga Longva emphasizes the importance of costume in defining “Kuwaitiness,” especially among Kuwaiti men who nearly all wear the traditional dishdasha when they are in Kuwait. 51 This is especially true of Kuwaitis playing public roles. For example, when Shi`i cleric Husain `Ali al-Qallaf was running for parliament in 1992 and 1996, among the arguments used against him was that he did not wear a Kuwaitily correct costume. His enemies often referred to him as “the turban” to emphasize his entropy resistance. In return, he challenged repeatedly their definition of Kuwaitiness as conforming to a specific mode of dress and thus of religious affiliation, insisting throughout the campaign that, if elected, he would indeed wear his turban in the parliament. A few other Kuwaitis choose secular costumes to mark their resistance. I never saw Ahmad al-Khatib, perhaps the most consistently independent dissident in Kuwait, wearing a dishdasha. Even in the parliament, he always wore a suit. Significantly, following the attempt on his life in June 1996, `Abdullah Nibari, whom I had always seen in traditional dress in Kuwait before that time, returned to public life in Kuwait wearing a suit. With the spread of Islamism in Kuwait, other manipulations of costume and visage—such as the short dishdashas and untrimmed beards favored by the Salafin, and the demands for various types of veiling by female students at Kuwait University—mark sites of resistance where political activists use their own bodies to announce their disagreement with their opponents. Such concrete illustrations of both rejection and resistance confirm Marshall’s observation that the elements of citizenship are separable.
As I show in subsequent chapters, inequalities of class, status, gender, and religion run through Kuwaiti political life and constitute dynastic elements in that nation. Despite the use of these inequalities as platforms for political action and criticism of the regime, the persistence of dynastic elements reinforces differences that are invidious to the consideration of citizenship as a status founded on the model of fraternal equality. 52 At its worst, such persistence introduces “intimate enemies” into the political community, persons who claim part or all of the entitlements of citizens but are treated as morally unfit for citizenship because of personal attributes—gender, religious affiliation, ethnic background—which mark them as suspect persons whose loyalty never can be entirely assured. 53 Such persons often are accused of having antisocial attitudes: clannishness, an unwillingness to put the community first when its demands conflict with their personal or family welfare, and even a propensity to treachery. Intimate enemies easily become scapegoats when communities or their leaders are under pressure.
In contrast to these dynastic elements, the collectivities we call “nations” define themselves in reaction to other nations. 54 National identity is a group identity focused on a historic territory, common myths and historical memories, and a common mass culture, all of which separate “the nation” from “aliens.” National identity incorporates variously composed bundles of citizenship rights such as the ones identified by Marshall which were outlined above. 55 The cultural elements of national identity often are infused with familial imagery and notions of common descent, and some of the most passionate nationalisms are reactions to perceived wrongs against the national “family” and its “home” territory. Palestinian nationalism is an interesting example. It did not exist before the twentieth century, and began to take shape only after two decades of organized movement of large numbers of European Jews into a particular territory inhabited primarily by Arabs. After the formation of the State of Israel in 1948, and nourished by recurrent Arab-Israeli wars, Palestinian nationalism flowered as a complex psychological and social phenomenon based in a political project to achieve an independent Palestinian state. As I describe in the next chapter, a distinctly Kuwaiti national identity first began to coalesce around the defeat and expulsion of an invading army. Although it is complicated by sociocultural divisions in the understanding and experience of a territorial patrimony, Kuwaiti nationalism nevertheless is the repository of stories depicting the community as a social organism, and constitutes the distinctive ground for the Kuwaiti citizen’s identity as one of its members.
Democracy and the Modern State
Citizenship and its practices are realized in a political community, itself the product of formal rules and informal understandings defining a membership, its rights and obligations, and the regime that enforces them. The modern nation-state, which claims a monopoly over legitimate violence, is the primary authority enforcing these rules, either directly or as a guarantor of non-state-sponsored institutions and arrangements. Such institutions and arrangements are elements of complex material and social systems within and transcending the nation-state, and all of them together constitute the integuments of modernity. 56 One example in which Kuwait is deeply implicated is the international energy regime. Unlike the systems that characterize traditional life, modern systems are guided by technical specialists—experts. Other participants trust the specialists to know their jobs. They trust the existence of interlocking systems of regulation designed to ensure that the proper specialists occupy places where they are needed, and they trust that the entire complex edifice will be managed in a predictable way. 57 Kuwaitis rely on experts to produce, refine, and market their oil so that their state and society will have the income needed to maintain their way of life. When results fail to live up to expectations, trust is diminished, not only in experts but also in the political leaders who employ and direct them. Consumers of Kuwait’s oil also depend on those expert systems and on the continued willingness and capacity of Kuwait to provide the raw material and processing facilities that keep this particular set of systems going. Conflicts between consumer and producer interests often are masked by the aura of expertise, making interest definition and pursuit difficult. This adds to the loss of legitimacy by the state for its perceived failure to recognize and articulate national interests.
The nation-state, as a fundamental attribute of modernity, is both a collection of expert systems and a guarantor of other systems. Like its population, the state is far from a unitary actor. 58 Because state institutions are fragmented, they may work together or at cross-purposes, with or without domestic and/or foreign nonstate partners, and against or for what a disinterested observer might judge to be state or national interests. The complexity of the state and its activities, along with its propensity to act in ways that appear to be illogical, immoral, and/or inefficient, leads observers of various ideological persuasions to believe that the state is not an autonomous actor but merely an apparatus used by dominant classes to exploit subordinate classes. Such critics include socialists like Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, along with many liberals. 59
Charles Tilly and Barbara Geddes, among others, see the state as autonomous but far from independent. Domestic clients, enemies, and political entrepreneurs, both internal and external, constrain the state and limit its ability to act at will. Tilly points to the close connection between war-making and state-making, linking the interdependence of domestic capitalists seeking services from the state to the needs of the state to raise the funds necessary to defend itself against military threats. 60 The authority of the bourgeoisie comes from its wealth and the dependence of the nation-state on domestic investment and fiscal resources, much of which originate from this class. Insofar as their wealth is independent of landholding, members of the domestic bourgeoisie can counter the authority of the state by exiting—individuals and groups can take their moveable wealth and go elsewhere if the state imposes unacceptable demands and conditions on their activities. However, “where exit either is not possible or is difficult, costly, and traumatic . . . [voice], the attempt at repairing and perhaps improving [a] relationship through an effort at communicating one’s complaints, grievances, and proposals for improvement,” though nearly always more dangerous to the individual, is the preferred strategy. 61 Recognition that both sides have something to gain from accommodation, rulers and powerful domestic interests devise pacts to delineate their respective spheres and rights, establishing systems of trust enabling them to engage in conflict with a low risk of violence. 62 As I describe in subsequent chapters, the repeated failure of Kuwait’s twentieth-century rulers to honor their pacts with domestic social groups keeps exit among the explicitly considered defensive strategies in the political repertoires of some Kuwaitis.
Pacts between rulers and powerful segments of domestic society can be as formal as constitutions and as informal as “gentlemen’s agreements.” As elements of constitutions, pacts are devices intended to minimize risk. Examples include guarantees of basic civil rights such as the right to own property, conduct private business within a legal framework, and enjoy free speech and press—crucial components of the transparency necessary for markets to operate effectively and, not incidentally, for coordinating criticism of and resistance to oppressive state behavior. 63 In this sense, transparency contributes to building the trust without which complex modern systems cannot operate effectively. 64 Constitutional pacts may restrict or enlarge the scope of political rights. Franchise restrictions, along with strict limits on naturalization, can support the status quo politically by limiting the range of interests as well as the number and status of persons permitted legitimate access to the public sphere. By establishing representative institutions and devising mechanisms such as elections for transmitting voice, positive liberty in the form of political rights to persons and groups who otherwise would not have them is extended. Gentlemen’s agreements—monopolies, contracts, and other quid-pro-quo deals—are private pacts that involve few if any direct benefits for the population as a whole although they may bolster the trust of elites in the government and thus their confidence in the political system and their willingness to consent to its constraints.
Geddes concentrates on interests within the state itself, and the conflicts of interests that impinge on individuals in key positions within the state. She explains some of the inefficiency and immorality of state actions as the logical outcome of the inability of a political entrepreneur—an ambitious individual occupying a particular office—to do good and do well simultaneously. Consequently, while the national interest, the preferences of a large segment of the population (Geddes calls these “latent interests”), or some other ideal conception of “the good” may be what a political entrepreneur actually wants to achieve, the particular interests of well-organized and politically influential groups, coupled with a strong desire to remain in office, can force the political entrepreneur to support a contrary course of action. As I describe in subsequent chapters, such dilemmas are the constant companions of Kuwaiti parliamentarians and cabinet ministers. Geddes argues that the structure of interests and their relative political capacities by themselves do not explain this strange logic. Just as important are “institutional factors such as electoral rules and party procedures [which] have as much influence on politicians’ decisions about whether to supply particular public goods as do latent interests.” 65 This point too is very well illustrated by the Kuwaiti case.
Tilly and Geddes are directly concerned with persons, structures, and practices that occupy the gap between formal statements and substantive practices that was identified by Hindess as a flaw in those analyses of citizenship which assume them to be the same thing. To explain differences in democratic norms and practices depends on whether democracy is conceived primarily from the perspective of populism (“the access of the masses—temporarily or, more frequently, permanently—to politics”), 66 or of constitutionalism (“the `rule of law’ protecting specific spheres of life against arbitrary power”). 67 As Polanyi notes with respect to England and Dean Burnham and Ellen Meiksins Wood with respect to the United States, constitutionalism can be a tool for undermining the effectiveness of the masses of the population as political actors at the same time that it appears to be expanding their access to political life. 68 However, persons excluded either by social practice or the rule of law from effective participation in politics are not confined to groups ordinarily associated with “the masses,” as the experience of Kuwaiti merchants attests. In addition, formal or practical exclusion from political decisions that they think are important does not imply that affected individuals and groups surrender their positive liberties without a fight. The oscillation between democratic oligarchy 69 and autocracy that has characterized Kuwaiti political life for one hundred years displays some of these qualities.
Local political traditions are important influences on the principles and practices of citizenship, but traditions are far from static. They are constantly renewed and reconstructed, enabling a wide variety of political entrepreneurs to argue with some plausibility that their particular vision of tradition is the only “authentic” one. 70 The fluidity of tradition and its instrumental use by political entrepreneurs in the Middle East is most commonly addressed with respect to Islamist movements. As many scholars have argued, 71 Islamism is only partly related to traditional beliefs and customary behaviors of Muslims. Even in the high-profile realm of “Islamic dress,” such as veiling for women, Islamism calls for practices that diverge substantially from what was acceptable in the past. Yet Islamism has reconstructed tradition successfully in the minds of millions of believers, a result of reflexivity mediated by the tape recorders and TV sets of modernity. 72
Whether they are religious or secular, political entrepreneurs in the Middle East have access to a vast repertoire of ideological and structural tools for propelling themselves to positions of power and keeping themselves there once they arrive. At the same time, modernity also equips their constituents with handy tool kits full of useful implements along with directions for their use. Many of these tools can be used to make demands on the state for rights and entitlements. In a country like Kuwait, where small size and city-state ambience encourage the exercise of voice, clashes over political rights frequently center on the nature of citizenship itself. In the next chapter, I discuss myths describing Kuwaiti political traditions, and the citizen who is both their maker and their product. Competing versions of these myths provide many of the scripts for the play of politics in contemporary Kuwait.
Endnotes
Note 1: Alexis de Tocqueville, The Old Regime and the French Revolution. Back.
Note 2: Anthony Giddens, A Contemporary Critique of Historical Materialism 1:31&-;34. See also Karl Polanyi, The Great Transformation; Daniel Lerner, The Passing of Traditional Society: Modernizing the Middle East; Abdelrahman Munif, Cities of Salt. Back.
Note 3: Charles Tilly, “War Making and State Making as Organized Crime,” 169–91. The impact of traditional culture, structures of resistance, and the accidents of timing, events, and personalities on how different states made the transition to modernity is nicely revealed in Liah Greenfeld, Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity. Back.
Note 4: The definition of revolution used by Samuel Huntington is one such conventional understanding: “a rapid, fundamental, and violent domestic change in the dominant values and myths of a society, in its political institutions, social structure, leadership, and government activities and policies.” See Samuel P. Huntington, Political Order in Changing Societies, 264. Back.
Note 5: These models, of Gemeinschaft and Gesellschaft, were formally developed by Ferdinand Tönnies, Community and Association. A similar conceptualization of modern civil society can be found in John Keane, “Despotism and Democracy: The Origins and Development of the Distinction Between Civil Society and the State, 1750–1850,” in Keane, ed., Civil Society and the State, 35–37. Back.
Note 6: Springborg, “Politics, Primordialism, and Orientalism,” 185–211. Back.
Note 7: The use of ideal types as analytical models comes from Max Weber. For an examination of the utility of ideal types for social analysis, see Ahmad Sadri, Max Weber’s Sociology of Intellectuals, 11–22. The ideal types describing “positive” and “negative” liberty are developed in Isaiah Berlin, “Two Concepts of Liberty,” in Four Essays on Liberty, 118–72, and Berlin, “The First and the Last,” New York Review of Books 45 (May 14, 1998): 52–60. Back.
Note 8: I use the term problematique here in the sense meant by Robert Cox—that is, a historically conditioned awareness of certain problems and issues that guide the translation of reality into theory. See Robert W. Cox, “Social Forces, States, and World Orders: Beyond International Relations Theory,” Millennium 10 (Summer 1981): 126–55. Back.
Note 9: Springborg, “Politics, Primordialism, and Orientalism,” 200. Back.
Note 10: Tétreault, “Formal Politics, Meta-Space, and the Construction of Civil Life,” 81–97. Back.
Note 11: Springborg, “Politics, Primordialism, and Orientalism,” 199. Back.
Note 12: Otto Hintze, “The Formation of States and Constitutional Development: A Study in History and Politics,” in The Historical Essays of Otto Hintze, 163. Back.
Note 13: Salamé, “Small Is Pluralistic,” 84–111. Back.
Note 15: The role of pacts as guarantees for minority rights is explored in Jean Leca, “Democratization in the Arab World,” 48–83. Back.
Note 16: Michael Walzer, The Revolution of the Saints: A Study in the Origins of Radical Politics, 4–5. Back.
Note 17: Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society, 6. Back.
Note 18: Ibid., 7 (emphasis in the original). Clifford Geertz describes the classical civilization of Bali in very similar terms—see Geertz, Negara: The Theatre State in Nineteenth-Century Bali. Back.
Note 19: Charles Tilly, “Reflections on the History of European State-Making,” in Tilly, ed., The Formation of National States in Western Europe, 22–23. Back.
Note 20: Keane, “Despotism and Democracy,” 35–77. Back.
Note 21: Material in the following section is taken from Tétreault, “Spheres of Liberty, Conflict, and Power,” 273–89. Back.
Note 22: Walzer, Revolution of the Saints, 12–13. Back.
Note 23: Not only Roman Catholicism, but also Arminianism, an extremely high-church variant of Anglicanism. Back.
Note 24: John Stuart Mill, On Liberty, 15. Back.
Note 25: Elaine Pagels, Adam, Eve, and the Serpent, 9–14, 32–36, 40–56. Back.
Note 26: Berlin, “Two Concepts of Liberty,” 131. Back.
Note 27: Cynthia Farrar, The Origins of Democratic Thinking: The Invention of Politics in Classical Athens, 94–95. Back.
Note 28: Ellis Goldberg, “Smashing Idols and the State,” 195. Back.
Note 29: See, for example, Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, ch. 2; and Lawrence Stone, The Family, Sex, and Marriage in England, 1500–1800, 168ff. Stone notes that the decline in religion accompanied an “increasing stress laid on personal privacy” (169), a relationship whose development in Kuwait I reflect in the text. Back.
Note 30: Nazih N. Ayubi, Over-stating the Arab State: Politics and Society in the Middle East, 439–40. Back.
Note 31: T. H. Marshall, “Citizenship and Social Class,” in Citizenship and Social Class and Other Essays, 10–11. Back.
Note 32: Marshall, “Citizenship and Social Class,” 12–13. Back.
Note 33: Ibid., 18. Marshall uses “men” advisedly, paying careful attention to the status of women as a separate issue. Back.
Note 34: Marshall, “Citizenship and Social Class,” 19. See also Polanyi, The Great Transformation, ch. 19. A similar argument is made by Tilly with respect to elite entitlements in “War Making and State Making as Organized Crime.” Back.
Note 35: Marshall, “Citizenship and Social Class,” 32, 54. Back.
Note 37: A number of participants in a conference held at the University of Oslo noted shortcomings in that regard. See especially Inga Brandell, “North Africa: From Social to Political Citizenship?” and Atle Hommersannd, “Citizenship and Levels of Political Organisation in the Middle East: A Normative Approach,” papers presented at the Conference on Citizenship and the State in the Middle East, University of Oslo, November 22–24, 1996. Back.
Note 38: Bryan S. Turner, “Contemporary Problems in the Theory of Citizenship,” in Turner, ed., Citizenship and Social Theory, 6–9. Back.
Note 39: Barry Hindess, “Citizenship in the Modern West,” in Turner, ed., Citizenship and Social Theory, 25. Back.
Note 40: Hindess, “Citizenship in the Modern West,” 32–33. Back.
Note 41: Anthony Giddens, Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Society in the Late Modern Age, 14–15. Back.
Note 42: Giddens, The Consequences of Modernity, 36–38. Back.
Note 43: The four institutional dimensions of modernity identified by Giddens are capitalism, industrialism, surveillance, and military power. Although there is substantial overlap in the management of these characteristics by various individual and collective actors and agents, Giddens nominates the development and spread of nation-states as primary among them, in large part because of the key role of violence in the establishment of the modern order. See A Contemporary Critique of Historical Materialism, vol. 1, The Nation-State and Violence. Back.
Note 44: Much of the analysis that follows is derived from Mary Ann Tétreault, “Gender, Citizenship, and the State in the Middle East,” in Nils Butenshøn, Uri Davis, and M. Hassassian, eds., Citizenship and the State in the Middle East: Approaches and Applications (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2000). Back.
Note 45: Anderson, Imagined Communities, 19. Back.
Note 46: See, for example, Sandra Mackey, The Iranians: Persia, Islam, and the Soul of a Nation, and David G. Marr, Vietnamese Tradition on Trial, 1920–1945. Back.
Note 47: Anderson, Imagined Communities, 24. Back.
Note 48: The apparently odd coupling of singularity with essential sameness and uniformity with individuality is reproduced through costumes. Writing about the variability in women’s clothing during the romantic period, Anne Hollander observes that “ `woman’ became a sort of single primitive force, encountered by individual men in the form of dramatically varied samples which were nonetheless believed to be only superficially different, sisters under the differently colored skin. . . . The faces might as well be all the same, just as if the same doll were dressed in many different ways. [At the same time, men’s clothing was becoming more uniform with the result that] the individual character of each man is made more important.” See Anne Hollander, Sex and Suits: The Evolution of Modern Dress, 98. This identification of what we might term “authentic” individuality with similarity in costume is particularly interesting in the context of Kuwait, where traditional clothing has a high symbolic value throughout the culture, and female veiling has become a major axis of political conflict over the past two decades. These issues will be discussed in subsequent chapters. Back.
Note 49: Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, 37. Back.
Note 51: Anh Nga Longva, “Kuwaiti Women at a Crossroads: Privileged Development and the Constraints of Ethnic Stratification,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 25 (August 1993): 448. Back.
Note 52: Carole Pateman, “The Fraternal Social Contract,” in Keane, ed., Civil Society and the State, 101–27. Back.
Note 53: The construction of “the devil” in Jewish and Christian cosmology is a paradigm for the psychological role of “the enemy within” in political and social bodies. See Elaine Pagels, The Origin of Satan. Back.
Note 54: This pattern has been noted in virtually every modern study of nationalism. See, for examples, Anderson, Imagined Communities; Gellner, Nations and Nationalism; Greenfeld, Nationalism; Anthony Smith, Theories of Nationalism. Back.
Note 55: Anthony Smith, National Identity, 14. Back.
Note 56: Giddens, The Consequences of Modernity, 55–63. Back.
Note 58: See, for example, Marshall, “Citizenship and Social Class”; Peter J. Katzenstein, ed., Between Power and Plenty: Foreign Economic Policies of Advanced Industrial States, a Special Issue of International Organization 31 (Autumn 1977); Peter B. Evans, Dietrich Rueschemeyer, and Theda Skoçpol, eds., Bringing the State Back In; Barbara Geddes, Politician’s Dilemma: Building State Capacity in Latin America, esp. ch. 1. Back.
Note 59: The views of Marx and Engels on the subject can be found in “The Communist Manifesto.” Examples of liberal views can be found in David B. Truman, The Governmental Process, and Theodore J. Lowi, The End of Liberalism: Ideology, Policy, and the Crisis of Public Authority. This issue is discussed in Ayubi, Over-stating the Arab State, ch. 1. Back.
Note 60: Tilly notes that the relative proportion of state financing coming from the bourgeoisie depended on whether the state could take most of what it needed through engaging in military violence against its rivals (“war making”: military action against rivals outside the territories of the state; and “state making”: military action against rivals inside the territories of the state), or had to earn its keep by selling its capacity for violence in the form of “protection” paid by bourgeois and other clients for state neutralization or elimination of the clients’ enemies. See Tilly, “War Making and State Making as Organized Crime,” 181–82. Back.
Note 61: Albert O. Hirschman, “Exit and Voice: An Expanding Sphere of Influence,” in Rival Views of Market Society, and Other Recent Essays, 77–79. Back.
Note 62: Giddens, The Consequences of Modernity, 83–88. See also Leca, “Democratization in the Arab World.” Back.
Note 63: Tétreault, The Kuwait Petroleum Corporation, 163–64. Back.
Note 64: Giddens notes that trust differs from faith in that faith is confidence that things which human beings cannot help are in the care of a beneficent deity. Trust is confidence in expert systems which are creations of human beings rather than elements of nature. These systems involve risk which is assumed to be at least partially calculable, unlike the dangers of living in nature which are not. See The Consequences of Modernity, 83–92. Back.
Note 65: Geddes, Politician’s Dilemma, 83. Geddes’s argument about the propensity of “special interests” to triumph over latent interests is based on the model first developed by Mancur Olson to explain the free rider problem in the provision of collective goods. See Olson’s The Logic of Collective Action: Public Goods and the Theory of Groups. Back.
Note 66: Some authors, notably Nazih Ayubi for Middle East politics (and, to some extent, Karl Polanyi for Europe), elaborate types of mass political mobilization in ways that are useful in examinations of states characterized by mass politics but less so for the politics of city-states. See Ayubi’s Over-stating the Arab State, esp. ch. 6; Polanyi, The Great Transformation, chs. 19–20. Back.
Note 67: Leca, “Democratization in the Arab World,” 56–57. Back.
Note 68: Polanyi, The Great Transformation; Walter Dean Burnham, Critical Elections and the Mainsprings of American Politics; Ellen Meiksins Wood, “Labour and Democracy, Ancient and Modern,” and “The Demos Versus `We, the People’: From Ancient to Modern Conceptions of Citizenship,” both in Democracy Against Capitalism: Renewing Historical Materialism, 181–203 and 204–37, respectively. Back.
Note 69: I use this term in an Aristotelian sense. In The Politics, where Aristotle defines regimes as a function of the number of rulers (the one, the few, and the many), he also describes stable democracies functionally, as a variable mixture of popular rule combined with protections of property rights (1316b–1323a). Back.
Note 70: Aziz al-Azmeh, Islams and Modernities. Back.
Note 71: For example, ibid. See also Goldberg, “Smashing Idols and the State”; Dale F. Eickelman and James P. Piscatori, Muslim Politics; Olivier Roy, The Failure of Political Islam. Back.
Note 72: Fatima Mernissi is scornful of those who think that Islamism is premodern in either its theories or its practices, noting particularly the skillful utilization of modern technology by political clerics. See Mernissi, Islam and Democracy, 52. Back.
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