This transcript has been edited for length and clarity.

Sarah Jeddy: Thank you for taking the time to speak with me. I was wondering if we could start with a brief introduction?

Zhiguo He: I am an economist from China, and I came to the United States in 2001. At that time, China was definitely a developing country, although the economy started opening up a little bit, everybody would agree that China was still lagging behind the US or other countries quite a bit. And when I arrived in 2001, 9/11 happened, and to a lot of people, that’s a game changer. Another event happened at the end of 2001, was the WTO. So China got accessed, entered the WTO in December of that year, and that was definitely a game changer for China’s economy, just that the entire labor force found a way to fuel the economy. It’s also that I wanted to mention a lot is that just Chinese are fundamentally, at least for two generations, they want to work. They work very hard. They are extremely diligent. And they just feel like, if they are working to earn money, it’s part of their consumption. That’s very, very weird. Weird kind of attitudes towards usual people, and hard to understand, to be honest, from outside, but that’s how hard working. And also, you know, just save for the future family to feel the growth of China, I guess, in the past 20 years, in the first part of the 20 years, which is 2001 to 2020 basically.

Sarah Jeddy: Yeah that makes sense. So then what do you think is, like, the cause of, or the relevant history, of the financial relationships between the United States and China?

Zhiguo He: The United States saw bigger investment opportunities in China in the beginning of 2000 when the WTO started opening up China. VCPs got into China in the early 2000. This is where the kind of textbook kind of financial connection started to be established. Before it was like DFI, most direct foreign investment, right? Those examples, including, let’s say, GM invests in Shanghai automobiles. Basically, foreign companies have both the technology as well as intellectual property. They know how to do stuff. China knows nothing. Only have labor, and then they start to collaborate. Beijing, from the very beginning, very clear that, you know, it’s okay, we give you the market, but you need to teach us. How do you do these things? This is now the debate — whether China is stealing technology or not. I just feel like this crazy debate, even this is from the very beginning, very clear. If you can come here, we will learn from you, you know, and oftentimes, we will say that this so-called technology transfer is a premise for you to open up, and it’s all agreed at that time. China is learning super fast. That’s a problem.

One interesting example — when GM started to open up in Shanghai to produce cars, they chose the cars to be made. It was basically in the 70s, already out, and nobody doing this anymore in the U.S. That was a response to this. They knew it. That’s the important part of this, direct foreign investment. Then, finance — true finance investment. Think about jd.com, think about these early internet-based companies. You see very big foreign venture capital names everywhere. Another layer is mutual funds — foreign investors like professional funds start to invest in China, in stocks. That’s the secondary market. The VC is the primary market. FDI is kind of zero level. The third party is also big, through so-called stock connect — where, say, Fidelity or Vanguard can use access in Hong Kong to directly invest in A-shares. Starting from 2016 that was a big exposure. When COVID happened and China’s growth slowed down, a lot of foreign money stayed at first, thinking maybe they’ll have to come back. Eventually, they decided to get out because after two or three years, they kept losing money. I think the lowest point is 2024 — most of them are completely out. Now Beijing is doing something to convince them to go back, and that is gonna take a long time. I think they should come back, but it’s beyond my pay grade to really change anything.

Sarah Jeddy: So then, what role do you think that the tariffs imposed by President Trump play in these relations?

Zhiguo He: It will hit the Chinese export industry. I would guess that the GDP will be affected by at least 1%. I’m more on the optimist side. It’s only 1% if Trump indeed launched a blanket tariff. What happened in the past was there’s a lot of exemptions that you can apply for. So a lot of impact can be shielded in the median one. What we already saw last time was that there’s a lot of shifts in the supply chain from China to other countries, and the impact won’t be that large. So in short, tariffs hurt China’s GDP growth. Will that completely change the way people think about China? No, because China is not doing well, just from the very beginning.

Sarah Jeddy: That makes sense. So then I guess, kind of in the same vein we’ve seen efforts from like, both China and the US to decouple financially. So how do you think that would affect global financial stability, if at all?

Zhiguo He: I think decoupling is really happening at the heart of technology. There’s another area where decoupling is heavy — science. I worry about it. I don’t think there’s any solution to that. A lot of researchers would like to travel to both sides, but both governments are influenced by certain interest groups. In China, there are groups that try to convince Beijing that we need to prepare for the worst — potential U.S. military actions. I can imagine the other side does too. So all the sensitive exchanges, including financial, will be cautioned to an extreme extent. On that side, I am pessimistic. I think in the time of Trump, as well as Xi, it’s harder to get any progress. One thing I do see is that Singapore benefits. Most of these kinds of meetings happen in Singapore now.

Sarah Jeddy: So do you think that Singapore is going to play an increasingly large role?

Zhiguo He: They already play a role. They enjoy their position very, very well.

Sarah Jeddy: Do you think they would try to leverage that for more? Do you think they will succeed?

Zhiguo He: They already succeeded. It’s an extremely small country. For a while, there were a lot of Hong Kong businessmen going to Singapore because they were worried that Hong Kong is not politically stable. I always went to Hong Kong, and there’s always a group of very lefty people versus extremely right. People who want a Hong Kong with no attachment to Beijing. Others believe Hong Kong can survive only because of Beijing and are very grateful. I wouldn’t say that I agree with everything, but Beijing just wants political stability. It’s not trying to discourage economic diversity. For instance, cryptocurrencies — in the mainland it’s all banned, but in Hong Kong, it flourished. Hong Kong even tried to compete against Singapore as another center for cryptocurrencies. And Beijing is very happy about this outcome.

Sarah Jeddy: Okay, so kind of pivoting, I guess. What role do you think China will play in shaping global financial markets in the coming years?

Zhiguo He: Little.

Sarah Jeddy: Little? Do you think it’s going to shift towards Singapore then?

Zhiguo He: In the old times, China got people’s attention not because of its financial market — it was booming. People went there to make money. But the power you felt was from the real business: jd.com, Alibaba, Tencent, Ant Financial. Now Deep Seek. Financially? It’s little. What people might sense is that because of its economic growth, because its trade was growing so fast, its currency became popular. The RMB, Chinese yuan, became a hard currency in Pakistan, East Asia. Beijing is excited about seeing that. They want to make the currency more influential. Replacing the dollar? Almost impossible. But becoming important locally — Southeast Asia — yes. That’s standard.

Hong Kong helped foreign investors get access to the onshore market where they can do hedging and other instruments. In that sense, it affects global financial markets. But China has closed capital accounts, which means money cannot move freely. So the impact China has on the world is through the real economy — not through financial markets.

Sarah Jeddy: So then, what do you think the real impacts will be in the coming years?

Zhiguo He: Manufacturing. China has impacted the world through this extremely complete, sophisticated value chain. Everything — China can produce. They’re moving away from extremely low-end work. Some things are moving to Vietnam or India. But when it comes to iPhone-level production — high-end parts — other countries cannot do it. Think about where chips reside — not the chips themselves, but the circuit boards. You need sophisticated manufacturing to do those things.

Sarah Jeddy: So those were all my questions. If you have any more comments.

Zhiguo He: I actually wanted to say something about what Neil was talking about this morning — entrepreneurs and private business in Beijing. Also related to industrial policy. I’m very neutral, slightly positive, towards industrial policy — China trying to promote hardcore technology over, say, food delivery apps. Beijing thinks that kind of thing is less useful than chips, for example. I think that’s fine. They’re slowly figuring out the best way is not to pick winners themselves. What’s good about the recent EV car industry is they subsidized consumers. First, they built out charging stations — only the government can do that. Second, they subsidized purchases. Not always 100% useful, but the best any government can do. The U.S. does it too. The issue is when governments subsidize the firms directly. The better way is to subsidize the consumers — let the market pick the winners. Customers still want the best product. Whoever wins the market gets the money. That explains the fast growth of EV cars in China in the past three years.

Sarah Jeddy: Yeah, that makes sense. Perfect, thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me. I really enjoyed this!

Zhiguo He: Thank you!

Image courtesy of Zhiguo He

To understand modern U.S. diplomatic strategy, it helps to revisit the Cold War. Although the United States and the USSR were allies during World War II, cracks in their relationship emerged as early as 1945 due to conflicting visions for the postwar world — particularly over the political future of Eastern Europe and the spread of communism. In response, the United States adopted a policy to deter Soviet power through the Truman Doctrine, pledging aid to governments threatened by communist subversion, and the Marshall Plan, which provided billions of dollars in economic assistance to stabilize fragile democracies. 

These initiatives were complemented by arms sales, a cornerstone of the U.S. strategy to counter Soviet expansion. By supplying NATO countries with weapons to fortify Western Europe, the United States sent a clear signal of its commitment to defending its allies while avoiding direct military confrontation. This strategy extended globally, with arms sent to nations battling communist insurgencies, such as Greece, Turkey, South Korea, and Vietnam. Arms sales shifted the balance of power in favor of U.S. allies and created a web of fortified partnerships that defined Cold War geopolitics.

Today, this strategy finds parallels in U.S. arms sales to Taiwan — but military support alone is not enough. The Taiwan Relations Act of 1979 legally obligates the U.S. to provide Taiwan with the means to defend itself, reflecting a Cold War-style commitment to deter authoritarian expansion, this time from China. By supplying F-16 fighter jets, Patriot missile defense systems, and precision-guided munitions, the U.S. seeks to strengthen Taiwan’s defensive posture and discourage a Chinese assault. 

A balanced strategy would recognize that deterrence through arms is only part of the solution; it must be complemented by reestablishing direct military and political communication channels with Beijing to prevent dangerous misunderstandings, supporting regional coalitions to share security responsibilities, and investing in Taiwan’s civil and economic resilience. In other words, balancing strength with steady dialogue offers both a deterrent and an off-ramp, minimizing the chance of conflict while preserving space for resolution.

Modern deterrence must go beyond military might to include diplomatic strategy, multilateral cooperation, and economic engagement. Arms sales alone cannot resolve the underlying tensions in the Taiwan Strait or elsewhere because they do not address the structural roots of conflict, such as territorial claims, national identity, and trade imbalances. In the realm of diplomacy, perfection in communication is an abstract ideal— misunderstandings, mistranslations, and divergent interests are inevitable. 

Yet this should not deter efforts toward improvement. Strengthening diplomatic channels through building a regular, formal communication between U.S. and Chinese military and civilian leaders, establishing crisis hotlines, expanding diplomatic staffing and language expertise in both countries’ embassies, and supporting track-two dialogues among scholars and former officials  are crucial steps toward minimizing miscalculation and building a more stable international order. It also includes developing sustained forums— beyond reactive summits — for negotiation on areas of shared concern like climate change, trade, and global health. These concrete steps are essential to restoring trust and credibility. 

In particular, U.S. engagement with China has lacked consistency and long-term direction. While recent efforts have focused on countering Russia’s aggression in Ukraine through firm diplomatic and military backing, similar engagement with China has been far more uneven. Though China is frequently treated as a strategic competitor — and sometimes an outright adversary — it remains one of the United States’ largest trading partners. This complex interdependence demands a steady and deliberate diplomatic strategy, not just episodic dialogue or reactive policy shifts. Without a clear, consistent approach to China, the U.S. risks deepening misunderstandings, provoking unnecessary conflicts, or losing strategic leverage on global issues, such as climate change and trade. If the U.S. fails to engage proactively, China may feel emboldened to act more aggressively. Michael Swaine, in Creating a Stable Asia, argues that relying solely on deterrence could exacerbate instability rather than prevent it. Washington must therefore invest not only in arms sales, but also in confidence-building measures and regular dialogue with Beijing to reduce uncertainty and miscalculation.

What’s needed is a consistent, bipartisan approach that prioritizes strategic diplomacy as much as strategic defense. That includes reopening and strengthening military and diplomatic channels with Beijing, setting clear terms for cooperation in areas such as climate change and public health, and building multilateral mechanisms in the Indo-Pacific that go beyond military alliances. Engagement does not mean appeasement — it means acknowledging interdependence and using communication as a tool to prevent escalation.

At the same time, Taiwan must also take a more proactive role in its own defense, reducing reliance on U.S. support while continuing to invest in asymmetric capabilities and resilience. If Taiwan does not strengthen its own defense capabilities, it risks becoming too dependent on the U.S., which could weaken its negotiating position and make it more vulnerable to Chinese intimidation. Taiwan’s reliance on external support could also strain U.S.-Taiwan relations if U.S. resources become overstretched due to other global commitments. A more self-reliant Taiwan would not only deter Chinese aggression but would also signal to both China and the international community that Taiwan is capable of defending itself, reducing the likelihood of a confrontation. A balanced strategy — combining self-reliance, constructive engagement, and targeted arms support — offers the best path to security without deepening regional instability.

From Vietnam to Iraq, history shows that deterrence without diplomacy often backfires. The 20th-century containment strategy may still be in use, but the world has changed. Taiwan must not become the next example. Military aid must be matched with sustained diplomatic engagement to reduce tensions and preserve stability. As Joseph Nye reminds us, “Power does not lie in brute strength, but in the ability to shape the preferences of others,” underscoring that diplomacy is not a soft alternative — it’s a strategic necessity.² Only by balancing strength with strategy can the U.S. uphold its democratic ideals without reigniting Cold War-style crises.

1. Joseph S. Nye Jr., The Future of Power (New York: Public Affairs, 2011). ↩︎
2. Ibid. ↩︎

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: American and Taiwanese Flags, Image sourced from Flickr | CC License, no changes made

This article argues that Vladimir Putin’s regime operates as a neo-traditionalist autocracy, systematically repurposing ideological frameworks, governance structures, and imperial narratives from Russia’s Tsarist and Soviet past to consolidate authoritarian control. Far from revolutionary, Putinism functions as a strategic pastiche: it resurrects Count Uvarov’s “Orthodoxy, Autocracy, Nationality” triad as a statist doctrine, revives Soviet-era sistema patronage networks to personalize power, and weaponized Tsarist expansionist rhetoric — all while cloaking these retrograde practices in twenty-first-century technologies and institutions. By analyzing Putin’s ideological recycling, institutional restoration, and modernized repression, this paper demonstrates that his regime’s durability stems not from innovation but from its capacity to refashion historical authoritarian templates for contemporary audiences. In doing so, Putin reveals a core paradox of modern authoritarianism: its greatest strength lies in convincing the world of its novelty while relying on the political equivalent of cover songs.

One of the clearest expressions of Putin’s ideological continuity with the past is his appropriation of Count Sergei Uvarov’s 1833 doctrine of “Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality.” Scholars Cannady and Kubicek explain that “contemporary state nationalism [under Putin] is directly inspired by the famous triptych” and that the regime has used it to “serve a statist, often authoritarian agenda.” They argue that while these terms were originally popularized by nineteenth-century liberals to challenge state power, Putin has “redefined them to give them a statist character.”

Researcher Kolesnikov echoes this analysis and situates Putin’s ideological revival within the broader project of historical restoration. He writes that Putin’s ideology is “a modern adaptation of the ‘Russian idea’” and combines Uvarov’s triad with “Slavophile philosophy, Stalinist imperial ideology, and eclectic ideas drawn from the Russian nationalist movements of the 1960s and 1970s.” Putinism, in this sense, is not a novel political philosophy but a calculated recombination of inherited doctrines.

This restorative project extends to Putin’s ideological competition with the West. In 2019, he declared that “the liberal idea has become obsolete; it has come into conflict with the interests of the overwhelming majority of the population,” — a direct repudiation of Western norms in favor of a revived statist orthodoxy rooted in Uvarov’s triad.¹

The use of Peter the Great as a symbolic touchstone exemplifies this continuity. According to Kolesnikov, “Putin has only assimilated Peter the Great’s phrase about ‘returning and reinforcing’ ancestral Russian lands.” This phrase has been repeatedly cited in public statements to justify territorial aggression, particularly in Ukraine. In the Kremlin’s narrative, such actions are not wars of conquest but acts of historical correction. This narrative of correction is codified in policy. In his 2022 decree, Putin declared that “traditional Russian spiritual and moral values…shape the worldview of Russian citizens” and “underpin the all-Russian civil identity,” formalizing a statist doctrine that echoes Count Uvarov’s 19th-century triad of “Orthodoxy, Autocracy, Nationality.” This followed years of state efforts to codify “traditional values,” including their inclusion in Russia’s 2015 National Security Strategy and 2020 constitutional amendments. By framing these values as the “foundation of statehood,” the regime repurposes imperial-era narratives to legitimize today’s autocracy. The decree’s eclectic list of “values” including “service to the Fatherland” and “historical memory” serves as ideological scaffolding, binding Uvarov’s nineteenth-century framework to twenty-first-century authoritarianism.

The ideological project extends beyond political rhetoric. Kolesnikov observes that the regime has begun “exploit[ing] historical memories and concepts to reshape and manage the mass consciousness of the Russia’s citizenry.” This includes institutional reforms such as new textbooks and the creation of a university course titled Fundamentals of Russian Statehood, both of which promote the idea that Russia’s expansionist legacy is a source of pride and legitimacy.

Ultimately, these sources depict a regime whose ideology is rooted in restoration rather than innovation. Putin’s synthesis of Orthodox nationalism, imperial nostalgia, and selective Soviet-era symbolism reflects a deliberate effort to anchor the present in a curated historical narrative. By repurposing doctrines like Uvarov’s triad to justify territorial expansion and autocratic consolidation, he positions contemporary Russia not as a break from history, but as its repurposed continuation. 

A core element of Putin’s governance is the strategic revival of sistema, which Ledeneva traces back to the “Soviet administrative system” as one of its key formative factors.² Though the USSR’s collapse dismantled many formal structures, sistema “has a powerful grip over the society,” operating beneath official institutions as “an open secret in Russia.”³ Far from being dysfunctional, it provides a parallel mechanism of coordination and control through informal networks that underpin formal structures. As Ledeneva explains, “core contacts prioritise personal loyalty, stability and risk-avoidance over professionalism and innovation, thus securing a binding force and ensuring the reproduction of sistema.” ⁴Yet Ledeneva warns of the “modernisation trap of informality,” in which leaders depend on informal networks to get things done, ultimately imprisoning leaders in loyalty-based bargains that “impede change and modernization.”⁵

From the outset of his presidency, Putin prioritized loyalty over innovation by surrounding himself with former security and military officers. As Rivera and Rivera explain, “in       order to accomplish these objectives, the president needed loyal operatives who would follow orders and not hesitate to violate either the law or democratic practice, if necessary.”                                   

Frye’s framework of personalist autocracy helps explain why Putin’s blend of formal centralization and informal patronage is so structurally effective. In such regimes, Frye notes, “weak political institutions such as legislatures, courts, and independent bureaucracies” are the norm, making rulers increasingly reliant on “an informal inner circle of decision makers that grows narrower over time.”⁶ Without strong institutions to mediate disputes, autocrats like Putin must “bargain with each member of the elites separately,” distributing spoils one-by-one rather than through institutional channels.⁷ This environment allows personalist leaders to concentrate power by co-opting oligarchs, sidelining regional governors, and using resource wealth to solidify elite loyalty and weaken collective opposition.⁸ The result is a so-called “vertical of power” that appears monolithic in theory but, in practice, is undermined by bureaucratic inefficiency and uneven policy execution.⁹

This revival did not occur in a vacuum. Kathryn Stoner-Weiss shows formal state institutions proved astonishingly inert amid post-Soviet upheaval. For example, “the deregulation of monopolies … did not happen in any significant way in the early years of post-Soviet reform. Indeed, it was only haltingly underway ten years later.”¹⁰ Similarly, “comprehensive and meaningful social security and unemployment insurance programs, ten years later, were also largely still plans on paper.”¹¹

Facing this paralysis, Putin opted not to strengthen procedural bodies but to recentralize authority: within weeks after his inauguration, he created seven federal districts, each “headed by an appointed representative charged with coordinating the tasks of the federal bureaucracy … higher in the political-administrative hierarchy than elected governors.”¹² The inability of Putin’s appointed envoys to curb the entrenched “collusion between powerful regional political and economic elites,” who “actively work[ed] to block central state regulation of their activities,” revealed the limits of this top-down approach.¹³ Just as Yeltsin’s weak democracy rested on shaky institutions, Putin’s move to abolish gubernatorial elections entrenched “authoritarianism without authority” — a regime that, despite centralizing power, left regional networks “weak, fleeting, and highly personalistic.”¹⁴ Far from strengthening the state’s reach, this reform “amounted to an admission of the failure of previous efforts to gain control over policy in the provinces.”¹⁵

Putin’s information strategy underlines his broader pattern of mining Tsarist- and Soviet-era practices and repurposing them for twenty-first-century authoritarian control. Lenin famously “attached to propaganda the highest priority, attributing to it his regime’s ability to survive against overwhelming odds,” insisting that its “prerequisite was complete control over all sources of information,” as historian Richard Pipes observes. Putin’s Russia has resurrected this totalizing view of propaganda. Since the turn of the millennium, the Kremlin has methodically “cracked down on independent media, consolidated and later reorganized its state-run media holdings, and spent lavishly to make outlets like RT and Sputnik household names in post-Soviet propaganda with a modern twist.”

Crucially, this modernized apparatus operates within a reconceptualized framework of influence. Putin’s regime has redefined “soft power” not as a passive attraction to liberal values but as an aggressive toolkit, “a set of instruments and methods used to achieve foreign policy goals without resorting to military means, but with the help of information and other instruments of influence.”¹⁶ Simultaneously, Moscow deploys “sharp power,” tactics designed “to pierce, penetrate or perforate the political and information environments in targeted countries” to undermine democratic appeal.¹⁷ Examples of such tactics include “stealing information and releasing it publicly through a trusted intermediary at a time thought to be most damaging to the adversary” and “planting false stories and using fake social media accounts to launder and amplify the message until it is picked up by a targeted group.”¹⁸ As one analyst observes, Russian policymakers “did not need to convince the world that their autocratic system was appealing in its own right. Instead, they realized that they could achieve their objectives by making democracy appear less attractive.”¹⁹ In this way, Putin’s information strategy revives Lenin’s obsession with ideological combat while updating it for an era of networked globalization.

This revival extends to the regime’s self-presentation on the world stage. Rivera and Rivera note that the Kremlin’s transformation into what The Economist calls a “neo-KGB state” demonstrates how Putin’s deliberate reuse of KGB symbolism and personnel recycles Soviet ideological structures to legitimize modern authoritarianism.

From the outside, it may have seemed only a matter of time before Russia’s leader moved to reclaim territories lost in the tumult of the twentieth century. After all, no polity since the Mongol collapse has suffered such dramatic contraction as the Soviet Union, stripped of vast lands by internal decay more than external defeat. Yet this loss was not born of battlefield failure but of institutional stagnation — a paralysis that still haunts Russia today. In this context, Vladimir Putin’s rise in 1999 was sold to Russians as a return to greatness: modernizing the armed forces, restoring fiscal stability, and reasserting Moscow on the world stage. What emerges from the research, however, is a strikingly different story, one of revival rather than novelty. 

Putinism is not a bold new blueprint. Instead, it is a carefully composed remix of Tsarist, Soviet, and early-post–Cold War elements. From Count Uvarov’s triad of “Orthodoxy, Autocracy, Nationality” to Stalinist propaganda techniques, from Peter the Great’s claim to “return and reinforce” ancestral lands to post-2014 welfare-mobilization rhetoric, the regime recycles each component as if it were a familiar melody. At its core lies sistema, the Soviet-inherited web of informal networks that Alena Ledeneva shows still governs access, loyalty, and resources, often at the expense of genuine institutional reform. This personalized patronage, as Frye’s theory of personalist autocracy explains, weakens legislatures and courts, forcing the Kremlin to placate each elite faction individually rather than through stable channels.

Even Russia’s information apparatus follows this pattern. Lenin’s totalizing approach to propaganda has been reborn in the twenty-first century: independent media are muzzled, state outlets are lavishly funded, and new “sharp power” tactics — cyber-leaks, troll farms, disinformation campaigns — blend old-fashioned censorship with digital-age subterfuge. Likewise, the Kremlin’s “neo-KGB” aesthetic binds Soviet symbols to modern messaging, legitimizing authoritarian control under the guise of security and tradition.

Taken together, these threads reveal a regime less interested in innovation than in embedding the present within a selectively curated past. Putin has not broken from history; he has reanimated it. His greatest achievement is convincing both Russians and the wider world that this is something altogether new when in fact the old order, precisely dusted off and replayed on a high-tech stage. If Europe and America hope to counter this revival, they will need more than sanctions alone: they must understand that Russia’s power today rests not on tanks or gas pipelines but on the enduring resonance of its own history, repackaged for a new era.

1. Kathryn E. Stoner, Russia Resurrected: Its Power and Purpose in a New Global Order (New York: Oxford University Press, 2021), 85. ↩︎
2. Alena V. Ledeneva, Can Russia Modernise? Sistema, Power Networks and Informal Governance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 27. ↩︎
3. Ibid., 1. ↩︎
4. Ibid., 83. ↩︎
5. Ibid., 252–53. ↩︎
6. Timothy Frye, Weak Strongman: The Limits of Power in Putin’s Russia (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2021), 39-40. ↩︎
7. Ibid., 41. ↩︎
8. Ibid., 40–41. ↩︎
9. Ibid., 25. ↩︎
10. Kathryn Stoner-Weiss, Resisting the State: Reform and Retrenchment in Post-Soviet Russia, 1st ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 22. ↩︎
11. Ibid. ↩︎
12. Ibid., 148. ↩︎
13. Ibid., 11, 99. ↩︎
14. Ibid., 145-147. ↩︎
15. Ibid. ↩︎
16. Stoner, Russia Resurrected, 218. ↩︎
17. Ibid., 217. ↩︎
18. Ibid. ↩︎
19. Ibid. ↩︎

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Vladimir Putin, Image sourced from Flickr | CC License, no changes made

The region of Arunachal, a sparsely populated Himalayan borderland, had long eluded the firm control of any pre-modern state. Only in 1912-13 did British India negotiate treaties with the ethnic groups (the Abors, Daflas, Mishmis, etc.) to create the Balipara, Sadiya, Abor, Mishmi and Tirap Frontier Tracts, together the North East Frontier Agency (NEFA), thereby laying the basis of modern Arunachal. Even then the region “had largely remained unadministered during British rule,” governed indirectly through frontier deals rather than direct administration. Likewise, the Chinese Qing dynasty exercised at most symbolic control over the region, and despite expansive Qing-era maps, which showed Arunachal (Lhoyü) as a part of the Qing Dynasty, “no areas of present Arunachal Pradesh, which were mostly forested then, were ever administratively controlled by the Qing.” Throughout most of history, British and Indian cartographers omitted Arunachal from maps of India, while still depicting Myanmar, right up until the 1920s.

This raises the question: if neither empire truly ruled the land, why do both modern China and India now claim it so strongly?¹ Constructivist IR theory offers a clue. Identity-driven narratives can transform historical ambiguity into absolute certainty. States seek ontological security, a stable sense of self over time, which compels them to craft coherent stories about their territory and history. Arunachal’s murky past provides a blank canvas for such storytelling. Rather than factual administration, each government’s claim is anchored in a national narrative that makes the disputed territory “forever” part of the self. 

The McMahon Line and Competing Histories 

The first contested claim emerged with the 1913-14 Simla Conference, where Britain, Tibet and China discussed the frontier. British and Tibetan plenipotentiaries agreed on a Himalayan crestline, later called the McMahon Line, which London described as the “geographic, ethnic, and administrative boundary” between India (Assam) and Tibet. In practice the British saw it as a natural frontier; after the conference, India’s Survey of India routinely drew that line on maps. China, however, withdrew its signature almost immediately and later denounced the Simla agreement as illegitimate. In a 1959 letter to Nehru, Chinese Premier Zhou Enlai explicitly called the Simla Convention part of “imperialist aggression” and the McMahon Line a product of British “aggression… never recognised… and therefore decidedly illegal.”

After Indian independence in 1947, the McMahon Line became New Delhi’s accepted border. Maps showed the disputed hill tracts as de facto administered by British India, with the agreement cited as the legal basis for the boundary. In contrast, Beijing’s official history rejects any inherited British treaty. Chinese leaders argue Tibet had no independent authority to cede territory, and that any colonial-era border was an imposition. As the Encyclopedia Britannica records, in the late 1950s China claimed nearly the entire upland of Assam (NEFA), insisting the British had drawn McMahon by force. Notably, the postage stamps issued by Azad Hind, the Indian National Army fighting for India’s independence, also did not depict Arunachal as part of India.

Independence, Integration, and Identity 

What is interesting is that neither country’s nationalist movement originally centered on Arunachal. At independence the region was merely a remote northern part of Assam; Indian leaders had little connection to it during the freedom struggle. After 1947, however, the emerging Indian state moved to consolidate NEFA within its borders. In 1950, India took responsibility for frontier administration, and by 1972, NEFA was formally declared a Union Territory (renamed Arunachal Pradesh). In 1987, it became a full state. India emphasizes this continuity and integration: the Survey of India has consistently marked the frontier as part of Assam in its maps, published annually since the late 19th century.

Indian politicians and media portray Arunachal as willingly part of India’s nation-building project — its citizens were granted Indian citizenship, local leaders sit in state assemblies, and the slogan “अरुणाचल हमारा Arunachal Hamara” (“Arunachal is ours”) is widely invoked by India. Even in the most recent spat, India’s Ministry of External Affairs insisted flatly that “Arunachal Pradesh was, is, and will always remain an integral and inalienable part of India.” This in turn also led to India undermining the indigenous culture of the region, enforcing Hindi as the sole language and temporarily banning all religions — except for those that conformed with Hinduism. India also did this, by sending in Hindu priests to make the indigenous customs more Hindu, as could be seen with the religious movement of Donyi Polo that was started in the state. Although this did endanger the indigenous culture of the people, this helped India solidify its grasp on the people. As more and more Indian shows were streamed on television, the indigenous community came to see themselves more and more closer with India. 

China’s post-1949 narrative, however, took the opposite tack. After Mao’s rise, Beijing nullified pre-1949 treaties and reaffirmed earlier Qing claims. Chinese officials renamed the province on paper as Zangnan (藏南, “southern Tibet”) and began issuing maps treating Arunachal as part of Tibet Autonomous Region. In 1959 Zhou Enlai dispatched Indian maps showing Arunachal as Chinese territory. Today’s PRC rhetoric frames Arunachal as “South Tibet” that must eventually be returned to China. Official statements make this clear: at a May 2025 press briefing, China’s foreign ministry stated bluntly “Zangnan is part of China’s territory” and that standardizing Chinese names there “is fully within China’s sovereign rights.” Beijing also emphasizes Tibet’s long historical ties to China (presented as uninterrupted) and downplays local ethnic identities. In this case, it is indeed true that most of the ethnic groups of Arunachal do share their origins in the Sichuan river basin, and China in many ways uses this part of history to solidify their claim. However, most of Arunachal was unexplored until the Britishers arrived, and the Qing Dynasty had never ever held any true control over administration in this region. Chinese discourse, however, continues to treat Arunachal not as a frontier, but as an ancient province of the Chinese nation: only “occupied” by colonial-era India. 

Contemporary Narrative Strategies 

These contrasting historical framings are actively reproduced through today’s politics. China has made “cartographic normalization” a pillar of its strategy. Since 2017, Beijing has repeatedly published lists of Chinese names for Arunachal localities, framing this as routine to “standardize” geographic names in Zangnan. For example, in May 2025, China’s Ministry of Civil Affairs issued official Chinese names for 27 places in Arunachal ranging from mountain peaks to villages, explicitly identifying them as in “Zangnan of China.” Chinese media describe this as a technical exercise under China’s sovereignty. Experts note it is part of a broader “renaming” campaign: media outlets report each batch (6 names in 2017, 15 in 2021, 11 in 2023, 30 in 2024, etc.) as a way to “boost claims and normalize its occupation” of the region. State commentary ties this to China’s narrative about Tibet where China is pushing terms like “Xizang” instead of “Tibet” and changing place names so “consistent usage” of Chinese nomenclature erases the notion of a separate Tibetan identity. 

India’s discourse counters forcefully but differently. Official spokesmen denounce Chinese renaming as a provocation.² The MEA called China’s latest naming attempt “vain and preposterous,” declaring that no change of labels can alter the fact that Arunachal “will always remain… an integral and inalienable part of India.” Indian media have invoked terms like “cartographic aggression” to describe China’s actions. Domestic speeches and news stories emphasize Arunachal’s Indian statehood, economic development, and cultural integration. For instance, in 2022 Prime Minister Modi invoked Arunachal’s 50th anniversary of Statehood Day to highlight its progress under Indian rule and reassert its Indian identity. Front-page news articles repeat that India “rejected” China’s naming moves and reaffirm that Arunachal is “in every sense” Indian territory. In short, Indian strategic narratives present the region as a democratic success story and an unshakeable part of the national framework: in direct contrast to China’s historical/civilizational arguments. 

China’s official narrative emphasizes that Arunachal (called Zangnan in Chinese accounts) is inherently Tibetan and “part of China’s territory.”³ However this argument falls through since the majority ethnic group in Arunachal is Tani, which is inherently non Tibetan. The Tani community is also called Lhoba, which China recognises as distinct from the Tibetan identity. These claims are thus solely made to be reinforced with imagery of the remote Himalayan landscape and symbolically tie the region to Tibet’s topography, instead of it being factually accurate. Indian narratives, by contrast, stress national unity and legal continuity. New Delhi insists that no unilateral act, not even assigning new names to mountains and rivers, can change Arunachal’s status. However, what is lost in these claims and counterclaims is the indigenous names of the region, which are often replaced with “Indian or Chinese” names.⁴ Both sides thus frame the same terrain in absolutist terms: one as sacred Chinese-Tibetan heritage, the other as sacred Indian soil. 

Through this analysis, we can see the constructivist mechanisms at work. Each country has woven Arunachal into its identity-claim narrative, transforming historical uncertainty into ontological necessity. China’s “Southern Tibet” story and India’s “eternal integral state” slogan serve to reassure national audiences that their country has neither ceded pride nor contract status. As Lu Yang notes of the India-China case, mutual defense of narrative identity has become “routinized” — each side reinforcing a victim/perpetrator storyline that makes disengagement psychologically difficult.⁵ In short, both governments need Arunachal to symbolize their national cohesion. 

Conclusion

These identity-driven narratives create stiff constraints on diplomacy. When the land is cast as part of “the self” of the nation, ceding even a sliver is seen as a betrayal. As Mitzen (2006) argues in the ontological security literature, actors (including states) guard a stable self-identity; uncertainty or concession can be profoundly unsettling.⁶ For India, agreeing to Chinese claims would undermine its self-image of a democratic republic protecting its frontier tribes. For China, recognizing India’s hold would undermine the core narrative of a unified Chinese motherland. In practical terms, hardening of language, whether calling McMahon a colonial affront or Arunachal “forever Indian” makes compromise politically costly.⁷ 

Moving beyond this impasse requires engaging the narratives, not ignoring them. Scholars suggest a narrative-based approach to peacebuilding: to ease ontological anxiety, each side must see the other’s history as plausible. One proposal is a “multi-layered historical reconciliation,” a process by which India and China collectively acknowledge past traumas and map their memories onto one another. For example, both governments could support joint scholarly forums or cultural exchanges in Arunachal/Tibet that highlight the perspectives of indigenous ethnicities, demonstrating that the borderland has overlapping heritages. Confidence might also grow if bilateral dialogue explicitly addresses public narratives, refusing cartographic aggression as a tactic while separately discussing resource or security concerns in less charged language. If nationalists on both sides come to see the conflict as a constructed storyline rather than a zero-sum inheritance, new policy space may open. 

Ultimately, sovereignty claims live in stories as much as statutes. China and India have transformed a once-ambiguous zone into “Chinese” and “Indian” realms through strategic framing and rhetoric. These entrenched narratives now bind each state’s hands: the identity payoff of victory is too great to yield, and the identity cost of compromise too high. Only by consciously reframing the meaning of Arunachal, from a contested prize to a shared threshold of cooperation, could policy makers break free of the current stalemate. As Lu Yang suggests, identifying and addressing the narrative dimensions of the dispute may be the key to an eventual thaw in this Himalayas standoff. 

1.  Sarmah, M. (2021). Is China’s territorial claim on Arunachal Pradesh justifiable? World Affairs: The Journal of International Issues, 25(4), 78–89. https://www.jstor.org/stable/48654881. ↩︎
2.  Kumar, A. (2023, May 5). दो-दो मोर्चों पर चीन क दविुविधा: भारत–चीन बॉर्डरर्ड के हालात पर एक नज़रि या. Observer Research Foundation (ORF) हि दं. https://www.orfonline.org/hindi/research/chinas-two. ↩︎
3.  廖小韵, 郝晓光, 胡小刚, & 刘根友. (2012). 从一幅早期地图看藏南问题研究的重要性 测绘科学 (Science of Surveying and Mapping), 37(Suppl), 1–4. http://www.hxgmap.com/lunwen/h47.pdf. ↩︎
4. 段彬. (2020). 印度对中国藏南地区的同化政策探析(1951—1959) [Analysis of India’s Assimilation Policy toward China’s Zangnan Region (1951–1959)]. Journal of Boundary and Ocean Studies, 5(2). http://www.cibos.whu.edu.cn/res/soft/2020/f167f11263760e65.pdf. ↩︎
5. Lu, Y. (2016). Ontological Security and India-China Relations: From Border War to “News War” (ISAS Working Paper No. 227). Institute of South Asian Studies, National University of Singapore.
   Hansen, E. G. (1967). The impact of the border war on Indian perceptions of China. Pacific Affairs, 40(3/4), 235–249. ↩︎
6.  Mitzen, J. (2006). Ontological security in world politics: State identity and the security dilemma. European Journal of International Relations, 12(3), 341–370. https://doi.org/10.1177/1354066106067346. ↩︎
7. Singh, J. J. (2019). The McMahon Line: A century of discord. New Delhi: Institute for Defence Studies and Analyses (IDSA). ↩︎

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Bomdila, Arunachal Pradesh, Image sourced from Flickr | CC License, no changes made

In an era dominated by military and economic interests, the concept of soft power offers an alternative framework for understanding global influence. Coined by Joseph Nye, soft power is defined as a country’s ability to shape the preferences of others through attraction rather than coercion or payment.¹ Japan exemplifies this influence through its cuisine, leveraging food as a tool for diplomacy and global engagement. Japanese culinary diplomacy, the strategic promotion of Japanese food culture abroad, demonstrates how cultural heritage can be leveraged to enhance economic prosperity, foster political alliances, and elevate a nation’s global standing.

Japanese cuisine, or washoku, was inscribed on the UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage list in 2013, reflecting not only its rich tradition but also its potential as a diplomatic tool. This recognition aligns with Japan’s broader “Cool Japan” initiative, which promotes cultural exports to enhance the country’s image and soft power worldwide.² This article argues that Japan’s culinary diplomacy functions as a strategically designed soft power mechanism, facilitating tangible political and economic benefits while shaping international perceptions of Japan as a culturally sophisticated and innovative nation.

Theoretical Framework

Understanding Japanese culinary diplomacy requires situating it within the broader theoretical frameworks of soft power and cultural diplomacy. Building on Nye’s concept of attraction-based influence to its culture, political values, and foreign policies, unlike hard power, which relies on coercion or payment, soft power operates by shaping the preferences of others, making them desire the outcomes favored by the influencer.^{3 4}

Cultural diplomacy constitutes a vital subset of soft power, focusing specifically on the role of culture as a medium for building mutual understanding and trust between nations.⁵ Food, as a universal cultural expression, possesses unique qualities in this regard — it transcends language barriers, fosters social bonds, and cultivates favorable impressions of the source country.⁶ Emerging scholarship on culinary diplomacy underscores how states employ gastronomy to promote national narratives, enhance tourism, and establish informal channels of influence. ^{7 8}

Within the context of international relations, culinary diplomacy is recognized as a tool of public diplomacy, engaging both foreign publics and elites through cultural exchange and symbolic gestures.⁹ Additionally, it enables states to cultivate goodwill and expand their diplomatic reach beyond traditional political and economic interactions. Japan’s deployment of culinary diplomacy exemplifies these theories, with state and private actors collaborating to export Japanese food culture as a means to augment Japan’s soft power and global presence.

Understanding Soft Power and Culinary Diplomacy in Japan

Soft power functions through attraction—shaping preferences by rendering a nation’s culture, values, and policies appealing.¹⁰ Japan’s culinary diplomacy exemplifies this by leveraging its rich food heritage to foster positive international relationships and advance national interests.

Japanese cuisine is distinguished by its emphasis on seasonality, aesthetic presentation, balance, and healthfulness, qualities that resonate with global audiences increasingly attentive to quality and wellness.¹¹ Japan has institutionalized culinary diplomacy as part of its broader cultural export strategy, investing in the international promotion of food alongside other cultural assets.¹² The Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries (MAFF) actively supports international outreach through cultural festivals, chef exchanges, and educational programs, thereby cultivating diplomatic goodwill and opening markets for Japanese exports.¹³

Moreover, Japan’s food diplomacy transcends economic objectives; it functions as a conduit for cultural exchange, peacebuilding, and regional cooperation. For instance, Japanese culinary culture has served as a diplomatic bridge in relations with neighboring countries such as South Korea and China, where historical tensions persist. By fostering shared appreciation for food traditions and culinary innovation, Japan creates informal spaces for dialogue and mutual understanding.¹⁴

Economic Impact

Following the elevation of washoku as a cultural heritage asset, the number of Japanese restaurants worldwide increased by approximately 30% between 2013 and 2019.¹⁵ This visibility has been directly linked to rising Japanese food exports, which surged from $6.1 billion in 2013 to $10.1 billion in 2018 — a 65% increase.¹⁶ According to JETRO (2021), demand grew for ingredients such as miso, soy sauce, and sake, as Japanese cuisine gained traction globally.

Culinary tourism has also become a significant component of Japan’s tourism sector. The Japan Tourism Agency (2019) reports that nearly 30% of international visitors cited Japanese cuisine as a primary motivation for their trip.¹⁷ Visitors often plan itineraries around food festivals and regional specialties, which fosters long-term cultural affinity and economic sustainability. Events like Japan Week in New York, drawing over 50,000 participants annually, and European Washoku Week, which increases Japanese restaurant patronage by 25% during the event, demonstrate the synergy between cultural events and economic outcomes.^{18 19}

The Tokyo 2020 Olympic Games provided another moment of strategic culinary promotion. Japan introduced “Sustainable Washoku” at Olympic venues, aligning the national brand with global concerns around environmental and public health. The initiative reached over 200 million viewers globally, with social media campaigns extending the narrative to over 350 million users.²⁰ Post-Games data showed a 15% increase in Japanese food exports, reinforcing the diplomatic and economic impact of culinary branding at global mega-events.

Diplomatic and Policy Implications

Japan’s use of culinary diplomacy reflects a deliberate application of soft power as foreign policy strategy. Grounded in Nye’s theory of influence through attraction, the promotion of washoku functions not merely as cultural display but as a strategic instrument of diplomacy. Japan integrates food diplomacy into regional summits, cultural agreements, and public diplomacy initiatives to cultivate goodwill, build informal channels of influence, and enhance its image as a peaceful, harmonious power.

This approach is especially visible in Japan’s outreach to ASEAN countries. Embassy-led food festivals, cooking classes, and bilateral cultural programming have softened historical tensions and fostered mutual understanding. For example, surveys conducted by JICA (2019) found a 20% rise in favorable perceptions of Japan among Southeast Asian participants following food-related events.²¹

The “Cool Japan” initiative also underscores how culinary culture is embedded in Japan’s foreign policy. High-profile chefs were appointed as cultural ambassadors, showcasing Japanese cuisine in cities like New York, London, and Paris.²² Food-themed events were regularly featured at G20 and APEC summits, blurring the lines between public diplomacy and trade.

Furthermore, culinary diplomacy supports Japan’s broader geopolitical posture. It subtly reinforces Japan’s leadership narrative in East Asia while counterbalancing regional powers like China and South Korea. Initiatives are often linked to wider economic agreements, such as CPTPP negotiations and Japan’s strategic dialogue with Western allies.

Japanese culinary diplomacy is also amplified through popular media. For instance, the anime series Shokugeki no Soma (Food Wars), broadcast in over 50 countries, sparked increased global interest in Japanese cuisine. In response, regions such as Hokkaido and Osaka saw food-related tourism rise by up to 15%.²³ Recognizing the cultural reach of such content, Japan’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs has quietly supported culinary-themed media as an informal — but effective — tool of public diplomacy.²⁴

Conclusion

Japanese culinary diplomacy represents a paradigmatic example of how soft power can be deliberately harnessed to achieve multifaceted national objectives. Through the strategic promotion of washoku and other culinary traditions, Japan has not only enhanced its cultural appeal but effectively translated this attraction into concrete economic gains and diplomatic influence. The interplay between cultural heritage, economic policy, and international relations demonstrates the sophistication of Japan’s soft power strategy, which aligns with global trends toward sustainable development and health-conscious consumption.

In addition to culinary diplomacy, Japan employs a diverse array of soft power tools — including fashion, anime, technological innovation, heritage promotion, and educational outreach — forming a multidimensional strategy designed to cultivate sustainable international influence. By leveraging food culture as a diplomatic tool, Japan fosters cross-cultural understanding, promotes economic vitality, and strengthens political alliances. This approach confirms the critical role of cultural diplomacy within modern international relations and underscores the expanding relevance of culinary diplomacy as a vehicle for national power and prestige in the twenty-first century.

1. Joseph S. Nye, Soft Power: The Means to Success in World Politics (New York: Public Affairs, 2004). ↩︎
2. Yuichi Lam, “Cool Japan Strategy and the Cultural Industry,” East Asian Policy 6, no. 4 (2014): 38–49. ↩︎
3. Nye, Soft Power. ↩︎
4. Joseph S. Nye, “The Future of Power,” Foreign Affairs 90, no. 1 (2011): 2–12. ↩︎
5. Nicholas J. Cull, “Public Diplomacy: Taxonomies and Histories,” The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 616, no. 1 (2008): 31–54. ↩︎
6. Craig LaBan, “The Role of Food in Public Diplomacy,” The Hague Journal of Diplomacy 7, no. 2 (2012): 151–157. ↩︎
7. Rachel Rockower, “Recipes for Gastrodiplomacy,” Place Branding and Public Diplomacy 8, no. 3 (2012): 235–246. ↩︎
8. Claude Fischler, “Food, Self and Identity,” Social Science Information 33, no. 2 (1994): 275–292. ↩︎
9. Cull, “Public Diplomacy.” ↩︎
10. Nye, Soft Power. ↩︎
11. Naomichi Ishige, The History and Culture of Japanese Food (London: Routledge, 2011). ↩︎
12. Yuichi Lam, “Cool Japan Strategy and the Cultural Industry,” East Asian Policy 6, no. 4 (2014): 38–49. ↩︎
13. Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries (MAFF). “Japanese Food Promotion Policy.” 2018. ↩︎
14. Sangkyun Kim, “Food as a Bridge Between Korea and Japan: A Culinary Diplomacy Perspective,” Asian Studies Review 40, no. 3 (2016): 414–428. ↩︎
15. Japan National Tourism Organization (JNTO), “Japanese Cuisine Overseas: Growth and Impact,” 2020. ↩︎
16. Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries (MAFF). “Japanese Food Promotion Policy.” 2018. ↩︎
17. Japan Tourism Agency, “Survey on Travel Motivations of Foreign Visitors to Japan,” 2019. ↩︎
18. Japan Society. Japan Week Annual Report. New York: Japan Society, 2019. ↩︎
19. European Japanese Association. European Washoku Week Impact Report. Brussels: EJA, 2018. ↩︎
20. International Olympic Committee, “Tokyo 2020 Olympic Culinary Program Report,” 2021. ↩︎
21. Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA), “Public Perceptions of Japan in Southeast Asia,” 201. ↩︎
22. Yuichi Lam, “Cool Japan Strategy and the Cultural Industry,” East Asian Policy 6, no. 4 (2014): 38–49. ↩︎
23. Japan National Tourism Organization (JNTO), “Japanese Cuisine Overseas: Growth and Impact,” 2020. ↩︎
24. Mila Kaneva, “Public Diplomacy and Popular Culture,” International Journal of Cultural Policy 17, no.2 (2011): 145–161. ↩︎

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Japanese Mochi, Image sourced from PICRYL | CC License, no changes made

From 1930 to 1933, the Soviet Republic of Kazakhstan suffered a horrific yet understudied episode of famine, violence, and displacement that claimed the lives of roughly 1.5 million people, including a third of the republic’s ethnic Kazakh population.¹ Part of the greater Soviet collectivization famine that also devastated areas of Russia and Ukraine under the First Five-Year Plan, the Kazakh famine is unique in that it predominantly affected a nomadic society, whose forced sedentarization was a key aim of Soviet policy. The multi-year crisis uprooted the social foundations of steppe society and led to the near-elimination of traditional Kazakh pastoral nomadism, paving the way for Soviet political hegemony on the steppe. The tremendous suffering of ethnic Kazakhs and the deliberate targeting of their way of life prompt an investigation as to whether Soviet actions during the Kazakh famine constitute genocide. This two-part essay attempts to answer this question. 

In Part I, I will examine the motivations behind the Soviet collectivization policy in Kazakhstan and its dramatic impact on the Kazakh economy and society, as well as the disproportionate suffering of ethnic Kazakhs. Although meant to redirect the vast economic potential of the Kazakh steppe towards more efficient state use, the forced collectivization of grain and livestock precipitated mass starvation, a regional refugee crisis, and, ironically, the total collapse of the steppe’s agricultural production. In Part II, I will analyze the role and intent of the Soviet state in the crisis. I argue that, although Soviet actions during the famine cannot be designated as genocide under the predominant legal framework, they nonetheless constituted an intentional and merciless attack on Kazakh nomadic culture that deserves greater public recognition. I thus propose characterizing the Kazakh famine as a “communist genocide,” a term applied by Norman Naimark. This terminology allows historians to sidestep the limitations of relying solely on faulty legal frameworks for genocide to properly communicate the scale and deliberateness of cultural atrocities like the Kazakh famine while emphasizing the fundamental role of authoritarian communism in causing them. 

To provide the factual background for my analysis, I will primarily draw on the work of contemporary Western scholars like Sarah Cameron, Robert Kindler, Isabelle Ohayon, Niccolò Pianciola, and Martha Olcott while also incorporating references to primary sources and work by Kazakh scholars when pertinent. This cohort of Western scholars has done much in the last two decades to draw attention in the West to this unique and understudied episode of world history.² With the exception of Cameron, these historians have relied primarily on Russian-language documents, which introduces a possible historiographical bias towards the perspective of state implementers. Nonetheless, while this limitation of the sources should be acknowledged, it does not substantially affect the conclusions of this investigation, which focus on Soviet action and intent over the course of the famine. Finally, the application of Norman Naimark’s framework for understanding communist genocide to the case of the Kazakh famine will allow us to widen the scope of genocide study beyond the flawed legal framework of the 1948 Genocide Convention. 

Part I: Collectivization, Sedentarization, and Famine 

Bringing Socialism to the Steppe: 

Specially adapted to the hostile conditions of the steppe, pastoral nomadism was the dominant economic activity among ethnic Kazakhs for centuries and formed the basis of Kazakh culture, governance, and livelihood. Kazakh nomads practiced one of the most ancient and ecological forms of subsistence, channeling ancestral knowledge to lead herds of goats, sheep, yaks, and horses along sophisticated routes following seasonal conditions. Despite disruptions caused by the arrival of large numbers of sedentary agricultural colonists from Russia in previous decades and the violence of the First World War and Russian Civil War, about three-quarters of Kazakhs continued to practice some form of nomadism prior to the famine in 1926 (Olcott, 124). 

Soviet authorities had struggled since the Bolshevik Revolution with the question of how to reconcile communist ideology, economics, and state authority with the traditional nomadic society of the steppe (Cameron, 45; Kindler, 22). Many Bolsheviks saw nomadism as a “primitive, barbarous type of economy” that “[impeded] a more profitable exploitation of the territory,” pointing to its comparatively high land use and the fluctuation of herd sizes—a natural result of unpredictable climatic and epidemiological conditions—as evidence that nomadism was inherently inefficient and needed to be replaced by more “modern” forms of sedentary economic activity (Kindler, 44; Cameron, 47; Olcott, 139). Furthermore, nomadism seemed to be at odds with Soviet governance and ideology. State surveyors sent to the steppe found it difficult to quantify nomadic life in a way that could be centrally planned or collectivized, since there was no form of land ownership to measure or standard herd sizes to record (Cameron, 56-8). It was also believed that nomadic life, centered around the community of the aul, was inherently bound to outdated clan-based hierarchies headed by the bai, who was seen as an oppressive, feudalistic figure analogous to the peasant kulak (Ohayon, 4; Cameron, 68). To most Soviet planners, the preservation of pastoral nomadism was incompatible with the realization of the highly efficient, state-controlled, and classless future they envisioned for Kazakhstan ³ 

This view, however, was not shared by all. Many Kazakhs and Russians in the republic’s Commissariat of Agriculture maintained that pastoral nomadism was the most productive use of the steppe’s arid landscape and warned that the violent elimination of nomadism in favor of sedentary agriculture would lead to economic catastrophe or even the complete depopulation of the steppe. However, these experts were decried as capitalists or “bourgeois nationalists” for their views and were purged from the Party (Cameron, 60-4). By 1930, the Commissariat and the Party Secretary of Kazakhstan, Filipp Goloshchyokin,⁴ were united in the view that, to fully mobilize the economic resources of the steppe and assert Soviet dominance, nomads would need to be sedentarized (Zveriakov, 53; Kindler, 68). 

Collectivization and Collapse 

After a brief campaign the previous year to bring class warfare to the steppe known as “Little October,” full-scale collectivization was first decreed in 1929 as part of the First Five-Year Plan, a Union-wide effort to revolutionize the Soviet economy through industrialization and the elimination of free market principles in agricultural production left over from Lenin’s New Economic Policy (Olcott 123-4; Kindler, 68). Kazakhstan was to play a vital role in the plan as a primary agricultural base to fuel the Soviet Union’s rapid industrialization (Cameron, 97). To achieve this, local party activists zealously promoted a dual program of “full collectivization on the basis of sedentarization,” fundamentally linking the plan’s success (and its targets) to both the nationalization of agricultural resources and the settlement of millions of Kazakh nomads (Cameron 2016, 119). Dizzying procurement goals for both grain and meat were set to fund industrialization by export and to meet the immediate needs of industrializing centers in Russia (Pianciola, 2017).⁵ Simultaneously, Kazakh herds, the largest livestock base in the Soviet Union, would be forcibly collectivized and moved to state and collective farms (sovkhozy and kolkhozy), forming the basis of a meat-packing industry “to rival Chicago” (Cameron, 3, 98). 

These forced confiscations of grain and livestock were the proximate cause of the Kazakh famine, which began by the winter of 1930 (Cameron 2016, 117; Olcott, 122; Kindler, 100). Collectivization squandered agricultural output and the Soviet Union’s most important livestock base, devastating Kazakh nomads who relied heavily on animal herds and were particularly vulnerable to increasing meat and grain requisitions. 

Collectivization brigades, primarily composed of local Kazakhs, enforced procurements.⁶ Since few of them farmed, Kazakhs across the republic were forced to sell their animals to satisfy onerous grain procurements. The material strain on herds grew exponentially as the influx of animals to the market caused a collapse in the regional value of livestock relative to grain (Kindler, 99; Cameron, 13). Meanwhile, animals were also requisitioned directly. Many slaughtered their animals voluntarily to avoid forceful nationalization or were forced to do so after fodder used to feed them was confiscated (Olcott 137-8; Kindler, 161). Often, livestock seized by local officials died before even reaching collective farms or state slaughterhouses as a result of lacking feed reserves, disease, or logistical failures (Kindler, 102-4, 161). In total, the republic’s livestock base fell by 92% as a result of collectivization drives, constituting a material loss that would not be recovered until the 1960s (Olcott, 123). 

It is difficult to understate the catastrophic effect of this loss of livestock on the nomadic Kazakh way of life. Whereas on the eve of the famine in 1929, the average household owned 41 animals, that number had, by 1933, plummeted to 2.2 (Kindler, 100). This radically disrupted the entire production cycle of animal breeding, and many herders found themselves increasingly dependent on settled farmers,  who were already burdened by lofty grain requisitions, for food (Ohayon, 7). Moreover, without pack animals like sheep, camels, and goats, food could not be transported to the kolkhoz or aul quickly enough to avoid spoilage (Kindler, 101). Although all rural populations in Kazakhstan were affected by the collectivization crisis, experts agree that the disproportionate death toll of Kazakhs during the famine can be explained by the nomadic economy’s structural reliance on livestock (Ohayon, 7; Olcott, 136-7; Cameron 2016, 120; Richter, 483).

Kazakhs who sedentarized—either by choice or as a result of abject poverty—also struggled to escape the famine. Formerly nomadic Kazakhs had no experience in settled agriculture and did not have the knowledge or resources necessary to prepare for and survive emergencies like the mass crop failure of 1931 (Kindler, 161). Meanwhile, kolkhozy designated by the state for nomadic settlement were so lacking in basic construction materials that only 15% of habitations planned in the state plan of 1930 were ever constructed (Olcott, 130). State farms were also located in desert areas far from water sources and did not receive adequate seed, leading to livestock death and insufficient crop yields that brought further suffering (Olcott 129-130). Collectivized agriculture in Kazakhstan was so ineffective that, by 1938, the future breadbasket of the Soviet Union was still a net importer of grain (Olcott, 137). 

By the winter of 1930-31, the famine was so severe that “almost every Kazakh was in flight” (Cameron, 143). To avoid famine or requisitions, at least 600,000 people left the republic altogether, using traditional knowledge of seasonal migration routes to seek refuge in Western Siberia, other Central Asian republics, and Xinjiang (Ohayon, 3). This massive flight of starving Kazakhs created a transnational refugee crisis unique to the Kazakh famine. 

Within the Soviet Union, fleeing nomads were known as otkochevniki⁷ and endured vilification and abuse. Refugees did not fit into any of the strict class categories defined by Soviet society and were thus treated as “declassified elements” not qualified for organized state relief (Kindler, 174). The destitution of the starving came to be seen as confirmation of stereotypes depicting Kazakhs as “lazy and filthy people,” and many were expelled from cities, targeted by racial violence, or selectively deprived of life-saving state provisions (Kindler, 177; Cameron, 14, 145). Meanwhile, new analysis by Cameron shows that thousands of Kazakhs attempting to flee the crisis by traversing the border to Xinjiang were shot by Soviet border guards on the orders of the Politburo, whose members sought to stem the outflow of livestock targeted for collectivization by whatever means necessary (Cameron, 123-4, Kindler, 142-3).

The conditions these refugees fled were appalling. By mid-1934, there were at least 60,000 orphaned children interned in various institutions around Kazakhstan, where, in some months, over 10% of them died. In some cases, orphanage operators embezzled food and money from children and adolescents too sick to resist (Kindler, 165-7). When the deputy chairman of the republic’s Planning Committee, Khasen Nurmukhamedov, raised concerns about the neglect of children in the republic, he was chided for his “bourgeois-philanthropic view” (Kindler, 174). Murder-cannibalism and the marketing of human meat were recorded in cities as corpses accumulated beside roads (Cameron, 156; Kindler, 158). The Kazakh steppe had become a graveyard of misery. 

The End of Famine and Immediate Memory 

The gradual path to recovery began on September 17th, 1932, when the Politburo issued a resolution declaring the successful completion of collectivization and sedentarization in Kazakhstan (Olcott, 134). The resolution, which paused grain and meat procurements for two years and greatly loosened restrictions on private ownership of livestock by nomads, likely spared hundreds of thousands of additional lives from starvation (Kindler, 191). Even still, famine conditions persisted locally until 1934, and it was not until the fall of 1936 that central authorities announced that there was once again enough grain to feed the entire human and animal population of the republic.⁸ 

After high-ranking officials began to formally denounce the catastrophe, the failure of collectivization drives and the ensuing famine were blamed on individual actors like Goloshchyokin, who was removed as First Secretary of Kazakhstan in 1933 (Ohayon, 7; Kindler, 238; Cameron, 145). For decades afterwards, Soviet historians largely echoed the government’s position that Goloshchyokin’s leadership was to blame for the crisis (Cameron 2016, 121). This view, however, is misleading: Goloshchyokin’s successor, Levon Mirzoian, operated under the same orders from Moscow and continued repressions until central directives changed (Cameron, 161). Furthermore, such scapegoating erases the role of local Kazakhs, who were incentivized to participate in collectivization drives as part of a deliberate state strategy to be discussed more below. By casting the blame on Goloshchyokin, Soviet authorities could both liberate themselves from responsibility for the disaster they ordained and simplify the narrative by ignoring the uncomfortable role that Kazakhs themselves played in the violence. 

Death Toll 

Determining exact casualty figures for the Kazakh famine is particularly challenging due to the concomitance of starvation and mass flight (Ohayon, 7). It is nonetheless widely accepted that the Kazakh ASSR lost the highest proportion of its population among all Soviet regions during the greater collectivization famine (Olcott, 136; Kindler, 1).⁹ While some Kazakh scholars have estimated the number of Kazakhs having perished during collectivization to be as high as 2,000,000 (Tätimov and Aliyev, 216, cited in Cameron 2016, 127), Western scholarship tends to converge around a total death toll of around 1,500,000.¹⁰ While both European and Asian populations in Kazakhstan suffered deeply (Kindler, 160), Kazakhs suffered disproportional losses as a result of their nomadism—roughly 90% of victims were ethnic Kazakhs, despite their constituting only 60% of the 1929 population (Cameron, 5). This amounted to the loss of more than one-third of the Kazakh population, rendering Kazakhs a minority within their own republic until 1999 (Ohayon, 3; Cameron, 2). Some Kazakhstani scholars claim that, without the famine, the global population of Kazakhs would today be 25 million or more, rather than the actual modern population of 18 million (Tätimov and Aliyev, cited in Cameron, 189). 

Part II: Evaluating the Role and Intent of the Soviet State

Famine as a Tool of Soviet Power Consolidation 

From the beginning, collectivization in Kazakhstan was designed to culturally destroy elements of Kazakh society incompatible with Soviet Communism. Even in the absence of a clear intent to cause genocide, the mass death that occurred during collectivization and famine was a direct consequence of Soviet policy on the steppe that consciously prioritized the consolidation of economic and political power over human life. 

The actions and conscious inaction of the Soviet state throughout the famine led to the avoidable death of countless Kazakhs. From the beginning of collectivization, the Soviet Central Committee made clear that the preservation of Kazakhstan’s enormous herds would be subordinated to the greater goals of grain and meat procurement (Cameron, 99). Planners would certainly have understood that this neglect would have a devastating impact on Kazakh nomads who relied on their herds for mobility and subsistence. Even once it became clear that collectivization was having a catastrophic effect on Kazakhs, Soviet authorities waited years before issuing policies to stop their suffering, prioritizing collectivization targets over saving lives (Kindler, 8-9). Stalin himself was informed of the mass suffering of the Kazakh people at least three times from 1930 to 1932 and could easily have ordered a halt to collectivization long enough to spare hundreds of thousands from starvation (Cameron, 14).¹¹ In many cases, Moscow ordered measures that made their suffering worse: When poor weather conditions led to the failure of both the 1931 and 1932 harvests, Soviet planners chose to maintain grain and meat procurement targets and continued to send hungry deportees, such as dispossessed kulaks or Kuban Cossacks, into Kazakhstan (Kindler, 102; Cameron, 118-9, 160). The previously discussed kill order given to Soviet border guards further illustrates the Politburo’s preference for retaining exploitable economic resources within Soviet jurisdiction rather than preserving the lives of suffering Kazakhs. 

Furthermore, Soviet planners began implementing collectivization in Kazakhstan with the intent to erase the social and economic foundations of the traditional Kazakh way of life. Once it had been decided by central planners that nomadism was incompatible with the consolidation of Soviet control of the steppe, they sought the deliberate elimination of that nomadic culture. Indeed, around the launch of mass collectivization in 1929, Goloshchyokin highlighted the social and economic elimination of traditional Kazakh life through sedentarization as an inseparable part of collectivization: 

“Settlement is collectivization. Settlement is the liquidation of the bai semi-feudals. Settlement is the destruction of tribal attitudes…Settlement is simultaneously the question of socialist construction and the approach of socialism, of the socialist reconstruction of the Kazakh mass without divisions by nationality, under the leadership of the vanguard of the proletariat and the communist party. “ Quote from Goloshchyokin, 1929, cited in Zveriakov, Ot kochevaniya k sotsializmu (From Nomadism to Socialism), p 53 

This intent was repeatedly translated into concrete policy decisions punishing Kazakhs for their nomadism. For example, the vital practice of soghïm, the ritual slaughtering of animals for preservation in the winter, was criminalized while local officials were encouraged to conduct raids against Kazakh communities suspected of driving their livestock across newly enforced state borders along traditional seasonal migration routes (Cameron, 120). 

Soviet planners also worked to undermine the foundational allegiances of steppe society by involving local Kazakhs in the violence of forced collectivization against other Kazakhs. By threatening exclusion from the party if vague or unrealistic procurement targets were not met, central authorities incentivized excess and brutality on the part of local implementers, most of whom were Kazakhs themselves (Olcott, 127; Kindler, 95; Cameron, 104). The task of determining who was an exploitative bai (the nomad equivalent of a kulak) deserving of particularly harsh treatment was also entrusted to Kazakhs themselves, who sometimes used their newfound authority to “settle old scores” through violence (Cameron video, 24:47). Experts agree that this choice to involve Kazakhs in the violent construction of socialism in their society was a deliberate one, by which Moscow hoped to dismantle traditional clan allegiances and pave the way for unchallenged Soviet authority on the steppe (Kindler, 237-8; Cameron, 205). 

The economic decimation brought by collectivization also forced Kazakhs to sedentarize and accept Soviet institutions. Even after procurements eased and the famine subsided, two-thirds of surviving Kazakh nomads were materially incapable of returning to nomadism and migrated to towns or cities, permanently abandoning migratory life (Ohayon, 5; Cameron, 171). Once settled, Kazakhs found themselves reliant on the kolkhoz or other state institutions to avoid starvation (Kindler, 218; Olcott 125). Kazakhs were forced to abandon ancestral nomadic institutions and acquiesce to Soviet authority in order to survive. 

In many ways, the famine marked the victorious Sovietization of Kazakhstan. Soviet leadership sought nothing less than the transformation of Kazakhs into an obedient socialist nation that could no longer obstruct Soviet control over the economic and political resources of the steppe. Soviet policies to this end, including but not limited to collectivization, pursued the near-destruction of traditional Kazakh culture and led to over a million deaths. This was consciously accepted as a necessary consequence of achieving the economic, political, and social imperatives of Sovietization. 

Genocide 

Over the course of the Kazakh famine, Soviet authorities pursued the cultural and economic destruction of traditional Kazakh society and took measures leading to disproportionate deaths among ethnic Kazakhs. In order to legally constitute genocide, however, these actions must fit the definition established by the 1948 Genocide Convention, the framework used by international legal bodies like the UN, ICC, and ICJ to prosecute genocide. According to the Convention, a genocide is a set of “acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group” (Article II). The Soviet Union notably lobbied against the inclusion of political or social categories of victims in the definition, fearing that its past actions against class enemies, such as the kulaks/bais or against political enemies during the Great Terror (1936-1938), could be considered genocidal (Naimark, 86). Nevertheless, the existing Genocide Convention provides the definition used by the ICC and ICJ for genocide prosecutions, and its language must be respected for any argument about genocide to be legally valid. Adhering to this legal definition, the Kazakh famine does not qualify as a legal genocide for three reasons: 

Firstly, no recorded evidence has ever been found that Stalin or any other Soviet leader¹² ever expressed a will to wholly or partially eliminate the Kazakh people (Cameron, 15, 80; Ohayon, 13; Kindler, 241). This does not mean that such intent never existed, but until the hypothetical discovery of a “smoking-gun” document proving it, the Kazakh famine cannot qualify as genocide under existing international law. 

Secondly, central authorities did make some attempt to mitigate the disaster’s effect on Kazakhs, such as by shipping 2 million pounds of grain to Kazakhstan as aid or by allowing nomads private ownership of livestock once again through the September 1932 resolution. These measures were either woefully inadequate or tragically late, but they together spared hundreds of thousands of Kazakh lives (Kindler, 191). Even if Moscow was willing to accept mass death as a consequence of power consolidation and took these measures solely to ensure the future economic exploitability of the steppe, the existence of any remedial response evinces a sense that Soviet policy had overshot—if Soviet authorities intended to eliminate Kazakhs, they would not have taken any action to halt their mass death. 

Thirdly, although they suffered greater proportional losses than any other group in the USSR, Kazakhs were not the only victims of Soviet collectivization policies. Although it’s difficult to make exact estimates about relative death rates, it is clear that other minority groups living in Kazakhstan, such as Uzbeks, Uighurs, and even sedentary Ukrainians, Russians, and Germans, suffered deeply, with death tolls ranging from 12% to 30% (Kindler, 160; Ohayon, 8). Deadly famines also struck other areas in the Soviet Union, like Ukraine (where it has become known as the Holodomor)¹³ and in the Kuban, Don, and Volga regions of southwestern Russia, as a result of collectivization policies fundamentally similar to those that caused the Kazakh famine (Cameron 2016, 118). Even if European deaths in the Kazakh ASSR were somehow collateral damage to an overarching republic-wide policy to eliminate Kazakhs, it is unclear why Stalin would pursue nearly the same policy in areas where majoritarian Russians would suffer on an equivalent level to Kazakhs or Ukrainians. While ethnic motivations likely played some local role in the unequal death toll of the Kazakh famine, Soviet crimes against Kazakhs were aimed at solving problems the regime saw as political (such as the lack of meat and grain in industrial areas or the existence of potentially threatening social categories), rather than ethnic. In Ukraine and Russia, violent collectivization against sedentary peasant populations was pursued to similar ends. 

Beyond the Legal Definition of Genocide 

The intentional destruction of a culture through violence and large-scale famine is an egregious crime against humanity. That the Soviet leadership cannot be technically convicted of a crime whose criteria they helped to define post-factum only highlights the limitations of relying solely on legal frameworks of genocide as a historian. But the term still occupies an uncommonly significant position in the public imagination as evocative of the ultimate atrocity, and conserving the terminology can help historians to properly communicate the staggering truths of our past. The barbaric state policy that rationalized the starvation of millions during the Kazakh famine for political gain warrants a designation that properly conveys its criminal deliberateness.

To address this paradox, Norman Naimark has employed the term “communist genocide” to describe horrific events—such as the rule of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia (1.7 million victims), the Great Leap Forward in China (30+ million), and the Holodomor in Ukraine (3.5-5 million)—in which millions of lives were extinguished as a direct result of the inhuman politics of communism (Naimark, 86). In both Ukraine and Kazakhstan, Soviet authorities, under Stalin’s leadership, deliberately imposed mass starvation to control a population seen as troublesome. In Ukraine, Stalin killed millions of Ukrainian peasants not necessarily because of their ethnicity, but because their growing national consciousness threatened Soviet power and the success of the First Five-Year Plan in a crucial grain-producing region (Naimark, 88-90). In Kazakhstan, pastoral nomadism similarly threatened Soviet exploitation of the economic resources of the steppe, so Soviet authorities¹⁴ forcefully pursued the destruction of Kazakh culture through a dual policy of collectivization and sedentarization. 

The number of Ukrainians or Kazakhs that died along the way was not relevant; their survival only mattered to the extent that their labor plowing Ukrainian farmland or raising livestock on the steppe could be furiously exploited to fuel the Soviet Union’s modernization. As in Ukraine, Cambodia, and China, the horrors of the Kazakh famine were the direct, genocidal result of a dehumanizing communist ideology that rationalized the mass sacrifice of human lives for the perceived benefits of the state. By calling the Kazakh famine and other similar atrocities communist genocides, historians can widen the scope of genocide beyond its faulty legal definition and do justice to the memory of the tens of millions lost to the bloody hands of authoritarian communism.

Bibliography 

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Forced collectivization USSR, Image sourced from Wikimedia Commons | CC License, no changes made

Cameron, Sarah. The Hungry Steppe: Famine, Violence, and the Making of Soviet Kazakhstan. Cornell University Press, 2018. https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.7591/j.ctt21h4vb7. Cameron, Sarah. Video – The Kazakh Famine of 1930-33 and the Politics of History in the Post-Soviet Space, 2013. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q93qSC5b7To. Cameron, Sarah. “The Kazakh Famine of 1930-33: Current Research and New Directions.” ResearchGate, September 2016. https://doi.org/10.21226/T2T59X. 

Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide (1948). Kindler, Robert, and Cynthia Klohr. Stalin’s Nomads. University of Pittsburgh Press, 2018. https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctv3znxgm. 

Naimark, Norman M. Genocide: A World History. Oxford University Press, 2017. Ohayon, Isabelle. “La famine kazakhe: à l’origine de la sédentarisation.” Encyclopédie des violences de masse, 2012. 

Olcott, Martha Brill. “The Collectivization Drive in Kazakhstan.” The Russian Review 40, no. 2 (1981): 122–42. https://doi.org/10.2307/129204. 

Pianciola, Niccolò. “Stalinist Spatial Hierarchies: Placing the Kazakhs and Kyrgyz in Soviet Economic Regionalization.” Central Asian Survey 36, no. 1 (January 2, 2017): 73–92. https://doi.org/10.1080/02634937.2016.1221380. 

“The Collectivization Famine in Kazakhstan, 1931–1933.” Harvard Ukrainian Studies 25, no. 3/4 (2001): 237–51. 

“Towards a Transnational History of Great Leaps Forward in Pastoral Central Eurasia.” East/West: Journal of Ukrainian Studies 3, no. 2 (September 10, 2016): 75–116. https://doi.org/10.21226/T2XW2F. 

Richter, James. “Famine, Memory, and Politics in the Post-Soviet Space: Contrasting Echoes of Collectivization in Ukraine and Kazakhstan.” Nationalities Papers 48, no. 3 (May 2020): 476–91. https://doi.org/10.1017/nps.2019.17. 

Stalin, Iosif. “Dizzy with Success.” Seventeen Moments in Soviet History, March 2, 1930. https://soviethistory.msu.edu/1929-2/collectivization/collectivization-texts/dizzy-with-success/. Viola, Lynne. “The ‘25,000ers’: A Study in a Soviet Recruitment Campaign During the First Five Year Plan.” Russian History 10, no. 1 (1983): 1–30. 

Zveriakov (Зверяков), I. A. (И. А.). “От Кочевания – К Социализму. Алма-Ата, Москва,” 1932. https://www.academia.edu/42762344/%D0%97%D0%B2%D0%B5%D1%80%D1%8F%D0%B A%D0%BE%D0%B2_%D0%98_%D0%90_%D0%9E%D1%82_%D0%BA%D0%BE%D1%8 7%D0%B5%D0%B2%D0%B0%D0%BD%D0%B8%D1%8F_%D0%9A_%D1%81%D0%BE %D1%86%D0%B8%D0%B0%D0%BB%D0%B8%D0%B7%D0%BC%D1%83_%D0%90%D 0%BB%D0%BC%D0%B0_%D0%90%D1%82%D0%B0_%D0%9C%D0%BE%D1%81%D0 %BA%D0%B2%D0%B0_1932. 

—José P. Rizal 

One who does not love one’s own language is worse than an animal and a rotten fish. Dr. José P. Rizal, a polymath, polydoctor, and author, sought to instill in Filipinos a sense of national identity on the eve of the Philippine Revolution through two of his famous books, Noli Me Tangere and its sequel, El Filibusterismo. These piercing words from Rizal encapsulate two integral factors in the modern nation-building process: language and national identity. 

Notable international relations scholar Francis Fukuyama explains in Political Order and Political Decay that the creation of a unifying language and identity is critical in nation building, especially for former colonial nations. Governments are more stable when they invest early in nation-building, and as a result, can achieve better social and economic results. In promoting a national identity, the state is able to bolster its legitimacy by winning the loyalty of citizens and fostering patriotic sentiment. However, many postcolonial nations, largely due to being colonial constructs themselves, are culturally and linguistically diverse, making it difficult to impose a unifying national language and identity without the use of violence and cultural erasure. Examining this strong connection between language and identity and its relationship with multilingual realities is crucial to understanding why certain modern states have succeeded in nation-building, while others have failed. Moreover, understanding this link could provide lessons for struggling postcolonial governments moving forward as they formulate legal and educational policies. 

While both India and the Philippines inherited English linguistic imperialism through colonial rule, their divergent constitutional approaches to language policy have led to starkly different outcomes in nation-building and linguistic diversity. India’s constitution embeds explicit, enforceable protections for multilingualism, allowing regional languages to coexist with English and Hindi within governance and education. In contrast, the Philippine constitution’s lack of concrete safeguards have perpetuated English dominance and marginalized native languages, limiting the development of a cohesive national identity. Constitutional clarity and institutional commitment are critical to mitigating colonial legacies and promoting linguistic equity in postcolonial multilingual states. 

Legacies of English Linguistic Imperialism 

India and the Philippines’ experiences with language and national identity cannot be discussed without first understanding their histories of English linguistic imperialism (ELI). In his book Linguistic Imperialism, prominent linguist Robert Phillipson defines this concept as “the dominance of English… asserted and maintained by the establishment and continuous reconstitution of structural and cultural inequalities between English and other languages.” Literature surrounding this topic suggest that while both the Philippines and India experienced ELI through Western imperial projects, there were key differences. Preexisting sociopolitical structures, motivations and the policies of their respective colonizers, and native responses and debates. 

The Caste System, Economic Incentives, and the East India Company

The Indian subcontinent’s sociopolitical landscape at the time of the East India Company’s (EIC) arrival in Bengal was complex, with various kingdoms vying for control and an intricate caste system that determined access to education and power. Persian, Arabic, and most importantly, Sanskrit, were the languages of the Brahmin elite, who were at the top of this existing hierarchy. Given the long history of literature, poetry, religious texts, and scholarship written in these languages, there was a prestige associated with them. Although it was neither widespread nor attainable by the masses, the presence of a formal educational tradition helped to legitimize these languages to the colonizers. With the tendency of Western discourses to Orientalize non-European cultures, the British admired the existing native knowledge and languages. While there were initial debates in the British Parliament for imparting “useful knowledge” to the native people, these lost out to those who thought that the Hindus “had a good system of faith and morals as most people.” This rationale was informed by Britain’s experiences with the United States, where the establishment of universities led to revolution led by an educated elite. Therefore, Britain avoided establishing schools in India to curtail the chances of educated rebellion. Nonetheless, attitudes began to change as the British tightened their control. 

In the 1830s, British politicians such as William Babington Macaulay began to assert the superiority of the English language and civilization. He infamously said that English education should be promoted in India so as to form “a class of persons, Indian in blood and colour, but English in tastes, in opinions, in morals and in intellect.” Lord Betninck, the Governor General of India at the time, agreed, saying: 

“The great object of the British Government in India was henceforth to be the promotion of European literature and science among the natives of India; and that all the funds appropriated for the purpose of education would be best employed on English education alone.”

Despite this civilizational rhetoric, Lord Betninck’s motives were mostly economic. In 1833, when the Charter Act was passed, the EIC was facing a financial crisis. In order to reduce expenditures, which were largely made up of the expensive salaries of English officers, the Governor General wished to add more Indians to administrative positions at lesser pay. Thus, English language education was implemented for mostly administrative efficiency reasons, rather than a genuine desire or belief that Indians must become ‘civilized.’ 

According to scholars like Chowdhury, the preexisting caste system served as a powerful vehicle for English to take root as a prestigious language. The wealthy Brahmins, who wielded the most political power through their competence in Sanskrit, welcomed English language education as a means of taking new economic opportunities. As a result, English became associated with administrative power, education, and upward mobility, reinforcing existing social hierarchies rather than dismantling them. Thus, a new linguistic hierarchy emerged; English became the new “Brahminical thread,” marking a person’s access to modern education, economic opportunities, and social prestige. This was not a mere linguistic shift but a continuation of caste and class stratification under a new guise. 

Throughout the late 19th and early 20th centuries, English education in India expanded, but unevenly. While cities like Calcutta, Bombay, and Madras became hubs for English-educated elites, rural India remained untouched by this new system of learning. The establishment of institutions like Hindu College in Calcutta, with support from Indian elites eager to access Western knowledge and power, further entrenched the association of English proficiency with social and economic advancement. 

By the time of India’s independence in 1947, English had become firmly embedded in the structures of higher education, governance, and business. Though some national leaders, like Gandhi, critiqued English education for alienating Indians from their cultural roots and promoting elitism, others, including Nehru and many of the English-educated middle class, saw it as a vital tool for national unity and global engagement. Post-independence language policy reflected this tension: while Hindi was promoted as the federal language, English retained its privileged position in higher education and administration, justified as a “link language” that could bridge India’s vast linguistic diversity. 

Chowdhury argues that the continued dominance of English in India after independence has perpetuated structural inequalities. English functions as both a gatekeeper and a status symbol, often determining access to quality higher education, employment, and social mobility. This has created what Chowdhury terms a “Brahminical power of English,” where fluency in the language effectively marks one’s entry into India’s elite, much like caste status did in earlier times. The state’s failure to significantly empower Indian languages in higher education has reinforced this dynamic, limiting the intellectual and developmental potential of vast sections of the population. 

In contrast to Gandhi’s vision of education in vernacular languages fostering inclusive and holistic development, postcolonial India has largely followed Macaulay’s blueprint, producing a small Anglophone elite that dominates the country’s political, economic, and intellectual life. Chowdhury contends that without a radical rethinking of language policy in education, particularly higher education, India risks remaining caught in this cycle of exclusion and inequality. 

Elitist Education, Benevolent Assimilation, and a Consciousness of Forgetting

The Philippines, meanwhile, differed in its sociopolitical landscape given its fragmented history and Spanish colonization. Prior to Magellan’s arrival in Mactan, the Philippines was divided into numerous rajahnates, sultanates, and kingdoms, none of which achieved dominance over the whole archipelago. This is unlike India, where kingdoms had established control over most of the subcontinent several times throughout history. Although the Philippines had preexisting writing systems such as baybayin, a long history of trade and currency exchange with neighbors like China, and education through oral tradition and vocational apprenticeship, there was no formal education system established throughout the archipelago prior to the Spanish arrival. 

With Spanish colonization, education in the Philippines was largely controlled by Spanish religious orders, which primarily focused on religious indoctrination rather than broad intellectual development. The Spanish colonial government established a dual system of education: catechism schools for indigenous Filipinos, which prioritized Christian doctrine and basic literacy, and higher academic institutions that primarily served Spanish elites and mestizos. This led to only a very small elite receiving broader secular education. Even though religious schools taught basic literacy, it was far from being comprehensive, being restricted to memorizing prayers and understanding religious doctrine. Consequently, only a mere 2-5% of the population became fluent in Spanish, indicating how few Filipinos had access to higher secular education. 

Despite this, this is not to diminish the role of limited Spanish colonial education on the awakening of Filipino nationalist sentiments—in fact, Spanish education directly fueled it. According to Karl Schwartz, Filipino educational behavior during this period evolved in response to these colonial structures. While Spanish policies aimed to maintain social hierarchies by limiting access to advanced education, Filipinos increasingly sought alternative educational avenues, such as private Latin schools, to challenge colonial intellectual dominance and assert their own agency. This divergence from the Spanish-imposed system laid the groundwork for later nationalist movements, as education became a tool for resisting colonial control and fostering a distinct Filipino identity. 

Despite the structures left behind by Spanish education, the United States perceived Filipinos as uncivilized and sought to reshape the archipelago in its own image, equipped with the white man’s burden and benevolent assimilation policies as ideological justifications for their influence. 

Throughout the colonial period, English linguistic imperialism was implemented primarily through a public education system with English as the sole medium of instruction, which the Americans tried to disguise under a façade of ‘benevolent friendship’ with the Filipinos. However, this ‘friendship’ was a façade; American officials wanted to use English to indoctrinate and ‘civilize’ the Filipinos, forcing them to abandon their native languages. In 1915, American Director of Education Frank L. Crone proclaimed his dream for the colony: “[make] the Philippines a great storehouse of Western learning and civilization, upon which the Orient may freely draw.” Many like Crone believed English inherently carried Western values and traditions, and could serve as a vessel for American ways of life to be imparted upon Filipinos. There were practical considerations: teaching in English was cheaper since American educators could use existing U.S. textbooks and pedagogy, English acted as an impartial language among ethnolinguistic groups, and Americans expected English to become the international lingua franca, believing it would benefit Filipinos to learn it. This emphasis on English was a large part of the education system’s goals: to brainwash future generations into submitting to American colonial rule and, especially after the brutal Philippine-American War, into forgetting why they desired independence in the first place. The system succeeded in making Filipinos think they were inferior and believe that American education would bring ‘civilization’ to ‘uncivilized people’ like them. An essay by a Filipino student during the colonial period writes: 

“The natives were fighting for independence at this time, so we fought against the Americans very hardly, but we could not succeed. The reasons why we could not succeed is this: we are not well united and we do not know how to rule; we are not a powerful nation and we speak different languages; we have no weapons and we have no rail-road. But the Americans were wise, united, powerful, speak one language, and they had the advantage in every way.” 

The exclusive use of American and European literature in the education system that taught Western values ingrained in the Filipino consciousness the idea of American cultural superiority. Being the language of this ‘superior culture,’ English became heavily associated with refinement, education, and civilization in Filipino society. Furthermore, those proficient in English advanced to high positions in society and government. The civil service, legislation, administration, and leadership all required English, associating the language with progressivism, democracy, and ‘enlightenment.’ As a result, Filipinos believed that without English, they would never access endless economic and social opportunities. 

Two important sociolinguistic consequences emerged. First, by creating a façade of opportunity through English, American colonizers erased the violence of colonization and instilled in Philippine society a sense of indebtedness. This was exacerbated by American liberation during World War II, creating a “problem of consciousness” where Filipinos idealized colonial history and ignored the colonial implications of English. Second, English became an indicator of and gatekeeper to an educated, privileged class. Former oligarchic families, or ‘caciques,’ sided with the Americans during the Philippine-American War, using English to gain favor with colonizers and distance themselves from the ‘uncivilized’ and ‘uneducated’ Filipinos. English thus became a marker of education, wealth, and prestige. 

Comparing Effects of English Linguistic Imperialism on the Constitutions’ Language Policies 

After analyzing the historical colonial context behind ELI, it is crucial to understand how it has manifested itself in the two nations’ constitutions and laws post-independence. Furthermore, it is important to observe how these constitutions have approached the ethnolinguistic diversity of their respective territories. In this section, I will be conducting an comparative analysis of India’s 1950 Constitution with the Philippines’ 1935, 1973, and 1987 Constitutions. There is a lack of literature comparing the two constitutions, let alone the language sections of both constitutions. Therefore, I will be doing an original analysis of both. 

Part XVII of The 1950 Constitution of India 

Part XVII of the Indian constitution has a meticulously detailed section about how language would look like in the newly independent state, giving little room for misinterpretation. This granular detail arguably serves to protect the languages of India, despite the legacy of ELI. 

Chapter I outlines the language of the Union. Section 343, Clause 1 clearly states that the official language of the Union “shall be Hindi in Devanagari script.” As the first clause of the chapter, this undoubtedly declares Hindi as a chosen language—among the many languages of India—that shall have prominence in this new Union. Notwithstanding, given the entrenched history of English in the country per British colonization, it acknowledges its relevance and potential permanence in Clause 2, stating, “for a period of fifteen years… the English language shall continue to be used for all the official purposes of the Union…” This potential permanence is furthered by Clause 3, in which it states, “Parliament may by law provide for the use, after said period of fifteen years of… the English language.” Thus, this section allows for flexibility and ultimately leaves it up to parliament whether English shall be an official language or not. Nonetheless, the Constitution is clear in that Hindi shall be the official language. 

Section 344 details the formation of a Commission and Committee of Parliament on official language, whose duty it is to make recommendations to the President as to, “(a) the progressive use of the Hindi language for the official purposes of the Union; (b) restrictions on the use of the English language for all or any of the official purposes of the union;… [and] (e)… the language for communication between the Union and a State or between one State and another and their use.” The establishment of a committee dedicated to the issue of language shows intentionality on the part of the state; language must be planned and observed. 

Chapter II, meanwhile, defines the role of regional languages in the Union. It gives these languages and the people who speak them constitutional recognition and institutionalization, which serves as a strong protection against language degradation or oppression. The States that make up India were drawn along ethnolinguistic lines, and the Indian Constitution explicitly names 22 officially recognized native languages in the Eighth Schedule, offering further constitutional protection. These languages include Assamese, Bengali, Bodo, Dogri, Gujarati, Hindi, Kannada, Kashmiri, Konkani, Maithili, Malayalam, Manipuri, Marathi, Nepali, Odia, Punjabi, Sanskrit, Santhali, Sindhi, Tamil, Telugu, and Urdu. Given this, Section 345 gives States the power to choose their own language(s), stating, “the Legislature of a State may by law adopt any or more of the languages in use in the State or Hindi as the language or languages to be used for all or any of the official purposes of that State.” However, once again, ELI is still present, with the section providing that “the English language shall continue to be used for those official purposes… for which it was being used immediately before the commencement of this Constitution.” Nevertheless, Section 345 has an important consequence, namely, that it nominally recognizes the right of the States to language sovereignty. Thus, the Indian Union implicitly acknowledges the ethnolinguistic diversity of its territory and the possible difficulties that may arise with managing it, making an active effort to give these States a say in language policy. 

This implicit acknowledgement of diversity and State-level language sovereignty continues throughout the rest of Chapter II, which painstakingly addresses every possible scenario with regard to the use of language in the country. Section 346 deals with what the official language shall be between one State and another or between a State and the Union. It is ultimately predicated on State consent, stating, “if two or more States agree that the Hindi language should be the official language for communication for such States, that language may be used…” Section 347 even includes a special provision for languages that are spoken by a section of the State’s population. If the President believes that a substantial number of people within a State wish to have their desired language be recognized by the State, the President can direct that that language shall also be officially recognized. 

Perhaps the most overt manifestation of ELI in the Indian Constitution is Chapter III, which declares that English as the language to be used in the Supreme Court and in the High Courts and for acts, bills, etc. Although Clauses 2 and 3 provide for some leeway for the use of other languages such as Hindi or other regional languages, these are exceptions rather than guarantees. Although Chapter III is the only section that explicitly places English above any other language, it can be contended that this component of official language is the most critical, as it relates to the law that all citizens of the Union must abide by. Most likely a British colonial parliamentarian legacy, to have the laws be proclaimed in a foreign language elucidates a persistent hold of ELI on the country. 

Finally, the last chapter of Part XVII, Chapter IV, lists special directives, which, like Chapter II, places State language sovereignty at its center. Section 350 gives the right for any person to submit a representation for the redress of any grievance in any of the languages used in the Union. Significantly, 350A provides for the establishment of facilities for instruction in mother-tongue languages at the primary stage. This is critical, as it explicitly creates a place for regional languages in the education system, which will play a vital role in education policy later on. 350B, meanwhile provides for a special officer for linguistic minorities, whose duty is to “investigate all matters relating to safeguards provided for linguistic minorities under this Constitution and report to the President upon those matters… and the President shall cause all such reports to be laid before each House of Parliament, and sent to the Governments of the States concerned.” This is an indispensable part of the Constitution with regard to linguistic minority protection, since it delineates a means for constitutional and legal review over the status of linguistic minorities. Through this special officer, linguistic minorities can voice their concerns to the Union government. Lastly, 351 declares that it is the duty of the Union “to promote the spread of the Hindi language and develop it so that it may serve as a medium of expression for all the elements of the composite culture of India…” The part about language thus ends on a strong note, declaring the hope and desire that Hindi shall eventually become the main medium of expression for the ethnolinguistically diverse Union. Whether it was meant to dethrone English completely remains an unanswered question to this day. 

In sum, Part XVII of the Indian Constitution is an excellent example of language policy planning on the constitutional level, with its attention to detail and anticipating linguistic issues, particularly as a result of India’s diversity. Furthermore, the explicit nature of this constitution effectively prevents any misinterpretation of or means of undermining its linguistic diversity protection goals. With Hindi as the official language and English as an auxiliary language, it lays out the specific conditions and provisions for the use of regional languages and explicitly mentions the right of states to determine what languages they wish to use. Ultimately, despite ELI’s influence through the predominance of English with regard to the courts and laws, Part XVII serves as a constitutional protection that guarantees the linguistic diversity and sovereignty of the States and aspires for Hindi to become the unifying language of India. 

The 1935, 1973, and 1987 Constitutions of the Philippines 

Compared to the Indian Constitution’s exceptionally high level of detail, the three constitutions of the Philippines pale in comparison. With their sections on language being only a few sentences to a paragraph, there is a lack of protections for regional language sovereignty and relative indifference to the idea of a national language, and thus, the Philippine Constitutions fail to successfully plan out an effective native language policy. It could be argued that this lack of constitutional and institutional protection is the reason for the continued predominance of ELI and the deterioration of not only Wikang Filipino, but of all Filipino languages. 

The 1935 Constitution was created prior to Philippine independence from the United States, meant as a guiding hand towards full independence and effective governance. However, this constitution merely provides two sentences on the subject of language, stating, “The National Assembly shall take steps toward the development and adoption of a common national language based on one of the existing native languages. Until otherwise provided by law, English and Spanish shall continue as official languages.” Acknowledging the constitution does express the intent of finding a common national language, the fact that the language is neither explicitly named or when the development of said common language would be due, this constitution does not provide any protection for neither a common national language or regional languages. English and Spanish could effectively continue being the official languages indefinitely. Although this ambiguity is understandable due to the Philippines’ status as an American commonwealth at the time, this relative apathy sets the stage for the weak language planning that is exhibited in the latter two constitutions. 

The 1973 Constitution offers only a marginal improvement, expanding the language section to four sentences. It officially establishes English and “Pilipino” as the country’s official languages and provides for the ”development and formal adoption of a common national language to be known as Filipino.” However, it does not specify the mechanisms for this development or provide meaningful protections for regional languages, aside from the promise of translation of the Constitution into each ‘dialect’ spoken by over fifty thousand people.  The usage of the word ‘dialect’ rather than ‘language’ assumes an inferior position, belittling other Filipino languages. Lastly, similar to India, the English text of the constitution shall prevail over the other translations. This demonstrates a bias towards and preference for the English language, even post-independence and despite the existence of a national official language. The Constitution thus acknowledges the national language in principle but fails to implement concrete measures to ensure its institutionalization or promotion. 

The 1987 Constitution, while being the most explicit among the constitutions and provides more leeway for regional languages, still suffers from the same ambiguity of the previous two. Nonetheless, it finally proclaims Filipino as the national language, and provides a more enthusiastic push for the propagation of the national language, with a drive to “initiate and sustain the use of Filipino as a medium of official communication and as language of instruction in the educational system.” It also states that a national language commission shall be established which shall “undertake, coordinate, and promote researches for the development, propagation, and preservation of Filipino and other languages.” This displays a marked increase in the enthusiasm for native language policy planning and a wish to be inclusive of all Philippine languages. This constitution also has a more ambivalence towards the use of English, stating, ”the official languages of the Philippines are Filipino and, until otherwise provided by law, English.” The phrasing “until otherwise provided by law” gives a temporality to the official status of English since it could be changed. Whereas, Filipino is implied to eternally be the nation’s official language. Lastly, this constitution grants regional languages auxiliary official status: “The regional languages are the auxiliary official languages in the regions and shall serve as auxiliary media of instruction therein.” That being said, they neither explicitly give the right to establish an official language to the regions nor do they go into more detail of how that would be implemented. While this provision formally recognizes regional languages, it does not grant them substantive constitutional protections or outline a framework for their preservation and development. Thus, Filipino, while designated as the national language, remains underdeveloped and struggles against the continued dominance of English in education, government, and business. 

In conclusion, this comparative analysis of the language provisions in the Indian and Philippine constitutions reveals stark differences in their approach to ethnolinguistic diversity and language policy. India’s 1950 Constitution offers a detailed and robust framework for managing its linguistic diversity, providing constitutional protections for regional languages and granting states a significant role in language policy decisions. Despite the legacy of English, the Indian Constitution aspires to unify the nation under Hindi while safeguarding linguistic rights at the state level. In contrast, the Philippine constitutions, though progressively more explicit, lack the same level of institutional detail and protections for regional languages. The Philippine approach has been characterized by a reliance on vague language provisions, particularly in the 1935 and 1973 Constitutions, which have contributed to the continued dominance of English and the neglect of regional languages. While the 1987 Constitution shows a more concerted effort to promote Filipino and recognize regional languages, its lack of concrete measures leaves much to be desired in terms of actual language preservation and development. Ultimately, India’s comprehensive language planning stands in sharp contrast to the Philippines’ more inconsistent and underdeveloped approach, reflecting differing legacies of colonialism and their respective constitutional commitments to linguistic diversity. 

Constitutional Effects on Language Policy 

This section analyzes how these constitutions have influenced the evolution of language policies over time. I argue that India’s constitution has embedded language policy into the fabric of its political framework, giving the language debate sociopolitical significance and enforcing checks and balances between Hindi, English, and regional languages. This has laid the groundwork for effective language policies such as the Three Language Formula (TLF), which attempt to balance national integration with linguistic diversity. Meanwhile, the Philippine constitution’s vagueness has led to a weaker institutional framework for language policy, essentially relegating it to education policy, where English is dominant as a language of socioeconomic competitiveness and prestige. Although strides have been made in education, such as the Bilingual Education Policy (BEP) and the Mother-Tongue Based Multilingual Education (MTB-MLE), there is constant resistance in defense of the advantages of English proficiency. 

An important thing to note is the asymmetry in how language policies are framed in India and the Philippines. India’s language policy is largely shaped by constitutional provisions and national language planning, whereas due to the vagueness of its constitutions, the Philippines’ language policy has been implemented primarily through the education system rather than a comprehensive national framework. This difference may create an imbalance in comparison, as India’s approach encompasses both governance and education, while the Philippines’ policies have focused more on language instruction and medium of education. This may bring up flaws in this comparative analysis, but this comparison nevertheless is valuable, as it displays the paramount significance of language planning at the onset of post-colonial nation-building.

India 

Under the administration of the first Indian prime minister, Jawaharlal Nehru (1950-1964), non-Hindi speaking states were personally assured by Nehru that Hindi would never be imposed on them without their consent. As mandated by the constitution, English was still to be used in official proceedings, since it was within the period of fifteen years at this point. In order to give Nehru’s assurance legal status, the Official Language Act of 1963 was passed, which stipulated that English may continue to be used alongside Hindi even after 1965, but it was vague in regard to whether English would be permanent. 

With Nehru’s death, there was a significant anti-English and pro-Hindi push from northern states. Advocates argued that since January 26, 1965 was the expiry date for the constitutional protection of English, being 15 years after the promulgation of the constitution, Hindi should become the sole official language of India. Many in south India, especially in Tamil Nadu, saw this as the beginning of Hindi imposition over non-Hindi speaking states. Many feared that Hindi would become the sole medium of instruction and governance, erasing the educational and economic opportunities that were afforded to those who spoke English. This resulted in massive protests, largely led by students, who chanted “Hindi never, English ever!” and burned Hindi books. This caused a call for a constitutional amendment to make English the sole official language of the Union. 

Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri backtracked on his pro-Hindi stance through the Official Language Amendment Act of 1967, which stipulated that Hindi will not be imposed on non-Hindi states and that English use in official proceedings would not end as long as at least one non-Hindi state desired to keep it. This effectively secured English for its use in parliament and provided veto power to non-Hindi states. Furthermore, a growing demand to add languages to the Eighth schedule emerged, since the Indian government has the responsibility to develop any languages that were added to it. Lastly, from this point, the Three Language Formula (TLF) was to be strictly enforced and competitive examinations must be held in all regional languages. The TLF was proposed by the Central Advisory Board of Education in 1956 and simplified and accepted by the Conference of Chief Ministers in 1961. The Education Commission recommended a modified TLF which stipulates the learning of: 

(1) the mother-tongue or the regional language; 

(2) the official language of the Union (Hindi) or the associate official language (English) so long as it exists; 

(3) a modern Indian or foreign language not covered under (1) and (2) and other than that used as medium of instruction 

The TLF was then approved by the Indian Parliament, incorporating it into the National Policy on Education (NEP) in 1968. Even so, issues persist with a renewed pro-Hindi movement emerging from the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), reigniting tensions between north and south as well as criticisms of the setbacks in the implementation of the TLF. The current pro-Hindi movement emerged due to the BJP’s espousal of Hindu nationalism. Furthermore, the number of Hindi speakers had increased dramatically over time, growing at a rate of 25% and adding 100 million new speakers back in 2011. Due to the fact that Hindi-speaking constituents overwhelmingly support the BJP, the ruling government has promoted Hindi-centered policies in order to consolidate its share of votes. In 2014, Prime Minister Narendra Modi indicated that the promotion of Hindi was a government priority, ordering that Hindi be made compulsory in all Central Board of Secondary Education (CBSE) affiliated schools until the secondary level in order to expand the geographical scope of Hindi to traditionally non-Hindi speaking areas. As a result, anti-Hindi agitation has reignited in southern India, with political parties warning that any move by the CBSE to impose Hindi will revive pushback and discontent from non-Hindi speaking states. Student organizations have started demanding the withdrawal of the move to impose Hindi, arguing that southern states have their own languages and have the right to choose their language per the Right to Education Act of 2009. 

Furthermore, criticisms regarding the TLF have emerged over the years, putting into question the effectiveness of its implementation. The latest iteration of the TLF as dictated by the NEP in 2020 provides even more freedom of language choice, permitting students themselves to choose the three languages that they wish to learn in their education. The medium of instruction would be the mother tongue until the fifth grade, though preferably until the eighth grade. Yet, as highlighted by Ray et al., significant challenges persist, especially in multilingual and tribal-dominated regions such as Odisha. The lack of trained teachers proficient in tribal languages, inadequate learning materials, and the complexity of distinguishing between mother tongue and regional languages have hindered effective implementation. Although NEP 2020 emphasizes flexibility and autonomy, allowing states and students to choose languages, this has introduced fresh challenges, such as logistical issues in offering diverse languages, teacher shortages, and unequal resource distribution. Parents and teachers continue to prioritize English due to its perceived socioeconomic value, with a majority favoring it as a compulsory subject, potentially undermining efforts to promote regional and indigenous languages. These issues suggest that while the TLF aspires to promote multilingualism and national integration, its execution remains fraught with practical difficulties, particularly in balancing linguistic diversity with equitable access to quality education. 

Thus, India’s political dynamics have forced its policymakers to adopt a multilingual approach toward language policy; any effort to disrupt this multilingual order is likely to meet with strong resistance. Yet, even in the midst of a robust language policy, it seems that the effects of ELI in India continue to cause difficulties in promoting both Hindi and regional languages. As observed above, the complications of English continuing to be a language of prestige, opportunity, and globalism have driven a wedge between the Hindi-speaking and non-Hindi-speaking populations. Just as the British had used divide-and-conquer tactics to weaken Indian resistance, the English language continues to be seen as a ‘neutral’ option that favors neither Hindi nor any other Indian language, barring any native language from claiming dominance in the country. Nonetheless, because of the strong constitutional protections and educational policies, the diversity of Indian languages are still maintained at an institutional level.  Although, it is important to acknowledge the languages that are not mentioned in the Eighth Schedule of the constitution continue to lack protection and institutional support in development and preservation. Ultimately, however, the role and status of Indian languages in society continues to be a politically charged dialogue at the forefront of public discourse, and India, due to its extensive efforts in early language policy planning, possesses the legal frameworks to improve upon this policy to ensure that its linguistic diversity continues to be protected and celebrated. 

The Philippines 

Meanwhile, the Philippines presents a much different story post-independence. Unlike India, the Philippines’ weak constitutional commitment to language planning has relegated its language policy primarily to education, leaving it vulnerable to the enduring dominance of English and Tagalog at the expense of regional languages. 

Although Tagalog was not established as the national language constitutionally in 1935, it was declared as such after the Second World War through the Commonwealth Act No. 570 in 1946. This coincided with a decline in English use and the rise of nationalists who sought to create a new identity through the national language. Still, it is important to acknowledge that, similar to the tension between  Hindi and non-Hindi speakers in India, Tagalog is seen as an imposition upon non-Tagalog groups. Tagalog was chosen as the national language due to it being the language of political elites, who were the majority in the government in the 1930s. Non-Tagalogs, especially Cebuano-speaking politicians strongly objected to this move. Unlike in India, where Nehru promised no Hindi imposition, Tagalog, largely without the consent of most of the public, was unilaterally imposed onto all Filipinos, becoming another layer of linguistic imperialism after English. 

However, it was only in 1974 that Tagalog—rebranded with the de-ethnicized name “Filipino” to assuage the non-Tagalogs—was officially institutionalized through a new education policy known as the Bilingual Education Policy (BEP). This policy is defined as the separate use of Filipino and English as the medium of instruction (MOI). In all grades except 1 and 2, Filipino and English were used in all subjects, and regional languages were relegated to auxiliary status. English was the MOI for science, mathematics, and English, while Filipino was used for all other subjects. To achieve bilingual fluency, Filipino and English were not only MOIs but also language subjects of their own at all grade levels. The ultimate goal of the BEP was to encourage bilingual education, with Filipino as a language of literacy and academic discourse and English as an official language. This policy was ultimately a political compromise, especially at a time when anti-colonial sentiments to nationalize education were being pushed. This presented an opportunity to promote Filipino as a unifying language and national symbol, without losing the competitiveness and prestige of English fluency in a globalizing world. 

Although the BEP represented a significant move away from the Philippines’ colonial past, loopholes have caused its implementation to be less effective. Academic performance disparities between Tagalog and non-Tagalog speakers have led to criticisms that non-Tagalog speakers were being institutionally marginalized. Based on a report by the Congressional Commission on Education in 1993, the BEP was perceived as a factor in dropouts, and students who experienced significant linguistic barriers were likely to withdraw from school. Lastly, the exclusive use of the official languages implies the perceived inferiority and irrelevance of minority languages to academic discourse. The name “Filipino” was seen as a mere derivative of Tagalog, and thus the BEP was seen as elevating the language of ‘Imperial Manila,’ pejoratively referring to the capital-centered nature of national decisions. As for English, it maintained its superiority as an official and prestigious language, especially as a medium of instruction. Thus, the lack of connection with, if not outright resentment towards, these two languages may cause students to find little value in classes they cannot fully understand. Thus, in several ways, the BEP worsened linguistic inequality in the classroom. 

After years of research studies on the benefits of multilingual instruction, including higher achievement scores in reading comprehension across three languages (mother tongue, Tagalog, & English), the Mother-Tongue Based Multilingual Education (MTB-MLE) program was implemented in 2012. Broadly speaking, it is a framework that maintains the mother tongue as the primary MOI and recognizes the importance of the use of mother tongue education, not too dissimilar from India’s TLF. The Department of Education designated 19 major Philippine languages to be used as mother tongues from kindergarten to Grade 3. Filipino and English, meanwhile, are taught as subjects from the second and third quarters of Grade 1 to Grade 6. From then, both languages are used as MOI, with English generally for STEM subjects and Filipino for humanities subjects. English begins to be used for music, arts, physical education, and health after Grade 6. 

The MTB-MLE represents a significant step in not just education, but in the dialogue surrounding the diversity of language and legacies of linguistic imperialism in the Philippines. Tupas notes that the MTB-MLE: 

(1) Recognizes the idea that education in the mother tongue is a linguistic right; (2) Validates the viability of minority languages as potential academic languages;  (3) Is an ideological response to nation-building. 

By putting mother tongues at the forefront of education, the MTB-MLE addresses the double-layered structure of linguistic imperialism in the Philippines and declares these languages as integral parts of Philippine identity and culture. In 2018, UNESCO reported academic successes that have resulted from this program, including increased confidence, lower dropout rates, and learning other languages. Naturally, the program is imperfect and has faced challenges in implementation due to funding issues, stakeholders’ favorable perceptions of English, and their negative perceptions of native languages. Cruz and Mahboob note that due to the lack of ‘vertical discursiveness’ in Tagalog and other Filipino languages, they are not preferred as languages of education, despite their availability. Nevertheless, despite these setbacks, the MTB-MLE is a breakthrough in the Philippines’ attempts in dismantling linguistic imperialism, especially given the lack of constitutional support. 

Currently, there has been a revival in the debate about which education policy is more effective: the MTB-MLE or the BEP, especially in the midst of reports of academic decline in Filipino students. Reports from the Programme for International Student Assessment (PISA) and Trends in International Mathematics and Science Study (TIMSS) show an apparent decline in mathematics and reading comprehension among students. The blame for these low results in international tests have been pinned on the MTB-MLE and decline in English language use. English continues to be perceived as an economic competitive advantage for Filipinos in a globalizing world, and the Marcos Jr. administration has highlighted the importance of English in the Philippine economy: 

“Foreign employers have always favored Filipino employees because of our command of the English language. This is an advantage that we must continue to enjoy. The internet has now  become the global marketplace. Not only for goods services but also for ideas, even extending to our own personal interactions. The language of the internet—for better or for worse—is English. Therefore, the question of our medium of instruction must be continuously re-examined to maintain that advantage that we have established as an English-speaking people.” 

With the backing of the Marcos Jr. administration for the BEP, lawmakers have introduced bills to suspend the MTB-MLE, namely House Bills 2188 and 3925. BEP supporters have argued that because Filipino students have been introduced to the mother tongue at an early age, it would be redundant to use it as an MOI. Furthermore, the BEP is seen as a means of educational material-related cost efficiency, fast tracking students’ learning progress and rebound from declining academic performance. While coming from a place of concern, these arguments have belittled the significant amount of research put into the development of the MTB-MLE, purely based on the false notion that early exposure to English and only English means language fluency. According to Kirkpatrick, the imposition of English and Filipino in education can transform multilinguals into bilinguals, causing them to lose their linguistic assets and resources. 

Ultimately, the promotion of English based on the assumption that economic growth will follow is a band-aid solution for the economic woes of the Philippines. Institutions have not addressed the systemic issues that deter the promotion of equitable and reasonably paying domestic employment, forcing individuals to move abroad for better opportunities. Rather than fixing the root of these issues, namely poor economic planning and corruption, the promotion of English education simply pushes Filipinos to leave the Philippines, sending back remittances to their families to encourage the cycle of an exodus from the homeland. 

In evaluating the language policies of the Philippines, it is easy to attribute all of the blame to Filipinos themselves. However, what this analysis highlights is the enduring legacy of English linguistic imperialism and 400 years of colonial rule on the societal consciousness of the Philippines. As a result, without the strong support of constitutional provisions for language policy, language diversity protection policies such as the MTB-MLE are highly susceptible to being overturned by any presidential administration that wishes to uphold English dominance. Whereas any Indian government, bound by the constitution, has no choice but to maintain its multilingual approach, the Philippines can easily deinstitutionalize its regional languages depending on the attitudes of the government towards English. 

Even in the face of compelling and comprehensive scientific and sociolinguistic research displaying the tangible benefits of multilingual education, the attitudes of a majority of the Filipino population stubbornly hold up the prestige of the English language. Furthermore, unlike India, where any indication of disrupting the multilingual status quo would be met with strong political uproar, the Filipino public’s attitude towards integrating Filipino languages through the MTB-MLE has been muted at best, reflecting their satisfaction with the dominance of English in the education system at the cost of the maintenance of their native languages. Unfortunately, some Filipino parents are no longer teaching their children their native tongues, in hopes that through English-only exposure, their children would achieve for themselves and their families a brighter future. 

Thus, the perceived prestige, globalism, and opportunity associated with English incentivize the neglect of Filipino native languages. Without a major overhaul of the current language policy through constitutional amendments—which seems unlikely due to deeply entrenched attitudes—all Filipino languages will continue to deteriorate. 

Conclusion: Lessons in Language Policy 

The comparative analysis of India and the Philippines demonstrates the profound and lasting impact of constitutional language policy on postcolonial nation-building. Both nations inherited the legacies of English linguistic imperialism, yet their divergent approaches in addressing this inheritance have led to markedly different outcomes. India’s detailed and proactive constitutional provisions have institutionalized a multilingual framework that, while not without its challenges, continues to safeguard linguistic diversity and accommodate regional identities within the broader national narrative. Its early and comprehensive language policy planning—embodied in the Constitution and implemented through measures such as the Three Language Formula—has ensured that debates over language remain central to India’s political discourse, providing mechanisms for adaptation and resistance to linguistic homogenization. 

In contrast, the Philippines’ constitutions have historically lacked the clarity, depth, and enforceable protections necessary to cultivate and preserve a truly multilingual society. The vagueness of its constitutional provisions has allowed English to retain its colonial prominence, while the imposition of Tagalog—later rebranded as Filipino—has marginalized other Philippine languages. Despite the introduction of promising initiatives such as the Mother-Tongue Based Multilingual Education (MTB-MLE) policy, the lack of constitutional guarantees renders these efforts vulnerable to shifting political agendas and societal biases that continue to favor English as the language of economic opportunity and prestige. 

This comparison underscores the critical role of constitutional clarity and political will in creating language policies that promote equity, preserve cultural heritage, and foster national unity. India’s experience illustrates how embedding multilingualism into the legal and institutional framework can mediate colonial legacies and support a more inclusive national identity. Conversely, the Philippine case serves as a cautionary tale of how constitutional ambiguity can perpetuate linguistic inequalities and hinder genuine nation-building. 

To move forward, both India and the Philippines can benefit from strategic policy recalibrations rooted in constitutional commitment and inclusive language planning. For the Philippines, amending the constitution to explicitly affirm the rights of regional languages and to institutionalize multilingual education would provide stronger legal grounding for policies like MTB-MLE. Strengthening and increasing funding for the Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino (Commission on the Filipino Language) could ensure sustained evaluation, development, and protection of all Philippine languages. Meanwhile, India should consider expanding its Eighth Schedule to include all unlisted languages and provide equitable state funding for their development, particularly in tribal and rural regions. Both nations must prioritize teacher training, curriculum development in native languages, and public campaigns that challenge the stigma around non-English languages. Ultimately, constitutional clarity must be matched by cultural revalorization, where multilingualism is reframed not as a burden but as a vital asset to the nation. 

Ultimately, the lessons from these two postcolonial states highlight that sustainable language policy requires not only legal recognition but also active commitment to linguistic justice. For nations grappling with the legacies of colonialism and the pressures of globalization, constitutional safeguards and inclusive policy frameworks are indispensable in ensuring that linguistic diversity is not only protected but celebrated as a cornerstone of national identity. Languages are integral to the cultural identities of both India and the Philippines, and these lessons must remind us of the importance of cherishing our native tongues, whatever they may be. 

Sapagka’t kung hindi ta’yo ang magmamahal sa sariling wika, sino? 

For if we don’t love our own native language, who will?

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Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Krishna Pushkarani – Hampi Ruins, Image sourced from Wikimedia Commons | CC License, no changes made

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The international left is facing an identity crisis. In recent years, social democratic and otherwise left-leaning political parties have faced a strange reality: their voter bases are increasingly richer and more highly educated. Take the recent 2024 United States presidential election, for example. According to preliminary data on the election reported on by The Financial Times, high-income and highly educated voters shifted towards the Democratic party while lower-income and lower-educated voters moved heavily against them (Suss et al., 2024). This contributed to losses in the Presidency as well as the first popular vote loss for the Democratic Party since 2004. The United States is not alone in this regard. The United Kingdom’s Labour party, despite making historic gains and gaining a majority of seats in the 2024 parliamentary election, saw decreases in its vote share among less educated voters and those of a lower socioeconomic status, while it saw large increases with upper-middle and middle class, well-educated voters (Skimmer et al., 2024). Similar trends have emerged across other European countries, demonstrating a clear picture that social democratic parties are no longer the parties of the working class, but increasingly the parties of the well-educated middle classes. To many, these parties have clearly shifted their stances on issues affecting the middle class, such as welfare and the economy. 

Social democratic political parties have historically represented the working class, holding pro-labor and decommodifying welfare policies throughout the 20th century. However, now social democratic parties are commodifying welfare policies, or welfare policies that require participation within the labor market. What caused this change? This paper seeks to answer that question, investigating what drove the transformation of social democratic political parties. However, this investigation immediately leads to an important question: Why did social democratic parties increasingly focus on commodifying welfare policies in favor of the middle class, rather than continuously sticking to policies that benefited their original working-class base? Was this realignment a top-down driven change, with party elites initiating this policy shift on their own, possibly as part of a larger goal to capture middle-class voters? Or was it a bottom-up approach, with social democratic party leaders reacting to a shift in their political base, where the importance of honing in and maintaining this newly important middle-class base resulted in the adoption of pro-market and commodified welfare policies? This paper will answer which came first: middle-class growth and salience to social democratic political parties, or the adoption of pro-market and commodifying welfare policy by social democratic political parties. 

While the answer to this question is contentious, I hypothesize that the shift of social democratic political parties towards adopting more pro-market and commodifying welfare policies was a bottom-up response to middle-class growth as an important political base for the left, rather than a top-down elite-driven change within the party. In testing this hypothesis, I conduct a temporal analysis on both middle-class growth and social democratic political party welfare policy throughout the later 20th and early 21st century, analyzing whether middle-class growth or the official party commodifying welfare policy change came first. Here, I use both sectoral employment data and social democratic party manifesto data from the United Kingdom and Germany. By comparing the results from these two datasets, I find out whether middle-class expansion or elite decisions drove the adoption of commodifying welfare policies by social democratic political parties. In doing so, I find substantial evidence to support the theory that middle-class expansion drove the adoption of commodifying welfare policies, rather than elite-driven change. 

Theoretical Significance 

This research paper will address debates about political party support regarding the welfare state and how economic class structures and elite ideology play a role in shaping welfare policy. By determining why social democratic political parties adopted commodifying welfare policies, either through a top-down elite-driven model or a bottom-up model of middle-class expansion, I also investigate the level to which changes in class structure affect welfare state policies and if rapid decline in the working class manufacturing sector combined with increase in the middle-class, high-skill services sector can influence welfare policy (Oesch, 2015). In doing so, we can figure out to what extent changes in economic class structure affect welfare policy. Finally, through understanding why social democratic parties shifted towards commodifying welfare policies, we can determine the true ability of parties and political elites in shaping policy without clear support from their political bases. 

Social democratic political parties have always had a host of economists and analysts operating as intra-party “elites” to influence party policy since the early 20th century (Mudge, 2018). However, certain questions remain as to how influential they truly are in influencing party policy. Without a clear mandate or indicator of popular support for certain policies, it is questionable how far even the most influential politicians may be able to push forward their preferred policies. We may be able to verify this ability of elites to guide policy on their own if we find that the adoption of commodifying policies was elite-driven. Therefore, understanding exactly why social democratic parties adopted commodifying welfare policies is important because it allows us to examine whether welfare policy change is primarily due to larger economic and class structure shifts or whether it is driven by elite motivations. Welfare policy changes can affect millions of citizens, and determining the cause of these changes can help give us a better understanding of exactly why these changes are made. 

Contextual History of Welfare Policy in High-Income Countries 

Most social democratic political parties, and especially social democratic political parties in high-income countries, either originated from the labor and trade union movements or have long histories with these movements. Indeed, throughout the 20th century, working-class voters typically composed a majority of these social democratic parties’ political bases, from which they consistently derived support (Diamond, 2024). As a result, these parties usually closely represented the interests of the working class, such as the establishment and expansion of strong welfare states post-World War II, as well as taking up more decommodifying welfare policies which typically supported those less well-off (Diamond, 2024). 

However, major factors occurred during the second half of the 20th century that allowed for a political shakeup in welfare policy to occur. First off, massive oil crises in the 1970s helped contribute to the end of the post-World War II economic boom under which the welfare states thrived and expanded, leading to the “Silver Age” of the welfare state (Ferrera, 2008). This marked a general period of increased austerity and retrenchment, with expanded welfare spending becoming less and less feasible due to high inflation and slow economic growth. 

The same post-World War II economic boom that allowed for the expansion of the welfare state also allowed for a rising, more highly educated middle class, facilitated by the growth of service sector jobs as a share of employment. This growth within the services sector allowed for a sort of “occupational upgrading” as the labor market created opportunities for those with high skills and high rates of educational attainment, at a time when higher levels of educational attainment became more common (Oesch, 2013). In particular, growth in highly-skilled service sector jobs allowed for the rapid growth of the middle class, which is often in favor of more pro-market welfare state policies (Gingrich & Häusermann, 2015). This rise has heavily increased the salience of the middle class as a key voting bloc within high-income economies, particularly for social democratic political parties. 

Some literature suggests that this expansion of the middle class allowed for the rise of commodification and pro-market social policies, often described as the “Third Way.” The “Third Way” was a political movement taken within social democratic and left-leaning political parties, which promoted neoliberal and pro-market welfare and trade policies within social democratic politics during the 1990s and 2000s, thereby pushing these parties to the political center (Leigh, 2003). Rapid changes and stagnation within high-income economies, as well as heavy shifts from the manufacturing sector to the service sector, may have made it imperative for social democratic political parties to adopt these “Third Way” commodifying policies relevant to the new economic situation (Romano, 2009). This also correlated heavily with the fall of the working class as a political group, with heavy declines in the share of jobs held typically associated with “blue-collar” work throughout the end of the 20th century, such as those in manufacturing and agriculture (Harris, 2020). This decline further prompted social democratic parties to move away from decommodifying welfare policies, with the working class no longer a key factor within their political base (Anderson & Camiller, 1994). Instead, the middle class replaced the working class as the key political group for social democrats.

However, other sources of literature argue that this may be due to the influence of pro-market political elites within social democratic circles who pushed for market-conforming policies, such as the idea of “third way” politics within the welfare state. These party elites are primarily represented by finance-oriented economists, think tank analysts, and other advisors to politicians, though social democratic politicians themselves have also advocated for shifts. This particularly happened in the 1990s, where social democratic elites pushed forward the “Third Way” as an ideological force and enforced market-friendly welfare policies (Mudge, 2018). Political strategists within these parties steered social democratic ideology towards more neoliberal and pro-market policies in attempts to appeal to a wider range of voters, initiating this change and doing so against the interests of their constituents and their own partisan interests (Kraft, 2016). 

Research Design and Methodology 

This paper tests two binary hypotheses. The proposed hypothesis suggests that commodifying welfare policies within social democratic parties emerged as a bottom-up response to middle-class growth. The second, alternative hypothesis suggests that these policies were top-down decisions driven by party elites and their advisors. 

To concretely examine whether shifts by social democratic political parties towards commodifying welfare policies were due to increased middle class political power or due to elite-driven policy changes, we must dive into a mix of quantitative and more qualitative data which represents such instances of middle class power or elite policy change, where we must pinpoint two different times: when the middle class became the dominant socioeconomic class, as well as when social democratic parties adopted changes to welfare policy.

In doing so, I wanted to focus on relevant countries that were representative of high-income welfare states, as well as those that had historically powerful social democratic political parties that had the opportunity to define and influence welfare policies. These parties should also have the potential to transform from highly redistributive and decommodifying welfare policies to more pro-market ones. Here, I decided to focus on two countries which I believe achieve these requirements, the United Kingdom and Germany, focusing on their social democratic parties, the Labour Party and the Social Democratic Party (SPD), respectively. These represent countries that had powerful social democratic party elites who actively pushed forward commodifying welfare policies, making them powerful examples of the exact trends needed to examine the question at hand. In addition, the United Kingdom and Germany are prime examples of the Liberal and Christian Democratic welfare states respectively, allowing for an investigation that is representative of multiple welfare regime types and an account as to whether trends in welfare policy changes differ or stay similar between them (Esping-Andersen, 1990). This makes both of these countries suitable case studies for my analysis. 

In order to investigate the point at which political party elites adopted and embraced commodifying welfare policy, I evaluate political party manifestos of both the British Labour Party and German Social Democratic Party to determine periods at which party officials may have embraced commodifying welfare policy. To find this, I use the Manifesto Project Database, a dataset that qualitatively assigns different “codes” indicating a certain policy to sentence fragments within political manifestos, then quantitatively summarizes the codes in terms of percent frequency within each manifesto (Lehmann et al., 2024). Here, to measure the prevalence over time of both decommodifying and commodifying welfare policies within social democratic party political manifestos, I will measure two pairs of codes against one another. The first pair of codes consists of “per504”, which measures welfare state expansion, and “per505”, welfare state limitation. This comparison will assist in measuring trends in terms of party elite embracement or rejection of commodifying and decommodifying welfare policy. The second pair of codes consists of “per402”, which measures business incentives, and “per403”, market regulation. While these latter two codes do not directly measure welfare policy, they reflect policies that benefit either the middle class or the working class. Here, the business incentives code measures commodifying policies meant to promote enterprise, such as subsidies or tax breaks, favored by the middle class, while the market regulation code discusses policies meant to protect consumers, benefiting the working class. I calculate the exact proportions of each of these codes within social democratic party manifestos in Germany and the United Kingdom over a period of time ranging from the early 1960s until the present day. In doing so, I aim to analyze the trends in policy priorities within social democratic parties over this time period, particularly analyzing the growth and evolution of commodifying welfare policy within these parties. 

We also must examine the point at which we can mark definitive middle-class growth. As with demonstrated increases of the middle class as a percentage of the population, I establish a timeframe in which the middle class grew and became more politically salient and important as a voting base. Conversely, this may also demonstrate a decline in the working class in terms of their political importance. To examine this middle-class growth, we must find concrete data that measures a standardized definition of middle class over time, which is difficult to do when comparing different countries with various factors and measures for socioeconomic data. To use a more standardized measure to quantify the rise of the middle class, I looked at employment data by sector reported over time. Most high-income countries have similar measures for what constitutes a job within certain sectors of the economy, as defined by a three-sector model. This model includes the primary (jobs relating to the extraction of raw materials and agriculture), secondary (jobs relating to manufacturing), and tertiary (jobs relating to services) sectors  (Kenessey, 1987). To translate these sectors over to analysis regarding middle class expansion, I will group the primary and secondary sectors, which represent jobs traditionally held by the working class, comparing them with the tertiary, or service sector, which represents jobs held by the middle and upper class. This will involve two datasets representing sectoral employment data for both Germany and the United Kingdom. For Germany, I took data from the OECD Data Explorer under the dataset “Employed Population by Economic Activity,” which summarizes sectoral employment data for the majority of OECD countries (OECD 2024). Equivalently, as the OECD data in this dataset only dates back to around 1997 for the United Kingdom, it was necessary to use a different set of data to evaluate sectoral employment within the country. Here, I used data from the Bank of England, under one of their research datasets titled “A Millennium of Macroeconomic Data,” a section of which details employment by sector (Bank of England 2024). I evaluated both the German and British sector employment data starting from 1962 to ensure a valid comparison and to fully represent the later 20th and early 21st century period, which is when I seek to measure middle class growth. In analyzing this sectoral employment data, I pinpoint when exactly the middle class established itself as the main political voting bloc by looking at two different factors within the data: share by sector, and more importantly, percentage growth by sector over time. At the point when growth in the service sector begins to slow down, it indicates the firm entrenchment of the service sector, and thus the establishment of the middle class as the most important political group. 

In order to fully evaluate our hypothesis and alternative hypotheses, I analyze which came first: the establishment of the middle class as the main voting bloc, or shifts to commodifying political language in social democratic political party manifestos. This allows us to determine exactly why social democratic political parties adopted commodifying welfare policies. If growth in service sector employment peaks before social democratic political parties adopt commodifying policy language within their manifestos, then it would indicate a positive result for the hypothesis, demonstrating that the adoption of commodifying welfare policy was in fact due to a bottom-up response to middle-class growth. Conversely, if this peak in middle class growth occurs after the appearance of commodifying language within social democratic political manifestos, then it would support the alternative hypothesis that social democratic party adoption of marketing welfare policies was a top-down driven change.

Results 

In order to uncover whether social democratic parties adopted commodifying welfare policies as a result of a bottom-up response to middle-class growth or a top-down elite-driven change, there must be a detailed temporal analysis of both manifesto and sectoral data within the United Kingdom and Germany. Here, trends in commodifying language and service sector prominence are important factors to watch. I divide this section into two main sets of results, the first being the temporal findings of commodifying, or, conversely, decommodifying welfare language within social democratic party manifestos, and the second being the temporal findings of change and level of growth of those employed within the service sector. 

Manifesto data representing topics within the British Labour Party demonstrate varying trends in welfare policy. Figure 1 represents data tracking the prevalence of policies regarding both Welfare State Expansion (per504) and Limitation (per505) in the Labour Party’s manifestos over time. Here, aside from a slight increase in the prevalence of welfare state limitation within party manifestos in the late 1960s, the policy has had minimal prevalence in Labour Party literature. Conversely, the idea of welfare state expansion has seen fluctuations in its prevalence in manifesto data, with large decreases in the policy from the beginning of the example period to 1970, with increases in discussions of welfare state expansion continuing until the 1992 Labour Party Manifesto, with the topic discussed in around 14.8 percent of sentence fragments in that document. From here, the prevalence of welfare state expansion policy decreased until the 2010 Labor Party Manifesto, where welfare state expansion was discussed in only 8.2 percent of sentence fragments. Incidentally, the Labour Party was in government for the majority of this period of decline. From here, however, the prevalence of welfare state expansion policies in the Labour party has increased dramatically to the present day. 

I find similar trends in Figure 2, representing data tracking the prevalence of policies regarding pro-market Business Incentives (per402) and Market Regulation (per403) in Labour party manifestos since 1964. Here, the two policies represented small and nearly equal percentages of manifesto policy until the 1983 Labour Party Manifesto, at which market regulation nearly doubled in prevalence while business incentives decreased. From here, however, business incentives steadily grew in prevalence within labour manifestos until 2010, while market regulation generally decreased. However, after 2010, this once again changed course, with drastic increases in focus towards market regulation-based language to the present day. Accordingly, Labour Party manifesto language focusing on business incentives has decreased since 2010. 

Figure 1.  

Figure 2.

Manifesto data representing temporal topic findings of Germany’s Social Democratic party follow some similar, but largely distinct trends from the Labour Party. Here, in Figure 3, much like the trends in the Labour Party, welfare state limitation has not been a highly prevalent topic within the Social Democratic Party manifestos. However, there are notable increases in the 1970s and 1990s, where welfare state limitation is discussed by over 2.7 percent of sentence fragments in the 1998 Social Democratic Party manifesto. On the other hand, welfare state expansion policy decreased in Social Democratic Party manifesto language throughout the late 20th century, decreasing from 15.8 percent of sentence fragments in the 1976 manifesto to a mere 2.4 percent in 2005, marking a drastic decrease in welfare state expansion policy. It is important to note that much of this decrease occurred during times in which the Social Democratic Party held power within Germany’s government, with two different waves of decline from 1976 to 1983 and from 1994 to 2005. After 2009, however, welfare state expansion policy increased heavily, continuing up to the most recent manifesto data. 

In Figure 4, there is data regarding market policies for the Social Democratic Party, where language related to market regulation mostly has an inconsistent trend in representation in the manifesto dataset until around 2005, increasing, then decreasing, and increasing again. From there, market regulation policy sharply increased in the 2009 Social Democratic Party manifesto before following a general decrease in representation in the manifestos published since. On the other hand, language related to business incentives policy generally finds a steady increase in prevalence until the 2000s, with major bumps that briefly make it more prevalent than market regulation in 1983 and 1998, peaking at 4.91 percent of sentence fragments within the 1998 manifesto. From then on, business incentives policies have found a general decrease in relevance.

Figure 3. 

Figure 4. 

Manifesto data generally tracks temporally with one another for both the British Labour Party and German Social Democratic Party, where declines in focus on welfare expansion policies occur particularly throughout the 1990s and 2000s, with similar trends following periods during which these social democratic parties held political power. However, for both political parties, a renewed focus on welfare state expansion policy emerged since the 2010s. In addition, both social democratic parties find general increases in commodifying policies such as business incentives, leading up from the 1980s to the 2000s. 

Moving on to the data on sectoral employment over time, I used the two different datasets representing sectoral data in the United Kingdom and Germany, respectively. Using these two datasets, I further calculated both percentage change in employment by sector over time as well as share of employment by sector over time for both the United Kingdom and Germany. 

Looking at the sectoral employment trends for the United Kingdom over this time period, as seen in Figure 6, I find that the employment share of the services sector has already outpaced the primary and secondary sectors by 1962, with the gap steadily increasing over time, the service sector reaching past 80 percent of the total share of employment by 2016, and the primary and secondary sectors combined dipping below 20 percent. 

This correlates with the patterns seen in Figure 5, which represents the percent change in the sectoral employment per year, where there is a positive trend in service sector employment for nearly the entire period within the United Kingdom. This growth was particularly high during the early part of this time period, with the percent change in service sector employment increasing between 1 and 2 percent each year until around 1980. However, this growth has slowly declined over the years, with nearly a net-zero change in sectoral employment by the end of the data in 2016. Conversely, the primary and secondary sectors faced an increasing decline until around the year 1990, but have rapidly stabilized towards minimal decline since.

Figure 5. 

Figure 6. 

A similar path in sectoral employment trends follows in Germany. However, unlike in the United Kingdom, when the data starts in 1962, the primary and secondary sectors made up the majority of jobs within the German economy, composing a little under 60 percent of the total employment share, as noted in Figure 8. However, it did not take long for the services sector to grow rapidly and compose the majority of German employment by the mid-1970s. This growth continued steadily, with the service sector reaching 70 percent of the employment share by the late 2000s. 

Figure 7, which represents the percent change in German sectoral employment per year,  corroborates this data. Here, there are significant increases in the service sector from 1962 to around 1975, where aside from a brief period of time in which the service sector declines, the share of the service sector increases by margins of around two to three percent each year, indicating rapid growth in the share of the service sector within the economy. From the mid-1970s on, there seems to be a slow decline in the percentage growth in the service sector to the present day, with certain fluctuations, such as a large bump in growth during the mid-1990s. This culminates in minor percent growth and even some decreases within the service sector share by the late 2000s and 2010s. 

Figure 7.

Figure 8. 

Analysis 

The results stemming from social democratic manifesto policies, as well as sectoral employment data, reveal clear trends and timelines to interpret in the context of the adoption of commodifying welfare policy. First, I find that within the manifesto data, there are general trends of lower amounts of decommodifying welfare policy language within social democratic party manifestos throughout the end of the 20th century and beginning of the 21st century, as well as increased measures of commodifying language, though this later reversed course by the 2010s. This indicates a period in which social democratic parties officially adopted commodifying welfare policy and at least partially abandoned their traditionally decommodifying policies on welfare. 

Second, sectoral employment data indicate explosive growth in the share of the service sector, associated with the rise and expansion of the middle class, between the 1960s and 1980s. This rise in growth transitions into a continued, yet linearly declining growth in the service sector as a share of employment, cementing the transition from an industrial to a service-based economy in Germany and the United Kingdom, something which also demonstrates the establishment of the middle class as the predominant socioeconomic group, with high political importance. 

However, to test the hypothesis and alternative hypotheses, evaluating whether this adoption of commodifying welfare policies by social democratic political parties is either a bottom-up process due to middle class expansion or whether it is an elite-driven process, we must temporally compare the manifesto and sectoral employment results given within both the United Kingdom and Germany. 

United Kingdom 

In analyzing manifesto and policy trends within the British Labour Party against sectoral employment trends in the United Kingdom, clear results generally indicate a “bottom-up” approach to welfare policy adoption, confirming my hypothesis. Here, I find that the percent growth in the service sector as a share of the labor force seems to be at its highest from the late 1960s to around 1981, with a relatively linear decline in growth occurring after this period into the present. This means that the year 1981 likely serves as a marker for the rapid growth of the service sector, and indicates the establishment of the middle class as the dominant socioeconomic class, and thus the dominant political force. Changes to welfare policy after this time period likely indicate appeals to the middle class as a political voting base. 

Indeed, in investigating the manifesto results, I find decreased emphasis on topics such as welfare state expansion, which is a decommodifying welfare policy, starting from the 1992 Labour Party Manifesto, continuing to the 2010 Labour Party Manifesto. In combination with this, I find an increase in pro-market and investment policies such as business incentives within Labour Party manifestos until 2010. This demonstrates that trends in increased commodified welfare policy within the Labour Party emerged definitively after the expansion of the middle class and its establishment as a prominent voting base within British politics. While we do see another drastic decrease in discussion of welfare expansion policy in Labour party manifestos during the late 1960s, this decrease in expansionist welfare language does not correspond with simultaneous increases in pro-market policies, and thus does not definitively indicate commodifying welfare policy alone. Of note here is that the prevalence of commodifying policies tends to follow periods when the Labour Party is in power, especially during the period from 1998 to 2010. Here, emphasis on Business Incentives increases during this period while emphasis on Welfare State Expansion heavily decreases. 

The rise of commodifying welfare policies came after the 1992 elections within the United Kingdom, and thus firmly after 1981, which marked the peak of service sector growth within the economy and the entrenchment of the middle class as a political force. This temporal alignment gives considerable evidence to support the original hypothesis that the shift of social democratic political parties towards adopting more pro-market and commodifying welfare policies was a bottom-up response to middle-class growth. Equivalently, this also establishes considerable evidence to reject the alternative hypothesis that the shift towards commodifying welfare policies was a top-down driven change started by party elites and politicians, as these policy changes occurred after there was significant incentive to do so with the rise and establishment of the middle class as the dominant political base. 

Germany 

Comparing manifesto policy within the German Social Democratic Party and sectoral employment trends, I find relatively similar temporal results to those in the British Labour Party, indicating a “bottom-up” approach to commodifying welfare policy adoption in Germany. Here, I find that the percent growth in the service sector as a share of the labor force seems to generally be at its highest from the mid-1960s to around 1975, despite a large decrease in 1969, though this looks to be an anomaly within this period. Since then, much like the British Labour Party, there has been a somewhat linear decline in growth after this period into the present. There have been fluctuations, such as a large increase in the German service sector’s growth rate during the early 1990s. However, the early 1990s marked heavy economic changes within the German economy due to German reunification and the incorporation of the formerly communist East Germany into the economy. During this period, the services sector within the newly reunified East Germany saw massive short-term increases due to wide-scale privatization and the foundation of businesses, while the manufacturing and agricultural sectors saw declines in employment (Pohl, 1991). As a result, this may not necessarily indicate changes in the sectoral employment in all of Germany, but may indicate changes confined to the East German economy. As a result, I define the year 1975 as the end of the rapid growth of the service sector. As is the case with the data in the United Kingdom, this indicates the establishment of the middle class as the dominant socioeconomic and political base in Germany. Once again, massive changes to welfare policy after this time period likely indicate appeals to the middle class as a political voting base. 

Indeed, investigating the Manifesto Project’s data for the Social Democratic Party, I find declines in emphasis on welfare state expansion policy starting with 1980 Social Democratic Party Manifesto which occurred in two different waves: the first ending after 1983, and the second which began after 1994 and ended after the 2005 Social Democratic Party Manifesto, with a period in between where welfare state expansion policy stayed relatively constant, with some fluctuations. This coincides with increases in commodifying language within Social Democratic Party manifestos, such as discussions surrounding business incentives, which sees a significant and steady increase in its proportion in the manifestos starting with the 1983 Social Democratic Party Manifesto. The combination of these two trends indicates an increase in commodifying welfare policy within the Social Democratic Party from the 1980s to the early 2000s. In addition, higher trends in commodifying welfare policy language within Social Democratic Party manifestos align heavily with periods in which the Social Democratic Party was in political power, such as the late 1970s to early 1980s, as well as the period from 1998 to 2005, when the self-proclaimed “Third Way” advocate and Chancellor of Germany, Gerhard Schröder, held office. 

The rise of commodifying welfare policies by the Social Democratic Party in Germany occurred beginning in the early 1980s, becoming deeply entrenched within party policy by the 1990s, and even expanded upon until the 2000s. This occurs slightly after growth in the German service sector’s share of employment within their domestic labor market peaked and began to decline after around 1975, establishing the middle class as the dominant socioeconomic and political group. This temporal alignment provides strong evidence supporting the primary hypothesis that the shift of social democratic political parties in Germany toward commodifying welfare policies was in fact a bottom-up response to the expansion of the middle class. Conversely, this timeline allows us to reject the alternative hypothesis that social democratic parties’ adoption of commodifying welfare policies was a top-down, elite-driven change independent of middle-class growth. 

Further Discussion 

The results found in this analysis firmly support the original hypothesis, providing firm evidence that social democratic political parties adopted commodifying welfare policies as a bottom-up response to the expansion of the middle class rather than as a top-down elite-driven change. However, these results also help to contextualize the history of welfare policy within social democratic parties over the past 60 years and help us to investigate how these parties respond to economic shifts, changes in class structures, and allow us to draw up interesting findings and trends surrounding welfare policy stances taken up by political parties, and how they may change over time. 

The rise of commodifying welfare policy within social democratic political parties in the late 20th century allows us to question how political parties respond to shifts in the economic and employment landscapes. This allows for a further encapsulation of the idea of the Third Way as an ideology and its rise and fall within social democratic political parties during the 1990s to 2000s. The rise of the Third Way as known today mostly occurred during the 1990s, with the term “Third Way” peaking in usage in 1998 (Leigh, 2003). However, commodifying welfare policies are not exclusive to this Third Way movement within social democratic parties. In particular, there are clear trends in the German Social Democratic Party, which demonstrate a trend towards commodifying welfare policies beginning in the late 1970s and early 1980s. While Third Way politics promoted commodifying welfare policies, the movement was, in all likelihood, not the sole driver of these policies within social democratic political parties. As established by my temporal analysis, social democratic parties most likely adopted these policies in response to economic shifts towards the service sector and middle class expansion. In this sense, the Third Way may have simply been a means to define and label this shift in social policy by social democratic party elites, who promoted it as an ideology (Schröder & Blair, 1998). Indeed, even by the year 2002, discussions regarding the Third Way had already declined heavily within newspapers and academic articles (Leigh, 2003). This may support the conclusion that the Third Way as an ideological front within social democratic parties was driven by party elites, whereas middle-class expansion drove actual shifts toward commodifying welfare and social policies. 

Despite this shift towards commodifying welfare policies in the past, the Manifesto Project data demonstrated that in recent years, both the Social Democratic Party and Labour Party reverted towards decommodification, with rapid increases in codes relating to welfare expansion and market regulation since the late 2000s. This pushes against prevailing literature on the evolution of social democratic welfare policy, which focuses on the idea that social democratic parties have undergone a complete transformation and continue to embrace neoliberal and pro-market policies (Mudge, 2018). However, there is an important temporal consideration to consider when analyzing this reversion: the 2008 financial crisis, often referred to as the “Great Recession.” This crisis defined the economic trajectory of the world in the late 2000s, with unemployment rates skyrocketing as well as significant contractions in global gross domestic product (Schanzenbach et al., 2016). This led to contradictory trends within welfare state policy. In the aftermath of the crisis, there was a dramatic increase in demand for expansive and generous welfare benefits, particularly that of unemployment insurance. However, decreased economic growth and financial troubles forced governments around the world to implement austerity measures, which severely reduced benefits (Hemerijck et al., 2012). However, social democratic parties in Germany and the United Kingdom did not hold political power during this period after the Great Recession, corresponding to time periods in which both the Social Democratic Party and Labour saw massive increases in language associated with decommodifying welfare policies. This lack of power and lack of responsibility to balance budget costs may have allowed social democratic parties to adjust their welfare policies in response to the desires of the general public, allowing for a return to decommodifying welfare policies. These trends provide important implications regarding how political parties shape their welfare policies, further providing more context to understand the relationship between economic trends and the evolution of social democratic welfare policy. This trend challenges the narrative of a linear shift towards commodifying welfare policy, and may suggest that welfare policy is even more malleable than otherwise thought. 

Conclusion 

The ideological direction that political parties take can be hard to predict, particularly on important issues such as welfare policy, which typically affects the majority of people within a country. As time goes on, parties can undergo massive shifts due to a variety of factors, such as changes in their voter base, evolving economic trends, or external crises and major events. This paper specifically sought to determine the cause of one ideological shift in particular. In doing so, it helped answer the question of why exactly social democratic political parties adopted commodifying welfare policies in the late 20th century, and whether this adoption was a bottom-up response driven by middle class expansion, or by a top-down shift driven by party elites. This was tested through a temporal analysis of left-leaning party political manifestos and sectoral employment data. In doing so, the evidence overwhelmingly suggests the original hypothesis, that these shifts were a bottom-up response to middle class expansion rather than a top-down shift driven by party elites. 

These findings reveal the importance of class politics and economic trends in influencing welfare policy, demonstrating how responsive social democratic political parties are towards their political voting bases. This responsiveness may even portray the lack of influence party elites and leaders have in creating policy, where elite policy preferences are frequently overruled in favor of appealing to the preferences of their voting base. This demonstrates the central role that the people and class coalitions have in shaping welfare policy, undercutting the notion that party elites have uncontrolled influence in determining policy. As time goes on, socioeconomic trends change over time and welfare policy changes as well, but one thing remains certain: welfare policies in social democratic parties are determined by the people, not elites.

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The AI Push at DHS

According to the DHS AI Use Case Inventory, Customs and Border Protection (CBP) has the highest number of distinct AI applications among all DHS branches, with 75 identified use cases across various operational contexts. These systems are designed to scan cargo, validate identities, detect anomalies, and assess potential threats at ports of entry. Other DHS branches, such as US Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) and Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), also heavily rely on AI technologies to process applications, track migration trends, and support enforcement actions.

These systems are either classified as in deployment or pre-deployment phases. For example, 31 cases are currently deployed within CBP, with 13 marked as potentially impacting public safety and rights. Notably, many of these uses involve the collection of biometric data, including facial recognition and facial capture technologies, which are known to have disproportionately high error rates for people of color and raise heightened privacy concerns.

AI initiatives within DHS are formally governed by frameworks such as the Office of Management and Budget’s (OMB) Memorandum M-24-10 and President Biden’s Executive Order 14110 on trustworthy AI. These policies require agencies to designate Chief AI Officers, establish governance boards, and implement risk management practices. According to its principles, DHS’s AI must be “lawful, mission-appropriate, and mission-enhancing” as well as “safe, secure, responsible, trustworthy, and human-centered.” The oversight of these AI deployments is managed in part by the DHS Privacy Office and the Office for Civil Rights and Civil Liberties (CRCL). 

Yet, despite these procedural safeguards, critics argue that the system lacks genuine human rights accountability, particularly when AI intersects with immigration enforcement, a domain already saturated with structural racism and xenophobia.

Racialized Implications of AI at the Border

Civil society organizations, including the Promise Institute for Human Rights and the Black Alliance for Just Immigration (BAJI), have voiced grave concerns about the racial justice implications of AI at the border. In a 2023 thematic hearing before the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights (IACHR), these groups highlighted how AI-driven border technologies exacerbate existing racial discrimination, particularly against Black migrants. The Promise Institute’s submission warned that AI-enabled policies of deterrence and border externalization perpetuate the same patterns of exclusion and abuse that have historically plagued US immigration systems.

The testimony argued that without a racial justice lens, the deployment of border technologies only intensifies the racial discrimination already at the heart of the US immigration system. Technologies like facial recognition, which studies have shown to be less accurate for people with darker skin tones, are particularly prone to reinforcing bias when used in enforcement scenarios. 

These concerns are not hypothetical. The use of AI in immigration contexts has already resulted in wrongful detentions, misidentifications, and an erosion of due process. Predictive algorithms used to assess risk or determine case prioritization can reflect and reproduce biased data, creating feedback loops that disproportionately target racialized communities.

Governance Gaps and Power Imbalances

While the DHS has proposed its AI Governance Board as a mechanism for oversight, this council is primarily composed of senior DHS officials, including representatives from CBP, ICE, and other enforcement agencies. Independent human rights experts, public defenders, and civil society actors are absent. This power imbalance limits the scope of internal accountability and fails to represent the perspectives of those most affected by AI policies.

The lack of external oversight is compounded by leadership volatility. The inaugural Chief AI Officer of DHS, Eric Hysen, served during the Biden administration until January 2025. His successor, David Larrimore, departed only months later in April 2025, leaving the role vacant at a critical time. This instability raises questions about the continuity of ethical governance and long-term strategic oversight of DHS’s AI strategy. Several use cases in the DHS inventory are either too new to assess for rights implications or have been prematurely deemed non-impacting despite clear potential concerns. For example, face recognition technologies, a known flashpoint for civil liberties violations, are in active use but have not consistently been flagged as rights-impacting in DHS’s internal assessments.

Legal Compliance vs. Ethical Responsibility

The DHS insists that its AI practices are lawful and compliant with privacy and civil liberties policies. But legality does not equal justice. Policies like M-24-10, while well-intentioned, focus heavily on internal procedures and documentation rather than substantive human rights protections. They do not require external review by civil society or provide meaningful mechanisms for affected individuals to seek redress. The US government’s approach to AI in border control often assumes that technological development leads to better governance. This assumption ignores the broader socio-political context in which these technologies operate, one marked by decades of exclusionary immigration laws, racial profiling, and militarization of the southern border.

International Implications and Global Trends

The United States is not alone in deploying AI for border enforcement. Countries such as the United Kingdom, Australia, and members of the European Union have similarly adopted AI technologies to monitor and manage migration. This global trend raises concerns about a growing international norm where surveillance and control are prioritized over human rights. As wealthier nations expand AI surveillance at their borders, the brunt of its harms is disproportionately felt by migrants and asylum seekers from the Global South, regions historically shaped by economic exploitation, climate disruption, and political instability. As such, the consequences of border technologies trickle far, affecting migrants and asylum seekers who are already navigating precarious conditions. Recognizing this global dimension is crucial to building AI governance frameworks that are both ethically grounded and internationally accountable.

The Need for Rights-Based AI

A genuinely responsible AI strategy for border enforcement must go beyond internal compliance checklists. It must incorporate binding human rights standards, transparency mechanisms, and participatory design processes that center the experiences of marginalized communities. The United States has an opportunity to lead by example in aligning its national security strategies with democratic values and human dignity. But that can only happen if the deployment of AI at the border is held accountable not just to bureaucratic standards, but to the people it affects most deeply.

Artificial intelligence, while often beneficial, is not neutral. When embedded in immigration enforcement, it risks reinforcing the same inequalities that civil rights movements have long fought to dismantle. As the DHS continues to expand its AI capabilities, the need for critical scrutiny and structural reform becomes more urgent. Technology should not be a tool for deepening exclusion, but a means to uphold justice. That goal demands transparency, accountability, and a fundamental rethinking of what it means to secure a border in a way that respects human rights.

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: AI Code, Image sourced from European Alternatives | CC License, no changes made

Since its inception 80 years ago, German democracy has been largely dominated by two major political parties, the Christian Democratic/Socialist Union sister parties (Union) and the Social Democratic Party (SPD). The Union and SPD have since been in coalition either together or with a smaller partner like the Greens or Free Democratic Party (FDP). In the aftermath of the Eurozone crisis, given the discontent surrounding German bailouts for other European Union (EU) member states, the Alternative for Germany (AfD) party formed, leeching voters from the Union who were discontent with continued EU Membership. The AfD didn’t start as a far-right party, but its trajectory shifted under Frauke Petry, who chaired the AfD from 2015 to 2017. Her leadership marked a pivot to hardline nationalism, defined by anti-immigrant rhetoric, pro-Kremlin sympathies, and echoes of antisemitism.

The AfD has had particular electoral success in the Bundesländer (Federal States) which used to be part of the Communist German Democratic Republic (East Germany). The reason behind such a split can largely be attributed to the perceived social cleavage, where the populace of the east has yet to feel properly integrated with the rest of the country. This social cleavage is reinforced by the continued economic disparity between the east and west, and the disproportionate impact of the migration crisis, among other crises, on eastern Germans.¹ The 2017 federal elections were the first in which the AfD surpassed the five percent electoral threshold required to enter into the German Lower House of Parliament (Bundestag). Since their entrance into the Bundestag, the AfD has attempted to erode the quality of German democracy, historically and contemporarily considered as one of the strongest worldwide. 

Since its explosive rise in 2015, the far-right AfD has reshaped German politics, not by taking power, but by pushing the boundaries of democratic norms. While the party has yet to enter government, its influence is undeniable. This piece turns back the clock to the pivotal years from 2015 to 2018, well before the pandemic and recent surges in far-right momentum, to trace how the AfD’s radicalization and entry into the Bundestag began testing the strength of Germany’s democratic foundations. Understanding this earlier phase is essential to grasping that today’s democratic vulnerabilities didn’t emerge overnight. Even in one of Europe’s most robust democracies, the AfD has been building for years.

To assess its impact, we draw on political scientist Leonardo Morlino’s five-dimensional framework for evaluating democratic quality: rule of law, accountability, freedom, equality, and responsiveness. Did the AfD’s actions already start to erode these pillars, or simply expose cracks that were already there? By breaking these dimensions into procedural substantive and outcome-based categories, we can better understand how a party on the fringe pressures a democracy to confront its own limits. 

1. Procedural Level: Rule of Law and Accountability 

According to Morlino’s article What is a Good Democracy, the procedural level of democracy is composed of two separate but related dimensions: rule of law and accountability. Accountability refers to the idea that citizens, independently rather than through a third party, are able to evaluate their satisfaction with the government’s attempts to meet their needs. In the case of Germany, and most other western liberal democracies, this would refer to the idea that citizens are able to vote for the parties which best match with their aligned interests without any interference. The rule of law is the idea that the law is above all else, so that no political actor may act in manners which would go against the fundamental laws of the land. Germany holds a rigid constitution and very strict bureaucratic procedures in order to prevent the repetition of the atrocities of the Second World War. Hence, the rule of law has been at the heart of the new Federal Republic ever since its inception, and reinforced during the reunification of the country. 

The rise of the AfD would be considered by some to be proof that there is in fact strong accountability within the political system. Since Petry came into power, the AfD’s pivot into the rhetoric of anti-immigration as a centerpiece policy, although controversial, has led to the electoral success of the AfD. These shifts were notable not just nationally, but also regionally as the AfD made significant gains in the regional parliaments, especially in those of former East German states. While the rise of the AfD reflects a troubling shift in German politics, it nonetheless confirms that German democracy permits and responds to electoral accountability, as voters dissatisfied with the status quo were able to express their discontent through proper institutional methods. 

While accountability may still be intact, within German democracy, the rule of law has been called into question several times since the rise and radicalisation of the AfD. A cornerstone of German law has been an intolerance to the denial of the Nazi government’s persecution of Jews during the Second World War, confirmed through many notable cases of jurisprudence. However, despite its criminalization under the penal code, leaders of the AfD have almost consistently denied the atrocities of the Holocaust. Beyond Holocaust denial, leaders of the AfD continue to use many of the same anti-semitic slogans and conspiracy theories which still remain illegal under German law. The AfD’s reshaping of history, including Holocaust denial, is one of its many dangerous tools used in an attempt to erode the rule of law. 

In some cases, the AfD has not only been behind attempts to erode the rule of law, but also attempts to overthrow it all together. While only recently uncovered, the Tag X or “X-Day” conspiracy, which attempted the overthrow of the German government through the creation of a paramilitary ‘shadow army,’ has been long underway and investigated since 2017. While an extreme example, the explicit participation of several AfD party members and close ties between the organization and prominent AfD members is a clear warning of the existential threat the AfD poses to the rule of law. While concerning, the revelations of the AfD’s attempts to undermine German democracy shouldn’t come as a surprise, given the messages propagated by members, along with their background in the Nationalsozialistischer Untergrund (National Socialist Underground, NSU), and other Neo-Nazi groups.

While the AfD may enhance procedural democracy through accountability, they also significantly deteriorate it through their active efforts to undermine the rule of law. The success of the AfD was due to its shift to solve the discontent of many East Germans towards mainstream parties, as well as Germans who were unhappy with Merkel’s open migration policy. Yet the antisemitism and proper attempt at the complete overthrowing of the state are indicative that the AfD does not respect the rule of law. While German democracy may be improved through the AfD’s response to the distresses of citizens usually ignored by mainstream parties, the existential threat which it poses to the rule of law would affirm the idea that the AfD negatively impacts democracy on the procedural level.

2. Substantive Level: Freedom and Equality 

The substantive level, according to Morlino, is also composed of two dimensions, those of freedom and equality. The former refers to the respect of citizen’s rights “that are expanded through the achievement of a range of freedoms.” The latter dimension refers to the pursuit of citizens’ political, social, and economic equality through progressive policies. These two dimensions are inherently intertwined in the European liberal democracy, as redistributive policies, such as social security, are embedded into the freedoms and rights which are guaranteed to all citizens. 

In terms of the rights and freedoms provided, the AfD is not particularly against the idea of these kinds of rights, but is instead a proponent of limiting its application to the people of Germany or Volk, excluding minorities and immigrants. The AfD constantly uses liberal democratic concepts, such as citizenry, to normalize its illiberal exclusion of groups who do not fit within their understanding of the German people. Minority rights exist as a fundamental part of German law, attempting to exclude certain people groups from the Volk inherently breaches this principle of German law. 

Not only does the AfD actively attempt to exclude oppressed groups from the freedoms entitled to citizens, but they go further by trying to deprive them of their fundamental rights. Most notable would be the use of ‘Christian values’ in order to justify the restriction of same-sex marriage, trans recognition, and a womans rights to abortion. While it is obvious how the rights of the LGBTQ+ minority might be targeted by the former two, it is not so obvious for the latter issue. From an intersectional gender perspective, actions targeted against women disproportionately affect women of color and other minorities due to the intersection of oppressive factors such as race, socioeconomic class, and sexual orientation. The pursuit of these anti-gender equality policies, which the AfD is attempting to carry out throughout the whole country, would be a major affront to the fundamental rights of women, especially those who do not form part of the Volk so idealized by the AfD. 

With the AfD so vocally against the rights of those who would not fit into the German Volk in their perspective, it could be assumed that they would think similarly for Morlino’s dimension of equality. German Marxist theorist Bernd Belina would argue that the AfD pursues a more radicalized approach to the “abstract equality,” which is pursued by most capitalist societies in the present day. The equality is abstract in the sense that it applies only to those who engage in the national economy, hence unemployed people should not be afforded equality. Similar to other new right–wing parties, the AfD is even further against the Marxist sense of equality, as it follows a contradictory combination of neoliberal and ‘anti-elitist’ economic ideology. The combination of these two ideologies results in an economic system which would end up benefiting those who are already privileged economically (Belina, 2017). An economy which benefits those who are already privileged would correlate to the ideology of the German economy only for the Volk, although in practice the benefits only extend to elites rather than the entire Volk. 

While the AfD, according to left-wing theorists, benefits only the elites through neoliberal policies, this would be counterintuitive given the rise of the AfD at the aforementioned expense of the left in former East Germany. In reality, the AfD must pursue a much more nuanced approach to equality due to their reliance on former voters of the left party as their electoral base. The term “Ordoliberal Chauvinism” was first coined by Arnaud Brennetot to describe the strategic positioning of the AfD regarding its policies in response to Belina’s work. The term encapsulates the conflicting interest groups which the AfD must appeal to, those in the East who feel disillusioned with the German state and those in the West who are upset at the seeming left-wing interventionist policies of the Union. Ultimately, due to the incompatibility of chauvinism and ordoliberalism, one of the ideologies must take precedence or the entire political project could be at risk of failure. The choice of either chauvinism or ordoliberalism would fundamentally impact the direction of the party in neglecting or outright opposing equality. 

The change in leadership of the AfD after the 2017 federal elections serves as an indicator that the party leadership chose Chauvinism, and so actively opposed equality. The start of Alice Weidel’s leadership in 2017 showed a shift of the AfD to pursue a more nativist and populist approach, prioritizing the Volk and demonizing Islam among others, in order to secure electoral support. While some might argue that AfD chauvinism since 2017 has pushed equality between the east and west of the country, the active exclusion of immigrants, racial minorities, LGBTQ+ groups, etc. from Germany would lend to the idea that the AfD on a societal level actively pursues less equality. 

3. Results Level: Responsiveness 

The final level of analysis in Morlino’s framework on the quality of democracy would be the results level, focusing on the characteristic of responsiveness. Responsiveness, according to Morlino, is very highly related to the idea of accountability, in that it refers to citizens’ perception of the legitimacy of the government. In a state with high levels of responsiveness, the citizens should ultimately be confirming their satisfaction with the current ongoings of the government. However, the rise of the AfD may be indicative of a current unsatisfactory state with the state of Germany’s democracy. 

The creation and rise of the AfD itself can be considered a testament to the strong responsiveness within Germany’s young democracy. Since reunification, voters in Eastern Germany have consistently felt underrepresented by mainstream parties, as evidenced by their persistently lower voter turnout, averaging 72.5% in 2017 compared to 76.2% in western states, as seen above. The swift entrance of the AfD into the parliaments of many Bundesländer in the east supported by former leftist or undecided voters is indicative of such. While support for the left party in the East may have been attributed to their status of successor of the East German communist party, their inability to address the needs of the eastern people facilitated their electoral punishment and the rise of the AfD. The change in strategy under Petry, becoming the party for ordinary East German citizens treated worse than predominantly Muslim immigrants, facilitated the rise of the AfD as the largest member of the opposition. At the expense of other parties, the rise of the AfD remains a testament to the strong accountability of German democracy towards the voting population. According to Morlino’s dimension of responsiveness, a high-quality democracy must reflect the preferences and demands of its citizens, even when those demands lead to political shifts that challenge the status quo. 

However, a largely contested issue within the German system remains the high scrutiny of the AfD party by institutions, seen as a method of preventing the change of the vote. The establishment in Germany has long pursued a strategy of containment, attempting to minimize the influence of extremist parties primarily on the right of the political spectrum. Containment in Germany, or Ausgrenzung has resulted in the German system as an outlier from others in Western Europe with a very minimal influence on the development of the political system. Given the historical context of Germany it would make sense as to why the population has supported the mainstream parties in their attempts to curb far-right extremism. Despite all the institutional attempts to freeze out the AfD as too extreme to be elected, the 2017 election was indicative that enough of the population was no longer content with the status quo. While the AfD may have entered the Bundestag as the largest member of the opposition party, many continuous attempts have been made to reduce their influence in the political process. 

The perceived apathy of large German political parties to the situation of ‘regular Germans’ was made evident numerous times since the Euro and migration crises. Many Russian-speaking or Volga Germans made their stance quite clear in the aftermath of the migration crisis their discontent with the continued immigration of Arab speakers. While often dismissed for their irony, immigrant-origin Germans voting against immigration would be indicative of a larger shift towards nativism in the German population. Volga Germans immigrated to Germany due to their national ties with the country after the dissolution of the USSR, hence the dismissiveness of the mainstream parties would only add legitimacy to the AfD as the champion of the interests of the German people. Far-right parties can, with justification, argue that they are being frozen out of the political system arbitrarily, thus blaming the issue of the quality of democracy on the current institutions and mainstream political establishment. 

However, when looking at the issue of far-right parties and their inclusion into the political system, one cannot overlook the profound impact of the Third Reich on shaping the political system of the present. Most importantly, the “Grundgesetz puts explicit limits on the freedom of association” banning extremist beliefs, halted funding for parties who express such beliefs, and permisive political non-cooperation or Ausgrenzung with such parties. The legal limits on the freedom of speech set out in the constitution set a legal expectation for the exclusion of the AfD from the political process. Hence, attempts by the established parties to freeze out the populist anti-immigrant AfD are in fact a strong sign of German democracy defending its constitutional values.

Conclusion 

While the AfD has yet to enter government, multiple scholars indicate that they are not a good sign for the long term quality of German democracy since the era of their radicalization in the aftermath of the migration crisis. Taking into account Morlino’s three levels on the quality of democracy, the AfD constantly attempts to undermine the quality of democracy on all levels. Procedurally, while the AfD may be indicative of a higher level of accountability, their constant violations of the rule of law, seen through Holocaust denial, extremist views, and attempts to subvert democratic institutions, are indicative that overall, the AfD is a threat to the democratic order established in the mid twentieth century. On the substantive level, the AfD through its restructuring into a nativist Volk oriented party, has only pushed to undermine the rights and freedoms of minority groups and thus create an inherently unequal society where only the members of the Volk are set to gain. It appears that the AfD contributes to the responsiveness of German democracy, through their representation of groups such as the Volga Germans, who have largely been ignored by mainstream parties. However, their attempts at responding to a perceived democratic deficit serve only to legitimize their illiberal agenda and so would rather weaken German democracy. 

Though many would argue that the rise of the AfD is a testament to the democratic resilience of Germany’s political system, the ability of the AfD to erode the democratic institutions upon their entrance is often overlooked. In a country in which education is mandatory regarding the horrors of the Third Reich, as a result of the National Socialist Party’s strategic co-optation of democratic institutions, the rise of the AfD is surprisingly not seen with as much concern. While German democracy may remain strong, the radicalization of the AfD around 2017 serves as a critical turning point for its future. It is therefore all the more important to remain vigilant against the AfD’s ongoing attempts to erode liberal democratic norms, so that ‘never again’ remains not only a reflection on Germany’s dark past, but also a safeguard for a democratic and hopeful future. Considering the AfD is now the second largest political force in Germany, it is ever more crucial to ensure the tradition of the firewall against extremism, Brandmauer, is respected so the AfD remains unable to erode German democracy from a position of institutional power.

1.  Merkel, Angela, and Baumann, Bernd. Freiheit. Cologne: Kiepenheuer & Witsch, 2024. ↩︎

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Frauke Petry, Image sourced from Heute | CC License, no changes made