Frameworks for Genocide in Communist Studies

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. 

“Ang hindi marunong magmahal sa sariling wika ay higit sa hayop at malansang isda.” 

—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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Introduction and Research Question 

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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Abstract

This paper examines the future of the “One Country Two Systems”’ principle amid China’s recent encroachments on Hong Kong’s democratic autonomy and ideological independence through the implementation of the National Security Law. This paper argues that the law was introduced by China as a response to the perception of threat to “One Country, Two Systems” in Hong Kong, creating an irreversible shift from “One Country, Two Systems” toward “One Country, One System.” 

Introduction

Since Hong Kong’s handover from Great Britain to China in 1997, the former colony’s Basic Law served as the law of the land and constitutional framework for the “One Country, Two Systems” principle. The promulgation of the 1984 Sino-British Joint Declaration stipulated “One Country, Two Systems” would remain for 50 years, expiring in 2047.^[1] Under the system, the People’s Republic of China resumed the exercise of sovereignty over Hong Kong after one and a half centuries of colonial rule by the British Empire. Hong Kong would retain its “capitalist system and lifestyle” separate from mainland China’s communist system and enjoy “a high degree of autonomy.”^[2] In the eyes of China’s central government, “One Country, Two Systems” served as a viable solution to the problem of Chinese reunification. 

Nevertheless, key post-handover events, such as the 2014 Umbrella Revolution and the 2019 Anti-Extradition Law movement, brought about increased political resistance against the authorities in Hong Kong, known officially as the Government of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region. Both the Hong Kong and Chinese government’s responses to the broader pro-democracy movement in Hong Kong reveal cracks in “One Country, Two Systems,” calling into question whether Hong Kong’s increasingly pro-democratic socio-political landscape can amicably coexist with the Chinese Communist Party’s authoritarian rule.^[3]

But the implementation of the National Security Law was what brought the “One Country Two Systems” policy to an irreversible crossroads. The textual content of the security law was only disclosed to the Hong Kong people at the time of its promulgation—June 30, 2020— hours before the 23rd anniversary of Hong Kong’s handover.^[4] The law identifies four new categories of criminal behavior: secession, subversion, terrorism, and collusion with foreign forces. Each provision covers individuals who incite or abet the above offenses, with a maximum sentence of life imprisonment with the possibility of extradition to mainland China to face trial in mainland courts.^[5] Further, the security law contains extraterritorial capabilities: violations can be applied to individuals outside Hong Kong.^[6]

Beyond this, the law sparked broader institutional changes to the way of life in Hong Kong, including a sharpened divide between pro-Beijing and pro-democracy forces (Hong Kong’s two primary ideologies) and the Chinese Communist Party’s direct meddling in Hong Kong’s legislative and political affairs.^[7] Merging Hong Kong’s national security apparatus with that of mainland China through the formation of a covert police-legal deep state signals a tectonic shift in “One Country, Two Systems.” When viewed in the context of the CCP’s continued and assertive affronts to Hong Kong’s post-handover autonomy, it comes as no surprise that Hong Kong is now under the direct rule of China’s central government, culminating in the substance of “One Country, Two Systems” tilting towards “One Country, One System.”

Consequently, Hong Kong’s unique characteristics that make it a key international financial center and a gateway from Asia to the West continue to deteriorate rapidly, concurrent with the decline of freedom of speech and press.^[8]Since the law went into effect over 13 months ago, it is increasingly apparent that the law is aimed as much at activists, protesters, political candidates, and journalists in their exercise of rights, as it is at terror and guerrilla activities endangering national security.^[9]

The fate of “One Country, Two Systems” cannot be assessed appropriately without a robust and holistic overview of the historical context leading up to the CCP’s implementation of the security law. Irrespective of what, if any, of Hong Kong’s autonomy remains post-National Security Law, Hong Kong has experienced numerous challenges to “two systems” worth explaining. Thus, this paper proceeds in two parts. Part One examines the framework, development, and evolution of “One Country, Two Systems” by analyzing key events in post-handover Hong Kong. The focus of Part One is on four events research indicates were instrumental in establishing a “One Country, Two Systems”  that emphasizes the “One Country” aspect: 1) the 2003 attempt to pass a National Security Bill under Article 23 of the Basic Law; 2) the 2012 Education Bureau’s proposed Moral and National Education Curriculum laden with pro-communist and pro-China material; 3) the 2014 Umbrella Movement and the rise of key pro-democracy voices, such as those of Joshua Wong, Nathan Law, and Lester Shum; and, finally, 4) the 2019 Anti-Extradition Law Amendment Bill Movement. Emphasis is on the Chinese response, tracing the threats to Hong Kong’s autonomy and legal protections with each event. This paper argues Beijing introduced the National Security Law as a response to its perception of a crumbling “One Country, Two Systems” framework incompatible with Chinese reunification.

Part Two analyzes the future of “One Country, Two Systems” and Hong Kong’s national security apparatus in the context of the National Security Law. This research conducted interviews with crucial Hong Kong figures such as scholars, politicians, journalists, and activists to provide a comprehensive account of the law’s ramifications. All interviewees were given the option to speak anonymously in order to speak freely, with some giving permission to use their names. The goal of this paper is to articulate the seriousness of Beijing’s encroachments on Hong Kong’s democratic autonomy and ideological independence: how “One Country Two Systems” inches closer and closer to “One Country, One System.” 

Part 1: Post-Handover Hong Kong & “One Country, Two Systems”

In 1984, Communist China and Britain agreed to return Hong Kong to Chinese sovereignty after one and a half centuries of colonial rule. The agreement, the Sino-British Joint Declaration, was signed by then-Premier Zhao Ziyang of the People’s Republic of China and Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher of the United Kingdom. The agreement stipulated Hong Kong would become a “Special Administrative Region of China under a policy commonly known as ‘One Country Two Systems.’”^[10] The principle is broken down into five elements:

• Hong Kong retains its “capitalist system and lifestyle” separated from the mainland’s communist system, hence the term “One Country, Two Systems.”^[11]
• Hong Kong enjoys “a high degree of autonomy” from mainland China. Responsibilities associated with all aspects of Hong Kong’s rule, except for foreign and defense affairs, are vested within the government of Hong Kong.^[12]
• Hong Kong will establish the “Basic Law,” the de facto constitution of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region, outlining the systems of governance and the rights and liberties of Hong Kong citizens.^[13]
• Hong Kong establishes its own “executive, legislative, and independent judicial power.”^[14]
• “One Country, Two Systems” will “remain unchanged for 50 years,” beginning on July 1, 1997, and lasting until 2047.^[15]

It is important to point out “One Country, Two Systems” was initially intended for Taiwan as a solution to the Chinese policy of reunification.^[16] Three main stages shaped the framework and development of the system. First, there was the Third Plenary Session of the 11th CCP Central Committee in December 1978, when Beijing advocated for “the prospect of the return of our sacred territory Taiwan to the embrace of our motherland.”^[17] Here, we see for the first time the central government’s stance on relations with Taiwan. Next, a statement by Ye Jianying, a leader of China’s communist revolution who was then-chairman of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress, expanded in depth on the proposed reunification, including the prospect of Taiwan’s status as a special administrative zone enjoying “a high degree of autonomy.”^[18] Key points presented in Ye’s statement bore similarities to Hong Kong’s current “One Country, Two Systems” policy, such as the promise that “Taiwan’s current socio-economic system will remain unchanged, so will its way of life.”^[19] At this time, the phrase “One Country, Two Systems” began circulation in mainland China. The third and final prong was the publication of senior leader Deng Xiaoping’s response to both international and Taiwanese concerns over China’s cross-strait territorial ambitions. In the pro-Beijing Wen Wei Po newspaper, Deng’s response provided the “theoretical framework” of “One Country, Two Systems.”^[20] Taiwan rejected, and continues to reject, Communist China’s proposed framework offer. Thus, the system was applied to Hong Kong only by coincidence, emerging as a viable solution to the looming fate of Hong Kong’s sovereignty during talks between Great Britain and China prior to the Sino-British Joint Declaration. 

Hong Kong’s handover to China was unique; its sovereignty was bestowed not to itself but instead to another country. Further, neither internal pressure nor international outcry brought about the end of Britain’s colonial rule, but rather, China deciding the fate of Hong Kong was an internal matter.^[21] Indeed, Communist China stated Beijing considered Hong Kong part of China long before the handover. But without the prevalence of Marxism, socialism, Maoism, and Deng Xiaoping Thought in Hong Kong, the central government understood the need for a pragmatic approach to relations with Hong Kong. Thus, as early as the 1950s, Zhou Enlai, China’s first premier, made it abundantly clear Communists should “protect the present Hong Kong situation and status, including its English colonial economy and capitalist system.”^[22]

By the time of the handover, National Taiwan University political scientist James Hsiung feared the future of post-handover Hong Kong was “dismal and downright pessimistic. The worst scenario saw Beijing meddling in Hong Kong’s politics and economic life, and trampling upon its freedoms, including freedom of the press, judicial freedom, academic freedom, and free elections. There would be corruption, nepotism, cronyism, and related plagues, brought in by the Mainland Chinese.”^[23] Fast forward to present-day Hong Kong, and observers consider many of Hsiung’s admittedly pessimistic concerns a harsh, inescapable reality. Such concerns, materialized in the implementation of the security law, will be discussed later against the backdrop of the volatility of “One Country, Two Systems.” Although the Basic Law outlined that Hong Kong’s legislative authority is independently derived from the Special Administrative Region, the CCP continues to inject itself into Hong Kong’s affairs. What once was a clear distinction between Beijing and Hong Kong’s roles in SAR governance is now a grey area. As seen in this paper’s analysis, several major events driven by both pro-China and pro-democracy forces are responsible for diametrically shifting the two systems model and jeopardizing Hong Kong’s autonomy, compelling China to counter this by implementing the security law. Key post-handover events up to the law’s implementation include: 

• February 2003: the Hong Kong Government attempts to implement the National Security Law pursuant to Article 23 of the Basic Law. 
• 2012: Hong Kong’s Education Bureau proposes the Moral and National Education Curriculum, with a significant pro-China perspective. 
• 2014: The Umbrella Movement in response to the National People’s Congress proposed electoral reforms. 
• 2019: The 2019 Hong Kong protests in response to the Fugitive Offenders Amendment Bill that would allow extradition to Mainland China. 

These events illustrate the central government’s growing frustration with the Hong Kong people’s resistance to the Hong Kong government. At the same time, the aftermath of each event, discussed in detail below, reveals Beijing’s growing distrust of the Hong Kong government’s ability to manage political resistance. 

February 2003: The Basic Law and Article 23

The first test of the vulnerability of “One Country, Two Systems” came in 2003 when Beijing made clear that establishing a national security law would be a top priority of the government of Hong Kong. Under Article 23 of the Basic Law, Hong Kong is duty-bound to establish its own national security law prohibiting acts of secession, sedition, subversion, and treason against the Chinese government.^[24] Thus, shortly after Tung Chee-Hwa’s appointment to a second term as chief executive, he announced Hong Kong would take up the issue of Article 23.^[25] Lawmakers first submitted draft legislation to the legislature in February 2003, with the government claiming the majority of the public supported the proposal. Research, however, suggests the contrary; independent scholars and data from the Hong Kong University’s Public Opinion Programme maintain most were against the proposed national security legislation.^[26]

Certain provisions of the proposed law, including the “police power to enter private premises to search without a court warrant” and “providing no public interest defense to protect press freedom in cases related to state secrets” gave impetus to sizable public opposition against the bill.^[27] Pro-democracy activists staged an unprecedented protest with an estimated turnout of 500,000 people.^[28] The Chinese government viewed the 2003 protest as a sign of betrayal and “that Hong Kong people’s hearts haven’t returned to the motherland.”^[29] Further, the protests severely diminished Tung’s authority, leaving him with no choice but to withdraw the legislation. The protests triggered for the first time the active involvement of pro-democracy forces in the elections for chief executive and the Legislative Council, as evidenced by the creation of the Civic Party and the stunning defeat of the pro-Beijing Democratic Alliance for the Betterment of Hong Kong party in the LegCo elections.^[30] Yeung Yiu-Chung, Lau Kong-wah, and Ip Kwok-him, key members of the Alliance, all lost their elections, and the party as a whole lost 144 out of 206 city-wide elections.^[31] The 2003 protest, combined with the emergence of pro-democracy political parties and candidates, altered for the first time Hong Kong’s political landscape and stirred fear within the Chinese government of the Hong Kong people’s capabilities. In response to these events, Beijing reacted with three key actions: 

• An increase in the presence in Hong Kong and capacity of the People’s Liberation Army and the Liaison Office.^[32]
• The abandonment of Beijing’s “non-interventionist” approach to Hong Kong’s political and legislative affairs.^[33]
• The establishment of the Hong Kong and Macao Affairs Work Coordination group.^[34]

All three actions paved the way for Beijing’s interference in Hong Kong’s political development. For example, China began to provide or withhold support for chief executive candidates publicly. In December 2004, Chinese President Hu Jintao criticized Tung in a meeting in Macau. When comparing Macao’s return to China with that of Hong Kong, Hu noted, “the officials must turn back and look over the past seven years and find out what has gone wrong.”^[35] Hu’s speech reflected Beijing’s view of Tung as a political liability stemming from the 2003 protest. In March 2005, Tung resigned on the grounds of ill health.^[36]

Furthermore, this marks for the first time the central government’s newfound ability to influence political parties. Through the Liaison Office, the central government can render support to pro-Beijing parties and candidates ahead of elections through trade unions and community organizations such as the Kowloon Federation of Associations and the New Territories Association of Societies. They can also campaign for the Democratic Alliance for the Betterment of Hong Kong party members. The events of 2003 and the subsequent reaction by the central government were early instances of Beijing exerting pressure on Hong Kong, calling into question the future of “One Country, Two Systems.” As Johannes Chan, former dean of the Hong Kong University’s Law School, notes, “The central government is not content with just having a veto power to disallow any political change, but wants full control to decide whether any change is proposed in the first place.”^[37]

April 2012: HKSARG Introduces the Moral and National Education Bill

Since the handover, the Hong Kong government fails to foster a Chinese national identity, spread Chinese values, and foster Chinese patriotism in the Hong Kong population. The latest available data from the Hong Kong University’s Public Opinion Programme reveals 27% of Hong Kongers identify as proud of becoming a national citizen of China, and just 11% identify as Chinese instead of Hong Kongese.^[38] The Chinese Communist Party believes the lack of Chinese patriotism can be traced to a lack of national pride in Hong Kong’s youth and thus called for reforms to Hong Kong’s education system. In the eyes of the central government, promoting a pro-China national education for Hong Kong’s youth is critical to diluting a Hong Kong identity devoid of “love for the motherland” and that emphasizes the “One Country” interpretation.^[39] As early as 2004, the Hong Kong government worked to incorporate a pro-China curriculum into local Hong Kong schools by establishing the National Education Center, which supports exchange programs to mainland China.^[40]

A pro-China educational curriculum garnered support from the upper echelons of the central government in 2006, earning endorsements from President Xi Jinping. On the handover’s 20th anniversary in 2017, Xi said of Hong Kong’s education: “Stepping up patriotic education of the young people” as well as “enhancing education and raising public awareness of the history and culture of the Chinese nation” are crucial to forging the next generation of pro-China Hong Kongers that embrace the Chinese motherland.^[41]

But it wasn’t until May 2011 that significant changes were proposed to Hong Kong’s educational curriculum. The Education Bureau proposed the Moral and National Education Curriculum, a reformed curriculum aimed at implementing a national education with Chinese characteristics. Key goals of the Moral and National Education Curriculum included developing a national identity and a commitment to the ideals of China. The bureau claims the education curriculum is “an essential element of whole-person education aimed  at fostering students’ positive values and attitudes through the school curriculum and the provision of diversified learning experiences.”^[42] However, the curriculum was widely criticized for its “brainwashing contents,” as evidenced by the deliberate omission of the 1989 Tiananmen protests and the CCP’s crackdown on political dissidents.^[43]

Further, the curriculum describes the party as “progressive, selfless, and united,” criticizes multiparty political systems, such as those of the U.S and the U.K., and is generally biased toward the “China Model.”^[44] In addition to national education, the Education Bureau dramatically increased funding to the mainland exchange program. The bureau spent HK $312 million (approximately USD 40 million) between 2012-2017 to send more than 30,000 students on exchange trips to mainland China.^[45] Such trips were part of a larger attempt to establish relations between students in Hong Kong and China and promote pro-China learnings. 

However, protests initiated by a group known as the Civil Alliance Against National Education supported by students, parents, and teacher unions erupted in the streets in July 2012. At one point, several individuals took part in a 10-day hunger strike.^[46] The Hong Kong government was left with no choice but to withdraw the bill, doing so officially on September 8, 2012. 

The central government felt, and continues to feel, a sense of urgency to cultivate a Chinese identity within the Hong Kong population with the looming expiration of “One Country, Two Systems” in 2047. The reintegration of Hong Kong into China will be subject to resistance if Hong Kongers continue to feel their identity is distinct from their mainland counterparts. However, if the CCP can transform Hong Kong’s youth to support the motherland successfully, China’s continued meddling in Hong Kong’s affairs will likely be less opposed. Thus, the central government feels it is crucial to inspire a nationalistic, pro-China ideology within Hong Kong’s youth. 

July 2014: Occupy Central with Love and Peace

In 2014, the Chinese government’s Information Office released “The Practice of the ‘One Country, Two Systems’ Policy in the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region,” a white paper alleging the central government maintains “comprehensive jurisdiction” and has the “plenary power to govern Hong Kong.”^[47] According to the paper, “the high degree of autonomy of the HKSAR is not full autonomy, nor a decentralized power,” but rather  “the power to run local affairs as authorized by the central leadership.”^[48]

Some criticized the white paper as proof of Beijing reneging on her promises to abide by the “One Country, Two Systems” principle, as well as the broader violation of the Sino-Joint British Declaration. According to Alan Leong Kah-kit, chairman of the pro-democracy Civic Party, China’s white paper “is rewriting ‘One Country, Two Systems’ for us” and “redefines what a high degree of autonomy is, and even goes so far as to suggest that our court should be manned by judges who have this political perspective to maintain the prosperity of not only Hong Kong but the country.”^[49]Michael DeGolyer, political economist and fellow at Hong Kong’s Civic Exchange think tank, echoed Leong’s concerns. DeGloyer contends since “the report was released in seven different languages at the same time … this is clearly a document meant to make a case internationally to lay out a legal basis for action by the central government.”^[50] From Beijing’s perspective, the white paper gives China a legal mandate to deploy the People’s Liberation Army in Hong Kong in the event pro-democracy protests and riots spin out of control. However, such action, which as of this writing has not materialized, would be both unprecedented and extremely consequential. Shortly after the white paper’s release, a survey by the Hong Kong University’s Public Opinion Programme revealed that for the first time since the handover, more than half of Hong Kongers lacked confidence in “One Country, Two Systems.”^[51]

After the central government published the white paper on the issue of the system in Hong Kong, the National People’s Congress issued the “31 August Decision,” viewed by observers as another example of Beijing’s staunch stance against pro-democracy forces. The Basic Law stipulates the chief executive and Legislative Council members are elected by universal suffrage as the “ultimate aim.”^[52] Additionally, the Basic Law stipulates the chief executive’s selection method shall be based “in light of the actual situation.”^[53]  However, the 31 August Decision unveiled a number of measures reforming the chief executive and Legislative Council elective process, known as LegCo. Notably, candidates for the chief executive position would now need approval from the Election Committee, Hong Kong’s de-facto electoral college composed primarily of pro-Beijing loyalists appointed by the central government. Further, chief executive candidates would now be required to “love the country (China) and love Hong Kong.”^[54] Critics, such as the Democratic Party and Occupy Central with Love and Peace movement, saw the 31 August Decision as a way for the central government and the Hong Kong authorities to stamp out opposition candidates from running for office. 

The 31 August Decision, coupled with the white paper, set in motion a series of protests and pro-democracy activism collectively known as Occupy Central. This movement, led by legal scholar Benny Tai, was guided by three principles: “that the electoral system of Hong Kong must satisfy international standards in relation to universal suffrage; that the electoral reform proposal should be decided by means of a democratic process; and that any act of civil disobedience, though illegal, must be ‘absolutely non-violent.’”^[55] Occupy Central changed the course of “One Country, Two Systems” and the relationship between Beijing and the Hong Kong government in two key ways. First, Occupy Central saw the formation of radicalized activism in the form of violence for the first time. This was in sharp contrast to most previous post-handover protests that were peaceful, including university students boycotting classes and organized sit-ins at major metropolitan venues. It is worth noting here that organizers of Occupy Central emphasized an “absolute non-violence” approach to the series of protests and sit-ins.^[56] Participants had to swear allegiance to an oath promising not to resort to violence or resist law enforcement operations. Despite this, small factions of protestors clashed with police forces, resulting in the use of pepper spray, tear gas, and rubber bullets. Second, the collectivized manpower of protestors and activists that kept the Hong Kong government and Hong Kong Police Force at bay for over two months revealed to Beijing that perhaps the Hong Kong government was incapable of handling the pro-democracy movement. 

Feeling pressure from Beijing, who demonstrated its willingness to intervene in any threats to sovereignty, the Hong Kong government began cracking down on pro-democracy activism by disqualifying numerous LegCo candidates as well as outlawing pro-democracy and pro-independence political parties.^[57] Altogether, the government responses to Occupy Central movement “bears some similarity to the widespread use of legalism in many authoritarian regimes where governments have sought to use the law to ‘suppress dissent in almost all forms while maintaining legal and political credibility.’”^[58] “One Country, Two Systems” intended for Hong Kong and mainland China to coexist despite their differences. Yet, the Hong Kong government exploiting its constitutional powers to suppress and intimidate political dissidents reflects the inevitable intertwinement of Hong Kong and China’s rule of law issue.

March 2019 — November 2020: Anti-Extradition Law Protests

On February 12, 2019, the government of Hong Kong announced its intentions to amend what is known as the Fugitive Offenders Ordinance, marking the final straw in Beijing’s tolerance of Hong Kong’s resistance to Chinese sovereignty. The proposed amendments to the ordinance would establish bilateral extradition agreements between mainland China, Macau, Taiwan, and Hong Kong.^[59] Although a 2018 murder case in Taiwan sparked the proposed amendments, many observers were quick to express deep concerns over the Hong Kong government’s newfound potential to extradite individuals to Mainland China. In response, the Civil Human Rights Front organized a series of “anti-extradition” protests, known as the Anti-Extradition Law Amendment Bill protests. On June 9, an overwhelming one million Hong Kongers took part in the anti-extradition bill protest.^[60] Despite Chief Executive Carrie Lam suspending the proposed amendments to the Fugitive Offenders Ordinance, democracy activists were still not satisfied. Over the next several months, what began as a series of protests motivated by policy change grew into city-wide uprisings. The CCP and Xi were quick to denounce the city-wide demonstrations and riots, with Xi stating that “stopping violence and controlling chaos while restoring order is currently Hong Kong’s most urgent task” during the 2019 Brazil, Russia, India, China, and South Africa Conference.^[61]  

It is important to note numerous acts the security law would eventually criminalize originated during the anti-extradition protests. For example, authorities deem political mantras protestors chant, such as “Liberate Hong Kong! Revolution of our time,” a threat to Hong Kong’s national security. In the first trial verdict handed down under the law, Tong Ying-kit, a 24-year-old protestor, was found guilty during a juryless trial for inciting secession and committing terrorism for riding a motorcycle into a group of police officers. Tong carried a flag on his motorcycle with the “Liberate Hong Kong” slogan. According to Esther Toh, one of the three judges appointed by Chief Executive Carrie Lam to preside over the trial, the phrase was “capable of inciting others to commit secession.”^[62]

However, Hong Kong Law Fellow Eric Lai of the Georgetown Center for Asian Law suggests such interpretation creates a chilling precedent for other national security cases. “Prosecutors and judges can now take advantage of this verdict to justify charges of promoting seditious speech against citizens and activists who merely chanted or held flags bearing the same slogan,” he says.^[63] As of this writing, Tong is the only person convicted of a crime under the National Security Law. Separately, however, police arrested hundreds of other activists, protestors, and politicians. Some have been denied bail, and others have fled into exile in other countries. 

The anti-extradition protests marked a critical juncture in Beijing’s no-nonsense approach to the issue of Hong Kong. The violence and unrest that took place over several months were unlike anything post-handover Hong Kong had experienced. At one point, a protest saw over two million Hong Kongers (out of 7.5 million) participating.^[64] In the subsequent weeks, multiple protestors were shot with live ammunition, and a pro-Beijing lawmaker was stabbed on a street. On July 1, 2020, protestors stormed the LegCo Complex and issued a manifesto listing five demands from the government, including the withdrawal of the Fugitive Offenders Ordinance, an investigation into police misconduct, and universal suffrage.^[65] Ensuing protests, such as the July 6 and 7 protests in the Tuen Mun and Kowloon districts, saw the continued escalation of police violence. Many protestors “had a youthful profile” and thus, multiple universities were transformed into de-facto bases for protestors, who manufactured and stored gasoline bombs, bows and arrows, and other weapons there.^[66] By September 2020, public trust in the government of Hong Kong plummeted from 4.16 to 2.87 on a 0-to-10 scale, according to a survey by the Centre for Communication and Public Opinion. Furthermore, only 41.3% of Hong Kongers were confident in ‘One Country, Two Systems,” an all-time low, the semiannual Hong Kong University’s Public Opinion Programme revealed.^[67] From Beijing’s point of view, the government of Hong Kong was incapable of handling protests, riots, and civil unrest internally. The response? A national security law enabling Beijing to directly manage Hong Kong’s national security apparatus and oppose threats to the reintegration of Hong Kong and China. 

Part Two: The National Security Law and “One Country, Two Systems”

After implementing the National Security Law, Hong Kong’s national security framework has two distinguishing features worthy of analysis. First, Hong Kong’s national security places virtually every aspect of political, economic, and socio-cultural way of life under the eyes of Beijing. The ambiguous and wide-ranging language of the law provides Hong Kong authorities with broad authority to arrest individuals exercising rights of expression and assembly under the guise of a legitimate threat to national security.^[68] Secondly, the source of authority directing and enforcing Hong Kong’s national security apparatus comes from the CCP. To China’s totalitarian and communist rule that has repeatedly demonstrated an unwillingness to entertain challenges to its authority, even the slightest sliver of resistance can be portrayed as subversion, separatism, or even terrorism. Consequently, many individuals arrested under the law have been targeted for non-violent acts of political expression.^[69] Together, Beijing and the Hong Kong government’s use of the law symbolizes the final nail in the coffin of Hong Kong’s autonomy. 

No longer does Beijing’s meddling need to occur behind the scenes. With the security law, Beijing has the legal mandate to preserve and defend its interpretation of “One Country, Two Systems” through methods previously considered illegal and a gross violation of the Sino-British Joint Declaration. This section takes a closer look at the implementation of the law and the types of crime the Committee for Safeguarding National Security and the Office for Safeguarding National Security target. Additionally, this paper analyzes whether the individuals arrested under the law’s four provisions — secession, subversion, terrorism, and collusion with foreign forces — pose a threat to Hong Kong’s national security. 

Putting aside the security law’s promulgation method, the contents of the law pose a constitutional conundrum on the source of Hong Kong’s legislative authority. The Basic Law’s Article 17 stipulates the source of legislative power in Hong Kong is derived from the Hong Kong government, not Beijing.^[70] Further, Article 66 clarifies Hong Kong’s legislature is the Legislative Council, not Beijing’s Standing Committee of the Communist Party or the National People’s Political Consultative Conference.^[71] And yet, it was the Standing Committee—China’s highest ruling body—that directly implemented the security law, bypassing Hong Kong’s Legislative Council. That said, the Basic Law allows the application of specific Mainland Chinese laws if they are listed in Annex III of the Basic Law and “confined to those relating to defense and foreign affairs as well as other matters outside the limits of the autonomy of the Region.”^[72] Plus, Article 159 contains a series of conditions to amend the Basic Law. But a closer examination of the vast majority of individuals targeted or arrested under the law reveals they do not pose a risk to national security when assessed through the lenses of other legal jurisdictions that value democratic ideals and thus do not jeopardize Hong Kong’s ideological independence and democratic autonomy.^[73] In fact, Annex III only covers laws about ceremonial matters such as flag displaying or matters concerning defense from foreign adversaries.^[74] Thus, observers like Michael Davis, author of Making Hong Kong China, argue “the national security law cannot override the Basic Law, as the Basic Law is the stipulated requirement of an international treaty, the Sino-British Joint Declaration.”^[75] The Hong Kong and Beijing governments asserted the security law would be applied only to severe cases, but that has not been the case. Davis describes the law as “a textbook authoritarian crackdown of the type Asian people too often have seen in other parts of the region.”^[76]

Key provisions of the National Security Law include:^[77]

• New criminal provisions targeting the crimes of secession, subversion, terrorism, and collusion with foreign forces. 
• The establishment of Hong Kong’s own National Security Committee supervised by the central government. 
• The creation of Beijing’s own national security office in Hong Kong. As of this writing, two hotels have been converted into such offices. 
• The provision that Hong Kong’s chief executive nominates judges to serve on national security cases.
• The provision that national security trials be held in secret without juries.

 The fluid definition of national security in the context of Hong Kong’s status as a city-state has proven to be a point of tension between Hong Kong and Beijing. Counterterrorism and the preservation of national security are operational priorities for the Hong Kong government and the Hong Kong Police Force. In 2018, the force established the Inter-Departmental Counter Terrorism Unit, a joint task force comprised of members from the Immigration Department, Customs and Excise Department, Correctional Services Department, Fire Services Department, and Government Flying Service.^[78] The unit monitors global terrorism and counterterrorism trends to enhance Hong Kong’s counterterrorism strategy and deployment methods. The unit also supports the Police Counterterrorism Response Unit, assisting Hong Kong’s 18 districts with the execution of counterterrorism strategy. After the implementation of the security law, authorities established two new departments: the aforementioned Office for Safeguarding National Security and the Committee for Safeguarding National Security.^[79] It would be one thing if the committees focused on genuine national security threats, such as foreign intelligence operations or radical guerilla movements. However, in the thirteen months since the security law went into effect, the vast majority of individuals have been arrested for “peaceful acts of expression, association, and assembly.”^[80]

As of this writing, the police force’s National Security Department arrested 145 individuals. Of the 145 arrests, only four cases would “adhere to internationally-accepted standards for national security prosecutions.”^[81] In the four cases, the individuals belonging to the pro-independence group “Returning Valiant” were alleged to have collaborated in a city-wide bomb plot. The individuals were found to have built makeshift laboratories containing triacetone triperoxide — a key ingredient in explosives.^[82] However, many of the remaining cases are acts of peaceful expression and assembly, signifying what could be the downfall of opposition or pro-democracy movements. One activist said that after the security law’s implementation, the crackdown on protestors and frontline journalists increased, causing a sharp decline in public protests against the Hong Kong government and Beijing. “I didn’t want to risk anything …It [the security law] made me feel really numb,” said the activist.^[83]

Despite this, proponents of the security law maintain the law only targets threats to national security and Hong Kong’s sovereignty. Bernie Chan, a former Hong Kong deputy to the National People’s Congress and Non-official Convener of Hong Kong’s Executive Council, says the “red lines are clear” and there should be no question “you cannot break the law of the constitution of both Hong Kong and China.”^[84] When asked about the 53 individuals arrested in January 2021 for participating in and organizing pro-democracy primaries, Chan noted, “it’s only illegal when you actually organize activities … You actually follow through with actions and then you are deemed to be illegal.”^[85]

 And though this may be the case, the event the 53 individuals participated in was a pro-democracy primary aimed at increasing the chance of pro-democracy parties holding the majority of seats in the Legislative Council. Chief Executive Carrie Lam said of the voting: “If this so-called primary election’s purpose is to achieve the ultimate goal of delivering what they called ‘35+’ (lawmakers), with the objective of objecting or resisting every policy initiative of the HKSAR government, it may fall into the category of subverting the state power – one of the four types of offences under the national security law.”^[86] The primary received more than 600,000 votes, the largest primary turnout since the handover.^[87] The ballot’s organizer, Benny Tai, dismissed the Hong Kong government’s threats, making the case that collaborative actions by pro-democracy candidates in the Legislative Council were squarely within the powers listed in the Basic Law. “How can a power that is recognized by the Basic Law be breaching the national security law?” Tai said after the July 2020 vote.^[88]

The security law’s effect on “One Country, Two Systems” is increasingly apparent over the past 13 months. Sonny Lo, political scientist and Co-Director of the Education University of Hong Kong’s Centre for Governance and Citizenship, admits the system is now “tilted towards (a) one country emphasis.”^[89] At the core of this argument is the fact that several facets of the security law appear to violate the Sino-British Joint Declaration, namely Article 22 in the Basic Law and the erosion of an independent judicial branch. Article 22 reads, “no department of the Central People’s Government and no province, autonomous region, or municipality directly under the Central Government may interfere in the affairs which the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region administers on its own.”^[90] If the Chinese government needs to set up their own offices in Hong Kong, “they must obtain the consent of the government of the Region and the approval of the Central People’s Government.” Such consent, it appears, was never obtained. Both the Legislative Council and Carrie Lam had no say over the decisions made by the National People’s Congress. 

Beyond a slant towards the “One Country” aspect, the law “totally restructured the nature of two systems,” David Zweig, Professor and Director of the Center on China’s Transnational Relations at the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology, said in an interview.^[91] While certain aspects of the “Two Systems” remain, including a portion of Legislative Council seats voted directly by the Hong Kong people, the law as whole permits the movement towards “One Country.”^[92] The security law also poses a threat to Hong Kong’s independent judiciary. Thomas Kellogg of the Center for Asian Law at Georgetown University identifies three ways the law chips away at judicial independence in Hong Kong. First, the law establishes certain cases can be extradited to mainland China. Articles 55 and 56 of the National Security Law state national security cases deemed “complex” and/or “serious” are grounds for relocation from Hong Kong to China.^[93] Kellogg notes, “Article 55 carries with it an implicit threat: deliver verdicts that are satisfactory to Beijing, or the Communist Party will simply use Article 55 to take matters into its own hands.”^[94] Second, the practice of judicial review—which has been openly practiced in post-handover Hong Kong—is at risk. Article 14 makes clear that “(d)ecisions made by the Committee [for Safeguarding National Security] shall not be amenable to judicial review.”^[95]Critics of the law raise concerns that Hong Kong’s legal system cannot truly be a common law system without judicial review. Last, the Hong Kong government took advantage of the security law’s loose definition of what constitutes a crime to target speech-based actions. Kellogg notes Hong Kong’s judiciary is charged with either abandoning “the judiciary’s role as the key enforcer of the basic rights provisions in Hong Kong’s Basic Law, or face a possible high-profile clash with Beijing, one that could carry significant negative consequences for the rule of law in Hong Kong.”^[96] Despite Beijing showcasing the security law as targeting a small faction of violent extremists, it’s worth noting most of Hong Kong’s population supports the pro-democracy movement.^[97] In addition, 60% of Hong Kongers are opposed to the security law, and 63% of Hong Kongers support universal suffrage independent from Beijing.^[98] With the rule of law and the freedoms of expression and assembly eroding with the security law’s implementation,  “One Country, Two Systems” shifted to emphasizing the “One Country” aspect. “[A] shift back to two systems will likely happen when Xi Jinping steps down and paves the way for a successor,” says Lo.^[99]

Conclusion

 The unique and complex framework that comes with “One Country, Two Systems” makes it challenging to assess the policy’s fate once it expires in 2047. No other system of governance—in the past or at present—provides appropriate comparison or precedence. That said, the events that have unfolded since the handover, particularly the anti-extradition protests, reveal the fragility of a system where the Hong Kong government ultimately concedes to Beijing’s authority. Observers frequently describe “One Country, Two Systems” on a continuum with one end of the spectrum reflecting a fully autonomous Hong Kong society as defined in the Basic Law and the other end being Beijing introducing mainland politics into Hong Kong. As has been articulated in this paper, key events since the handover diametrically shifted the “One Country, Two Systems” framework, peaking with the implementation of the National Security Law. 

The security law’s broad language targets acts of secession, subversion, terrorism, and collusion with foreign forces, but the makeup of the arrestees reveals the law instead primarily targets acts of political expression and assembly. As a result, the governments of Hong Kong and China face significantly fewer challenges in the form of protests and riots, with many activists turning to self-censorship out of fear of arrest. Certainly, some of the individuals arrested under the law pose a threat to national security, but the vast majority do not. As a result, it is difficult to make the case that chanting pro-independence slogans, organizing or participating in democratic primary elections, and providing support to advocacy groups abroad pose a challenge to Hong Kong’s sovereignty.            If Beijing maintains the belief that the future of Hong Kong requires mainland characteristics, it is not unreasonable to question the cost. Multiple foreign governments, including the United States, Canada, Great Britain, and Australia, condemned both the Hong Kong government and the CCP for implementing the security law and subduing political opponents. Additionally, many Hong Kongers resorted to relocating abroad, taking advantage of policies offered by foreign governments paving paths toward citizenship. One example is over 30,000 Hong Kong residents signing up for Great Britain’s British National Overseas Visa scheme.^[100] According to the Census and Statistics Department, between June 2020 and June 2021, 89,200 residents left Hong Kong, marking the biggest decrease in Hong Kong’s population in over sixty years.^[101] Although the COVID-19 pandemic resulted in a decline in the number of foreign domestic workers, it is no coincidence the population decline coincides with the security law and opportunities for Hong Kongers to pursue a life abroad.^[102] The future of Hong Kong and “One Country, Two Systems” may be tenuous, but one thing is for sure: Beijing has demonstrated a willingness to use its powers to quash threats to its sovereignty.

^[1] “Official Publication: Sino-British Joint Declaration on the Question of Hong Kong,” Loyola of Los Angeles International and Comparative Law Review 7 (January 1, 1984): 139–64. 

^[2] Ibid.

^[3] Han Zhu, “Beijing’s ‘Rule of Law’ Strategy for Governing Hong Kong: Legalisation without Democratisation,” China Perspectives 116, no. 1 (2019): 23-34.

^[4] Antony Dapiran,  Jane Golley, Linda Jaivin, and Sharon Strange, Hong Kong’s National Security Law (Canberra, AU: ANU Press, 2021), 59–66.

^[5] Ibid.

^[6] Ibid.

^[7] Sonny Shiu-Hing Lo, “The Consequences of China’s ‘Comprehensive Jurisdiction’ over Hong Kong,” Asialink, July 8, 2021.

^[8] Susan V. Lawrence and Michael F Martin, “China’s National Security Law for Hong Kong: Issues for Congress,” Congressional Research Service, August 3, 2020. 

^[9] Ibid.

^[10] Ibid. 

^[11] Ibid.

^[12] Ibid.

^[13] Ibid.

^[14] Ibid.

^[15] Ibid.

^[16] Chien-Min Chao,  “’One Country, Two Systems’: A Theoretical Analysis,” Asian Affairs 14, no. 2 (1987): 107–24. 

^[17] “Communique of the Third Plenary Session of the 11th Central Committee of the Communist Party of China,” Peking Review 52 (December 29, 1978). 

^[18] People’s Daily, September 30, 1981. 

^[19] China Internet Information Center, “Ye Jianying on Taiwan’s Return to Motherland and Peaceful Reunification,” last modified September 30, 1981.

^[20] Da-yeh Wei,  “The Formation and Development of ‘One Country Two Systems’,” Wen Wei Po, December 20, 1984.

^[21] John M Carroll,  A Concise History of Hong Kong (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 2007). 

^[22] Cindy Chu Yik-yi,  “Overt and Covert Functions of the Hong Kong Branch of the Xinhua News Agency,” in Chinese Communists and Hong Kong Capitalists (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), 41-57.

^[23] Ibid. 

^[24] Benjamin Lotz, “Article 23 of the Hong Kong Basic Law: Whiter Media Freedom?,” Verfassung in Recht und Übersee 45, no. 1 (2012): 56–71.

^[25] Christine Loh, “Hong Kong’s Relations with China: The Future of ‘One Country, Two Systems’,” Social Research 73, no. 1 (2006). 

^[26] “Summary of Findings,” – 港大民研 HKUPOP, June 2003. 

^[27] Ibid. 

^[28] Ibid.

^[29] Vivienne Chow, “China and Hong Kong: ‘One Country above All’,” The Interpreter, July 5, 2017. 

^[30] Ibid.

^[31] Bruce Kam-kwan Kwong, Patron-Client Politics and Elections in Hong Kong (Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2010). 

^[32] Ibid.

^[33] Ibid.

^[34] Ibid.

^[35] Alexandra Harney and Justine Lau, “Hu Publicly Criticises HK’s Leadership,” Financial Times, December 20, 

2004.

^[36] “Tung Chee-Hwa Resigns as HK Chief Executive,” China Daily, updated March 11, 2005. 

^[37] Hongyi Chen and Johannes Chan, Constitutionalism in Asia in the Early Twenty-First Century (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2015).

^[38] “Identity Indices of Hong Kong People,” Public Opinion Programme, University of Hong Kong, last modified June 27, 2019. 

^[39] Tracy Lau,  “State Formation and Education in Hong Kong,” Asian Survey 53, no. 4 (2013): 728–53. 

^[40] Ibid.

^[41] “Full Text: Xi’s Speech at meeting marking HK’s 20th return anniversary, Inaugural Ceremony Of 5th-term HKSAR GOV’T,” Xinhua, November 4, 2017.

^[42] “Values Education (MORAL, Civic and National Education),” Edb.gov.hk, last modified February 25, 2021.

^[43] Te-Ping Chen, “Protest over ‘Brainwashing’ Schools,” The Wall Street Journal, September 2, 2012. 

^[44]Fen Lin and Sixian Lin, “Why Framing National Identity Fails: A Case Study of the Anti-Moral and National 

Education Movement in Hong Kong,” SSRN Electronic Journal (2017). 

^[45]Ellie Ng, “HK$310m Spent over Past 5 Years on Exchange Tours to Mainland China for Hong Kong Students,” 

Hong Kong Free Press HKFP, March 31, 2020. 

^[46]Stuart Lau, Amy Nip, and Adrian Wan, “Protest against National Education to End after Government 

Climbdown,” South China Morning Post, September 9, 2012. 

^[47]“The Practice of the ‘One Country Two Systems’ Policy in the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region,” Information Office of the State Council of the People’s Republic of China, China Internet Information Center, last modified July 10, 2014. 

^[48] Ibid. 

^[49] Alan Wong,  “Beijing’s ‘White Paper’ Sets Off a Firestorm in Hong Kong,” The New York Times, June 11, 2014. 

^[50] Ibid.

^[51] “People’s Confidence in “One Country, Two Systems’,” Public Opinion Programme, Hong Kong University, accessed August 5, 2021.

^[52] Basic Law, art. 45 and Annex I.

^[53] Ibid. 

^[54] Greg Torode and Marius Zaharia, “What Is Love? Beijing Desires Unconditional Loyalty from Hong Kong,” Thomson Reuters, February 27, 2021. 

^[55] “Manifesto,” Occupy Central with Love and Peace, accessed August 29, 2021.

^[56] Karita Kan, “Occupy Central and Constitutional Reform in Hong Kong,” China Perspectives, no. 3 (2013): 

73–78.

^[57] Emily Tsang and Elizabeth Cheung, “Hong Kong National Party Convenor Disqualified from Running in Legislative Council Polls,” South China Morning Post, October 3, 2018. 

^[58] Ibid.

^[59] “Legal Service Division Report on Fugitive Offenders and Mutual Legal Assistance in Criminal Matters Legislation (Amendment) Bill 2019,”Legislative Council, April 12, 2019.

^[60] “Hong Kong Protest: ‘Nearly Two Million Join Demonstration,” BBC News, June 17, 2019. 

^[61] “China’s Xi: HK Violence Threatens ‘One Country, Two Systems’,” Al Jazeera, November 14, 2019. 

^[62] Kelly Ho, “Activist Tong Ying-Kit Found Guilty in Hong Kong’s First National Security Trial,” Hong Kong Free 

Press HKFP, July 27, 2021. 

^[63] Theodora Yu,  “Liberate Hong Kong? Time’s up for That Slogan, Court Rules in First Security Law 

Trial,” The Washington Post, July 27, 2021. 

^[64] Ibid.

^[65] Vivian Kam, “Hong Kong Unrest Hits 6-Month Milestone, Protesters’ Demands See Little Response from Government,” CNBC, December 9, 2019. 

^[66] Francis L.F Lee, Samson Yuen, Gary Tang, and Edmund Cheng, “Hong Kong’s Summer of Uprising: From Anti-Extradition to Anti-Authoritarian Protests,” The China Review 19, no. 4 (November 2019). 

^[67] Ibid.

^[68] Lydia Wong and Thomas E Kellogg, Hong Kong’s National Security Law: A Human Rights and Rule of Law Analysis (Washington, D.C.: Georgetown Law School Center for Asian Law, 2021). 

^[69] Ibid.

^[70] Ibid.

^[71] Ibid.

^[72] Shangkun Yang, “The Basic Law of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region of the People’s Republic of 

China,” April 4, 1990. 

^[73] Ibid.

^[74] Ibid.

^[75] Michael Davis, “6,” in Making Hong Kong China: The Rollback of Human Rights and the Rule of Law (Ann Arbor: Association for Asian Studies, 2020).

^[76] Ibid. 

^[77] “Hong Kong National Security Law: Read the Full Text,” South China Morning Post, July 24, 2020.

^[78] “Inter-Departmental Counter-Terrorism Unit,” Inter-departmental Counter-terrorism Unit, Hong Kong Police Force, accessed August 24, 2021. 

^[79] “Hong Kong National Security Law Promulgated, Came into Effect June 30, 2020,” Morrison & Foerster, last updated July 1, 2020.

^[80] Ibid. 

^[81] Lydia Wong and Thomas Kellogg, “New Data Show Hong Kong’s National Security Arrests Follow a Pattern,” 

China File, August 23, 2021. 

^[82] Clifford Lo and Victor Ting, “Hong Kong National Security Law: 3 Teenagers among 5 Arrested on 

Suspicion of Terrorism Offences,” South China Morning Post, n.d. 

^[83] Author interview.

^[84] Author interview.

^[85] Author interview.

^[86] Helen Davidson, “Hong Kong Primaries: China Declares pro-Democracy Polls ‘Illegal’,” The Guardian, July 14, 2020. 

^[87] Natalie Lung, “600,000 Hongkongers Voted in Unofficial Primary Election,” Time, July 13, 2020.

^[88] Ibid.

^[89]Author interview.

^[90] China: The Basic Law of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region of the People’s Republic of China (Hong Kong: Joint Publishing, 1991).

^[91] Author interview.

^[92] Ibid. 

^[93] Ibid.

^[94] Ibid. 

^[95] Ibid.

^[96] Ibid.

^[97] “Exclusive: HK Survey Shows Increasing Majority Back Pro-Democracy Goals, Smaller Support for 

Protest Movement,” Thomson Reuters, August 30, 2020. 

^[98] Ibid.

^[99] Author interview.

^[100] Phila Siu and Laura Westbrook, “More than 34,000 Hong Kongers Apply for BN(O) Visa Scheme in Its First 2 Months,” South China Morning Post, May 28, 2021. 

^[101] Vanessa Gu, “Almost 90,000 People Left Hong Kong in the Past Year. It Marks the City’s Biggest 

Population Decrease in 60 Years,” Insider, August 13, 2021. 

^[102] Ibid. 

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Abstract

It is often believed that Iran’s Islamic Republic and the State of Israel became estranged after Ayatollah Khomeini arose to power during the Islamic Revolution in 1979, but records show key figures in each government felt maintaining a secret relationship would be in the interest of both parties. As a result, millions of dollars’ worth of trade between Iran and Israel continued after the fall of the Shah and during Khomeini’s regime–– even though  Iran publicly denied Israel’s very existence. I argue the Islamic Republic’s decision to preserve secret ties with Israel after the revolution was a move to bolster regime security and counter international security threats coming from Iraq in the lead up to, and during, the Iran-Iraq war.

 I. Introduction

Why did the Islamic Republic continue clandestine cooperation with Israel? The question is puzzling because the revolution that put the Islamic Republic in power diametrically opposed all the Shah’s policies–including the monarchy’s covert relationship with Israel. The animosity between the two countries following the revolution in 1979 has been both fervent and public, with hostilities enduring to this day. The most prominent face of the Revolution, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, stated in an interview at the beginning of his tenure that his Islamic Republic would “break off relations with Israel because [it did not] believe there is any legal justification for its existence. Palestine belongs to the Islamic space and must be returned to the Muslims.”^[1] Furthermore, the Ayatollah’s condemnation of Israel as the “Little Satan” (only second to the United States which was dubbed the “Great Satan”) followed a larger narrative which Khomeini capitalized upon during the Iran-Iraq War after assuming power. 

In early 1980, Saddam Hussein and his army invaded Iran and a bloody eight-year war ensued. The devastating war ended in a stalemate and an estimated one to two million casualties. It is important to understand that in the 1970s, prior to the Revolution, Iran had a remarkably strong military backed by the West and funded by oil wealth. Simultaneously, Iraq in the hands of Saddam Hussein’s Ba’ath party was also rising in the ranks. This balance of power shifted once the Ayatollah came to power in 1979 and Khomeinists purged the Shah’s army out of fear and distrust. Iraq recognized this and decided to attack its historical foe less than a year after the revolution took place. In an attempt to galvanize troops, Iranian leadership during the war period promised soldiers and soon-to-be martyrs the next stop after “conquering Baghdad” would be the “liberation of Jerusalem.”^[2] Ironically, however, the peak of clandestine Iran-Israel relations was during this time period. 

Taking a closer look at the events of this period, though, it’s not as hard to believe why Khomeini decided to maintain covert ties with Israel. As Sohrab Sobhani puts it, the Shah’s departure left Khomeini to inherit the world’s sixth largest army, $26 billion in foreign reserves, an oil industry producing $105 million a day, and the Shah’s legacy of close relations with Israel.^[3]  All were gladly accepted by the new regime except for friendly relations with Israel—at least publicly. As far as the world was aware, the new Islamic Republic’s feelings about Israel were evident in its decision to redirect the Shah’s Israeli mission to the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO), which was actively fighting the existence of Israel. 

II. Roadmap

I begin by providing a capsulized background of Iran-Israel relations since 1948. After laying down this historical foundation, I briefly compare Iran’s foreign policy pre-revolution (1948-1978) and post-revolution (1979-present). 

Once I outline the history, I move on to reviewing the literature surrounding Iran-Israel clandestine cooperation since 1948, with a particular focus on why it continued into the years 1979-1989. I divide the literature into three separate groups: 1. International Security, 2. Domestic Pressure, and 3. Individual and Ideological Aspirations. After providing an overview of the literature at hand, I ultimately argue international security threats were the main motivator for the Islamic Republic’s policy towards Israel. The second group of literature emphasizes the importance of Iranian domestic politics and its influence on foreign ties but falls short due to its underestimation of Khomeini’s desire to uphold the Islamic regime at all costs. The final group looks at the Shah and Khomeini as individuals, assessing their leadership and analyzing their personal vision for Iran. Looking at the puzzle through an individual lens helps gain insight into how these two leaders differed from one another, but ultimately, the logic of this argument fails to explain why exactly Khomeini would sustain the policies of a man he so detested.

After reviewing the literature, I present my argument, which states the decision to continue clandestine cooperation with Israel after the revolution was a choice of pragmatism over revolutionary ideology and was induced by the Iran-Iraq War. To expand on my argument, I split up this section into two subsections. The first, “Collaborating with the ‘Little Satan’,” examines Khomeini’s tacit continuation of the Shah’s pragmatic foreign policy. The second subsection, “The Lesser of Three Evils,” focuses on how the Iran-Iraq War proliferated Iran-Israel clandestine cooperation, and why the relationship dwindled almost immediately afterward. This section also illustrates how Cold War politics played into Tehran’s decision to continue cooperation with Israel.

I then use two separate case studies of international clandestine cooperation: Israel-Saudi Arabia and Israel-Azerbaijan to help contextualize and explain why enemies collaborate in international relations. Next, I compare the two cases and illustrate their relation to Iran-Israel relations from 1948-1989. I finish this section by presenting and critiquing common arguments that muddle the puzzle at hand. The first is that the Islamic Republic’s foreign policy is guided primarily by ideology, and the second is the idea that Khomeini was merely a hypocrite. Both arguments are unsatisfying, and my goal is to unveil the complexity of the matter instead of generalizing a country’s policy based on its outward demeanor.   

I conclude the paper with a summary of key points discussed in each section and additional takeaways. I address counter-arguments, including the minimal focus placed here on the influence of the United States, the Soviet Union, and other external powers. Finally, I suggest potential areas for future research to hopefully connect the lessons learned during the initial years of the Islamic Republic and Israel’s relationship to the current one—providing a new perspective to what seems like a doomed relationship. Can Iran and Israel return to a pragmatic alliance in the future? What needs to happen for this to occur? 

II. Literature Review

Iran—up until the Islamic revolution in 1979—was a major rising power in the region. With this growth came an amassing influence that the Shah and other prominent figures in Iran had to manage effectively to avoid collapse. Interestingly, even with the Shah’s outward affinity for Western powers like the United States, the country favored secrecy when it came to Israel. Ayatollah Khomeini, the Shah’s arch nemesis, continued the late monarch’s covert cooperation with Israel even when all other policies were shunned—but why?

Intelligence expert Len Scott describes the advantage of secret alliances as the increased deniability of clandestine diplomacy, which adds to its value as a tool used by adversaries that would face criticism for engaging in a traditional alliance.^[4] Moreover, clandestine diplomacy assumes a willingness to talk with an adversary, even if these talks never amount to formal negotiations.^[5] With virtually the entire Arab world opposed to Israel’s existence, Iran seemed like one of the only plausible options Israel had for a regional companion. Iran, on the other hand, knew an overt alliance with a country they denied the existence of would tarnish its reputation among its Arab neighbors and compromise regime security. 

The existing literature can be categorized into roughly three groups of explanations for the secret relationship that emerged out of this situation. The first group focuses on the international implications of the Islamic regime publicizing their cooperation with Israel. Within this group, some view Khomeini’s vocal championing of Palestinian self-determination as a natural hindrance to any public cooperation with Israel, while others claim that the backdrop of Cold War politics was more significant. A major drawback of this group’s argument is it does not take into account the considerable differences amongst the many faces of leadership in Iran.

The second group consists of those that consider Iran’s domestic politics as the motive behind its vacillation towards Israel. This group cites prioritization of regime security as the main push factor towards covert cooperation with Israel. Domestic opposition to an exposed relationship would have been worse after 1979 than it would during the Shah’s reign since the legitimacy of the Islamic Regime rested on severing all previous ties with the West. The grounds for this argument are compelling, though its main pitfall is its lack of attention towards Khomeini’s campaign to export the Islamic revolution. 

The last group is unique in that emphasis is largely placed on individual leaders and their aspirations. In essence, this group places the Shah’s and Khomeini’s shared hegemonic ambitions at the core of Iran’s foreign policy during both of their tenures. This argument, however, fails to consider that both regimes maintained diverse leadership, making it hard to explain two phenomena with this lone wolf theory: (a) the substantial wavering of foreign policy throughout each leader’s reign and (b) the lack of amicable relations between Iran and Israel after the death of Khomeini. In post-revolutionary Iran, much of the literature emphasizes Khomeini’s ideological zeal as the main driver of his foreign policy. The logic of this assertion assumes clandestine cooperation between Iran and Israel would cease to exist without the Shah calling the shots, but this has not been the case. The reality is that Khomeini, who actively worked to reverse all that the Shah stood for, continued these covert negotiations decades after the fall of the Shah.

Group I: International Security

Scholars that emphasize the international dimension of an overt relationship between Iran and Israel make up this first group. Developments in the Middle East and broader international sphere during this time, such as the Arab-Israeli conflict and Cold War, inevitably played a role in Iranian foreign policy—but to what extent did these events affect Iran’s relations with Israel? Likewise, did these international events have any effect on the Islamic Republic’s decision to continue clandestine relations with Israel?

Iran’s Arab neighbors, especially the Gulf monarchies, were not pleased with the idea of a Shi’a-led movement preaching the trading of monarchies for Islamist governments near their borders. The influence of Khomeini’s fierce propaganda and revolutionary success was heard by Shi’a minority groups across the Middle East, which many Gulf monarchies in particular considered a looming threat to their power. Ultimately, Khomeini’s expectation that his Muslim neighbors would support him against Iraq failed to become a reality. Instead, a multilateral effort to help Saddam defeat Iran was formed; mostly because many regional powers feared the spread of an Islamic revolution in their own borders if Iran were to win the war. In fact, John Calabrese argues Khomeini’s effort to discourage collaboration with Saddam’s regime through anti-Zionist rhetoric and appeals to the Palestinian cause ended up reinforcing the Gulf states’ tilt towards Iraq.^[6] 

For the Shah, playing both sides in the Arab-Israeli conflict worked in his favor, so there was no need to publicly declare his commitment to one side over the other as long as the regional status quo remained intact. This wavering public attitude abruptly shifted under Khomeini. Instead of maintaining the Shah’s ambiguous attitude towards the Arab-Israeli conflict, the Islamic Republic firmly stood behind the Palestinians, deeming those that did not as traitors to Islam. Shahram Chubin explains this position by arguing the clergy’s pro-Palestinian posture became a source of legitimacy for the regime, as well as an area where it could stand out from its Arab counterparts.^[7] R.K. Ramazani puts forth that Khomeini’s insistence on exporting the Islamic Revolution and creating an Islamic international order led to his foreign policy doctrine of “Neither East, nor West, but the Islamic Republic.”^[8] Although through different means, the new regime shared with the monarchy before it a desire for Iran to transcend the quandaries of its neighbors and come out on top as a new model for regional hegemony. 

In his piece “Iran and the Arab-Israeli Conflict,” Ramazani argues Cold War politics are essential in understanding Iran’s secretive approach to Israel. He describes Iran’s policy under the Shah as ‘calculative ambivalence,’^[9] with most of Tehran’s behavior driven by the regime’s fundamental goal of hindering Soviet influence in the region.^[10] In his eyes, the Shah’s regime did not merely view ties with Israel as a ‘discreet entente’ against Arab hostility, but primarily as a deterrent against increasing Soviet expansion into the Middle East.^[11] In contrast, under the Islamist Regime, Israel’s ties to the United States and Western world became its main pitfall. Tehran after the Revolution had now positioned itself as both an enemy of the West and Soviet Union. Nonalignment, however, became nearly impossible for the regime to sustain after the outset of the Iran-Iraq War. John Bulloch and Harvey Morris explain that up until the revolution, America armed Iran, meaning the new regime had to find American spares for its guns, planes, armored vehicles and tanks.^[12] Bulloch and Morris point out that Israel was both the nearest supplier and the most willing.^[13] Behrouz Souresrafil expands on this by highlighting the arms embargo placed on Iran by the U.S. during the war, ultimately forcing it to choose between buying needed arms on the black market for high prices or accepting Israel’s offer at a much lower price.^[14] In the end, Iran took up Israel’s offer despite its public opposition to the state’s existence.

A considerable drawback of this group of literature is its belief that Iran’s policy towards Israel depended on Khomeini as a sole actor. Although Khomeini played a major role in crafting Iranian foreign policy during his time in charge, the lack of a functioning foreign ministry in conjunction with the loud voices of the regime’s domestic opponents were just as important when it came to ties with Israel. Additionally, this argument assumes  the regime was more outwardly than inwardly focused when it came to politics. Again,  this could have just been Khomeini’s approach at the time, and not representative of the multifaceted Iranian regime as a whole.

Group II: Domestic Pressure

The second group of literature indicates the revolutionary government decided to continue covert cooperation with Israel was because the regime needed to do so to survive. Such two-timing is consistent with revolutionary movements throughout history, and thus, the regime’s decision to maintain ties with a state that can help keep it alive is not the historical exception it is often considered to be.

Souresrafil explains the Khomeini regime faced massive problems in running the country from the start and  turned to Israel in a bid to survive.^[15] These problems only got worse after a decrease in oil prices plunged the economy into a crisis and the costs of war began suffocating the regime.^[16] By and large, Souresrafil considers Khomeini’s foreign policy to be pragmatic and, at times, opportunistic.^[17] 

After eight brutal years and millions of dollars’ worth of Israeli weapons used by the Iranian regime against Iraq, the Iran-Iraq War came to an end and Khomeini’s newfound grip on power became the regime’s largest success. Trita Parsi explains the Iran-Israel relationship has always been based on common vulnerabilities during both the time of the Shah and Khomeini. Such a relationship, however, meant if one state gained enough power to deal with threats on its own, the need for the other would cease to exist.^[18] This is precisely what happened after the new revolutionary regime emerged from the Iran-Iraq War alive.       

With most of the mayhem now behind it, the new Iranian regime could now reinforce its position as a staunchly pro-Islamic and anti-Western entity. In addition, Israel and many Iranian Jews living in the country felt the relatively fair treatment Iranian Jews experienced under the Shah was now threatened by the Islamic Republic. This drove hundreds of thousands of Iranian-Jews out of Iran after 1979 and strengthened the pro-Khomeini domestic population. Sobhani argues the new Iranian regime realized this and began using it to their advantage once Iraq invaded Iran. In support of his argument, Sobhani describes a “arms-for-Iranian Jews” agreement, which was a tacit settlement between Israel and the Islamic Republic that essentially granted Iranian Jews freedom to leave Iran in exchange for much-needed arms. During these years of Iran-Israel clandestine cooperation, it is estimated that 55,000 Iranian Jews were permitted to leave Iran.

The main weakness of this group’s argument is its lack of consideration for Khomeini’s ambitious vision to export the revolution and become the ‘voice of the oppressed’. Domestic pressure — although an essential part of the puzzle — should be considered alongside the international security concerns of the state at the time.

Group III: Individual and Ideological Aspirations

The third group places the Shah and Khomeini’s individual aspirations at the forefront of Iran’s clandestine cooperation with Israel. This is a common direction that many scholars who study Iranian foreign policy take due to the Shah’s potent nostalgia for Iran’s glorious years as a powerful empire and Khomeini’s fierce Islamist ideology. Parsi explains how the Shah’s belief in Iran’s historical predisposition to regional prominence led him to adopt a relentless approach to Iranian regional primacy, certain that Iran was the only nation capable of maintaining peace in the Middle East.^[19] This group of literature asserts it was the Shah’s quixotic desire for Iranian primacy that drove his strategic relations with Arab and Israeli neighbors. Thus, Iran’s ultimate decision to ‘play both sides’ in the Arab-Israeli conflicts by cultivating relations with both Israel and Arab neighbors was an attempt to please as many parties as possible and build legitimacy for a Shah who sought to fill what he considered a power vacuum in the region. 

Helmut Richards describes the political scene in Iran preceding and following the U.S. and British-led coup on Mohammad Mosaddeq by illustrating how the Shah altered his image after returning from exile in 1953. One of the first things the Shah said after returning to Iran was that he had “known since early childhood…that it was [his] destiny to become King.”^[20] Following this notorious claim, he reinforced this conviction by “insisting that he [had] seen Ali, Saint Abbas, and the last Imam” during his time away from his country.^[21] When analyzing Iran’s decision to pursue clandestine relations with Israel before the Islamic Revolution despite domestic and international opposition, it is helpful to view  the decision through an individual lens. In this case, through the Shah’s eyes. 

The desire for regional hegemony was another characteristic inherited by Khomeini. Though seemingly different, Khomeini’s longing to export the Revolution beyond Iran’s borders resembles the Shah’s prominent belief that Iran’s destiny was to be a regional leader. Sobhani places great emphasis on Khomeini being the main obstacle blocking the path towards an Iran-Israel alliance, arguing Iran and Israel are “natural allies” and that the removal of Khomeini would cause the two powers to revert back to a strategic anti-Arab alliance.^[22] Whether Sobhani’s assumption held up after Khomeini’s death is debatable, but what is clear is that relations between Tehran and Tel Aviv are far from as strong as they were during the Shah’s reign. Taking an individual approach can be useful in gaining a better understanding of the Shah and Khomeini’s personal perspectives on the matter, as well as understanding why they took the steps they did towards Israel during their reigns. Many consider the Shah a pragmatic and cunning political figure but view Khomeini as a zealot unable to approach politics rationally, yet Khomeini continued the Shah’s pragmatic relationship with Israel. A major drawback of this group is its reliance on the assumption that the Shah acted as a lone wolf when approaching relations with Israel. If this was the case, then one would have expected covert ties to sever with the fall of the Shah in 1979, but in fact, clandestine cooperation between Iran and Israel continued under the Shah’s archenemy: Ayatollah Khomeini. Moreover, the world’s expectation that Iran and Israel would resume good relations after the death of Khomeini in 1989 did not manifest either. The reality is that Iranian society is highly complex and will always be home to regime hardliners as well as progressive reformists, irrespective of any individual leader.

Conclusion

Scholars who prioritize the international political climate as the main driver of Tehran’s policy during this time provide an argument maintaining a great deal of merit, yet their lack of regard towards Iran’s domestic population inevitably weakens their position. The same goes for the scholars that solely focus on the Shah’s ‘megalomania’ and Khomeini’s religious zeal. In order to fill these gaps, more research needs to be done on why exactly Khomeini’s regime continued clandestine cooperation with Israel despite notorious public condemnation; as well as why cooperation dwindled after the Iran-Iraq War.

The Road Ahead

I. Argument

In this section, I argue the Islamic Republic’s strategic preservation of ties with Israel symbolizes the subduing of ideology in favor of a pragmatic foreign policy prompted by international security threats. The first part looks at the preservation of ties as a means of regime survival during an era of regional instability. A newly-formed revolutionary government that is immediately sprung into a war will naturally need to compromise to survive — even one that prides itself on non-alignment. The second part proposes that, in comparison to the U.S. and the Soviet Union, covert cooperation with Israel was a more attractive alternative for the Iranian regime.

A. Collaborating with the ‘Little Satan’

Khomeini is not a man of religion. Whoever describes him as such is fanatical, stupid and understands nothing of politics. Khomeini is a politician. When he realizes he is losing more than he is gaining, he will establish peace.

– Saddam Hussein, Baghdad, 10 November 1982

In an anarchic international system riddled with uncertainty, states inevitably must compromise to stay afloat. The Islamic Republic was not immune to this reality. What became evident soon after Iraq invaded Iran was that Khomeini’s zealous rhetoric would have to be mutually exclusive from foreign policy for the regime to survive. Stephen Walt explains that ideological differences become less of an impediment to alliance formation when more immediate issues of security arise.^[23] When the Shah was in power, common security threats from Nasser’s Egypt and the Soviet Union brought Iran and Israel closer. Under Khomeini, Iraq’s aggression combined with Iran’s isolation from the international community made room for a renewal of such cooperation largely because Iran needed weapons. Indeed, Iran’s military at the outset of the war was in a dire state and Israel was one of the few options they had for assistance. At the start of the war, it was reported there were only twenty-eight tanks in the entirety of the Khuzestan province (the closest Iranian province to Iraq). The Iranian air-force— which had been one of the strongest in the region under the Shah— was in even worse shape; with only 40 percent of the entire fleet being salvageable (60 percent of F-5s, 40 percent of F-4’s, and 10 percent of F-14’s were functionable at the time).^[24] It is also estimated that in 1979-1980, 60 percent of Iranian military personnel had quit, in addition to the thousands arrested or killed by the new regime. Israel sold more than $100 million dollars’ worth of arms to Tehran in 1983,^[25] and by 1985, Danish cargo ships chartered by the Israeli government and private arms dealers made over 600 trips carrying American-made arms through the Persian Gulf to the Iranian port of Bandar Abbas.^[26]  As the war drew on, Israel made sure to keep Iranian planes flying, and Israeli instructors trained Iranian commanders on how to handle their troops.^[27]

Although the Shah was better at keeping a diplomatic front when it came to publicly discussing ties with Israel, neither him nor Khomeini could realistically cite ‘ideological alignment’ with Israel as being a factor in their cooperation. Additionally, the usefulness of Ben Gurion’s periphery doctrine —a key geostrategic doctrine involving Iran, Turkey, and Ethiopia— was also dwindling in importance during the 1980s. What remained though, was Iran’s commitment to its position as a major regional power. 

The reality is that Khomeini’s harsh rhetoric towards Israel was more of an impassioned charade than it was a foreign policy doctrine during the 1980s. In these years, Iran’s strategic and rhetorical objectives contradicted each other  and revolutionary ideology was often set aside in light of realist considerations.^[28] Essentially, while Iran publicly condemned Israel and all it stood for, it continued covert cooperation and took very little tangible action against the Jewish state. The Israelis seemed to recognize this discrepancy between rhetoric and policy early on and continued to treat Iran as a potential regional ally regardless of the regime and its classification of Israel as a “cancerous tumor.”^[29] This was largely because Shimon Peres — Israel’s prime minister and foreign minister at the time — believed that Khomeini was just a temporary ailment to Iran-Israel relations, and that the United States should actively strive to bring Iran back into the Western-camp. Surprisingly, in 1982, Israeli defense minister Ariel Sharon publicly announced on television that Israel would continue selling weapons to Iran despite American opposition. Iran denied, ridiculed, and responded to this claim by introducing resolutions to expel Israel from the United Nations.^[30] Yitzhak Rabin perpetuated this outlook, stating in 1987 that “Iran is Israel’s best friend and we do not intend to change our position in relation to Tehran, because Khomeini’s regime will not last forever.”^[31] Strangely enough, this paradox of rhetoric and policy lasted for eight years, waning with the end of the Iran-Iraq War and concurrent Cold War.

A key takeaway from Iran’s pragmatic policy was that security was ultimately more important to the regime than its hatred for the West. Throughout their respective reigns, both Saddam Hussein and Khomeini demonstrated their ability to compromise to ensure their political survival. Although not an automatic response, it was always known that both were willing to tone down their ideology if it meant they could maintain their power.^[32] This, however, changed with the end of the war in 1988. After emerging from an eight-year war alive, Iran began to back its anti-Western rhetoric with action. 

Compromise was less important to the regime after the war. Thus, even the tiny remnants of the Shah’s pragmatic relationship with Israel became severed. These years also saw a return to Khomeini’s desire to export the Revolution. This time, however, the regime’s approach was less focused on getting Arab countries on board, and more focused on targeting regional Shi’a minority populations. Lebanon and Syria became major points of interest for Iran because they were home to a large minority of Shiites, but Iran’s wandering eye was soon perceived as a direct threat to Israel’s security. The end of the Iran-Iraq War led the regime to realize it could protect itself even with all odds against it, and so compromising their ideology was no longer necessary for survival.

B. The Lesser of Three Evils

Neither east nor west, sometimes Israel, when it serves our interest best.

Sohrab Sobhani, “The Pragmatic Entente” (1989)

Khomeini’s rise to power brought with it a new populist dimension to Iranian foreign policy. This included a vehement hostility towards the United States and the Soviet Union, which the Ayatollah considered imperialists and enemies to Islam. To say the regime’s resentment was solely towards the West in the 1980s would be inaccurate, as Khomeini was insistent in his doctrine of “neither East nor West, only the Islamic Republic”. 

What is especially interesting about this period in history is that Khomeini’s regime accepted military supplies from Israel but rejected a similar proposal from the Soviet Union. Israel’s non-superpower status gave it an edge over cooperation with the United States or the Soviet Union, even if such cooperation was undisclosed to the public. In a way, it seems Khomeini ranked the United States and the Soviet Union higher than Israel in his proverbial ‘abomination’ scale. In this view, cooperation with ‘the Great Satan’ or the imperialist Soviets was a disgrace, so cooperation with ‘the Lesser Satan’ was less of a disgrace — especially in the midst of the Cold War when the Islamic regime prided itself on non-alignment. At the end of the Iran-Iraq War Khomeini gave a speech stating:

We did not collude even for a moment with America, the Soviet Union, and other global powers, and we consider collusion with superpowers and other powers as turning our back on Islamic principles.

The shift in post-revolutionary and post-war Iranian foreign policy occurred through a revived emphasis on its role as the defender of Islam, which was used to antagonize both superpowers more so than Israel. ^[34] Furthermore, Iran’s shaky history surrounding the Shah and U.S. – Russian intervention throughout the 20th century makes Israel a less threatening foe vis-à-vis the Iranian people. 

Ultimately, the Islamic Republic preserved the Shah’s clandestine policy towards Israel due to international security threats and a reluctance towards superpowers.

II. Evidence

A. Case Study #1: Israel and Saudi Arabia

The relationship between Israel and the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia varies greatly in its public image versus its private utility. The two states— historically hostile to one another— possess no official diplomatic relationship yet cooperate frequently on a covert level. Saudi Arabia is not a signatory to the commemorated Abraham Accords, even though the UAE and other Gulf neighbors are. Throughout history, what bonded this unexpected pair has been common security threats arising from regional neighbors. In the 1960s, this was the threat coming from Nasser’s Egypt. Since 1979, the two have shared an interest in curtailing Iranian expansion — specifically Tehran’s nuclear endeavors and Shi’a proxies. 

After the Islamic Revolution in 1979, Khomeini and his regime began a propaganda campaign aimed at panning Saudi Arabia and other Arab countries as “un-Islamic” for evading their ‘Islamic duty’ to protect the Palestinians. What made this campaign threatening was the fact these statements were accompanied by Iranian-inspired Shi’a uprisings in Kuwait, Bahrain, and Saudi Arabia.^[35] The latter, being an absolute monarchy with a significant Shi’a minority population in its northern region, has always been concerned about Iranian influence on its soil. Conflicts involving Iranian proxies around Israel and the Kingdom’s borders exacerbated these concerns in the past twenty-years. The steady rise of Hezbollah in Lebanon and the Houthis in Yemen have been a nuisance to Israel and Saudi Arabia’s security and have thus steered the two states towards intelligence sharing and clandestine diplomacy.   In an era where America’s regional influence is dwindling, and rapprochement between the West and Iran is underway, Saudi Arabia and Israel find themselves needing to adjust to the ever-shifting times. This shift caused Saudi Arabia and the Gulf states to recognize Israel’s military capability and close relationship with the United States as a valuable connection that could help preserve a partnership with Washington.^[36] Most recently, evidence of cooperation between the two began to surface because of the Kingdom’s use of Israeli-made cyberweapons such as Pegasus, a spyware the monarchy uses to monitor dissidents abroad.^[37] For the most part, however, this cooperation has remained unofficial and out of the public eye. Some consider this to be because open relations with Israel historically carried higher costs than benefits for the Kingdom given domestic opposition and the position of other Arab countries towards the Palestinian issue.^[38] Thus, conducting clandestine diplomacy with the Jewish state is considered a win-win situation for the Saudi monarchy and its legitimacy as a conservative Islamist power. 

B. Case Study #2: Israel and Azerbaijan

The relationship between Israel and the former Soviet-state of Azerbaijan differs in some ways to the alliances mentioned above. First off, although Azerbaijan has yet to have an official embassy in Israel, cooperation between the two states is much more publicized. The capital city, Baku, is has a significant Jewish population, and the country recognized Israel’s statehood relatively early on (in comparison to Arab neighbors). These factors generated a more productive relationship, regardless of Azerbaijan’s majority-Muslim population and conflicting regional allies. 

Azerbaijan and Israel cooperate on three main fronts: interstate security concerning Armenia and the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict, strong trade relations, and countering Iranian influence. Like many other states that choose to maintain civil relations with Israel, Azerbaijan sees Israel’s influence in Washington as a major benefit to getting the Azeri voice heard on issues pertaining to Armenia and the ongoing conflict. The two states also face what they deem a constant existential threat, bringing them together in a coalition based on protecting their sovereignty and right to exist. From the outset of the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict, Israel has supported the Azeri position while states like Iran and Russia supported the opposing side. Turkey, another major ally of Azerbaijan, plays an increasingly important role in Israeli-Azeri relations as the deteriorating relationship between Jerusalem and Ankara in recent years has increasingly pressured Azerbaijan to reevaluate its already-brittle ties with Israel. Such pressure provides insight on why relations between the two have not been publicized, and helps explain why Azerbaijan frequently votes against Israeli proposals in international forums.

In the economic realm, both countries have long enjoyed prosperous energy and arms trade, with the latter being the most controversial aspect of their relationship. Therefore, instances where the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict resurfaces are often when Azeri-Israeli relations are highlighted and most contentious. Regardless, Baku is also one of Israel’s most reliable oil suppliers following the fallout with Egypt after the Arab Spring.^[39] Still, the Israel-Azerbaijan relationship is most effective in curtailing the shared Iranian threat.

Azerbaijan, being previously part of the Persian Empire and then briefly a Soviet entity, has had a long battle with independence. Today, the small state borders Iran to the South and Russia to the North, making its geopolitical posture highly valuable to the West and its allies. Israel, realizing this, took advantage of Baku’s strategic position vis-à-vis Iran, especially as Iranian proxies began springing up around Israel’s borders. The past ten years, for instance, have witnessed an increase in cooperation between the two states regarding intelligence gathering on the Iranian border. Furthermore, Azerbaijan is a major target for Israeli defense industry exports.^[40] Over the years, Israeli defense companies have been involved in training Azeri special forces, constructing security systems for the country’s airports, and upgrading Soviet-era military equipment.^[41] In 2011, Israel began supplying the Azeri military with unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs) and satellite systems to monitor the border. In 2012, $1.6 billion worth of weapons had been sold to Azerbaijan by Israel Aerospace Industries.^[42] Such actions against Iran worry the regime not only because of a heightened Israeli presence on their borders, but also because Azeris make up the largest minority group inside Iran. These developments could exacerbate longstanding tensions the regime suppressed for decades. The two states are playing a remarkably risky game, but it is through these common objectives that their relationship remains sturdy in the face of regional disapproval.

C. Comparing the Two

Having examined two separate case studies illustrating unconventional covert alliances, I now compare them in relation to Iran-Israel relations from 1948-1989. 

First, I focus on the secret aspect of these relationships. The logic behind the covert nature of the Israeli-Saudi and Israel-Iran relationships both stem from the outward hostility these countries possess with one another on the world stage. Some claim this enmity is primarily due to conflicting ideologies, but I find this argument weak. It is true Israel, being a Jewish state, differs from the Islamic Republic and Saudi Arabia’s Islamic anatomy, but this is not the primary driver or repellent of relations between the states. If this were the case, then Israel’s relationship with Azerbaijan, also a Muslim state, would be just as unlikely. What is in fact similar between these cases is that they all prefer cooperation to stay out of the public eye. This might seem odd when weighing the costs and benefits of having a strong public alliance, versus a fragile secretive relationship, but in the greater context of the Middle East and its ever-shifting loyalties, a hesitancy towards commitment is less surprising. 

The modern Israel-Azerbaijan relationship is also reminiscent of the Iran-Israel relationship from 1948-1978. Both depended on containing the threat of an aggressive neighbor and both were kept secret due to domestic and international backlash. What makes the Israeli-Saudi case different is that the Kingdom largely shares with Iran a similar outward vilification of the Jewish State unlike Azerbaijan, who maintains a relatively civil exterior. As a bonus, Saudi Arabia and Azerbaijan both view Israel as being highly influential in Washington. In their eyes, a good relationship with Israel means more clout with the Americans— another conception shared by the late Shah.  

In the 1990s, the idea was that an Israel – Turkey – Georgia – Azerbaijan axis could constrain a developing Syria – Iran – Armenia – Russia axis.^[43] If you compare this to Ben-Gurion’s periphery doctrine in the 1950s, which envisioned an Israel – Iran – Ethiopia alliance as a counterweight to the Arab threat, a similar geopolitical strategy remains. The difference now is that the regional balance of power has shifted, and the Iranian regime is no longer threatened by its Arab neighbors in the same way it was in the latter half of the twentieth century, meaning Israel has become less useful to its interests. Using this logic, one surmises a world with a recovered and strengthened Iraq and Afghanistan would push Iran closer to Israel once again, but this is mere speculation. 

The rhetoric utilized by Khomeini and similar zealous figures in Saudi Arabia against Israel seems to have little to no effect on their actual foreign policy. Instead, radical figures utilize these tactics in an attempt to mask cooperation they themselves preach as taboo to their domestic populations. Such a strategy has less to do with ideology, and more to do with realism and regime security.

Another question one might ask: what needs to happen for a secret relationship to evolve into an open relationship? Truthfully, the answer to this question depends on several factors: individual leadership, regional security, great power competition. However, publicizing a formerly secret relationship would require, above all, the states involved to solidify their priorities. If a state with a thriving economy and strong military were to publicize a previously covert alliance with a weaker, ideologically-opposed state, there would need to be a practical reason to do so. For example, Iran-Israel cooperation up until the end of the Shah’s reign illustrated a scenario where one party wanted to publicize relations (Israel) and another felt it was unnecessary (Iran). The reason cooperation continued even after Israel’s wishes to publicize the relationship were turned down by the Shah was because Israel needed Iran more than Iran needed Israel at the time. Today, we can see a similar pattern emerging between Israel and several Arab states, making an agreement like the Abraham Accords more attractive to old enemies.  

III. Conclusion

In this paper, I attempted to answer the question of why the Islamic Republic continued clandestine cooperation with Israel. My argument attributes the prolonging of cooperation to the Islamic Republic’s implementation of realist policy to address security threats arising from Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Iran.

This conclusion came after exploring several competing explanations in existing literature for this covert relationship, largely split into theories around (1) international security, (2) domestic pressure, and (3) individual or ideological aspirations. Ultimately, the international security argument is the most convincing, but the literature does not consider the discrepancies in Khomeini’s rhetoric versus his ultimate policy. The second group does a good job at explaining the complex internal makeup of Iran and how such complexity can affect foreign policy decisions, but this group falls short due to an underestimation of Khomeini’s determination to uphold the regime at all costs. The final group emphasizes the role of the individual in a state’s foreign policy and compares the leadership styles of the Shah and Khomeini but fails to explain precisely why Khomeini would preserve the policies of the Shah, a figure who the Ayatollah vowed to be the foil of, as well as why an Iran-Israel entente did not resume after the death of Ayatollah Khomeini in 1989. The puzzle can best be understood through an amalgamation of certain aspects drawn from the current literature and new evidence I present further along in the paper. 

After reviewing the literature, I argue the decision to continue clandestine cooperation with Israel after the Islamic Revolution was a choice of pragmatism over revolutionary ideology induced by security threats stemming from the ongoing Iran-Iraq War. In the end, regime security was more important than Tehran’s hatred for the West. I also explored the security threat triggered by the Iran-Iraq War and explained the role Cold War politics played in the regime’s ultimate decision to extend covert collaboration. Since the Islamic Republic adhered to a “neither East nor West” doctrine during the Cold War, Israel’s non-superpower status made it a more attractive option for a state who desperately needed a security partner at a time of war.

In the following section, I compared two separate case studies of states with unorthodox secret alliances: Israel and Saudi Arabia, as well as Israel and Azerbaijan. I chose these two specific cases because certain aspects of their relationships resembled those of Iran and Israel from 1948-1989. By drawing parallels between these states and their covert cooperation with Israel, one can see how common security objectives between states often subdue ideological differences, a logic that could be easily applied to the Islamic Republic during the Khomeini years. 

While I find this theory helpful in answering the puzzle at hand, there are several shortcomings that arise from it. One limitation is a lack of attention towards the influence of the United States and Soviet Union on Iran’s decision to continue, and later eliminate, ties with Israel during these years. Furthermore, this article focused on the Iran-Israel relationship from 1948-1989 because covert data from more recent years has not yet been made publicly accessible. Once new information becomes available, there will be more room to assess the relationship in light of Iran’s recent history and the leadership of Ayatollah Khamenei. Additionally, it would be interesting to analyze the Iran-Israel relationship during Iran’s ‘reformist era’ under Rafsanjani and Khatami and compare it to the Khomeini years. 

Moving forward, I envision several different takeaways that could emerge from an understanding of this unique relationship. For one, we should learn to prioritize a state’s actions over divisive rhetoric offered at face value. This will reveal a new world of possibilities when it comes to dealing with seemingly diplomatically unreachable states. A modern-day example would be U.S.-Iran cooperation in Iraq and Afghanistan, and counterinsurgency coordination against the threat of ISIS. Low-level security cooperation between Iran and other states threatened by ISIS bolstered an interim coalition driven by common security objectives, showcasing such cooperation is achievable, even in the most unsuspecting of times.             

Some important questions that remain are: will Iran and Israel return to a pragmatic alliance in the future? And what needs to happen for this to occur? In light of this analysis, it seems possible that an Iran-Israel entente will surface once again, especially if the United States continues its withdrawal from the region. An absence of the United States from the Middle East will surely be a shock to the system, but major regional powers such as Israel, Saudi Arabia, and Iran have already begun taking steps towards rapprochement. The Abraham Accords and recent diplomatic engagements between the Islamic Republic and Saudi Arabia signal a new tide in Middle Eastern politics, and this newfound momentum holds the potential to bridge several deep regional chasms. Furthermore, I do not think a new Iranian regime is necessary for diplomatic progress to take place between Iran and Israel. The two states maintained a relationship for ten years under the leadership of Iran’s most radical leader to date — Ayatollah Khomeini — so arguments stating diplomatic advancement between the two countries is impossible under Iran’s current leadership seem overly simplistic. It is true both states are in different positions today than they were forty years ago, but the primary objectives of states in an anarchic world remain the same. To a large extent, I am optimistic about Israel and Iran’s potential to overcome the obstacles they face today — the uncertainty that taints the international system also assures its progression.

^[1] George E. Gruen, “The United States, Israel, and the Middle East,” The American Jewish Yearbook, no. 81 (1981): 143.

^[2] Sohrab Sobhani, The Pragmatic Entente: Israeli-Iranian Relations, 1948-1988 (New York: Praeger, 1989), 231.

^[3] Ibid, 231.

^[4] Len Scott, “Secret Intelligence, Covert Action and Clandestine Diplomacy, Intelligence and National Security,” Intelligence & National Security19, no. 2 (2004): 331.

^[5] Ibid, 337.

^[6] John Calabrese, Revolutionary Horizons: Regional Foreign Policy in Post-Khomeini Iran (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1994), 51.

^[7] Shahram Chubin, Iran’s National Security Policy: Intentions, Capabilities, and Impact (Washington, D.C: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace), 60.

^[8] R. K. Ramazani,  “Ideology and Pragmatism in Iran’s Foreign Policy,” Middle East Journal 58, no. 4 (2004): 555.

^[9] R. K. Ramazani, “Iran and the Arab-Israeli Conflict,” Middle East Journal 32, no. 4 (1978): 414-415. 

^[10] Ibid, 419.

^[11] Ibid, 416.

^[12] John Bulloch and Harvey Morris, The Gulf War: Its Origins, History, and Consequences (London: Methuen, 1989), 183.

^[13] Ibid, 183.

^[14] Behrouz Souresrafil, Khomeini and Israel, 2nd ed. (England: I Researchers Inc., 1989), 72.

^[15] Ibid, 2.

^[16] Ibid, 91.

^[17] Ibid, 113.

^[18] Trita Parsi,  Treacherous Alliance: The Secret Dealings of Israel, Iran, and the United States (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), 29.

^[19] Parsi, Treacherous Alliance, 39.

^[20] Helmut Richards,  “America’s Shah Shahanshah’s Iran,” MERIP Reports, no. 40 (1975): 7.

^[21] Ibid, 7.

^[22] Sobhani, The Pragmatic Entente, 171.

^[23] Stephen M. Walt,  The Origins of Alliances (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2013), 183.

^[24] Souresrafil, Khomeini and Israel, 57.

^[25] Jonathan Marshall, Peter Dale Scott, and Jane Haapiseva-Hunter, The Iran-Contra Connection: Secret Teams and Covert Operations in the Reagan Era (Boston, MA: South End Press, 1987).

^[26] Seymour M. Hersch, “The Iran Pipeline: A Hidden Chapter/A Special Report.; U.S. Said to Have Allowed Israel to Sell Arms to Iran,” The New York Times, December 8, 1991.

^[27] Bulloch and Morris, The Gulf War.

^[28] Parsi, “The Iran-Israel Cold War.”

^[29] Ibid.

^[30] Ibid.

^[31] Parsi, Treacherous Alliance, 127.

^[32] Mansour Farhang, “The Iran-Iraq War: The Feud, the Tragedy, the Spoils,” World Policy Journal 2, no. 4 (1985): 672.

^[34] Mohammed E. Ahrari,  “Iran and the Superpowers in the Gulf,” SAIS Review 7, no. 1 (1987): 161.

^[35] Uzi Rabi and Chelsi Mueller, “The Gulf Arab States and Israel Since 1967: from ‘No Negotiation’ to Tacit Cooperation,” British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 44, no. 4 (2017): 581.

^[36] Omar Rahman, “The Emergence of GCC-Israel Relations in a Changing Middle East,” Brookings, July 28, 2021. 

^[37] Eli Lake, “The Dark Side of Israel’s Cold Peace with Saudi Arabia,” Bloomberg, https://www.bloomberg.com/opinion/articles/2019-06-03/israel-s-cold-peace-with-saudi- arabia-has-a-dark-side.

^[38] Udi Dekel and Yoel Guzansky, “Israel and Saudi Arabia: Is the Enemy of My Enemy My Friend?,” The Institute for National Security Studies, 2013.

^[39] Ismayilov Elnur,  “Israel and Azerbaijan: The Evolution of a Strategic Partnership,” Israel Journal of Foreign Affairs 7, no. 1 (2013): 71.

^[40] Gallia Lindenstrauss, “Israel-Azerbaijan: Despite the Constraints, a Special Relationship,” The Institute for National Security Studies, January 2015.

^[41] Ibid, 70.

^[42] Ibid, 70.

^[43] Lindenstrauss, “Israel-Azerbaijan,” 76.

Bibliography

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Bialer, Uri. “The Iranian Connection in Israel’s Foreign Policy: 1948-1951.” Middle East Journal 39, no. 2 (1985): 292–315.

Bulloch, John, and Harvey Morris. The Gulf War: Its Origins, History, and Consequences. London: Methuen, 1989.

Calabrese, John. Revolutionary Horizons: Regional Foreign Policy in Post-Khomeini Iran. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1994.

Chubin, Shahram and Charles Tripp. Iran and Iraq at War. Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1988. 

Chubin, Shahram. Iran’s National Security Policy: Capabilities, Intentions, & Impact. Washington D.C.: The Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, 1994.

Dekel, Udi, and Yoel Guzansky. “Israel and Saudi Arabia: Is the Enemy of My Enemy My Friend?” The Institute for National Security Studies, 2013.

Elnur, Ismayilov. “Israel and Azerbaijan: The Evolution of a Strategic Partnership,” Israel Journal of Foreign Affairs 7, no.1 (2013): 69-76.

Farhang, Mansour. “The Iran-Iraq War: The Feud, the Tragedy, the Spoils.” World Policy Journal 2, no. 4 (1985): 659–80.

Farhang, Mansour. “The Iran-Israel Connection.” Arab Studies Quarterly 11, no. 1 (1989): 85–98.  

Friedman, Murray. “Intergroup Relations.” The American Jewish Yearbook 81 (1981): 121–33. 

Goldberg, Ori. Khomeini at the End of the Iran–Iraq War: The Necessity and Frustration of Faith. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017.

Hersh, Seymour. “The Iran Pipeline: A Hidden Chapter/A Special Report.; U.S. Said to Have Allowed Israel to Sell Arms to Iran.” The New York Times, December 8, 1991.  

Kaye, Dalia Dassa, Alireza Nader, and Parisa Roshan. “A Brief History of Israeli-Iranian Cooperation and Confrontation.” In Israel and Iran: A Dangerous Rivalry, 9–18. RAND Corporation, 2011. 

Lake, Eli. “The Dark Side of Israel’s Cold Peace with Saudi Arabia.” Bloomberg, 2019. https://www.bloomberg.com/opinion/articles/2019-06-03/israel-s-cold-peace-with-saudi- arabia-has-a-dark-side.

Lindenstrauss, Gallia. “Israel-Azerbaijan: Despite the Constraints, a Special Relationship.” The Institute for National Security Studies, January 2015. 

Marshall, Jonathan, Peter Dale Scott, and Jane Haapiseva-Hunter. The Iran-Contra Connection: Secret Teams and Covert Operations in the Reagan Era. Boston, MA: South End Press, 1987.

Miglietta, John P. American Alliance Policy in the Middle East, 1945-1992: Iran, Israel, and Saudi Arabia. Lanham, MD:Lexington Books, 2002.

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Orkaby, Asher. “Rivals with Benefits.” Foreign Affairs, March 13, 2015.

Parsi, Trita. “Israel-Iranian Relations Assessed: Strategic Competition from the Power Cycle Perspective.” Iranian Studies 38, no. 2 (2005): 247–69.

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Parsi, Trita. “The Iran-Israel Cold War.” Open Democracy, September 24, 2007. 

Patten, Howard A. Israel and the Cold War: Diplomacy, Strategy and the Policy of the Periphery at the United Nations. London: I.B. Tauris, 2013.

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Richards, Helmut. “America’s Shah Shahanshah’s Iran.” MERIP Reports, no. 40 (1975): 3–26. 

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This piece was published in the Spring Issue Print Edition (Volume 11)

As photographer Laurence Rasti depicts above, queer life in Iran is fraught with tension. Exemplified by the two figures holding hands, it is a life of beauty, joy, and connection. But the floral-covered faces illustrate the concomitant danger, invisibility, and fear. Theoretical analyses of these tensions have created new possibilities for gender subjects,^[1]arguing that the queer subaltern scene in Iran vastly exceeds the analytical capacity of the Western theoretical imagination.^[2] What these approaches have not attempted to do, however, is explore how the oppression of queer people constitutes a means, and not just an effect, of authoritarian governmentality. In this paper, I will argue that the application of queer biopolitics can act as a theoretical entryway into how the Islamic Republic of Iran’s (IRI) authoritarianism utilizes queer suffering and oppression as a cruel end in-of-itself and as a vehicle towards other oppressions levied upon its non-queer citizenry. First, I will use queer biopolitics to analyze the Islamic Republic’s repression of non-normative genders and sexualities. Next, I will examine particular sites of queer biopolitical control, dominance, and death in Iran. This paper will conclude with a brief analysis of Iran’s techniques of digital repression, HIV/AIDS, and drug addiction as case studies of queer biopolitics. Throughout, I strive to navigate the tension between robust theoretical analysis and the symbolic hegemony of the West within queer theory itself. 

What are queer biopolitics, and why does this mode of thought have a privileged perspective in analyzing Iranian authoritarianism? To begin with Michel Foucault’s traditional framework, biopolitics refers to the study of power over life itself. Previous examinations of biopolitics’ relationship to Iran have scrutinized Foucault’s own vested interest in the Islamic Revolution. Michiel Leezenberg, a scholar of Foucault, writes that

“[Foucault] was focused on the protests against a particular mode of government, rather than in the subsequent power struggle in the creation of a new political order. Foucault was both intrigued and horrified by the spectacle of an unarmed population defying, and eventually overthrowing, one of the strongest and most repressive states in the world, having not only a formidable army, police force, and intelligence service of its own, but also the backing of the United States. He found the clarity and simplicity of the calls for Islamic government “familiar, but hardly reassuring,” qualifying the voices of the mullahs calling for the Shah’s departure as “terrible,” etc.” ^[3]

Indeed, Foucault himself writes that “[the Islamic Revolution] embodies a revolt against politics rather than a concrete political program: it is the ‘most modern, and the maddest, revolt,’ against both liberalism and socialism.”^[4] Foucault’s timely analysis of the Revolution situated his biopolitical framework as an alternative explanatory mechanism for what many considered to be an inexplicable event. That is, he posited his soon-to-come theory of governmentality in a postmodern polity as the driving force for the revolution rather than the prevailing Marxist conception of class warfare or today’s Western neoliberal conception of religious extremism. In an open letter he wrote to Mehdi Bazargan, Foucault even asked, “In the expression ‘Islamic government,’ why cast suspicion immediately on the adjective ‘Islamic’? The word ‘government’ by itself is enough to awaken one’s vigilance.”^[5] At these moments, Foucault seemed to embrace a post-structuralist analysis of power and resistance in Iran. Of course, many scholars have since critiqued Foucault for his over-emphasis on the supposed ubiquity and timelessness of Shi’ite Islam, and his orientalist leanings.^[6]

Though traditional Foucauldian biopolitics may have already fulfilled their maximal potential, his framework presents a tantalizing opportunity to deploy queer theory alongside a biopolitical analytic.^[7] Queer theory, which has consistently characterized itself as and performed the role of de-naturalizing and de-essentializing that which is assumed universal, has the potential for fulfilling Leezenberg’s call for a “bottom-up”^[8] analysis of Iranian power and governmentality. As Lotta Kähkönen and Tiia Sudenkaarne write, “Queer biopolitical theories have interrogated the symbiotic relation of life and death by analyzing tensions between biopolitics and necropolitics—of death and different types of political violence.”^[9] As such, queer biopolitics uniquely engages with the dense theoretical field of how states manage normativity and populations through a cross-sectional approach that draws upon both the cultural and body studies produced by queer theory, as well as the seminal “right over life and power over death” found in traditional Foucauldian biopolitics. Queer biopolitics also presents a bridge between analyses of authoritarian governmentality and the subjugation of queer people and populations—a crucial linkage for understanding how the Islamic Republic operationalizes its authoritarian schema. Most importantly, queer biopolitics systematically privileges the lived experiences of subjects under sovereignty rather than attempting to characterize populations and their states through universalized terms. The legacy of Iran’s relationship to queerness and non-normative bodies is long, spectacularly complex, and perhaps indecipherable to an outside theorist. Even capturing contemporary queer histories of post-revolutionary Iran is a task too large for anything less than several volumes. Rather, queer biopolitics is a project of ongoing interrogation which aims to leverage insights from queer theory to begin upending previously invisible structures, modalities, and paradigms of oppression. 

Queer theorists of Iran have already described how deviant genders and sexualities have been managed by the Iranian state. This previous work has overwhelmingly focused on the Iranian male homosexual. As Donna Azoulay writes, in Iranian cultural history scholars identify a “third gender, the ‘passive male homosexual.’ This distinction in passivity can be seen in the historical labeling of the ‘ma’bun’ […].”^[10] The ma’bun, described by Janet Afary as “somewhere in the middle”^[11] between dominant patricentric men and subordinate women, was a symbolic figure which emerged early in medieval Iranian society, signified by the performance of patriarchal family-rearing alongside the adoption of feminine aesthetics, non-normative sexual significations, and discreet engagement with “passive” sexual roles in male-to-male relationships.^[12] Azoulay and Afary both note that in this schema of politicized desire, it was not the sexual act that was considered abhorrent, but instead the desiring of another man. Azoulay capitalizes on this finding to argue that, today, the IRI strategically “filters” between ‘trans-sexuals’^[13] and homosexuals. For the IRI, gender dysphoria is a condition that can be pathologized by state biopower as a curable syndrome. However, the homosexual male performs a symbolic transgression of normative gender strata; his desiring of other men violates biopolitical demands on gender-as-performance rather than simply gender as cis-identification. As Raha Bahreini argues, these normative demands arise from the precedence of gender roles and performance above “purely” cisgender identity.^[14] In other words, the IRI’s “tragic commitment”^[15] to gender is a commitment to masculinity more thanmaleness.

As the authoritarian state exerts biopolitical control over the performance and construction of sex/gender systems, it deploys biomedicine and healthcare as its tools of choice.  Medical conceptions of “health” exclude various forms of embodied possibilities from social positions of acceptance, visibility, and legibility. The body emerges from birth and is thrown against a wall of expectation—of internal and external genitalia, normal chromosomal adherence, bones and muscles that portend futures of capitalist productivity. Examination of queer bodies holds particular significance, for, as Judith Butler describes, the queer body automatically commits several acts of treason against these systems of oppression.^[16] Its sexual attraction refuses heteronormative sense-making, in return upending oppositional relations of gender binaries; its existence generates fields and potentialities of antisocial performance; and its gender performances are iteratively resistant to compulsory norms. Luce Irigary summarizes this eloquently by stating that queer sexual acts upend oppositional relations in which the man is and the woman is not^[17]—they transgress the sexed gender possibilities of performance and subjectivation. In this sense, what is at stake for queer biopolitics is the regulation of all citizens’ gender performances. For authoritarianism, queerness makes no sense whatsoever because it disassembles grounding norms of how bodies are made culturally and socially intelligible to a coercive regime. Let us understand this at its absolute maximum: the queer body’s non-normative acts are politically treasonous specifically because they upend authoritarian biopolitical normativity that becomes “real” through medical discourse.

A great deal of international activism and queer transnationalism has also focused on the circumstances surrounding trans* people in Iran. In these predictable media tropes, the gender affirmation/reassignment surgery is a procedure forced upon homosexuals and other queer people, which if undertaken, guarantees political rights. Bahreini concludes that, in Iran, 

“the transperson “chooses” to conform, psychologically, hormonally and even surgically, to the prevailing dichotomous sex/gender scheme because that allows him/her to escape his/her stigmatized status and achieve “normalcy.”^[18]

Bahreini’s overview of trans* peoples’ situations in Iran concentrates on how state-biopolitical demands of gender conformity frame the issue through medicalization, and thus as conditions of “health” to be expediently addressed within medical teleology, generally argue that the discourse and practice of state-sanctioned gender-related surgery is a means of legitimizing oppressive, hateful, and carceral paradigms towards trans* and gender non-conforming people rather than subsidizing or sanctioning them. In this frontispiece, state surgery is brought into sharp relief as a classic instance of how Foucauldian biopolitics condemn medical authority as a self-naturalizing lever of asymmetric relationships of power between state/ruler and citizen/subject. However, Zara Saeidzadeh argues that this is not the full picture. Spanning a huge range of primary interviews with LGBTQ+ Iranians and gender-surgery medical providers, Saeidzadeh explores how intercity differences illustrate how these media tropes gloss over the complexities and disputes surrounding gender affirmation/reassignment surgery,^[19] and even disproving the idyllic narrative of the IRI universally sponsoring gender-related surgery. For instance, in the city of Kermanshah, this process must be initiated by the public and revolutionary court (dadsaray-e-omumi va enghlab), whereas in Shiraz and Mashdad, it begins at the family court with psychiatric evaluation. Indeed, Saeidzadeh controversially argues that “sex-change surgery is not legislated by [the Iranian] state, nor it is deemed obligatory under Ayatollah Khomeini’s fatwa.”^[20]

At the same time, state-sanctioned procedures are separate from individually held beliefs about gender affirmation and transition (though they, of course, influence each other). Individuals face transphobia from communities and other non-state actors, no matter their gender transition experience. In a truly Foucauldian fashion, power over compulsory normativity is dispersed amongst the population and state—between the subjugated and the dominant, and within the modalities of class, race, and urban-rural citizenship. This is how Saeidzadeh points the way to the radical possibilities for developing resistance within these structures of queer oppression. As she writes, “those who undergo sex-change surgery are not passive victims of patriarchy being forced to normalize their bodies within a heterosexual matrix; rather, they reconstruct their own subjectivity through the process of transsexual embodiment.”^[21] In this sense, opting for surgical procedures constitutes an act of self-recognition that emerges into a scene of sociopolitical visibility: a uniquely queer mode of interacting with dispersed power relationships. Further, the subject-as-subjected comes into question; Saiedzadeh’s analysis, like Bahreini’s, seems to argue that trans* people are non-autonomous subjects or victims to the authoritarian state bulldozes over the various ways in which gender transgression can exceed the bounds of authoritarianism. What the authors do not consider is that an Iranian queer citizen’s engagement in gender-related surgery, and thus with the authoritarian regime, can become an utterly unique form of symbolic queer life, death, and rebirth in its agentic self-direction. It bursts open conventional notions of either the queer as universally radical, or even Jasbir Puar’s concept of the “homonational” as a fixture of repressive Western governance.^[22] Instead, the queer Iranian is engaging in praxis which moves beyond this binary dialectic, illustrating a form of political survival which has yet to be described.

We have examined an extremely wide range of scholarship on gender and sexuality, as well as the state policing of both. What do we make of these scattered, disparate issues of resistance to power and authoritarian governmentality? As Maurice Godelier so acutely summarizes, “society haunts the body’s sexuality.”^[23] That is, compulsory sexual normativity places ongoing demand onto queer peoples’ bodies and desires, politicizing biology. Monique Wittig asserts that “the category of ‘sex’ is itself a gendered category, fully politically invested, naturalized but not natural.”^[24] The queer and gender atypical body in Iran experiences this post-structural praxis of domination through the application of biopolitical management. Perhaps the most appropriate theorist is the psychoanalyst Thomas Laqueur, who writes that 

“almost everything one wants to say about sex – however sex is understood – already has in it a claim about gender. Sex, in both the one-sex and the two-sex worlds, is situational; it is explicable only within the context of battles over gender.”^[25]

Through this non-dimorphic classification of gender and sexuality, queer theory elucidates how and why the IRI’s demands for bodily normativity and policing of desire is so reluctant to accept the homosexual man while simultaneously presenting gender affirmation/reassignment surgery as a “cure” for the “maligned” trans* person. Performance of sexual desire either constitutes or transgresses gender idealizations, making one’s gender identity legible in social reality. Simultaneously, gender informs what archetypes of sexual action and desire are considered “healthy” and sanctionable. In a world of social embodiment, this means that the boundaries between gender and sexual embodiment are far less clear. Each act of desire and gender configuration is constituted of the other, such that the selfhood of either is inherently denied. For my analysis, this means that the conditions of Iranian trans* and gay people are inextricable from each other another, and are mutually embossed in a system of domination and in the potential for liberation. 

 The tension between Saiedzadeh and Bahreini is a fruitful locus for grappling with this vis-a-vis queer biopolitics. The two depictions of the surgical choice at-large are somewhat incompatible. On one hand, the IRI demands gender-reassignment surgery as part of a logic of domination which consumes the wider field of possibility of gender and sexual forms, but on the other hand, the surgical option is considered as of self-actualizing trans* subjectivity in spite of totalizing sociopolitical oppression and phobia. I venture that these perspectives are actually non-mutually exclusive when understood from the vantage of queer biopolitics. As Foucault writes, “at the junction of the ‘body’ and the ‘population,’ sex became a crucial target of a power organized around the management of life rather than the menace of death.”^[26] A biopolitically authoritarian state thus manages their populace as both individual bodies and as members of a unique population—as self-possessed agents of transgression and as non-specific “faceless” phenomena. Of course, the non-voluntary election of surgery is a conscription into gender normativity placed onto trans* populations: a bio-policy levied in order to manage the deviant lives of an entire populace through orchestrating the symbolic death of their own discursive gender identities. But the individual body can “reconstruct [its] own subjectivity”^[27] within this matrix of power through divesting from what Neel Ahuja calls the “spectacular temporalities of crisis and transcendence,”^[28] which is a regressive framing of queer life as a process of rebirth (biopolitics) and death (necropolitics) into a more true, essential, or perfect queer form. Rather, as Ahuja and Saiedzadeh argue, gender configurations are specific to both time and space, and in turn actively bring social reality into spatiotemporal existence. There is no quintessential or a priori queer or trans* person—instead, each body is postured and articulated in a fluid, post-modern environment. This process, which Connell calls social embodiment,^[29]moves beyond theoretical arguments about queer survival under oppression, which tend to valorize micro-political acts at the cost of reckoning with ongoing sociopolitical domination. Rather, social embodiment explains how, within queer biopolitics, a body and a subject can be locked into an asymmetric relationship of domination at the same time as engaging in self-fashioning and reconfiguration. This self-fashioning does not necessarily constitute meaningful acts of political resistance. Instead, theorizing social embodiment constitutes a post-structural acknowledgement of the queer subject under biopower. The queer subject, among other things, is constituted by both a particularly situated body and membership to a deviant population. These two separate forces operate at tension, and it is precisely this tension which generates a heretofore unconsidered mode of life under authoritarian control.

Katarzyn Korycki and Nasirzadeh Abouzar draw upon historical analysis to analyze how the othering of male homosexuals and official recognition of trans* people are in parity.^[30] Their analysis also reveals how Western conceptualizations of queerness provide “ready-made positive markers of identity”^[31] to be re-inscribed onto non-normative Iranian desires and bodies. But these Western concepts do little to counter the unique sociopolitical and historical formation of the gay/trans* parity while also playing into a neocolonial fetish for “liberating” queer subaltern subjects through paradoxically reproducing colonial paradigms of “civilized” status. In place of this, Korycki evaluates how “new Persian words” have been created by queer Iranian activists, such as hamjins-gara’i (same-sex love, same-sex desire, same-sex orientation), as symbolic moves away from the dichotomy of authoritarianism and neocolonialism.^[32] These new terms and concepts are not merely descriptive, but also are radically prescriptive in their inception. They signal a novel form of critique that rests in the actually socially embodied lives of queer Iranians. F. Rouhani writes that this profoundly Iranian queer lexicon “is being mobilized by gay and lesbian activists and subjects inside Iran to disrupt the grid of intelligibility for constituting and othering sexual minorities as non-authentic Iranians.”^[33]In the matrix of biopower and control, the subjective power of reclaiming a name stands concomitant with an embodied resistance to state control over life and death. As evidenced by this generation of new terms of positive ubiquity, the Iranian iteration of this is rooted in alliance-building as a means of upending repression-by-parity.

The temporal differences of Bahreini and Saiedzadeh must also be examined. Bahreini writes during the midst of the Ahmadinejad presidency in 2008. Bahreini’s writing also takes place proximal to the highly publicized 2005 hanging of two boys in Mashhad for reported “homosexual activities.”^[34] Ahmadinejad’s presidency was marked by a revival of particularly repressive policies on LGBT people, with some data suggesting that 2007 was the highest rate of gender-related surgery in Iran.^[35] And, of course, Ahmadinejad’s notorious claim that “there are no homosexuals in Iran”^[36] characterizes his paradigm of queer annihilation. But Saiedzadeh is writing deep into the Rouhani presidency and within the midst of the 2019-2020 Iranian protests calling for the overthrow of Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei. Rouhani has advanced some hesitant attempts at defending queer Iranians. However, F. Rouhani writes that though “[President] Rouhani has tried to ‘reign in’ the morality police by bringing its operations under the jurisdiction of his own interior ministry, this move has been defeated by powerful conservative forces in the establishment.”^[37] Farhang Rouhani then returns to the Khatami presidency in the late 1990s, when internationalization of human rights discourse had a profound impact on President Khatami’s reactivity to queer citizens and subjects, though hardline conservatives largely blocked his interventions.^[38] In short, the symbolic and ideological fluctuations of presidencies in the IRI present a critical source of critique against queer biopolitics themselves. They not only illustrate the heterogeneity of the IRI, but also reframe accounts of queer biopolitics away from the invocation of a liberal secular imaginary. As we move deeper into this paper’s critique, a new problem is emerging about the stability of our conceptualization of biopower and biopolitics itself. Indeed, state biopolitics of queer desire, death, and survival in postrevolutionary Iran seem to have constantly shifting antecedents and conditions of emergence. 

 And yet the question remains: what is the utility of suppressing deviant gender and sexuality to such an extent for the IRI’s authoritarian governmentality? To tackle this crucial issue, we must turn to Italian philosopher Giorgio Agamben. His analysis of “bare life,” or the reduction and exclusion of certain people outside of judiciary, legal, and political legibility, explains what authoritarian governmentality has to gain from marginalizing queerness. The subject of bare life, which he names homo sacer from the archaic Roman tradition, “is one who has been excluded from normal human law and as such is placed in a ‘limit condition’ between this world and the next, between properly-qualified human life and death.”^[39] To Agamben, the limit condition is a hallmark of modern sovereignty: “The sovereign sphere is the sphere in which it is permitted to kill without committing homicide and without celebrating a sacrifice, and sacred life—that is, life that may be killed but not sacrificed—is the life that has been captured in this sphere.”^[40]Rendering life bare via exclusion could be described as a tension-holding process in which social marginalization does not necessarily manifest as mass imprisonment or elimination (as Foucault would put it, “making death”) but where the imagined demarcation of liberties and rights itself is evidence of the inescapable sway of modern sovereign power. And the queer body serves as territory for the sovereign to claim. Through the inescapable links of embodied autonomy, we have already discussed, this act has ramifications for the whole population.

Further, the limit condition, which Agamben describes as the “hidden paradigm of the political space of modernity,”^[41] unmasks a potential mechanism behind the Islamic Republic’s sponsorship of gender-related surgery. The process of social embodiment for queer people in Iran, which is already outside of social and cultural legibility, is made bare by the authoritarian regime. The sovereign dialectic creates a condition of inescapability precisely through using the coerced surgical option to make the pre-surgical body sociopolitically illegible. At the level of the population, the dialectic produces a gendered and sexed state of exception, in which the ideal cisheteronormative social body is continually presented as under assault. Through perpetuating a state of bodily precarity, the need for extraordinary measures becomes politically possible and tolerable. Thus, surgical sponsorship not only pathologized deviant genders and sexualities, but rendered those bodies as bare. But at the same time as the surgical “option” operationalizes the limit condition for queer Iranians, Saiedzadeh’s account of the many trans* Iranians who used the “option” to find great personal fulfillment complicates this argument’s narrative. Queer Iranian life beyond discourse around surgery also presents a challenge to an asymmetric view of biopolitical power.

 The analysis so far has been largely theoretical, and to draw this into the material, let us now turn to the IRI’s burgeoning digital surveillance and repression as a case study of queer biopolitics. After online and digital mediums of organizing resistance played a key role in the 2009 protest movements, the IRI began a campaign of repression enhancement. Since then, digital repression has evolved in tandem with techniques of resistance, including deep packet inspection, targeted individual monitoring, and challenging hacking techniques. Marcus Michaelsen writes that,

“While their actual technical capabilities remain obscure, security agencies rely on the chilling effect of mediatized surveillance operations. Now and then, state television airs forced confessions of arrested social media users to highlight the regime’s skills in cyber-policing. In addition to internet activists and journalists, these campaigns also target other online communities who are considered to transgress official norms.”^[42]

Alongside its campaign of mass censorship and internet restriction, the IRI has also created a national “intranet” to prevent external access and influence. By 2013, the regime had designed its own alternatives to Gmail, YouTube, and Yahoo. Access to this intranet requires Iranian citizens to use national ID numbers and other centrally located identifying information. As Ilan Berman writes, 

“Iran’s campaign of digital repression is part of a larger regime effort to prevent the intrusion of Western values and cultural influence into the country. Iranian authorities see such penetration – which they view as a “soft war”being waged against them by the West – as an existential threat to their rule. In 2009, Khamenei identified this fight as the government’s “main priority.”^[43]

It is through these complex forms of online repression and surveillance that the regime is able to modulate civil society with unprecedented access. State ownership of telecommunications firms enables constant citizen tracking, which is of particular interest to the regime during times of protest and unrest. Communications with members of the Iranian diaspora or other non-citizen rabble-rousers is regularly monitored. Crucially, Andrea Kendall-Taylor and Erica Frantz write that the Chinese Communist Party has been sharing digital repression techniques, infrastructure, and software with the Iranian government at an all-time high.^[44] A hallmark of the Chinese method of repression is the centralization of citizen data (demographics, face, voice, digital profile, social media, etc.) under a single alphanumeric sign.^[45] In Iran’s case, this is becoming the national ID number, under which an amassed group of correlated surveillance data is beginning to be merged.^[46]

 These burgeoning techniques of digital repression disproportionately affect queer communities. As David Faris and Babak Rahimi write, “the Internet has been an invaluable tool in facilitating gay Iranians to get connected.”^[47]Not only are the internet and social media spaces for finding community, partnership, intimacy, and sex, but they also act as sources of subversive information for queer Iranians on topics like conscription, HIV/AIDS, and immigration.^[48] Queer activist networks share information and mobilize communities through publishing e-zines like Neda, which are distributed through private channels. These communication channels harbor incredible strands and pushes towards resistance. As one Neda article asks, “Will there be a day that Iranian queer people be fully accepted in the Iranian culture? Is Molana not enough reason for them?”^[49] It is on these digital platforms that even more radical terms like degarbashan jensi (queer) have emerged, coalescing a colloquial language of underground activism. Most notably, some queer Iranians use the internet as a means to virtually “come out”—a flagrant rejection of Ahmadinejad’s denial of queer Iranian people and a bold activist tactic. Wayne Martino and Jón Kjaran describes these digital spaces as “virtual heterotopias”^[50] that complement physical spaces of queer gathering to create private spaces of queer comfort and intelligibility which are constantly unfolding and unstable. As the authors continue, 

“It is in this sense that such heterotopic spaces for gathering need to be understood in their temporality as the fleeting materialization of disorienting forms of queer social investment taking shape and set against the limits of a bodily horizon^[51] of state enforced compulsory heterosexuality.”^[52]

As such, the virtual and the physical spaces combine times and spaces for the queer body to leave the scene of state-mediated, biopolitical oppression. Not only does this create conditions of safety, but also enables the act of imagining future resistance. What it conversely reveals is the socially-mediated nature of queer oppression as a non-essential feature of Iran —that it is possible to undo what has been done.

Yet upon extending these findings, we discover both the disproportionate harm which censorship and repression have on queer communities, as well as the precariousness faced inherently by queer Iranians who expose themselves on online forums. According to Human Rights Watch, Iranian surveillance operatives are known to impersonate queer people within online forums to gather information, hack profiles, and leverage network information into tangible threats.^[53] And this comes as no surprise. As Kathryn Conrad argues, hypermodern surveillance techniques in the ‘information age’ have created new ontologies of embodiment.^[54] Drawing on Irma van der Ploeg’s work on the virtual ‘body-as-information,’^[55] she continues that inherent to mass surveillance is an “innately conservative epistemology” which aims to put disproportionate and overwhelming “normative pressure on non-normative bodies and practices.”^[56] The Iranian regime has institutionalized this normative pressure through mass surveillance which forms a new mode of citizen control through creating new virtual ontologies, or bodies-as-information. And this is not the first time that new ontologies of embodiment have emerged. Donna Haraway’s analysis of biology describes a new meaning-production system of “recognition and misrecognition, […] the body’s reading practices, and billion-dollar projects to sequence the human genome [in a] genetic ‘library’.” She further argues that the biomedical-biotechnical body is “a semiotic system, a complex meaning production field.”^[57] Combined with centralized DNA, facial, and voice profiling databases, the national ID code can become the alphanumeric sign under which citizens’ behaviors and acts reside, replacing their biological and social bodies in both significance and utility (just as exhibited in China). Indeed, the stored information which constitutes this sign is inseparable from what the state does to a citizen’s physical body and even more important than what their body is “actually doing.” The CCTV camera and its underlying algorithms reign supreme. I propose the concept of the virtual-biopolitical body as a novel semiotic locus, a site in which a citizen’s embodiment is reconfigured into a yet-undescribed mode which is owned and controlled by the authoritarian state’s databases. 

I note that this virtual embodiment and its machinations are distinctly not the same liberatory mode as, say, Haraway’s Cyborg. Instead, the Iranian virtual body is a disturbing amalgam of panoptic fear and State desire, the manifestation of Khameinei’s internalized and corrosive gaze. Unlike virtual bodies of individual production, virtual bodies of authoritarian state production enable enhancement of state surveillance on a logarithmic scale and alter the culture of authoritarianism itself. Not only does Iranian surveillance and its accompanying databases eliminate any spatiotemporal limitations to surveillance, but Michalis Lianos and Mary Douglas also explain that the incorporation of predictive algorithms into CCTV networks alters the logic of negotiation which underpinned ‘old’ surveillance. They write that “[predictive algorithms] radically transform the cultural register of the societies in which they operate by introducing non-negotiable contexts of interaction.”^[58] The algorithm is ironclad in the sense that it suffers from none of the folly of human emotion and pliability due to its profound reductivism, using no other logic than what is programmed. At this point, the authoritarian state no longer has no reason to engage in dialectical production and destruction of values with its citizenry. As Lianos and Douglas continue, in an algorithmic society 

“there are no good and bad, honest and dishonest – or for that matter, poor or less poor – individuals. There are simply holders or nonholders of valid tokens for each predetermined level of access.”^[59]

In Iran’s case this totalizing binary of permission or exclusion (desirable or undesirable) makes civil discourse and individual identity production entirely irrelevant for the sovereign power.

The problem of organizing resistance must also be considered. How can you outrun the queer basher when he lives in every camera, of which there are countless on every street and corner? In a world where machine learning has mastered the facial recognition of sexual orientation,^[60] deviant bodies and sexualities can be tracked and profiled alongside their social credit and punished as such. It becomes terrifying to imagine an Iran without any underground spaces of liberated desire, sexual and gender expression, and without a visible queer population altogether. Forget planning protests, sex work, public sex or cruising; entering a home with a member of the same sex with a suspicious look on your face has become criminal activity—and even this may disappear because criminality need not exist amongst virtual bodies. Just as files are wiped, undesirable virtual bodies can be deleted through physical disappearance. It is the first totalizing time where the matter of surveillance and punishment is not one of if (probability and risk) but when and where (a given outcome). For Khameinei, he may not even need to continue disappearing queer people and activists as the internalization of his omnipresent gaze is sufficient to eliminate, through sheer and unabated terror, queer resistance and organizing altogether. Thus emerges an Iranian state panopticism, which heralds a new age of queer biopolitical control. 

HIV/AIDS survival is a sphere in which biopower manifests most obviously, particularly in Iran’s case. The prevalence and novel infection rate of HIV/AIDS, which is falling dramatically around the world due to breakthroughs in treatment and prevention techniques, has continued rising in Iran.^[61] Though most countries report that their new cases are primarily due to unprotected sexual activity, it is estimated that the majority of Iran’s 20,000 HIV-positive people were infected by sharing contaminated needles. Comprehensive reviews of Iran’s triangular clinics (which treat HIV infection, drug addiction, and mental health) have found that extreme social stigma presents a nearly insurmountable barrier to treatment and prevention for many Iranians living with HIV.^[62] In particular, Mohammad Karamouzian concludes that a lack of effective medical education to doctors and other healthcare providers on HIV leads to provision of suboptimal care.^[63] Further, the extreme ostracization—such as family rejection, loss of employment, and violence—experienced by those whose HIV status was made public leads patients to refuse treatment and deny their medical situation. Amongst countless other cultural and social modes of stigma and rejection, the situation for HIV-positive Iranians is clearly dire. They face a dearth of medical treatment and an excess of shame and stigma. 

A conventional approach might be to argue that these forms of marginalization are rooted in elements of deeply-held Iranian culture, and consequently are just as ineffable as they are quintessential. But this is a dangerous precedent to set; it not only reinforces racist, colonial notions of Iran as needing Western “enlightenment”; but it also under-articulates the crucial mechanisms of biopolitics. Kjaran writes that HIV-positive bodies in Iran “live outside of what can be considered culturally intelligible in terms of seropositivity, sexuality, and gender.””^[64] As my previous analysis has demonstrated, queer Iranians violate normative expectations of gender and sexuality, and thus exist at a state-mediated limit condition. But the HIV-positive Iranian—a category which commonly overlaps with queer identity—experiences bodily abjection. As Robert Phillips writes, “[Abjection] refers to the process by which identificatory regimes exclude subjects that they render unintelligible or beyond classification.”^[65] The abject, or the “in-between, the ambiguous, the composite,” is literally “cast out” and occupies a “borderline uncertainty” which is perceived by the Other as “ambiguous, horrifying, and polluting.” Kristeva is careful to note that abjection is not “an absence of health or cleanliness […] but that which perturbs an identity, a system, an order.”^[66] But above all, the central characteristic of the abject is that it is perceived with horror which manifests as disproportionate and embodied disgust. It is an emotive, affective marker which is bound up in sociopolitical meaning. In Iran, the abjection experienced by HIV-positive people is inseparable from the perception of injecting/intravenous-drug use (IDU) as abjection. As Margrit Shildrick writes, 

“[T]he most visible boundary of all, the skin, is both the limit of the embodied self and the site of potentially transgressive psychic investments. In consequence, any compromise of the organic unity and self-completion of the skin may signal monstrosity.”^[67]

Abjection and embodied transgression present a bridge between authoritarian control of affect and authoritarian control of biopolitics. Through infusing the visceral emotions of monstrosity with political designations of health and humanity, the previously-discussed processes of identity control and limit conditioning are charged with an electric sensorium of horror and disgust. 

The prowess of abjection is in understanding the stigma faced by drug users and HIV-positive people as a “biopolitically performative process,” instead of as a stable feature of a cultural frontispiece. The subject of abjection, Butler argues, is excluded not as a matter of destruction but of constitution. The non-abject is made known through the abject, and this project of abjection has biopolitical ends. Through framing addiction with embodied horror and “transgressive psychic investments,” sovereign power is able to inscribe the politics of choice onto its abjected bodies. As Suzanne Fraser expounds, 

From this point of view, addiction should not be reified as a fixed attribute that attracts stigma, one that, as Nora Volkow has argued, can be destigmatised if only we see that it is a sickness of the brain characterised by a ‘diseased’ ‘free will’, or even as essentially a problem ruthlessly mobilised in the ‘service of power’. Instead it is a biopolitical designation at the centre of a profound process in which a constitutive outside of irrationality and dependence emerges to consolidate the modernist centre of rationality and autonomy. In practical terms, that is, addiction is a means by which contemporary liberal subjects are schooled and disciplined in the forms of conduct and dispositions required to belong, and to count as fully human.^[68]

It is through the joint abjection of addiction and infection that IRI biopower is able to marginalize its undesirables not only through coercively managing their genders and sexualities, or rendering them legally bare, but through provoking a damaged image of a flawed capacity for will (as it exists in the modern imaginary) and subsequent sub-humanity. This conjoined style of oppression exemplifies how the authoritarian Iranian regime utilizes biopolitical means to generate conditions of death at the same time it engages in life-giving and management (through the surgical option, surveillance, etc.). 

Ultimately, queer biopolitics as an analytical methodology has been applied as a kind of productive hermeneutics for this paper—both of the lived conditions of queer Iranian people and bodies, and a wider set of sociopolitical situations. Through analyzing the intertwined struggles of gay and trans* Iranians and the regime’s usage of the “surgical option” and other medical authorities as a means of pathologizing deviant genders and sexualities, I came to understand how queer Iranians are bursting open conventional notions of resistance through a novel form of praxis which has yet to be described. From there, I examined the shifting conditions of queer oppression across presidential regimes, which allowed me to use Agamben’s theory of limit conditions to understand what the regime has to gain from said oppression. In order to draw these theorizations into material reality, I evaluated Iranian digital repression and surveillance and its disproportionate impact on queer bodies (whether physical or virtual). Finally, we examined HIV/AIDS and injected drug use to explore abjection and its capacity to explain how stigma itself is a performative biopolitical process. These theoretical findings are the result of using queer biopolitics to illustrate how Iranian authoritarian biopower capitalizes on the control of queer life and death, both as an end in-of-itself, as a a means towards other forms of oppression and control on its non-queer citizenry. And these findings only beg more questions: what role does the queer Iranian diaspora play into authoritarian biopolitics? How do queer Iranian refugees experience these sociopolitical levers of control? Finally, what is the role of transnational queer alliances and networks, if any, in helping Iranian queer citizens to overcome these forms of oppression? My hope is that applying queer biopolitics has revealed the crucial insights available when we dare to interrogate the spaces between systems of oppression. 

References

^[1] Azoulay, D. D. (2011). The biopolitics of gender in Iran: How a “third gender” has formed. Juridikum Queering Family Law, 2, 261-269.

^[2] Zara Saeidzadeh; Understanding Socio-Legal Complexities of Sex Change in Postrevolutionary Iran. TSQ 1 February 2019; 6 (1): 80–102. doi: https://doi.org/10.1215/23289252-7253510

^[3] Leezenberg, M. (2018). Foucault and Iran Reconsidered: Revolt, Religion, and Neoliberalism. Īrān-nāmag, 3(2), IV-XXVIII.

^[4] Ghamari-Tabrizi, B. (2016). Foucault in Iran: Islamic revolution after the enlightenment. U of Minnesota Press.

^[5] Foucault, Essential Writings 3: 44; Dits et écrits, III: 781.

^[6] Ghamari-Tabrizi, B. 

^[7] In the context of critical theory, the term analytic is typically used independently of analysis, to describe a ex-ante method rather than an ex-post set of analytical conclusions.

^[8] Leezenberg, M. Page 25

^[9]  Kähkönen, L., & Sudenkaarne, T. (2018). Queer, Biopolitics and Bioethics. SQS–Suomen Queer-tutkimuksen Seuran lehti, 12(1-2), XI-XIX.

^[10] Azoulay, D. D. (2011). The biopolitics of gender in Iran: How a “third gender” has formed. Juridikum Queering Family Law, 2, 261-269.

^[11] Afary, J. (2009). Sexual politics in modern Iran. Cambridge University Press.

^[12] Ibid.

^[13] Please note that this is the term used by Azoulay, and not the appropriate term suggested by the author to described trans* or non-binary people in Iran.

^[14] Bahreini, R. (2008). From perversion to pathology: discourses and practices of gender policing in the Islamic Republic of Iran. Muslim World Journal of Human Rights, 5(1).

^[15] Ibid.

^[16] Butler, J. (2011). Gender trouble: Feminism and the subversion of identity. Routledge, 89-90.

^[17] Butler, 60

^[18] Bahreini, R. 60-62.

^[19] Zara Saeidzadeh; Understanding Socio-Legal Complexities of Sex Change in Postrevolutionary Iran. TSQ 1 February 2019; 6 (1): 80–102. doi: https://doi.org/10.1215/23289252-7253510

^[20] Ibid.

^[21] Ibid.

^[22] Puar, J. K. (2018). Terrorist assemblages: Homonationalism in queer times. Duke University Press.

^[23] Godelier, M. (1981). The origins of male domination. New Left Review.

^[24] Butler, J. 153

^[25] Foss, S. K., Domenico, M. E., & Foss, K. A. (2012). Gender stories: Negotiating identity in a binary world. Waveland Press.

^[26] Foucault, M. (1984). The foucault reader. Pantheon. Page 120-123.

^[27] Ibid.

^[28] Ahuja, N. (2015). Intimate atmospheres: Queer theory in a time of extinctions. GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies, 21(2-3), 365-385.

^[29] Connell, R. (2011). Gender and social justice: Southern perspectives. South African Review of Sociology, 42(3), 103-115.

^[30] Katarzyn Korycki and Nasirzadeh Abouzar, “ Desire Recast: The Production of Gay Identity in Iran,” Journal of Gender Studies 25 (2014): 50–65 10.1080/09589236.2014.889599

^[31] Ibid.

^[32] Ibid.

^[33] Rouhani, F. (2016). Queering the “Iranian” and the “Diaspora” of the Iranian Diaspora. In Gender and Sexuality in Muslim Cultures (pp. 371-386). Routledge.

^[34] Rao, R. (2015). Echoes of imperialism in LGBT activism. Echoes of Empire: Memory, Identity and Colonial Legacies, 355-372.

^[35] Ibid.

^[36] Hassan, H. D. (2007, April). Iran: Profile and Statements of President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Library of Congress, Washington D.C. Congressional Research Service. 

^[37] Rouhani, F. (2016). Queering the “Iranian” and the “Diaspora” of the Iranian Diaspora. In Gender and Sexuality in Muslim Cultures (pp. 371-386). Routledge.

^[38] Ibid.

^[39] Neal, A. (2007, September). Giorgio Agamben and the politics of the exception. In Conference Paper, Sixth Pan-European International Relations Conference of the 2016 ECPR General Conference Standing Group on International Relations in Turin (pp. 12-15).

^[40] Agamben, G., & Hiepko, A. (2002). Homo sacer (p. 174). Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Page 123.

^[41] Ibid. Page 125

^[42] Michaelsen, M. (2017). Far Away, So Close: Transnational Activism, Digital Surveillance and Authoritarian Control in Iran. Surveillance & Society, 15(3/4), 465-470.

^[43] Berman, I. (2015). Iranian devolution: Tehran fights the digital future. World Affairs, 51-57.

^[44] Kendall-Taylor, A., Frantz, E., & Wright, J. (2020). “The Digital Dictators: How Technology Strengthens Autocracy.” Foreign Affairs, 99(2), 103-115.

^[45] Zheng, M. (2019) Queer Biopolitics in Authoritarian China. Virginia Journal of Gender Studies. Forthcoming.

^[46] Ibid.

^[47] Nasirzadeh, A. (2015). The Role of Social Media in the Lives of Gay Iranians. Social Media in Iran: Politics and Society after 2009, 57-75.

^[48] Ibid.

^[49] Ibid.

^[50] Kjaran, J. I., & Martino, W. (2019). In search of queer spaces in Tehran: Heterotopias, power geometries and bodily orientations in queer Iranian men’s lives. Sexualities, 22(4), 587-604.

^[51] Ibid. ‘The bodily horizon shows the ‘‘line’’ that bodies can reach toward, what is reachable, by also marking what they cannot reach’.

^[52] Ibid.

^[53] Jafari, F. (2014). Transsexuality under Surveillance in Iran: Clerical Control of Khomeini’s Fatwas. Journal of Middle East Women’s Studies, 10(2), 31-51.

^[54] Conrad, K. (2009). Surveillance, gender, and the virtual body in the information age. Surveillance & Society, 6(4), 380-387.

^[55] Van der Ploeg, I. (2003). Biometrics and the body as information. Surveillance as social sorting: Privacy, risk and digital discrimination, 57-73.

^[56] Ibid.

^[57] Haraway, D.J. (1991) Simians, Cyborgs and Women. The Reinvention of Nature, London: Free Association Books.

^[58] Lianos, M. and Douglas, M. (2000) “Dangerization and the End of Deviance: The Institutional Environment,” in R. Sparks and D. Garland (eds) Criminology and Social Theory, Oxford: Oxford University Press

^[59] Ibid.

^[60] Wang, Y., & Kosinski, M. (2018, October 23). Deep neural networks are more accurate than humans at detecting sexual orientation from facial images. Retrieved from osf.io/zn79k

^[61] Heidary, M., & Nasiri, M. J. (2016). Why has HIV/AIDS prevalence increased in Iran?. Clinical Infectious Diseases, 63(6), 846.

^[62] Karamouzian, M., Akbari, M., Haghdoost, A. A., Setayesh, H., & Zolala, F. (2015). “I am dead to them”: HIV-related stigma experienced by people living with HIV in Kerman, Iran. Journal of the Association of Nurses in AIDS Care, 26(1), 46-56.

^[63] Ibid.

^[64] Kjaran, J. I. (2019). The “Sick Gay”: Being HIV-positive in Iran. In Gay Life Stories (pp. 151-180). Palgrave Macmillan, Cham.

^[65] Phillips, R. (2014). Abjection. Transgender Studies Quarterly, 1(1-2), 19-21.

^[66] Kristeva, J. (1982). Approaching abjection. Oxford Literary Review, 5(1-2), 125-149.

^[67] Shildrick, M. (1999) ‘This Body which is Not One: Dealing with Differences’, Body & Society 5(2–3): 77–92

^[68]  Fraser, S., Pienaar, K., Dilkes-Frayne, E., Moore, D., Kokanovic, R., Treloar, C., & Dunlop, A. (2017). Addiction stigma and the biopolitics of liberal modernity: A qualitative analysis. International Journal of Drug Policy, 44, 192-201.

Works Cited

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Foss, Sonja K., Mary E. Domenico, and Karen A. Foss. Gender stories: Negotiating identity in a binary world. Waveland Press, 2012.

Foucault, Michel, and Paul Rabinow. “Essential works of Foucault, 1954-1988.” (1997).

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Foucault, M. (1984). The foucault reader. Pantheon. Page 120-123.

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Abstract

Twenty years after the passage of United Nations Security Council Resolution 1325, conflict-related sexual violence remains a persistent problem. In this paper, I survey the literature on causes of conflict-related sexual violence in order to identify avenues for policymaking. I then compare the national action plans of two states – Liberia and Côte d’Ivoire – to evaluate which causes from the literature they seek to address. I argue that the Liberian plan has been more effective than the Ivorian plan because it focuses on building strong institutions with the specific mandate to deliver accountability for sexual violence. The Liberian government has also demonstrated a greater commitment to adapting and improving their policies as new research on their effectiveness becomes available. While accountability for sexual violence in Liberia is still difficult to achieve, women in the country report relatively high levels of optimism toward formal systems of justice. This suggests that the Liberian model of addressing sexual violence has the potential to serve as an example for policy programs elsewhere. 

Addressing Conflict-Related Sexual Violence: Efficacy of National Action Plans in Liberia and Côte d’Ivoire

“You can’t cure trauma when violence is ongoing, so the primary effort must be working for peace. You can’t negotiate a lasting peace without bringing women into the effort, but women can’t become peacemakers without releasing the pain that keeps them from feeling their own strength.”

― Leymah Gbowee, Mighty Be Our Powers: How Sisterhood, Prayer, and Sex Changed a Nation at War

The year 2020 marked the twentieth anniversary of the United Nations’ adoption of Security Council Resolution 1325 on Women, Peace, and Security, which recognizes the gendered impacts of conflict and encourages the full and equal participation of women in efforts to end violence and build peace. While advocates and academics have made immense strides in promoting gender justice in situations of armed conflict, many of the focal problems set out in the resolution persist around the world. As Leymah Gbowee, Liberian peacemaker and Nobel laureate, discusses in her memoir, the gendered effects of conflict are often left untreated, which hinders peace processes and leaves a society with massive unaddressed trauma. Conflict-related sexual violence is one such problem, which the UN Secretary-General António Guterres described in a 2019 report as “a cruel tactic of war, torture, terror and political repression, and a brutally effective tool of displacement and dehumanization.”^[1] Despite widespread, much-deserved attention to the problem of sexual violence in armed conflict, many states still struggle to hold perpetrators accountable after the conflict has ended. This problem has led a number of scholars in the field of Women, Peace, and Security Studies to try and understand the factors driving conflict-related sexual violence in order to develop policy options that would better address them.

In this paper, I first survey the literature on the root causes of conflict-related sexual violence. I then turn to the national action plans of two states, Liberia and Côte d’Ivoire, which seek to reduce sexual violence in their societies and hold perpetrators accountable. I analyze whether the national action plans promise policy changes that would address each of the root causes identified in the literature, and then I compare the two different approaches based on their effectiveness. I argue that Liberia’s national action plan is more effective than the Ivorian plan because it provides for the establishment of new institutions with the specific focus of holding perpetrators of conflict-related sexual violence accountable. Furthermore, the Liberian government has demonstrated a more sustained commitment to improving its efforts to combat sexual violence, as evidenced by a new national action plan in 2019 and increased resource allocation in 2020. Finally, I discuss the potential implications of my research for policymakers and academics looking to build more effective strategies for addressing conflict-related sexual violence.

Literature Review

While scholars in the ancient world wrote extensively about the phenomenon of rape in wartime, much of the modern scholarship on the subject has been written since the turn of the twenty-first century. Throughout the modern era, and certainly during the twentieth century, the common understanding was that sexual violence in situations of armed conflict was ubiquitous and inevitable. The prevailing hypothesis suggested that rape in wartime resulted from the opportunism of combatants and was a normal kind of violence against civilians, and as such, that it could not be effectively prevented. The literature on civilian protection at the time supported this hypothesis. Scholars of civil war, such as Jeremy Weinstein, argued that widespread violence against civilians happened when rebel groups lacked incentives to cultivate civilian buy-in. Rebel groups with funding from external patrons or control over rich natural resources had no strategic need for civilian support in finances or membership, so they had no problem carrying out mass violence.^[2] While Weinstein does not directly address conflict-related sexual violence, his theory of violence against civilians explains and influences the common perception of rape as a natural side effect of armed conflict concerning civilians.

Advocates for the Women, Peace, and Security agenda at the United Nations were dissatisfied with this understanding of conflict-related sexual violence and the lack of priority that accompanied it. They, following rulings at the International Criminal Tribunals for Rwanda and Yugoslavia, argued that rape was used as a tool for civilian terror and strategic targeting of certain groups, thereby constituting a weapon of war. In the 2008 Security Council Resolution 1820, the United Nations validated this framework for dealing with conflict-related sexual violence, formally classifying the phenomenon as a tactic of war and requesting that member states develop and implement policies to address it.^[3] Since then, scholars have debated the merits of the “weapon of war” framework. Kerry Crawford discusses the debate in her 2017 book, Wartime Sexual Violence: From Silence to Condemnation of a Weapon of War. She says that considering sexual violence a weapon of war limits our collective understanding of the problem. It centers on the dichotomy of a male perpetrator and a female victim, obscuring the reality of sexual violence perpetrated by women or against men and LGBTQ+ people, who are often attacked for reasons specific to their sexual and gender identities.^[4] Furthermore, the weapon of war framework minimizes the gendered social context that, according to some scholars, underpins conflict-related sexual violence.^[5] However, while it has its flaws, Crawford suggests that ultimately the classification of sexual violence as a weapon of war has enabled feminist advocates to make realist arguments to policymakers, citing security concerns and placing the problem within the interests of states.^[6] The “weapon of war” framework continues to be the prevailing way of thinking about conflict-related sexual violence today, with some scholars suggesting that proponents of the Women, Peace, and Security agenda should capitalize on their overlapping interests with advocates of the Responsibility to Protect protocol.^[7] As such, the scholarship on conflict-related sexual violence since 2008 seeks to respond to the “weapon of war” framework, both to affirm and critique it.

Realist arguments about conflict-related sexual violence like those that use militaristic language hinge on the premise that it is a kind of political violence, generally directed at a group of people for strategic purposes in the context of violent conflict. The belief in this framework is that gendered violence can serve as a tool of political terror and degrade the social fabric of enemy society. This perspective is exemplified in the 2012 study, Sex and World Peace, wherein the authors argue that the use of sexual violence against women in cases of armed conflict reflects and builds upon the everyday violence against women before conflict. They discuss various kinds of systemic, institutional, and legal violence against women that are common across different societies, and they state that conflict-related sexual violence is, at its core, a kind of gendered political violence.^[8] The authors argue, as do many proponents of the Women, Peace, and Security agenda, that efforts to build peaceful societies and rebuild after conflict cannot succeed without a critical evaluation of the status of women.^[9]

Elisabeth Wood argues to the contrary, suggesting that the prevalence of sexual violence in conflict scenarios is not because it is strategically useful, but because it is a practice that some commanders do not care to forbid. Wood discusses at length the degree to which conflict-related sexual violence varies vastly in its motivations and incidence.^[10]She maintains that there are plenty of cases where factors like ethnic conflict, low status of women, and rebel group ideology would predict high levels of sexual violence, but in practice it does not happen. This refutes the argument made throughout the twentieth century that rape in war is inevitable. In fact, Wood tells her audience that some commanders are very effective in prohibiting the practice for their troops, meaning that commanders and recruits that allow or perpetrate sexual violence can and should be held accountable for their actions.^[11] Wood argues that the state of gender relations in a particular country does not have a strong influence on whether or not sexual violence occurs during conflict, which separates her from scholars who point to violent constructions of masculinity and oppression of women as contributing factors.^[12]

Wood’s research demonstrates the immense variation in conflict-related sexual violence, which pushed other scholars to try and use more quantitative methods to evaluate the root of the problem. One such scholar is Dara Cohen, who is co-creator of the Sexual Violence in Armed Conflict (SVAC) dataset. The dataset sought to capture key information about 625 combatant groups in 129 conflicts between 1989 and 2009 to identify patterns in situations where sexual violence does and does not occur.^[13] In her research using the dataset, Cohen echoes Wood’s observation that conflict-related sexual violence is intensely varied, and she also argues that gender relations in society have minimal impacts, if any, on incidence. Cohen argues for a combatant socialization explanation for sexual violence, suggesting that sexual violence is most likely to happen when combatants are forcibly recruited. Commanders in these circumstances allow sexual violence to occur and even encourage it because it helps build fraternity and internal cohesion amongst recruits.^[14] Her data-driven approach has received critiques from feminist scholars who argue that, even if the purpose of sexual violence is to build group cohesion in recruits, the effect of creating fraternity relies on a context in which women lack equality of human rights.

Scholars have also critiqued the methodological shift toward primarily quantitative methods for evaluating situations of sexual violence. These techniques are useful to the extent that having “hard data” appeals to policymakers and enables the relevant people to hold perpetrators accountable, but some scholars have argued that data-driven approaches “exceptionalize” the problem of conflict-related sexual violence.^[15] By this, they mean that quantitative approaches remove the problem from its sociopolitical context, which makes it difficult to formulate effective policy solutions. Drawing from earlier literature, Jacqui True and Sara Davies argue that, while it may be true that sexual violence functions more as a practice than a strategy and facilitates the building of fraternity among recruits, these functions are underscored by the construction of gender in society and the normalization of violence against women.^[16]They also point out that an overreliance on quantitative methods when discussing conflict-related sexual violence is unhelpful because of the problems associated with procuring data. Due to the social stigma associated with being a survivor of sexual violence, compounded by logistical challenges many survivors face in reporting their experiences including weak or nonexistent justice systems and lack of accessible medical care, data on sexual violence in conflict is not always reliable. Their study finds that it is most difficult to get accurate reporting in areas where sexual violence is a prominent feature of a conflict.^[17] True and Davies argue that these shortcomings do not make the SVAC dataset and others like it useless, but they do create a vital need for qualitative analysis of the social context to understand the full picture of conflict-related sexual violence.

Seeking to build this more nuanced picture, scholars in recent years have sought to bring gender analysis back into the study of sexual violence. Maike Messerschmidt wrote in 2018 about the relationship between masculinity and violence. Citing research on men in the prison system, he argues that sexual violence and hypermasculinity exist in a mutually-reinforcing relationship. He says that the embeddedness of violence in men’s understandings of themselves can make it very difficult to reintegrate them into society after conflict.^[18] The emphasis on critically examining masculinity, as opposed to focusing on the demographics of victims, is a relatively recent shift in the literature, but one that could be promising. Nicola Henry wrote similarly about the need for a more intersectional lens in identifying root causes of conflict-related sexual violence. She says that, while individuals perpetrate sexual violence, they act within and reinforce a violent construction of masculinity that pervades society.^[19] Henry suggests that a framework that incorporates analysis of gender, sexuality, and violence in a social and political context, examining society before, during and after conflict, would be most useful in understanding the precise confluence of factors that result in conflict-related sexual violence.^[20]

As evidenced by this discussion, scholars do not agree on the contributing factors that underlie conflict-related sexual violence. Some scholars argue that sexual violence in conflict situations is a practice that commanders have to decide to actively forbid. Others argue that sexual violence is encouraged by certain commanders to build group cohesion. Many scholars point to gender inequality in society as the root cause of sexual violence, either because it promotes violent constructions of masculinity or because policymakers fail to appreciate the intersection of gender with other identities that lead certain groups to be targeted. Drawing from this disagreement, I will use the different theories to evaluate the National Action Plans of Liberia and Côte d’Ivoire, identifying which factors they address and discussing what their relative effectiveness can tell us about programs to hold perpetrators of sexual violence in conflict accountable.

Methodology

Terms of Analysis

In this paper, I evaluate the national action plans (NAPs) of two countries seeking to address conflict-related sexual violence in their societies. I work backward from the policies they propose in the NAPs to determine which root causes, as proposed in the literature, they seek to address. I then compare the two cases to see whether one approach is more effective in practice than the other. I measure efficacy in terms of formal justice, like trials and convictions, and confidence in justice systems.

For the purposes of this paper, I define conflict-related sexual violence (CRSV) using the standard definition set out by the United Nations, which says:

The term “conflict-related sexual violence” refers to rape, sexual slavery, forced prostitution, forced pregnancy, forced abortion, enforced sterilization, forced marriage, and any other form of sexual violence of comparable gravity perpetrated against women, men, girls, or boys that is directly or indirectly linked to a conflict. That link may be evident in the profile of the perpetrator, who is often affiliated with a State or non-State armed group, which includes terrorist entities; the profile of the victim, who is frequently an actual or perceived member of a political, ethnic, or religious minority group or targeted on the basis of actual or perceived sexual orientation or gender identity; the climate of impunity, which is generally associated with State collapse, cross-border consequences such as displacement or trafficking, and/or violations of a ceasefire agreement. The term also encompasses trafficking in persons for the purpose of sexual violence or exploitation, when committed in situations of conflict.^[21]

This definition is useful for a few reasons. First, it recognizes the phenomenon of conflict-related sexual violence as more nuanced than just rape in wartime. Much of the scholarship on the subject focuses specifically on cases of widespread rape, but sexual and gender-based violence in conflict scenarios can take many forms, including all those enumerated in the UN definition. Secondly, the UN definition is not limited to the male perpetrator, female victim/survivor dichotomy. It states that perpetrators and victims can be male or female, and that sexual orientation and gender identity can be driving factors in incidences of conflict-related sexual violence. Lastly, the definition is broad enough to encompass not just sexual violence used strategically during a conflict, but also sexual violence perpetrated in the lead up to and after conflict that may be related.

To study different approaches to addressing conflict-related sexual violence, I selected two cases, Liberia and Côte d’Ivoire, to study based on a set of criteria that allow me to control for as many intervening variables as possible. First, I looked only at cases of classic civil war, as defined by James Fearon and David Laitin in 2003. They define civil wars as conflicts that meet three criteria. First, civil wars are conflicts between state groups and organized non-state actors with aspirations to take over the government, mobilize state forces for violence, or control the region. Second, civil war must have a particular magnitude, having killed at least 1000 people and an average of 100 a year. Lastly, civil wars must not be entirely asymmetrical; all parties to a conflict must have at least 100 losses.^[22] I also chose not to study cases that ended in state collapse, as I can reasonably assume that states with intact institutions will be most capable of holding perpetrators of sexual violence accountable after conflict. I did not study cases where international actors like peacekeepers were the primary perpetrators of sexual violence, because it may be more challenging for domestic institutions to hold foreign nationals accountable, especially when they operate under the auspices of an international organization like the UN. Both Liberia and Côte d’Ivoire received peacekeeping missions, but in neither case were peacekeepers a main perpetrating group of sexual violence. Lastly, both Liberia and Côte d’Ivoire had strong women’s movements calling for accountability, meaning that public demand for government action in response to conflict-related sexual violence existed in both of the post-war political contexts.^[23]

Methods

In this study, I examine and discuss the national action plans (NAPs) of Liberia and Côte d’Ivoire regarding reducing conflict-related sexual violence. The creation of NAPs arose out of Security Council Resolution 1325 (SC 1325) and, later, Resolution 1820. SC 1325 was adopted in 2000 and serves as the landmark resolution establishing the Women, Peace, and Security agenda at the United Nations. It seeks to address the disparities in representation of women in peace processes, UN operations, and peace and security efforts, and it asks member states to incorporate these policy initiatives into their domestic laws.^[24] As part of the implementation of the Women, Peace, and Security agenda, the Security Council also took up a series of other resolutions addressing particular subtopics within SC 1325. Security Council Resolution 1820 is one of these resolutions, adopted in 2008. It identifies sexual violence as a weapon of war that can, depending on the situation, constitute a war crime, crime against humanity, or an act of genocide. SC 1820 also asks member states to develop plans to implement prevention and accountability measures through their domestic political systems.^[25] The NAPs I will study in this paper are the responses of the Liberian and Ivoirian governments to these Security Council resolutions. They seek to develop solutions to implement the policy objectives set out by the United Nations. In evaluating their effectiveness, I draw from the literature to identify causal arguments made by scholars and determine whether addressing some and not others lead to varying levels of success. I study the plan released by Côte d’Ivoire in 2008 after their first civil war from 2002-2007 and the two Liberian plans, released in 2009 and 2019, addressing accountability after their two civil wars, which took place from 1989-1996 and 1997-2003. Because of the recent nature of the 2019 Liberian NAP and the COVID-19 crisis in the intervening period, very little information exists on its effectiveness. As a result, I focus primarily on the 2008 Ivorian and 2009 Liberian plans.

The criteria I use to analyze the NAPs derive from my prior discussion of the literature, which presents competing theories about the factors that lead to the incidence of conflict-related sexual assault. As previously mentioned, the prevailing thought in the twentieth century, echoed by Elisabeth Wood in the twenty-first century, is that CRSV is primarily a practice, which combatants are likely to undertake unless their commanders specifically forbid it. If, as Wood suggests, some commanders are effective in forbidding their troops from committing sexual violence, national action plans that seek to hold both perpetrators and their commanders accountable could be effective in addressing CRSV.^[26] If, on the other hand, commanders allow and encourage sexual violence for the sake of promoting the development of group cohesion, as is argued by Dara Cohen, effective national action plans may seek to reduce forced recruitment and undertake security sector reform to retrain former combatants in a way that discourages gendered violence.^[27] If conflict-related sexual violence is related to gender dynamics in society, national action plans may seek to address the problem in a few different ways, depending on what logic they think is problematic. The authors of Sex and World Peace argue that sexual violence is political violence against women, rooted in the normalization of their oppression before conflict ever breaks out.^[28] National action plans that consider this approach may be effective if they seek to uplift the status of women in society by remaking the institutions that contribute to their oppression. Maike Messerschmidt links sexual violence with violent constructions of hypermasculinity.^[29] If this hypothesis is useful, states whose plans include critical examinations of the way masculinity functions in society and violent conflict will likely be most effective. Finally, if, as Nicola Henry argues, the only effective way to address conflict-related sexual violence is using an intersectional analytical approach, national action plans that consider the intersections of gender with other identities related to class, ethnicity, sexuality, and religion will be best-suited to mitigate the problem.^[30]

To evaluate the relevance of each of these theories to the three NAPs, I work backward from their policy proposals. The concrete commitments states make to certain kinds of solutions and not others allow me to understand which root causes of conflict-related sexual violence they attempt to take on. I then compare the two cases in the context of their respective levels of success to determine which approach is more effective in delivering accountability and promoting confidence in formal justice systems.

Each of these factors, or perhaps a combination thereof, could predict the success of national action plans to address conflict-related sexual violence. In turning to the case of Côte d’Ivoire, and later Liberia, I determine which, if any, of these factors are addressed by the plans to conclude what makes some more effective than others. 

Case Studies

Côte d’Ivoire

Overview

The first case study I turn to is Côte d’Ivoire. Côte d’Ivoire’s NAP from 2008 includes policies that aim to address some of the causes of conflict-related sexual violence proposed in the literature. I argue that its policy promises are vague and weak in comparison to other states. 

Côte d’Ivoire suffered a civil war, known as the Crisis, from 2002 to 2007 as the nationalism and xenophobia of the Gbagbo regime caused a boiling-over of ethnic conflict. The civil war ended with a negotiated peace deal, facilitated by both UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan and the Côte d’Ivoire national soccer team and guaranteed by Burkina Faso, that mandated sharing of power between government and opposition forces. Between 2010 and 2011, a disputed election between the incumbent president, Laurent Gbagbo, and the president-elect, Alassane Ouattara, who had the backing of the international community, spurred a resurgence of violence. Ultimately, when Gbagbo refused to transfer power, Ouattara’s forces invaded his home with the assistance of the United Nations and France and arrested him. In response to the violence undertaken during the disputed election, Gbagbo was tried at the International Criminal Court for charges of crimes against humanity. He was acquitted in 2019 and the Appeals Chamber of the ICC upheld the acquittal in March 2021. Another spurt of violence took place in 2017 as government soldiers attempted to apply pressure on the government for higher wages, but the violence was sporadic and did not constitute a true civil conflict.

Combatants perpetrated sexual violence during and between each of these periods, and the United Nations Operation in Côte d’Ivoire received specific reports throughout the Crisis of conflict-related sexual violence including rape.^[31] Both the rebel New Forces and the Ivorian government perpetrated sexual violence against civilians, sometimes targeting specific demographic groups based on ethnic identity and sometimes attacking members of the general population indiscriminately.^[32] The National Action Plan released in 2008, just one year after the Crisis ended, sought to decrease the incidence of conflict-related sexual violence, especially against women and children. As evidenced by the persistence of CRSV after the adoption of the National Action Plan, it is not entirely effective. While the plan addresses some of the underlying causes of conflict-related sexual violence, it entirely neglects others.

Analysis of the Ivorian National Action Plan

The Côte d’Ivoire National Action Plan for the Implementation of Resolution 1325 of the Security Council is sparse compared to those of other states. It outlines four priority areas in which the government hopes to intervene, though the actual policy proposals under each are brief and nonspecific. The four priority areas are the protection of women against sexual violence, the mainstreaming of gender analysis in development projects, greater participation of women in post-conflict reconstruction, and the increased role of women in national decision-making.^[33] The intended budget for the implementation of the policies contained in the NAP is 3,694,400,000 Central African Francs, or around 6.7 million U.S. Dollars.^[34]

Côte d’Ivoire’s NAP does not directly address the hypothesis of Elisabeth Wood, that rape in conflict is a practice more than a strategy, though it does discuss the need for accountability broadly. On pages 12 and 13, the authors of the plan discuss the sense of frustration that Ivorian victims of sexual assault feel due to the poor performance of the justice system in bringing about accountability for perpetrators, combined with the stigma associated with reporting. In response, the plan suggests that the government should undertake capacity building projects for all of the groups that respond to sexual assault, like police and gendarmerie, and “amendment of laws relating to sexual offenses.”^[35] One of Wood’s main arguments is that the variation in whether or not sexual violence takes place in conflict settings tells us that perpetrators and commanders can and should be held accountable for their actions.^[36] While the stipulations in the NAP are vague and make no specific commitments to prosecuting certain kinds of people, reform in the response to sexual assault and subsequent legal action could raise the costs of committing conflict-related sexual violence in terms of accountability. This would dissuade commanders from allowing the practice in their troops, potentially decreasing the amount of perpetration.

The NAP also does not make any recommendations for policies that might address Dara Cohen’s hypothesis that CRSV promotes group cohesion among combatants. It does not refer to altering patterns of recruitment or trying to prevent conscription by force, and while it discusses establishing a special police force for sexual violence, it does not address the retraining of former combatants. According to Cohen, the style of recruitment is what leads commanders to encourage CRSV, so the NAP may be less effective because it doesn’t interrogate the function that sexual violence serves for combatants and their leaders.^[37]

The Ivorian plan addresses the gendered elements of conflict-related sexual violence multiple times. In both the Background and Situation Analysis sections, the authors refer to the multifaceted inequality of women in Ivorian society and the degree to which it has been exacerbated by conflict.^[38] In the policy sections, the government promises to “(integrate) the gender approach in the peace policy with a view to a better legal, social, and economic protection of women and men.”^[39] It also provides for the establishment of a scholarship fund for girls’ education and a fund for women to develop “income-generating activities.”^[40] These promises are interesting for a few reasons. First, they touch on Nicola Henry’s argument that the missing piece in addressing conflict-related sexual violence is intersectionality.^[41]The provision that the government will try to remedy not just women’s social status, but also their legal and economic standing, reflects an appreciation of the compounding effect of class-based inequality on gender inequality. Importantly, the policy recommendations do not acknowledge the compounding effect of ethnic marginalization on gender inequality, which is a vital consideration in the Ivorian context, as the Crisis centered on ethnic conflict and, in some circumstances, groups of civilians were targeted as a result of their ethnicity.

These policy promises are also interesting because they allude to the negative impact of gender inequality on both women and men. In unequal societies, oppressive gender norms harm both men and women, as women are marginalized and suppressed, and men are forced to perform hypermasculinity to prove their worth. The NAP promises, “Communication for social behavioral change aimed at preventing sexual violence and fighting against the stigmatization of victims.”^[42] The effort to bring about “social behavioral change” requires a critical analysis of all members of society and their relationships with harmful social constructions of gender. As Messerschmidt suggests, violent constructions of hypermasculinity, which result from toxic embedded assumptions about gender in a particular society, can make it difficult to reintegrate men into society after conflict.^[43] It seems that the Ivorian government is attempting to incorporate this school of thought into their policy response, addressing not just the oppression of women in society, but also the negative impacts of a hypermasculine construction closely tied to violence.

Effectiveness of the Ivorian National Action Plan

While the Ivorian NAP takes a fairly comprehensive approach to address the gendered underpinnings of conflict-related sexual violence, its provisions for addressing CRSV as a practice are weak and nonspecific. Furthermore, the NAP fails to adequately address the hypotheses of Elisabeth Wood and Dara Cohen, who argue that the practice of sexual violence serves an internal function for combatant groups. These holes in the policy prescriptions may contribute to the limited results achieved by the plan. During the outbreak of violence in 2010-2011, after the adoption of the NAP, both rebel and pro-government forces committed acts of conflict-related sexual violence in the towns of Man, Abidjan, and Yamoussoukro.^[44] In place of formal institutions for holding perpetrators accountable, most survivors have only been able to settle their cases informally through community-based channels like religious leaders and chiefs. For the sake of maintaining harmony between families and throughout the community, survivors of sexual violence are pressured not to report their experiences to authorities. Instead, they are generally given compensation for their medical expenses from their attacker, and then the matter is considered settled.^[45] International and domestic courts have attempted to hold high-ranking political officers like Laurent Gbagbo accountable for crimes including rape, but they generally fall short. Gbagbo was tried in the Hague, but he was acquitted in 2019.^[46] These efforts are also problematic because they are asymmetrical – rebel forces that backed the current president, Alassane Ouattara, have been largely untouched by efforts for accountability.^[47] The persistence of sexual violence in Côte d’Ivoire and the reported dissatisfaction of Ivorian women with the state of justice create what the United Nations describes as “prevailing impunity.”^[48] There has been little to no progress in prosecutions for conflict-related sexual violence that took place between 2010-2011. According to the most recent report from the UN Secretary-General, there have been no formal trials for cases of conflict-related sexual violence in Côte d’Ivoire and no survivors have received reparations.^[49]

There are additional considerations that may have contributed to the relative lack of success of the NAP in Côte d’Ivoire. As Alex Bellamy and Paul Williams argue, the civilian protection mandate issued to UN peacekeepers in Côte d’Ivoire lacked teeth and failed to provide them with the resources necessary to assist in addressing conflict-related sexual violence.^[50] While UN peacekeepers are certainly responsible for civilian protection in their missions, this does not absolve the Ivorian government of their responsibility to protect their own citizens and hold perpetrators of violence accountable. Due to the high degree of variation and context-specific nature of conflict-related sexual violence, local governance structures must serve as the first line of defense and accountability. Regardless of the ineffectiveness of the peacekeeping mission in preventing CRSV, the Ivorian government also fell short. In advance of their 2017 exit from Côte d’Ivoire, a report from UN peacekeepers implied that one other challenge for effectively addressing conflict-related sexual violence is the lack of “adequate resources for the implementation of all ongoing initiatives and various commitments taken by Côte d’Ivoire in the fight against sexual violence.”^[51] Budgetary constraints can certainly limit the effectiveness of policy programs, but if the Ivorian government is overcommitting and underperforming as a result of their budget, they do a real disservice to survivors. Giving adequate funding to a few effective programs would be more impactful than distributing inadequate funding to a whole swath of programs — though the problem may be a lack of political will. As is the case in any state, government officials will devote resources to policy initiatives they think are worthwhile, both in terms of benefit to society and benefit to their political career. If the problem in Côte d’Ivoire is a lack of funding for programs aiming to address conflict-related sexual violence, they will only be successful with a combination of redistribution of the budget and strengthened political will.

In any case, the responsibility to protect civilians from conflict-related sexual violence falls, at least in large part, on the Ivorian government. They have worked with the United Nations to put together a national action plan that incorporates a gendered analysis of the problem and its policy solutions. They fail to address, however, sexual violence as a practice that must be actively forbidden by commanders and the potential role of the psychology of group cohesion. Given the observed weakness of the Ivorian attempt to curb conflict-related sexual violence, these holes in their plan may contribute to their lack of effectiveness. 

Liberia

Overview

The Liberian NAP from 2009 is much more comprehensive than that of Côte d’Ivoire. It addresses all of the root causes of sexual violence identified in the literature with specific, actionable policy promises. While there are persistent logistical and social challenges that prevent Liberia’s plan from being as effective as possible, it succeeds in building legitimacy for new institutions that seek to deliver accountability and justice for survivors. The most recent NAP from 2019 demonstrates a continued commitment to trying to implement best practices in response to the shortcomings of the 2009 plan.

Like Côte d’Ivoire, Liberia experienced two consecutive civil wars. The first, which took place between 1989 and 1997, began when Charles Taylor’s National Patriotic Front of Liberia (NPFL) invaded from Côte d’Ivoire with the ambition to overthrow Samuel Doe’s incumbent government. The NPFL clashed with Prince Yormie Johnson’s Independent National Patriotic Front of Liberia (INPFL) for control of the capital, Monrovia. President Doe was brutally captured and executed by the INPFL, which, coupled with international pressure, triggered a round of elections where Charles Taylor was elected to be the new President. A new civil war broke out shortly thereafter, in 1999, as two rebel groups – the Guinea-backed Liberians United for Reconciliation and Democracy (LURD) and Movement for Democracy in Liberia (MODEL) – challenged the Taylor government. A women’s movement organized by Leymah Gbowee, Women of Liberia Mass Action for Peace, consolidated pro-peace sentiment of women from different ethnic, class, and religious groups, effectively pressuring the warring parties to participate in the UN-sponsored peace process and ultimately sign the 2003 Comprehensive Peace Agreement.^[52] The Peace Agreement required another round of elections in 2005, wherein the first female president of an African state, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, was elected.

The massive influence of the Liberian women’s movement in building peace, coupled with the election of President Sirleaf, meant that the specifically gendered impacts of conflict received more attention in post-conflict Liberia than would be likely under different circumstances.^[53] Studies have shown that sexual violence was used widely by all sides of the conflicts, and Liberian women advocated for accountability and reform throughout the post-conflict reconstruction years.^[54] One significant survey taken in Liberia after the first civil war documented that 49% of women surveyed reported having experienced gendered physical or sexual violence at the hands of either rebel combatants or a soldier in the Liberian military between 1989 and 1994, and the practice remained as prevalent during the second civil war.^[55] The precise statistics are debated, as some scholars and international organizations place it as high as 60-70%, while other scholars argue it is closer to 10-20%.^[56] This discrepancy is due to the challenges, both logistical and social, of collecting data on sexual violence in conflict zones, coupled with a lack of standardization across survey groups and methodologies. While it is important and would be helpful to have a widely agreed-upon number to characterize the magnitude of conflict-related sexual violence in Liberia, for the purposes of this paper it is sufficient to say that substantial numbers of civilians were victimized by combatants who perpetrated sexual violence, resulting in attention and a subsequent response from both the UN and the Liberian government.

Analysis of the Liberian National Action Plan

The Liberia National Action Plan for Implementation of United Nations Resolution 1325 from 2009 reflects and summarizes the government’s effort to curb sexual violence and improve the status of women after the two civil wars. The plan is fairly robust, covering all four pillars laid out in SC 1325 with ten strategic issues. Each strategic issue is translated into actionable policy promises, which are paired with measures that will allow the government to track progress. The policy changes promised in the NAP touch on all of the key contributing factors identified in the literature as drivers of conflict-related sexual violence.

The NAP takes an institutional approach to combat sexual violence as a practice, as was proposed by Elisabeth Wood. It provides for robust changes to the judiciary including a sexual and gender-based violent crimes division, a legal aid clinic for survivors, and a “victim service liaison” who will be responsible for the protection of survivors who choose to file with the formal legal institutions.^[57] In practice, these changes were manifested in a new police force called the Women and Children’s Protection Service (WACPS), which handles crimes like sexual violence with specific training on gender sensitivity and collection of evidence for gendered crimes. It is widely regarded as more approachable than the rest of the Liberian police force and includes a higher percentage of female officers.^[58] Liberia has also established a specialized court to prosecute sexual violence, called Criminal Court E. Criminal Court E takes a victim-centered approach to prosecution and employs both prosecutors and support staff who can help ensure survivors who report their cases are safe and secure in doing so. It has become somewhat famous for victim protection provisions including, most notably, a system wherein those testifying can sit in a private room at the back of the courtroom, watch the trial as it transpires, and give their testimony on-camera without the defendant seeing them.^[59] The Liberian government’s effort to create a specific police force and create a judicial pathway for the prosecution of sexual violence reflects an effort to address sexual violence, including that perpetrated in the context of the conflict, as a practice by holding perpetrators and commanders accountable.

Liberia’s NAP also works to combat sexual violence as a tool of group cohesion, which Dara Cohen proposes. It provides for “Rehabilitation centres built and standardized programmes in place to address perpetrators of all forms of violence against women and girls.”^[60] It also promises to overhaul security sector institutions with a focus on increasing gender sensitivity and promote the recruitment, training, and promotion of women working in the security sector.^[61]These efforts to reform major security bodies and increase oversight for mainstreaming gender protections in policy would hopefully result in increased effectiveness in reintegrating and retraining former combatants. They also aim to change the culture surrounding sexual violence within the security sector to prevent its use if there were another outbreak of violence, be it sporadic or in the context of a full-blown conflict.

Uplifting women and shifting gender dynamics in society is also a key focus of the national action plan. This likely reflects both the domestic political pressure applied by Liberian women at all levels of power and the influence of international organizations during the peace process. The plan provides for the adoption of robust legislation criminalizing violence against women of all kinds, with a specific goal of ending legal impunity for sexual violence. It also promises the appointment of individuals serving as Gender Focal Points for Sexual and Gender-Based Violence, who would help educate students in schools about the unacceptability of sexual violence and the need for more equal gender norms in the next generation. The plan calls on parents, religious leaders, and community elders to educate themselves on the issue of violence against women and assist in the attempt to shift the beliefs and practices of the younger generation. The Liberian efforts to combat gender inequality incorporate a critical analysis of the role of men. It proposes the designation of certain people as “1325 Champions,” including individuals of all ages and genders, who would lobby for the improvement of policies against sexual violence. Furthermore, the plan promises the development of a civic education radio program that aims to educate the population on the role each individual can play in preventing violence against women and achieving gender equality.^[62] There is a section in the NAP devoted to increasing women’s access to housing and profitable natural resources, which indicates the intersectional analysis of the gendered barriers to equal participation, both political and economic, in Liberia.^[63] Taken together, these policy proposals reflect a comprehensive commitment to the creation of healthier gender relations as a way to decrease gendered violence.

Effectiveness of the 2009 Liberian National Action Plan

In terms of the deliverables international organizations would like to see in Liberia, including prosecution, conviction, and punishment for sexual violence, the national action plan from Liberia is not drastically more effective than the one from Côte d’Ivoire. The government has expressed a specific commitment to combatting impunity for sexual violence, but due to challenges in training first responders, lack of prosecutions, and intense backlogs in the courts, the vast majority of survivors never see formal justice.^[64] Persistent social stigma and a norm of victim-blaming make it difficult and unpleasant for women to access formal systems of justice, and many find the social costs are lower if they instead report to informal and community-based justice structures.^[65] As in Côte d’Ivoire, community leaders often resolve issues of sexual violence with priority given to maintaining social cohesion over justice and protection for survivors. When survivors do choose to come forward in formal justice systems, perpetrators are arrested in many cases, but as a result of logistical and institutional barriers, prosecutions are rare. One United Nations report found that in 2015, out of all of the cases of sexual and gender-based violence reported to the designated forums for justice, only two percent ended with a conviction.^[66] Low rates of convictions are certainly progress from no convictions at all, and the UN Mission in Liberia points out that the government is working hard and receptive to feedback pertaining to addressing sexual violence, but it is clear that the systems in place are not as effective as they were intended to be.^[67]

The 2019 Liberian National Action Plan

In response to reports outlining the shortcomings of the 2009 NAP, the Liberian government updated its plan, releasing the new version in 2019. 

Liberia’s Second Phase National Action Plan on Women, Peace, and Security, adopted in 2019, directly address UN reports that women in Liberia still suffer discrimination and a lack of respect for human rights, and specifically identifies persistent impunity for sexual violence as a problem.^[68] It promises infrastructure and benchmarks for monitoring and evaluating the NAP periodically to understand areas of strength and weakness, which should ensure policymakers have an incentive to work toward both short and long-term goals.^[69] The new national action plan reinforces and scales up many of the promising policies from the 2009 plan, and it seeks to improve Liberia’s approach even further. In terms of addressing logistical challenges to accountability, it promises the construction of additional healthcare clinics, transitional housing, and legal assistance offices for survivors. Additionally, the plan aims to increase the number of Criminal Court Es outside Monrovia to improve survivors’ ability to physically access justice and increase training of government officials, law enforcement officers, and security forces in responding to gendered violence.^[70] It seeks to address social limitations on reporting by attempting to engage more civil society leaders in advocating to change social attitudes around sexual violence.^[71] The plan also promises the creation of a new curriculum for primary and secondary school students to provide comprehensive sexuality education, including discussions of reproductive health and human rights.^[72] Perhaps most importantly, the new national action plan promises to provide all “necessary supporting resources” to fund and staff programs implementing the new policies.^[73] It is too soon to know whether this new national action plan achieves its objectives, especially because an ongoing financial crisis coupled with the COVID-19 pandemic has stretched the Liberian budget very thin. In August and September 2020, a group of Liberian activists protested the significant increase in rapes reported during the pandemic, prompting President George Weah to declare rape a national emergency and recommit the Liberian government to combatting sexual violence with an additional $2 million of funding.^[74] Liberian NGOs warn that while the commitment is a welcome step toward addressing the problem, whether or not it is carried out remains to be seen.^[75] It is clear from the new plan and the President’s promises that the Liberian government takes international critiques seriously and intends to continue making an effort to build strong, effective institutions to combat sexual violence and end impunity, though challenges persist.

It is impossible to know yet whether the 2019 NAP succeeds in solving the persistent shortcomings of the 2009 plan. Nevertheless, studies have demonstrated that Liberian women have faith in the potential of formal justice systems to eventually meet their need for justice. While settling sexual violence cases informally through the community is currently more prevalent, Liberian women report a widespread belief that the formal system offers, at least in theory, a much more robust opportunity for justice. They all mention the high cost of accessing formal justice, but nevertheless express a strong preference for formal justice over community-based solutions. Furthermore, Liberian women generally believe that the courts are more effective in adhering to and upholding the standards laid out by the United Nations with regard to universal human rights.^[76] These interview results indicate that the Liberian government seems to be on the right track to building institutions for justice that will meet the needs of survivors.  There are undoubtedly institutional factors that make implementation and delivery of results difficult to achieve, as evidenced by the low rates of convictions, but the national action plan does present a comprehensive vision that combats sexual violence holistically, accounting for all of the contributing factors identified by scholars in the literature. Furthermore, the updated plan from 2019 reflects a commitment on the part of the government to continue adapting and improving their approach as more information about best practices for effectiveness becomes available. With increased resource allocation, further change in social norms and attitudes, and reform of institutions to improve their accessibility, the Liberian effort could certainly be a strong example for holding perpetrators of sexual violence to account.

Comparative Discussion

The comparison of the Liberian and Ivorian national action plans shows the effects of two different approaches to combatting conflict-related sexual violence. In both cases, the arguments made by scholars about the need for an intersectional gender lens seem to be well-addressed. This is likely due to a combination of different factors, the first being pressure from international organizations for states to undertake gender mainstreaming, or the analysis of the gendered impacts of new policies. In both Liberia and Côte d’Ivoire, UN peacekeeping missions were involved in the drawdown of conflict and helped shape policies thereafter. Especially as it applies to the implementation of Security Council Resolution 1325, the international consensus regarding the need to work toward gender equality is reflected in the commitments and language of member states.^[77] It is also likely that the strength of the national action plans in considering gender dynamics results from the kinds of opportunities available after conflict. In the unstable period after a civil conflict, there tend to be increased openings for new political actors. In many cases, this provides women with a unique chance to emerge as political leaders and build influence to shape policy.^[78] The Liberian case provides strong evidence for this argument, as women who contributed to facilitating the peace found prominent positions in Liberian society after the war. Ellen Johnson Sirleaf was elected as the first female president of an African state, and Leymah Gbowee received the Nobel Peace Prize for her role in ending the conflict, cementing her place as an internationally recognized feminist thought leader.

Despite their success in attempting to address gender inequality via their national action plans, both Liberia and Côte d’Ivoire still struggle with logistical and social barriers to ending impunity for conflict-related sexual violence. As discussed in the case studies, it can be difficult for women to travel to places where they might receive assistance in accessing justice, such as hospitals and legal clinics. These institutions tend to exist only in urban centers, and are sparse even there, which leaves rural women largely excluded from the justice system. The difficulty of accessing these services compounds the already difficult task of collecting evidence of sexual violence, as survivors may not be healthy enough or fast enough to travel long distances and provide sufficient evidence. Many women in both countries fear social retaliation and increased violence if they publicly report their experiences. These challenges are intensified by the pressure in both contexts to settle cases through informal, community-based systems for justice. While these mechanisms are beneficial in preserving community cohesion and minimizing backlash against survivors, they often leave survivors feeling dissatisfied. In many cases, survivors of sexual violence must continue to see their attackers in public spaces like religious centers, markets, and community gatherings, which can be retraumatizing. All of these challenges persist since the adoption of the 2008 Ivorian national action plan and the 2009 national action plan and will require scholarly attention if attempts to reduce sexual violence are to be successful.

Against these circumstantial barriers to accountability for perpetrators of sexual violence, Liberia has succeeded in generating some confidence among survivors that the mechanisms in place to bring about accountability have the potential to function effectively. Where survivors in Côte d’Ivoire have to try and make use of their weak, generalized justice system to address sexual violence or settle through informal channels, women in Liberia, at least theoretically, have the option to access formal systems for justice specifically mandated to handle cases of gendered violence. The specialized police force and Criminal Court E, coupled with a system that aims to protect survivors who choose to come forward from social backlash, provide strong institutional potential for accountability. Furthermore, the Liberian government has attempted to combat some of the aforementioned social and logistical barriers in their follow-up to the 2009 national action plan, released in 2019. While it is too soon to know if this latest national action plan will successfully decrease impunity for sexual violence, it reflects a strong commitment to consider the results of studies evaluating Liberian policies and try to improve them. To date, Côte d’Ivoire has not released any follow-up to their original 2008 national action plan.

Comparing the Ivorian and Liberian national action plans and their relative effectiveness enables us to better understand how to move forward in developing strong policies to end impunity for sexual violence. The first takeaway from this comparison is that conventional justice systems, both in Sub-Saharan Africa and around the world, are not built to deal with cases of sexual violence. The social stigma associated with reporting, difficulty collecting and submitting evidence, and general lack of accountability are pervasive issues that are worthy of scholarly attention in many different contexts. In Liberia and Côte d’Ivoire, social and logistical barriers to reporting prevent survivors from accessing justice, regardless of the presence or absence of formal institutions for that purpose. The second key conclusion, which is related to the first, is that while there may be barriers to effectively delivering accountability for sexual violence, establishing new institutions with that specific mandate of accountability builds survivors’ confidence that the structures will eventually function effectively. The establishment of a designated police force, Criminal Court E, and government programs to protect survivors who come forward in Liberia created an environment wherein women reported having faith in the potential of formal mechanisms to hold perpetrators accountable, even if rates of conviction were negligible. Strong institutions with narrower mandates are advantageous in the case of sexual violence because the nature of how and when survivors report and what evidence is available is unique. Specific institutions dealing with gendered violence can train personnel to work with these different kinds of information to be more effective. Public confidence is vitally important in building legitimacy for new government institutions, so the relative optimism of Liberian women bodes well for success in the future. Finally, a continued commitment by the government to improve their approach to combatting sexual violence is necessary if they are to be successful. Where Liberia released an updated national action plan in 2019 seeking to address the persistent barriers to accountability pointed out by independent researchers, Côte d’Ivoire has not updated their plan since 2008. Ivorians experienced a resurgence of violence in 2010-2011, but the government has not made any moves to reinforce its commitment to curbing sexual violence. For states to meaningfully reduce sexual violence, they must establish strong institutions with specific mandates to decrease impunity and commit to long-term monitoring and modification to improve their effectiveness.

Conclusion

Sexual violence, both conflict-related and otherwise, remains a dire problem in many parts of the world. Conventional justice systems are often poorly equipped to deal with the specific nature of reporting and evidence in sexual violence cases, so they frequently fail to deliver justice to survivors. Recognizing this reality, the United Nations asked member states to develop plans to combat sexual violence in their societies as part of the initiative outlined in Security Council Resolution 1325. Some of these plans take a more comprehensive approach than others, and understanding what makes a policy program effective is vitally important to develop best practices that can be exported elsewhere. 

In this paper, I surveyed the literature on combatting conflict-related sexual violence and identified the factors scholars believe may drive the phenomenon. These include its nature as a practice that commanders have to choose to actively forbid, its role as a tool to build group cohesion, and its relationship to gender inequality and normalized violence against women in society throughout the continuum of conflict. Each of these contributing factors could be addressed using specific policy tools, so I turned to two case studies to determine what kind of policy approach is more effective. I chose to study Liberia and Côte d’Ivoire because they had comparable civil wars and women’s movements calling for improved accountability. I argue that the Liberian policy program is more effective because it has succeeded in building public confidence in new institutions that are specifically mandated to combat sexual violence. Its approach is more comprehensive than the Ivorian plan and includes both policies that address sexual violence as a practice and tool of group cohesion and those that seek to improve gender equality in society more broadly. Furthermore, the Liberian government has shown a consistent commitment to adapt and improve their attempts to combat sexual violence as new information about best practices becomes available. Public pressure to improve their policies persists, as evidenced by the Stop Rape Now protests of 2020, but the government remains receptive. In contrast, Côte d’Ivoire has made little progress and has not released an updated plan since 2008. 

The Liberian case provides a strong example for future national action plans. States should focus on creating specific pathways for survivors of sexual violence to access justice, as Liberia did with Criminal Court E and their specialized police force. They should include specific provisions for witness protection including safe houses, improved access to physical and mental healthcare, and protected testimony. As more efficacy studies and scholarly research are released, states should remain receptive to the ways they can continue to improve their approaches over time. A long-term commitment to adapting and improving policy is necessary to meet survivors’ needs and deliver justice. Another lesson to be learned from a comparison of the Liberian and Ivorian cases is that in both situations, and indeed in many contexts around the world, there are significant social and logistical barriers that prevent survivors from reporting their experiences and seeking justice. Social challenges include social stigma, prioritization of community cohesion over accountability, and damaging ideas about rape and victimhood. Logistical barriers like difficulty traveling, lack of access to medical professionals, and lack of funding are also persistent problems. Any successful plan to address sexual violence must overcome these difficulties to ensure that anyone affected can document their experiences and pursue justice if they wish. 

Future research is needed to develop solutions to these persistent logistical and social challenges. NGOs can play a vital role in addressing the logistical barriers to reporting, but state apparatuses are ultimately responsible for building social and institutional structures that enable survivors to seek justice. Further research is also necessary to innovate policies that maximize protection for survivors who choose to come forward to prevent backlash and ensure their safety. Lessons may be learned from the Liberian Criminal Court E, but the solution is imperfect and requires more attention. Finally, it is also important for future scholarship to study the ways the different contributing factors I identified in the literature intersect in various contexts to predict the incidence of conflict-related sexual violence. A better understanding of when and why parties to a conflict perpetrate sexual violence may improve policymakers’ ability to prevent its occurrence.  

Sexual and gender-based violence anywhere is an unacceptable assault on human rights. It is the business of the international community, states, and individuals to prevent its occurrence and improve mechanisms to deliver justice to survivors. There is no perfect case where perpetrators are always held accountable, but we can nevertheless study the plans states are trying to implement to understand what kinds of policies succeed where others fail. Strong, innovative institutions with specific mandates have succeeded in building public confidence in Liberia, indicating their substantial potential to meet survivors’ needs and serve as an example for other states. 

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^[1] United Nations Secretary-General, Conflict-Related Sexual Violence: Report of the United Nations Secretary-General, Guterres, António. S/2020/487, New York: United Nations, 2020. https://www.un.org/sexualviolenceinconflict/wp-content/uploads/2020/07/report/conflict-related-sexual-violence-report-of-the-united-nations-secretary-general/2019-SG-Report.pdf.

^[2] Jeremy M. Weinstein, Inside Rebellion: The Politics of Insurgent Violence (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 7.

^[3] United Nations Security Council, “Resolution 1820 (2008)” (S/RES/1820, New York, 2008).

^[4] Kerry Crawford, Wartime Sexual Violence: From Silence to Condemnation of a Weapon of War (Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Press, 2017), 160.

^[5] Crawford, Wartime Sexual Violence, 4.

^[6] Crawford, Wartime Sexual Violence, 8.

^[7] Sara E. Davies, Sarah Teitt, and Zim Nwokora. “Bridging the Gap: Early Warning, Gender and the Responsibility to Protect.” Cooperation and Conflict 50, no. 2 (2015).

^[8] Valerie M. Hudson, Bonnie Ballif-Spanvill, Mary Caprioli, and Chad F. Emmett, Sex and World Peace (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012),

^[9] Hudson et al., Sex and World Peace, 16.

^[10] Elisabeth Wood, “Sexual Violence During War: Variation and Accountability,” in Collective Crimes and International Criminal Justice: an Interdisciplinary Approach, ed. Alette Smeulers (Antwerp: Intersentia, 2010); Elisabeth Wood, “Rape During War is Not Inevitable: Variation in Wartime Sexual Violence,” in Understanding and Proving International Sex Crimes, ed. Morten Bergsmo, Alf Butenschøn, Elisabeth Wood (Beijing: Torkel Opsahl Academic EPublisher, 2012); Elisabeth Wood, “Conflict-related Sexual Violence and the Policy Implications of Recent Research,” International Review of the Red Cross 96, no, 894 (2014).

^[11] Wood, “Sexual Violence During War: Variation and Accountability,” 297.

^[12] Wood, “Conflict-related Sexual Violence and the Policy Implications of Recent Research.”

^[13] Dara Kay Cohen and Ragnhild Nordås, “Sexual Violence in Armed Conflict: Introducing the SVAC dataset, 1989–2009,” Journal of Peace Research 51, no. 3 (2014).

^[14] Dara Kay Cohen, “Explaining Rape during Civil War: Cross-National Evidence (1980-2009),” American Political Science Review 107, no. 3 (2013): 462.

^[15] Jelke Boesten, “Of Exceptions and Continuities: Theory and Methodology in Research on Conflict-Related Sexual Violence,” International Feminist Journal of Politics 19, no. 4 (2017).

^[16] Jacqui True and Sara E. Davies, “Reframing Conflict-Related Sexual and Gender-Based Violence: Bringing Gender Analysis back In,” Security Dialogue 46, no. 6 (2015): 500. 

^[17] True and Davies, “Reframing Conflict-Related Sexual and Gender-Based Violence,” 507.

^[18] Maike Messerschmidt, “Ingrained Practices: Sexual Violence, Hypermasculinity, and Re-Mobilisation for Violent Conflict.” Global Society: Journal of Interdisciplinary International Relations 32, no. 4 (2018): 478.

^[19] Nicola Henry, “Theorizing Wartime Rape: Deconstructing Gender, Sexuality, and Violence,” Gender and Society 30, no. 1 (2016): 49.

^[20] Henry, “Theorizing Wartime Rape,” 52.

^[21] United Nations Secretary-General, Conflict-Related Sexual Violence: Report of the United Nations Secretary-General, Guterres, António. S/2019/280, New York: United Nations, 2019. https://www.un.org/sexualviolenceinconflict/wp-content/uploads/2019/04/report/s-2019-280/Annual-report-2018.pdf

^[22] James D. Fearon and David Laitin, “Ethnicity, Insurgency, and Civil War,” American Political Science Review 97, no. 1 (2003): 5.

^[23] “Organization of Active Women in Ivory Coast (OFACI),” Peace Insight, accessed October 27, 2020, https://www.peaceinsight.org/en/organisations/ofaci/?location=ivory-coast&theme.

^[24] United Nations Security Council, “Resolution 1325 (2000)” (S/RES/1325, New York, 2000).

^[25] United Nations Security Council, “Resolution 1820 (2008)” (S/RES/1820, New York, 2008).

^[26] Wood, “Sexual Violence During War,” 297.

^[27] Cohen, “Explaining Rape during Civil War,” 462.

^[28] Hudeson et al., Sex and World Peace, 203.

^[29] Messerschmidt, “Ingrained Practices,” 478.

^[30] Henry, “Theorizing Wartime Rape,” 52.

^[31] Morkeh Blay-Tofey and Brandy X. Lee, “Preventing Gender-Based Violence Engendered by Conflict: The Case of Cote d’Ivoire,” Social Science & Medicine 146, (2015): 342.

^[32] George Klay Kieh, Jr., “Civilians and Civil Wars in Africa: The Cases of Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Côte D’Ivoire,” Peace Research 48, no. ½ (2016): 217-218.

^[33] Ivorian Ministry of the Family, Women, and Social Affairs, National Action Plan for the Implementation of Resolution 1325 of the Security Council. Abidjan: Government of Côte d’Ivoire, 2008. https://www.peacewomen.org/sites/default/files/cotedivoire_nationalactionplan_january2007.pdf, 14.

^[34] Ivorian Ministry of the Family, Women, and Social Affairs, National Action Plan for the Implementation of Resolution 1325 of the Security Council, 19.

^[35] Ivorian Ministry of the Family, Women, and Social Affairs, National Action Plan for the Implementation of Resolution 1325 of the Security Council, 15.

^[36] Wood, “Rape During War is Not Inevitable,” 419.

^[37] Cohen, “Explaining Rape during Civil War,” 462.

^[38] Ivorian Ministry of the Family, Women, and Social Affairs, National Action Plan for the Implementation of Resolution 1325 of the Security Council, 10-14.

^[39] Ivorian Ministry of the Family, Women, and Social Affairs, National Action Plan for the Implementation of Resolution 1325 of the Security Council, 7.

^[40] Ivorian Ministry of the Family, Women, and Social Affairs, National Action Plan for the Implementation of Resolution 1325 of the Security Council,” 15.

^[41] Henry, “Theorizing Wartime Rape,” 52.

^[42] Ivorian Ministry of the Family, Women, and Social Affairs, National Action Plan for the Implementation of Resolution 1325 of the Security Council, 15.

^[43] Messerschmidt, “Ingrained Practices,” 478.

^[44] Peace A. Medie, “Rape Reporting in Post-Conflict Côte d’Ivoire,” African Affairs 166, no. 464, (2017): 425.

^[45] Ketty Anyeko, Julie Freccero, Kim Thuy Seelinger, Improving Accountability for Conflict-Related Sexual Violence in Africa, Peace Brief no. 206, Washington, D.C.: United States Institute of Peace, 2016. https://www.jstor.org/stable/resrep20174; Medie, “Rape Reporting in Post-Conflict Côte d’Ivoire,” 425.

^[46] Stephanie van den Berg, Toby Sterling, “Ivory Coast ex-president Gbagbo freed by Hague court,” Reuters, February 1, 2019, https://www.reuters.com/article/us-warcrimes-ivorycoast-gbagbo/ivory-coast-ex-president-gbagbo-freed-by-hague-court-idUSKCN1PQ4R1.

^[47] Medie, “Rape Reporting in Post-Conflict Côte d’Ivoire,” 424.

^[48] United Nations Operation in Côte d’Ivoire and The Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, Summary Report on Rape Crimes and Their Prosecution in Côte d’Ivoire, Geneva/Abidjan: United Nations, 2016. https://www.refworld.org/pdfid/57862c234.pdf.

^[49] United Nations Secretary-General, Final progress report of the Secretary General on the United Nations Operation in Côte d’Ivoire, S/2017/89, New York: United Nations, 2017. https://www.un.org/ga/search/view_doc.asp?symbol=S/2017/89, 10; United Nations Secretary-General, 2019 Secretary General Report on CRSV, 39.

^[50] Alex J. Bellamy and Paul D. Williams, “The New Politics of Protection? Côte d’Ivoire, Libya and the Responsibility to Protect,” International Affairs 87, no. 4 (2011): 829.

^[51] United Nations Operation in Côte d’Ivoire and The Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, Summary Report on Rape Crimes and Their Prosecution in Côte d’Ivoire, Geneva/Abidjan: United Nations, 2016. https://www.refworld.org/pdfid/57862c234.pdf, 4.

^[52] Kieh, “Civilians and Civil Wars in Africa,” 213.

^[53] Sara Kuipers Cummings, “Liberia’s ‘New War:’ Post-Conflict Strategies for Confronting Rape and Sexual Violence,” Arizona State Law Journal43, no. 1 (2011): 233.

^[54] Kieh, “Civilians and Civil Wars in Africa,” 206; Cummings, “Liberia’s ‘New War,’” 224; Helen Liebling-Kalifani, Victoria Mwaka, Ruth Ojiambo-Ochieng, Juliet Were-Oguttu, Eugene Kinyanda, Deddeh Kwekwe, Lindora Howard, and Cecilia Danuweli, “Women War Survivors of the 1989-2003 Conflict in Liberia: The Impact of Sexual and Gender-Based Violence,” Journal of International Women’s Studies 12, no. 1 (2011): 6.

^[55] Shana Swiss, Gladys V. Aryee, Grace H. Brown, Ruth M. Jappah-Samukai, Mary S. Kamara, Rosana D. H. Schaack, Rojatu S. Turay-Kanneh, “Letter from Monrovia: Violence Against Women during the Liberian Civil Conflict,” Journal of the American Medical Association 279, no. 8 (1998): 627.

^[56] Cummings, “Liberia’s ‘New War,’” 234; Liebling-Kalifani et al., “Women War Survivors of the 1989-2003 Conflict in Liberia,” 9; Dara Kay Cohen and Amelia Hoover Green, “Dueling Incentives: Sexual Violence in Liberia and the Politics of Human Rights Advocacy,” Journal of Peace Research 49, no. 3 (2012): 446.

^[57] Liberian Ministry of Gender and Development, The Liberia National Action Plan for Implementation of United Nations Resolution 1325. Monrovia: Government of Liberia, 2009, 22.

^[58] Seelinger, “Domestic Accountability for Sexual Violence,” 553-554. 

^[59] Seelinger, “Domestic Accountability for Sexual Violence,” 558.

^[60] Liberian Ministry of Gender and Development, The Liberia National Action Plan for Implementation of United Nations Resolution 1325, 29.

^[61] Liberian Ministry of Gender and Development, The Liberia National Action Plan for Implementation of United Nations Resolution 1325, 16-19.

^[62] Liberian Ministry of Gender and Development, The Liberia National Action Plan for Implementation of United Nations Resolution 1325, 27-28.

^[63] Liberian Ministry of Gender and Development, The Liberia National Action Plan for Implementation of United Nations Resolution 1325, 34-35.

^[64] Cummings, “Liberia’s ‘New War,’” 225; Seelinger, “Domestic Accountability for Sexual Violence,” 551.

^[65] Seelinger, “Domestic Accountability for Sexual Violence,” 547; Anyeko et al., “Improving Accountability for Conflict-Related Sexual Violence in Africa,” 2; Freida M’Cormack, “Prospects for Accessing Justice for Sexual Violence in Liberia’s Hybrid System,” Stability: International Journal of Security & Development 7, no. 1 (2018): 7.

^[66]United Nations Mission in Liberia, Addressing Impunity for Rape in Liberia, Geneva/Monrovia: Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR), 2016, 22. https://www.refworld.org/docid/580481d54.html.

^[67] United Nations Mission in Liberia, Addressing Impunity for Rape in Liberia, 22.

^[68] Liberian Ministry of Gender, Children and Social Protection, Liberia’s Second Phase National Action Plan on Women, Peace and Security. Monrovia: Government of Liberia, 2019, 10, 14.

^[69] Liberian Ministry of Gender, Children and Social Protection, Liberia’s Second Phase National Action Plan on Women, Peace and Security, 24.

^[70] Liberian Ministry of Gender, Children and Social Protection, Liberia’s Second Phase National Action Plan on Women, Peace and Security, 26, 28, 32, 34.

^[71] Liberian Ministry of Gender, Children and Social Protection, Liberia’s Second Phase National Action Plan on Women, Peace and Security, 26.

^[72] Liberian Ministry of Gender, Children and Social Protection, Liberia’s Second Phase National Action Plan on Women, Peace and Security, 42.

^[73] Liberian Ministry of Gender, Children and Social Protection, Liberia’s Second Phase National Action Plan on Women, Peace and Security, 44.

^[74] “Liberia declares rape a national emergency after spike in cases,” Al Jazeera Media Network, September 12, 2020, https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2020/9/12/liberia-declares-rape-a-national-emergency-after-spike-in-cases.

^[75] Leah Rodriguez, “Why Liberia Just Declared Rape a National Emergency,” September 24, 2020, https://www.globalcitizen.org/en/content/liberia-declares-rape-national-emergency/.

^[76] M’Cormack, Prospects for Accessing Justice for Sexual Violence in Liberia’s Hybrid System,” 7-13.

^[77] Miriam J. Anderson and Liam Swiss, “Peace Accords and the Adoption of Electoral Quotas for Women in the Developing World, 1990 –2006,” Politics & Gender 10, (2014): 38.

^[78] Miriam J. Anderson and Liam Swiss, “Peace Accords and the Adoption of Electoral Quotas for Women in the Developing World, 1990 –2006,” 39.

This piece was published in the Spring Issue Print Edition (Volume 11)

Introduction

Humanitarianism has been often lauded as a form of compassion, solidarity, and, of course, a way to save lives. Especially in the health sector, it is an appealing mantra. However, others remain skeptical of the dominance of humanitarianism both as a practice and an idea in the modern world. Here, humanitarianism does not just refer to intervention (through aid or military action) abroad (often by the Global North in the Global South). Instead, following Didier Fassin, it can apply to all agents who offer support to the ‘needy’ at home or abroad based on the idea of humanitarianism.^[1] The lion’s share of criticism towards humanitarianism has focused on the activities of international organizations and operations. Some, including Costas Douzinas, have even posed that one step towards a positive transformation of humanitarianism as we know it would be to rely first and foremost on “those whose lives have been blighted by oppression or exploitation and who have not been offered or have not accepted the blandishments and rewards of political apathy.”^[2]

One area of the world where both humanitarianism and those blighted by oppression but unaccepting of apathy are omnipresent is the Gaza Strip. There, the land, air, and sea blockade imposed by the Israeli government has presented a significant challenge to the area’s development and the inhabitants’ welfare. The healthcare sector is no exception. Demographic trends and disease incidence do not show the typical hallmarks of a health crisis, such as high infant mortality and a low life expectancy. Rather, the so-called epidemiological transition has already taken place in Palestine.^[3] This means the primary causes of morbidity and mortality are instead chronic diseases. Though this transition can be viewed as a welcome development, treating this category of diseases requires a strong healthcare system with ample resources, which the Gaza Strip lacks.

This situation partly explains the proliferation of medical humanitarian aid in the Gaza Strip. Medical non-governmental organizations (NGOs) have sought to fill the gaps left by the Ministry of Health (MoH), the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA), and the private sector. The vast majority of these NGOs are led and created by Gazans, as the Hamas government has been unwilling to let international medical NGOs operate independently (to the frustration of Médicins Sans Frontiers (MSF)).^[4] As a result, the Gazan health sector is an excellent environment to study the practices and knowledge of grassroots humanitarian organizations.

There are three general critiques of humanitarianism that can be gleaned from a literature review: the reduction of aid recipients to victims, the alliance between state power and humanitarian organizations, and the dynamics of depoliticization and dehistoricization.^[5] Various more specific criticisms can be pinpointed in the literature, yet these three dynamics dominate throughout the field. The cases chosen in studies of humanitarianism reveal a preoccupation with critiques of transnational humanitarian operations. Moreover, exceptions still feature humanitarians providing aid to others, primarily refugees in their country.^[6] The Others have just come to them instead of vice versa. Simultaneously, Costas Douzinas has suggested that grassroots action might come closer to humanitarianism removed from and resisting state violence. Actual studies of grassroots NGOs are however notable by their absence. This paper seeks to contribute to the critical literature on humanitarianism by focusing on an understudied area – grassroots humanitarianism – to challenge the existing approaches.

Thus, the question to which we will turn here is: what can Gazan grassroots medical NGOs’ response to chronic diseases specifically show us about critiques of humanitarianism? Central to the argument is the expansion of our understanding of the way grassroots operations are able and unable to subvert conventional humanitarian knowledge and practices problematized in the literature. This process not only entails applying existing theoretical approaches to an understudied type of case but also challenges those theories, seeking to reveal their limitations by confronting them with a new actor – the grassroots NGO. As Srilatha Batliwala has shown, the term “grassroots” is complicated by the process of globalization.^[7] Here, it will be understood as including those NGOs established and run by Palestinians, which draft the majority of their staff from the local population. The analysis performed can also contribute to a better understanding of NGO practices in the realm of chronic disease in Gaza. Chronic diseases are limited here to diabetes, cardiovascular disease, and cancer.

It will become clear that a dominant thinker in this field is Giorgio Agamben, whose critique will be the basis of the theoretical approach, along with Eyal Weizman’s. The latter might be called a post-Agambian critique, using some of his insights but refining and even rejecting others. The avenues these authors offer for “resistance” are also touched upon. These approaches are operationalized through a dispositif analysis, which permits the inclusion of both discursive and non-discursive practices. The empirical material is accumulated from interviews with NGO volunteers and directors, as well as the online presence of the three main NGOs in the medical field. The analysis constructs from the practices and materialities of the NGOs their dispositif, which is then considered in light of the two scholars’ critiques of humanitarianism. In the conclusion, it will be argued that the grassroots NGOs’ embeddedness in the global humanitarian system reinforces a prioritization of humanitarian over political considerations. This leads to treatment of Gazan chronic diseases as primarily medical-humanitarian problems, risking complicity with the forces rendering the occupation possible. The questions raised by this case regarding the theoretical approaches are also discussed, along with avenues for further research.

Agamben and Weizman: Between Violence and Resistance

Given the myriad of approaches to the critique of humanitarianism, it is necessary to narrow down the ones foregrounded in this article. Because its purpose is not to develop a wholly new critique but to apply existing ones to an understudied type of actor, established scholars will be relied on. The first of these is Agamben, whose perspective is well-complemented and refined by Eyal Weizman, who in turn has been influenced by Agamben but significantly diverges from him in several areas. Their perspectives are particularly relevant for several reasons elaborated on below. In the analysis, these perspectives will be confronted with the empirical material.

Bare Life, Humanitarianism, and Violence

Fundamental critiques of humanitarianism as an idea rather than merely a practice arose as the subfield on humanitarianism matured. An important scholar in this development was Giorgio Agamben, with whose work many other critiques have subsequently engaged. Agamben’s fundamental critique of humanitarianism is as follows: “[…] humanitarian organizations […] can only grasp human life in the figure of bare or sacred life, and therefore, despite themselves, maintain a secret solidarity with the very powers they ought to fight.”^[8] This bare life is a condition in which the human being as a biological body (zoe) is stripped of its political qualities (bios), creating a zone of indistinction between the two.^[9] According to Agamben, the sovereign is constituted through the decision on who is rendered bare life through exclusion from the political.^[10] Placed in (what is termed) the state of exception, a person becomes homo sacer (bare life), someone who can be killed without punishment, but not sacrificed.^[11] By configuring the recipients of humanitarian aid as bare life, humanitarianism affirms the status they have been given under the sovereign ban. This critique has been mobilized to understand a variety of cases of transnational humanitarianism.

There are pertinent voices who engage with Agamben’s work more critically. This is frequently on either or both of two interlinked grounds. First, Agamben’s conception of humanitarianism is as an antipolitics, which is then complicit in biopolitics predicated on death (further elaborated on below). Others, notably those with a more traditionally Foucauldian understanding of biopolitics, view humanitarianism as a certain type of politics. Didier Fassin proposes that “humanitarian reason” is a part of our current mode of politics. He places it as a third pillar alongside Foucault’s police state and liberal economy, this pillar providing a moral sentiment to politics.^[12] Humanitarianism is a politics of life, and thus an enigmatic example of biopolitics.^[13]

The second critique comes out      of Agamben’s proposition that the camp – the state of exception – is devoid of power relations. Agamben argues that the distinction between forms of life by the sovereign today has led to “the radical transformation of politics into the realm of bare life”.^[14] The sovereign state has become increasingly involved with every aspect of life, expanding the realm of biopolitics until it encompasses all of human life. Biopolitics, an originally Foucauldian concept, represents politics in which the primary concern lies within the care for the biological life of the nation. Agamben, however, reconsiders Foucault’s understanding of the concept and turns it around. Biopolitics is no longer concerned with the preservation and optimization of life, but rather with the power to decide upon its end, at which point the subject becomes bare life.^[15] He identifies the concentration camp as the ultimate expression of biopolitics, and its prisoners – as the ultimate form of bare life.^[16] This divergence from Foucault gives way to another one, namely the lack of power relations in Agamben’s work and the lack of politics.^[17] The sovereign ban operates via relations of violence instead of power relations. This is due to the placement of bare life outside the political realm. There are no proper power relations between the sovereign and bare life since there is no way for homo sacer to directly challenge his displacement from outside the political realm.

This explains why those rendered bare life have little to no way of resisting the sovereign to Agamben. As controversial as this point seems, it has an advantage in the analysis of grassroots humanitarianism. This form of humanitarianism is seen as potentially preferable because it can empower those rendered bare life. Thus, in approaches focusing on relations of power rather than violence, local NGOs are plausibly more easily identified as resisting state power. By contrast, Agamben’s emphasis on relations of violence permits a forceful critique of even grassroots humanitarianism. This sets a high bar for an actor of which it has been suggested that he is a positive replacement for international NGOs (INGOs). Simultaneously, Agamben’s work does not completely preclude a resistance of sovereign power. Besides the approach’s substantial benefits, the dominant role Agamben plays in the field is in itself a reason to include his arguments here. As a new actor is studied in an area of scholarship, it is sensible to take into account the work of one of the dominant voices in that field.

Political Agency in the Humanitarian Present

If Agamben’s perspective can be accused of marginalizing the agency of those excluded from the political realm, Weizman seeks to foreground their political resistance. It is the reason why the inclusion of his approach in the analysis of grassroots humanitarianism is invaluable next to Agamben’s. It serves to add nuance to the position of those reduced to bare life by the occupation, which are excluded from politics according to Agamben. Weizman, on the other hand, views them as the “vanguard of political struggles.”^[18] Thus, Weizman serves as one of Agamben’s harshest critics, arguing that the camp is the prime place for politics, rather than one devoid of it. The inclusion of both perspectives is crucial to fully appreciate humanitarianism led by the vanguard in the camp. Surprisingly, Weizman himself does not consider explicitly the possibility that the vanguard might itself engage in humanitarianism. Bringing these two authors in conversation with the case, the goal is to understand what a grassroots humanitarianism means for a theoretical approach to humanitarianism with a highly limited degree of agency on one hand, and a strong emphasis on agency on the other hand. Despite their divergent ideas, t     he two scholars are simultaneously not incomparable, as Weizman directly engages with Agambian insights, and they both draw on similar authors, such as Hannah Arendt.^[19]

Weizman conceptualizes the current period as the humanitarian present. It is characterized by “the condition of collusion of humanitarianism, human rights, and humanitarian law with military and political powers.”^[20] Especially the second chapter of his book on the topic delivers a forceful critique of the narrative of “the lesser evil.” This idea is frequently deployed by humanitarians to justify their complicity in and enabling of violence perpetrated by the regime.^[21] The argument claims that it is better to be complicit than to be denied access to an area where relief is direly needed. Here, Weizman critiques the unwanted collaboration between totalitarians and humanitarians, as well as the wave of humanitarian organizations “taking sides” (between “liberalism” and “authoritarianism”).^[22] An impasse was reached because humanitarianism sought to either evade politics (via the lesser evil) or rally against authoritarianism as a sort of pure evil. These ideological dilemmas, if you will, are what Weizman engages within his proposed “solution:” a recentering of the politics and agency of the oppressed.^[23] This way out of the impasse also responds to another common critique of humanitarianism, namely the victimization it creates.

A Different Humanitarianism

From both Weizman and Agamben, a positive vision for different humanitarianism can be derived. This allows for an analysis that goes beyond the question of whether a form of humanitarianism is complicit in state power. Instead, it encourages consideration of how resistance could be accommodated or even enacted by the medical humanitarian organizations themselves. Equally, their diverging visions further illustrate the overlap and differences between the two thinkers.

Edkins and Pin-Fat have teased out two paths towards resistance in an Agambian conception of modernity. This requires a return of power relations between the sovereign and the excluded. The first way to return power is to refuse to make the sovereign distinction between the included and excluded from politics. This means taking the position that there should be no sovereign ban.^[24] The second path, which presumes the first, involves taking up bare life as a form of life. Refugees sewing together their lips is given as an example of this: “They are assuming the very bare life that sovereign power imposes on them in order to demonstrate the relationship of violence in which they have been placed.”^[25] This demonstration is read as relational: it is a political act aimed at those outside the sovereign ban.

Weizman proposes radically neutral humanitarianism, which solely concerns itself with securing the biological wellbeing of aid recipients, their bare life. This humanitarianism has several advantages. Specifically in medical humanitarianism, it allows for the return of the doctor-patient relationship, thus removing more value-laden descriptors like victim, savior, and perpetrator. Equally, this humanitarianism is self-consciously apolitical, rather than unknowingly becoming complicit in state violence through a lesser evil narrative.^[26] Most importantly, it re-centers the political wishes of aid recipients by sidelining the question of what values humanitarianism should espouse (anti-totalitarianism, anti-capitalism, liberalism).^[27] What both approaches here have in common is the recognition of aid recipients as having been reduced to bare life and, in a sense, using this state to resist oppression. However, whereas Agamben almost prescribes this to the excluded as their only possible form of resistance, Weizman suggests that humanitarianism concerns itself with bare life, leaving the mode of resistance of the excluded for them to choose.^[28]

Conclusion

Both Agamben and Weizman identify problems in the knowledge from which humanitarian organizations operate. In Agamben’s case, it is the preoccupation of humanitarianism with bare life that reproduces the sovereign distinction, leading to victimization, depoliticization, and above all, an uneasy alliance with state power. Weizman also problematizes the marginalization of aid recipients’ subjectivity. Yet, it is to him a result of attempts to locate the lesser evil, whether lesser than authoritarianism or allowing forcibly displaced Ethiopians to starve.^[29] To both, better humanitarianism would foreground the body of the aid recipient, which allows for a return to power relations, and thus for resistance. However, Weizman emphasizes the agency of the aid recipient throughout his work, whereas Agamben’s bare life barely implies any at all. The theoretical approaches above both require an operationalization befitting a social critique of the underlying logic and practices of humanitarian organizations. This operationalization will be outlined in the following section.

Dispositif analysis

The approaches to humanitarianism outlined previously will be applied to a case study that comprises the prevention and treatment of chronic diseases by grassroots NGOs in the Gaza Strip. To facilitate this, a dispositif analysis will be used, rooted in the practice turn.

The dispositif is a Foucauldian concept. In his words, it refers to: “[…] a thoroughly heterogeneous ensemble consisting of discourses, institutions, architectural forms, regulatory decisions, laws, administrative measures, scientific statements, philosophical, moral and philanthropic propositions – in short, the said as much as the unsaid. Such are the elements of the apparatus. The apparatus itself is the system of relations that can be established between these elements.”^[30] Analyses of a dispositif are especially suitable for critiques of humanitarianism because they take into account both discursive and non-discursive elements. Jäger identifies three domains of analysis: discursive practices, non-discursive practices (actions), and material objects. The latter two are analyzed via discourse analyses just as the first. What is central to the analysis of a dispositif is the way these non-discursive practices and objects are both reinforced by and themselves reinforce the underlying knowledge of the dispositif. The discourse analysis of non-discursive elements thus focuses on the meaning attached to them.^[31] All three elements form a heterogeneous network. This network is perpetually shifting due to movements in the relations among the various elements. For instance, the unintended effects of actions might cause tensions in the dispositif, forcing a realignment of its elements. A dispositif is also self-sustaining: it produces power relations that reinforce it.^[32] Finally, it is important to note that the dispositif responds to an urgent need. This is itself not an objective need but constituted through discursive and non-discursive practices.^[33]

In order to operationalize Agamben and Weizman in the case of grassroots medical NGOs in Gaza, the dispositif of the latter in relation to chronic diseases will be studied. Studying a dispositif is possible via various routes. Here, the emphasis will be on the internal tensions among elements of the dispositif of chronic disease management in these NGOs.^[34] This angle is selected because violent dimensions of humanitarianism have already been identified as in conflict with humanitarianism’s explicit goals. After all, humanitarianism’s aim is not to make possible violent relations of subjectification. A tension will thus be central to the analysis regardless of the approach.

It can be argued that Weizman, in his analysis of humanitarianism in Ethiopia, traces the shifting elements of MSF’s humanitarian dispositif as it responds to internal contradictions between its values and the unintended consequences they produce. Indeed, his “forensic analysis” seeks to “tease out the political forces, cultural habits, forms of knowledge, skills and expertise that were folded into [material objects’] organization and form.”^[35] An Agambian understanding of the dispositif does not inhibit its use in this analysis either. If anything, his proposition that “anything that has in some way the capacity to capture, orient, determine, intercept, model, control, or secure the gestures, behaviors, opinions, or discourses of living beings” can be a dispositif leaves one assured that a humanitarian dispositif of chronic disease treatment can be located.^[36] The assertion of the way these dispositifs create subjectivities – here, doctors and NGO directors – reminds us that humanitarianism’s logic goes beyond the individual NGOs’ practices.

The mapping of a dispositif relies on the collection of data from the infinite archive of knowledge and practices it is generated by.^[37] The primary data consist of interviews conducted with employees and directors of two out of three key medical NGOs, as well as the reports, websites, and social media pages of the three main grassroots medical NGOs in Gaza (identified as such in previous research).^[38] The network of heterogeneous elements emerging here will then be considered from the theoretical perspectives outlined above. Within the dispositif, the focus will be placed on the urgent need that the NGOs respond to, their understanding of their role, and their interaction with global humanitarianism. The first two reflect the “core” of the dispositif as a strategy, namely the problem responded to and the shape this response takes. The inclusion of global humanitarianism is informed by the theoretical approaches. These conceive of humanitarianism not solely as a variety of separate practices but as a global approach or perceived alternative to politics.

Due to the emphasis on the NGOs’ understanding of the problem and their response, the primary sources reflect a preoccupation with their outward portrayal towards the public and the researcher (in interviews). This results in little effort being made to understand the perspective of the patient or aid recipient. This perspective has been foregrounded in other research on humanitarianism and is equally valid and valuable. It reflects a different avenue taken towards problematization than the one opted for here. Interviewees were required to sign an informed consent form beforehand regarding the purpose of the research and the interviews’ conditions. For those less comfortable with the English language, an interpreter was present during the call. Interviewees were encouraged to ask questions about the interview and conduct research before and after substantial questions were discussed. Verbal consent was required before interviews were recorded. In acknowledgment of the way research is situated in a wider political context, the names of the NGOs have been replaced by identifiers A, B, and C.^[39]

A Grassroots Humanitarian Dispositif to Counter Chronic Disease?

As Jäger points out, dispositif analysis does not have a strict method of analysis.^[40] Given that it is the reconstruction of a heterogeneous ensemble, neither is there a set order in which to examine discourses, actions, and materials. Thus, the dispositif analysis will commence with an examination of the urgent need to which the dispositif responds. The analysis is guided by the contradictions and tensions found within the discourses and practices. This continues throughout the subsections on the self-understanding of the NGOs and their situation in global humanitarianism. The final section consists of a confrontation between the outlined dispositif as a whole and an Agambian and Weizmanian perspective. What is first required, however, is an overview of the situation in which the dispositif operates: in this case, the occupation and blockade of the Gaza Strip from 2006 onwards. The dispositif can, after all, be characterized as a strategy, and strategies are not formed in a vacuum.

Gaza: The State of Exception

The blockade of Gaza since 2006 has a significant impact on its healthcare provision, as well as society as a whole. The following sketch of the situation cannot be considered “objective.” Rather, it is part of the dispositifs with which the dispositif of humanitarianism interacts. As mentioned, the statistics, reports, and narratives are all part of the archive from which dispositifs form. Because they interact, this minimal reflection on the context is needed. Furthermore, humanitarianism according to Agamben is a response to an emergency formed by the placement of people in the state of exception. The situation will in part be explained through this lens to accommodate the later confrontation between Agamben’s approach and the empirical case.

Since its conquest in 1967, Israel faced significant difficulties governing the Gaza Strip area. Through the Oslo Accords of 1994, the Israeli authorities relinquished most of the responsibility for internal affairs to the Palestinian Authority (PA). However, Israeli security checks and tight military control gradually closed off the territory. In 2005, Israel withdrew completely from Gaza, removing settlers and military personnel. To Azoulay and Ophir, this abandonment turned Palestinians into non-citizens.^[41] The High Court has ruled that Israel does not owe Gazans anything but the minimal humanitarian aid needed for subsistence. After Hamas’ election in 2006, the territory was put under a land, air, and naval blockade. A single border crossing, Erez, is currently open at Israeli discretion for the import and export of goods, as well as the movement of people.^[42] While the state has relinquished responsibility for the population, it possesses an important power: to take life. By closing the Erez crossing, it can cause a humanitarian crisis. Various authors have pointed out that this resembles the state’s ability to put one under the sovereign ban and turn one into homo sacer.^[43]

Similarly, it is important to understand the Gazan economy in which these NGOs operate. Economic growth and development are hampered by both the blockade and Hamas’ label as a terrorist organization. These make Gaza a uniquely unappealing destination for investment.^[44] Most projects are organized by INGOs or their donor governments. These groups are often not allowed to be in touch with Hamas, leading to not only a stifled but also a poorly coordinated economy.^[45] The abovementioned factors have conspired into high levels of poverty (53% in 2019) and more than half the working population being unemployed.^[46] The economy is highly dependent on the humanitarian aid sector, in addition to the smuggled goods coming from Egypt and the PA’s deposits to fund Gaza’s public sector.^[47]

An Urgent Need

A dispositif emerges around an urgent need, which is in turn constructed through discursive and non-discursive practices. Here, it is not the need for chronic disease treatment that is central, but precisely the need for local NGOs (rather than solely the Ministry of Health) to treat and prevent these diseases. This is where the first source of tension occurs. Discursively, the primary “raison d’être” of the NGOs is the occupation. However, because of what might be called pragmatism, as becomes apparent throughout this analysis, discursive and non-discursive practices reveal a prioritization of conventional biomedical concerns over politics.

The short mission statement of two out of the three examined NGOs contains a reference to the blockade. The third, NGO C, seemingly takes a different approach. The blockade remains more implicit, as its own mission is “contributing to community empowerment in healthcare and promoting the comprehensive healthcare concept in the Gaza Strip.”^[48] What all three emphasize is that the blockade is a primary cause of challenges faced in the health sector, particularly for chronic disease patients. Some examples include the shortages of certain drugs (such as anti-diabetic and anti-inflammatory medications), the complete unavailability of novel treatments (such as immunotherapy and certain new generations of drugs), and dysfunctional equipment due to a ban on spare parts entering the territory. Poverty is also linked to ill-health and is causally traced to the occupation. The contribution some Israeli actions might make to chronic disease development is also acknowledged. The severity of the blockade in the dispositif should not be underestimated: one interviewee described it as a chronic emergency.

The belief existing parallel to this is that a lack of knowledge about healthy living among Gazans gives rise to chronic diseases. This was affirmed in interviews, but is also reflected in the discursive practices on the NGOs’ social media pages. For all three, educational (rather than activist) posts dominate. This awareness problem is reflected more clearly in the NGOs’ programs. Their emphasis on prevention and non-medicinal management makes optimal use of the proximity between patients and medical professionals. Home visits are organized to distribute hygiene kits, instructions, and (when funding allows for it) food baskets. Specifically for chronic disease sufferers, education on nutrition is provided, including cooking classes. An NGO B doctor mentioned that Gazans suffering from type II diabetes are first educated on nutrition and lifestyle changes prior to medical treatment. A variety of workshops and online content seek to change individual behavior.

These practices, while they may be viewed as empowering, could create a sense of personal responsibility and self-blame in the face of poverty, stress, and malnutrition. For example, the rates of stunting in Gaza are unusually high, which increases the risk of chronic disease development later in life.^[49] Is this due to a lack of education among parents or the conditions in which they are forced to raise their children? Food basket distribution does reflect an acknowledgment of these dynamics, as do discursive practices aimed against the occupation.

The tension between the perception of the occupation as the main reason for the NGOs’ work and the predominance of practices focused on behavioral change is explained pragmatically. As the director of NGO A pointed out, the demand for healthcare services far outweighs what can be provided with limited resources due to the occupation. This in turn leads them to emphasize health education. There is a limit to what treatments can be offered, but far less so to what one can teach everyday Gazans about a healthy diet.

“We Are Doctors.”

In light of the theoretical approaches selected, the self-understanding of the NGOs is a relevant part of the dispositif to consider. The above has already hinted at a tension between the humanitarian and medical versus the political dimension of the NGOs’ work. This is mirrored in their self-conception. On the one hand, there is an emphasis on neutrality and the humanitarian character of the NGOs’ work. This became very clear when an NGO B interviewee, upon being asked, insisted that his work had nothing to do with politics, served solely humanitarian purposes, and benefited everyone in ill-health, regardless of their ethnicity, religion, or political affiliation. Another NGO B interviewee, when asked whether he saw his work as part of the resistance, said, “We are doctors, we are away [from this] resistance.” In NGO C reports, there is an emphasis on managerial and medical data, revealing a functional logic, for instance, in its display of the increased use of its services.^[50] This gets portrayed as an improvement. While it might mean those in remote areas are better-reached, it does not mirror the logic of a political movement striving to render itself redundant. In other discursive practices, too, the medical and humanitarian practices of the organizations dominate.

This humanitarian and medical self-identification is also reflected in non-discursive practices. There is a division of labor between human rights organizations and medical NGOs. For example, patients are frequently referred to hospitals outside the Gaza Strip, because the required treatment is unavailable due to the blockade. Upon the rejection of the referral or even the arrest of the patient at the Erez crossing, it is human rights organizations that sound the alarm. Secondly, the programs set up by NGOs do not generally have a political component. Political advocacy and medical programs are separated.

It is noteworthy that a limitation of the humanitarian role to that of “doctors” is not inherently benign. Modern medicine creates a relationship of doctor and patient wherein the doctor is perceived as the knowledgeable party.^[51] This power dynamic is potentially strengthened by the notion of charity. Some of the treatments and programs offered by NGOs are free. Others require ‘symbolic’ payments far below those found at the MoH. This creates a dependency of the most vulnerable on these NGOs’ services. A distinction from the dependency and hierarchy found in international humanitarianism must however be made. Gazan doctors and patients are victimized by the same blockade. The power dynamics created by NGO practices is one of doctor-patient, educator-student, and donor-receiver, yet not that of victim-savior highlighted in much of the literature on humanitarianism. In discursive practices, a relation of solidarity is emphasized. Social media posts in Arabic might refer to a doctor’s service to his ša`b, meaning “people” but also “nation.”^[52]

This brings into view a deeply political dimension to the discursive, non-discursive, and material elements of the dispositif. All three NGOs speak of a right to healthcare, calling on the responsible authorities to provide it. Several professionals interviewed identified their work as a way to promote the resilience of their communities in the face of occupation. Both in interviews and online, there are calls for the international community to take action. The director of NGO A put it as follows: “[As] Palestinians, it is too difficult to differentiate between political issues and our lives, especially when […] I am working in the health NGOs or health organizations.” The ability to do advocacy work was also identified by interviewees as an advantage of being a Palestinian grassroots NGO rather than an INGO.

These beliefs give rise to and are reinforced by a variety of practices. Although cooperation with human rights organizations is reflective of a division of labor, it also shows an intersection. These are acknowledged not to be separate struggles. In the realm of chronic diseases, everyday practices are given a political dimension due to the above discursive practices. There is no direct communication with the Israeli authorities on the import and export of medicines and supplies. This is perceived as improper while under occupation. The referral process involves an inherent interaction with the blockade. By requesting a patient be let out of Gaza to receive treatment, the lack of freedom of movement Gazans experience is challenged. The materials used in treatment also gain a political dimension. There is a distinct awareness that machines are not subpar or dysfunctional by nature, but become such due to the ban on spare parts and certain equipment (for example, that for radiation).

Global Humanitarianism

The dispositif of local NGOs cannot be completely separated from the global humanitarianism that makes it possible. Each of the organizations considered is funded largely through foreign donations from governments, partner INGOs, individuals, and international organizations. Donors are acknowledged in social media posts and official reports of specific projects. The knowledge of this dependence on donors, which is largely implicit, is reinforced by the acceptance of donor influence over some projects. These donors provide funding for specific projects (rather than contribute to the core budget) and co-design them with the NGO. Contact is also maintained with a variety of core budget donors. Some of them are governments, others are solidarity organizations in primarily the Islamic and Western world.

The international medical humanitarian community is also drawn upon for non-financial means. One of the effects of the blockade is the restriction on the freedom of movement of doctors. This poses an obstacle to the continual improvement of specialists’ knowledge. Thus, online solutions are found to supplement rare live delegations. A UK charity, for example, helps NGO B set up regular consultations between Palestinian and UK specialists on breast cancer cases.

On the other hand, there is a persistent awareness of problematic donor policies. NGO A pointed out that donors prefer to fund emergency responses, rather than on-going and development projects. International NGOs are perceived as less independent, primarily because they need to take into account the interests of the Israeli side. There is a widespread frustration with the policies of some of the donor organizations and the international community, including donor governments. Condemnations of the occupation are seen as insufficient, sporadic, and half-hearted. In short, the displacement of political support by humanitarian aid is problematized. This frustration is not made explicit in public discursive practices, however. A donor government might be acknowledged with gratitude on one page, whereas on the next, the international community (which it is part of) is condemned for its apathy.

Encountering the Theory

The above discussion of some of the core discourses, practices, and objects in the dispositif reveal an internal tension between the humanitarian aspects of NGOs’ work and its political dimension. Deploying both Agamben and Weizman’s core critiques and conceptions of resistance can aid in understanding the core of the dispositif, as well as its repercussions.

Read through an Agambian lens, grassroots humanitarianism can indeed only grasp human life as bare life, despite its best efforts to contextualize the threats to this life. Depoliticization and dehistoricization are curbed by the keen awareness of the effects of the blockade, especially on the healthcare system. In fact, these challenges constitute in large part the urgent need to which these NGOs respond. It is also acknowledged that the economic situation reinforced by the blockade has detrimental effects on health. Yet, the practices aimed at prevention and treatment focus on personal behavioral changes. The reason for this      is simple, though implicit: political advocacy will not help improve the physical health of patients at the moment. This reveals a prioritization of biological life. This is perhaps more forcefully shown in the interaction with donors. It is acceptable in a biopolitical age that INGOs and states support humanitarian efforts helping the populations harmed by their own political quietude and complicity.

These international actors are offered the possibility of displacing durable political action against the occupation by ‘apolitical’ humanitarian aid.^[53] When NGOs must choose between saving lives and drawing a political red line (for example, by refusing cooperation with politically pro-Israel states), biological life is prioritized. This shows that in the end, the dispositif of these NGOs is a humanitarian one. That even grassroots NGOs become complicit in the very state power they seek to fight against fits well within Agamben’s rather agenciless conception of bare life. It is so subjected to the relations of violence rendering it bare life that proper power relations have become impossible. In this case, complete independence is obstructed by dependence on financial support.

Weizman’s insights add nuance to this totalizing perspective and point out its limitations. Centering the health of the population – here, the mitigation of chronic diseases – is not inherently problematic. It could even help avoid some risks that accompany humanitarian action. Most importantly, a self-conscious exclusion of politics in order to focus on the physical well-being of patients takes the eye off the politics of the humanitarians to “the political capacity for self-government” of the locals. Indeed, this is how some NGO employees perceive their role: to contribute to the resilience of their people. By separating their medical programs from advocacy, they also reserve agency for chronic disease sufferers to make up their own minds on political matters. Moreover, the creation of their humanitarian programs is in itself perceived as a political act and thus an expression of political agency.

However, the NGOs still find themselves in the uncomfortable position of accepting the aid of states and organizations that politically oppose their emancipation. Agamben’s awareness of the embeddedness of humanitarians in the global biopolitical system might be considered a strength over Weizman. Yet, Weizman seems implicitly aware of the inherent limits state power places upon humanitarianism’s independence. He suggests that the oppressed might refuse aid “at a time of their choice.”^[54] This would give the occupied the chance to fully independently construct spaces, self-govern, and make political demands, away from the global humanitarian apparatus they have been subjected to. The “secret solidarity with state power” in Agamben’s words, would be removed then.

Would the subsequent shortages of insulin, disinfectant, or cancer treatments, and the inability to conduct a variety of life-saving surgeries result in the restoration of proper power relations? This refusal of aid is reminiscent of the assumption of bare life, as it makes the relations of violence created by the occupation visible. This form of resistance introduced by Agamben is applied by Jenkins and Pin-Fat, who show that the state is no unworthy adversary: “It is more than likely that a relation of violence will be reaffirmed, with such a protest being read not as a political action but in other ways.”^[55] Indeed, Arabs, Muslims, and especially Gazans are already entangled in less than favorable discourses. The international community is unlikely to have a change of heart when they begin to die of ordinarily manageable chronic diseases.

Conclusion

This article set out to answer the question of what Gazan grassroots medical NGOs’ response to chronic diseases can show about critiques of humanitarianism. This question was formulated in the context of the existing debates among critical theorists on the logic of humanitarianism, along with the scholarship on the Gazan medical sector. Of the former, Agamben’s and Weizman’s were further considered. This allowed for an analysis taking into account crucial thinkers in the field, as well as conceptions of the politically excluded with both little and large degrees of agency. These approaches also invited positive reimaginings of humanitarianism. They were operationalized through a dispositif analysis of the practices of grassroots NGOs in Gaza preventing and treating chronic illnesses.

The analysis of the dispositif has shown that while there is a keen understanding of the effect of the occupation on healthcare services, humanitarian logics still dominate the practices of the NGOs. The medical (humanitarian) programs and political advocacy are not integrated. The limited effectiveness of advocacy to increase resources gives way to a shift towards health education. This risks responsibilizing the chronic disease sufferer despite their socio-economic conditions. Finally, the prioritization of the humanitarian over the political is displayed in the willingness to rely on donors whose foreign policies contribute to the endurance of the occupation. Thus, the embeddedness in the logic of global humanitarianism leads to the reproduction of Gazan chronic diseases as biological problems first.

This finding is in line with Agambian skepticism about both humanitarianism’s ability to evade the logic of bare life and the ability of those rendered bare life to resist this state. Even medical humanitarianism led by the population – the refugees themselves – cannot evade a global dispositif complicit in state power. Among critical approaches to humanitarianism, this is a controversial conclusion. The ability of the population subjected to the sovereign ban to resist is often affirmed in contrast to Agamben, for example by Weizman. The latter’s position, suggesting that power in the hands of Gazans themselves is the solution, is enriched by the recognition that even these Gazans operate within global humanitarianism. In that sense, Weizman’s proposition that the most radical departure from the humanitarian present could be the refusal of aid is compelling. It represents an already tacit understanding of the limits of the “local,” the “independent,” and the “grassroots.”

This rather grim conclusion is made more nuanced by a full appreciation of the practices found in the dispositif. Some of these can be interpreted as significant challenges to the occupation. Further, apart from the problematic elements mentioned, the self-administration of aid ensuring survival already approaches Weizman’s vision of a better humanitarianism conducive to expressions of agency. Especially the knowledge in the dispositif that the NGOs contribute to resilience is telling. In this sense, the conclusions reached do not suggest that grassroots action is not preferable to INGOs providing care, nor do they seek to do so.

There are methodological limitations to this study. A first limitation is its relatively broad scope. Everything from foreign funding to health education has been taken into account. This should have facilitated a more comprehensive view of both the dispositif and the humanitarianism practiced by these NGOs. However, it renders this study rather exploratory, and more detailed problematizations would be of value. Secondly, the Gazan context is unique in many of its characteristics. This observation, in conjunction with the exploratory nature of this paper, should encourage further research into grassroots NGOs in various contexts.

Finally, the very project embarked on in the past pages must be questioned. Indeed, the deployment of an Agambian critique on grassroots humanitarianism reveals a problematic element within his approach. Grassroots humanitarianism has been criticized here for its entanglement with the international system that contributes to its necessity. It has become apparent that there is no way for the NGOs to collect the required resources without this complicity. This suggests, particularly combined with Agamben’s model of resistance, that Gazans’ health must suffer for them to mount an independent, “pure” challenge to the occupation. By condemning these NGOs for keeping Gazans in good health, one risks reproducing the same relations of violence condemned previously. Thus, it is imperative to bring in Weizman’s stance in order to emphasize that the form and timing of Gazans’ resistance are wholly their own.

References

[1] Didier Fassin, “The Predicament of Humanitarianism,” Qui Parle 22, no. 1Special Issue: Human Rights between Past and Future (Fall/Winter 2013): 37-38.

[2] Costas Douzinas, “The Many Faces of Humanitarianism,” Parrhesia 2, no. 1 (2007): 10.

[3] Abdullatif Husseini, Niveen M. E. Abu-Rmeileh, Nahed Mikki, Tarik M. Ramahi, Heidar Abu Ghosh, Nadim Barghuthi, Mohammad Khalili, Espen Bjertness, Gerd Holmboe-Ottesen, and Jak Jervell, “Cardiovascular Diseases, Diabetes Mellitus, and Cancer in the Occupied Palestinian Territory,” The Lancet 373, no. 9668 (April 2009): 1041.

[4] The claim that Hamas is very reluctant to allow international NGOs to work independently was made by one of the interviewees. This claim could not be confirmed independently.

For MSF’s problems, see Caroline Abu-Sada, “Gaza Strip: A Perilous Transition,” in Humanitarian Negotiations Revealed: The MSF Experience, ed. Michael A. Neuman, Fabrice Weissman, and Claire Magone (London: Hurst & Company, 2011), 99-100.

[5] For examples of the reduction of aid recipients to victims, see Ilana Feldman, “Gaza’s Humanitarianism Problem,”  Journal of Palestine Studies 38, no. 3 (Spring 2009): 22-37; B. E. Harrell-Bond, Imposing Aid: Emergency Assistance to Refugees (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986).

For examples of the alliance between state power and humanitarian organizations, see Lisa Bhungalia, “Managing Violence: Aid, Counterinsurgency, and the Humanitarian Present in Palestine,” Environment and Planning A 47 (2015): 2308-2323; Yves Winter, “The Siege of Gaza: Spatial Violence, Humanitarian Strategies, and the Biopolitics of Punishment,” Constellations 23, no. 2 (November 2015): 315; Jenny Edkins, “Humanitarianism, Humanity, Human,” Journal of Human Rights 2, no. 2 (June 2003): 255; Didier Fassin, Humanitarian Reason: A Moral History of the Present (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2012).

For examples of depoliticization and dehistoricization, see Ariella Azoulay and Adi Ophir, “Abandoning Gaza,” in Agamben and Colonialism, ed. Marcelo Svirsky and Simone Bignall (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. 2012), 185; Liisa H. Mallki, “Speechless Emissaries: Refugees, Humanitarianism, and Dehistoricization,” Cultural Anthropology 11, no. 3 (August 1996): 398; Suzan Ilcan and Kim Rygiel, ““Resiliency Humanitarianism”: Responsibilizing Refugees through Humanitarian Emergency Governance in the Camp,” International Political Sociology 9, no. 4 (December 2015): 348.

[6] See for example Miriam I. Ticktin, Casualties of Care: Immigration and the Politics of Humanitarianism in France (Los Angeles: University of California, 2011);  Robin Vandevoordt and Gert Verschraegen, “Subversive Humanitarianism and Its Challenges: Notes on the Political Ambiguities of Civil Refugee Support,” in Refugee Protection and Civil Society in Europe, ed. Margit Feischmidt, Ludger Pries, and Celine Cantat (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019).

[7] Srilatha Batliwala, “Grassroots Movements as Transnational Actors: Implications for Global Civil Society,” Voluntas: International Journal of Voluntary and Nonprofit Organizations 13, no. 4 (2002): 396.

[8] Giorgo Agamben, Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life, trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998), 133.

[9] Ibid., 109.

[10]  Ibid., 89.

[11]  Ibid., 83.

[12] Fassin, “Predicament of Humanitarianism,” 39.

[13] Didier Fassin, “Humanitarianism as a Politics of Life,” Public Culture 19, no. 3 (2007): 499-520.

[14] Agamben, Homo Sacer, 120.                                                                          

[15] Mika Ojakangas, “Impossible Dialogue on Bio-power: Agamben and Foucault,” Foucault Studies no. 2 (2005): 18.

[16] Agamben , Homo Sacer, 184-185.

[17] Jenny Edkins and Véronique Pin-Fat, “Through the Wire: Relations of Power and Relations of Violence,” Millunnium 34, no. 1 (2005): 9.

[18] Eyal Weizman, The Least of All Possible Evils: Humanitarian Violence from Arendt to Gaza (London: Verso, 2011), 61.

[19] See for example Weizman, Least of All Possible Evils, 35-36 and Agamben, Homo Sacer, 126-127.

[20] Weizman, Least of All Possible Evils, 4.

[21] Ibid., 38.

[22] Ibid., 40-41.

[23] Ibid., 62.

[24] Edkins and Pin-Fat, “Through the Wire,” 14.

[25] Ibid., 21-22.

[26] Weizman, Least of All Possible Evils, 54-55.

[27] Ibid., 62.

[28] Ibid.

[29] Ibid., 38-39.

[30] Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, Volume I: An Introduction, trans. R. Hurley (New York: Vintage Books, 1980), 194.

[31] Siegfried Jäger, “Discourse and Knowledge: Theoretical and Methodological Aspects of a Critical Discourse and Dispositive Analysis,” in Methods of Critical Discourse Analysis, edited by Ruth Wodak and Michael Meyer (London: Sage Publications Ltd, 2009), 58.

[32] Claudia Aradau, Martin Coward, Eva Herschinger, Owen D. Thomas and Nadine Voelkner, “Discourse/Materiality,” in Critical Security Methods: New frameworks for analysis, ed. Claudia Aradau, Jef Huysmans, Andrew Neal, and Nadine Voelkner (Abingdon: Routledge, 2015), 65-66.

[33] Ibid., 68.

[34] Ibid., 65.

[35] Weizman, Least of All Possible Evils, 4.

[36] Giorgio Agamben, What Is an Apparatus? and Other Essays, trans. David Kishik and Stefan Pedatella (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009), 14.

[37] Philippe Bonditti, “Act different, think dispositif,” in Research Methods in Critical Security Studies: an Introduction, ed. Mark B. Salter and Can E. Mutlu (Abingdon: Routledge, 2013), 101-102.

[38] For the existing research, see Médicins du Monde France, Violence against Healthcare in Gaza: Violence against Palestinian NGOs Healthcare Personnel, Vehicles and Medical Structures during the 2018 “Great March of Return” Demonstrations (Médicins du Monde, 2018), http://www.euromed-france.org/wp-content/uploads/2019/02/MDM-Report-Violence-against-Healthcare-in-Gaza-2018.pdf, 12.

[39] As a result, websites and social media pages of these NGOs are not referenced in the endnotes of this paper. To preserve the scientific replicability of the research, the researcher can be contacted for the obtainment of the names, webpages, and social media accounts of the NGOs analyzed, as well as the transcripts of interviews. The report of NGO C is accessible to the public and can thus be found in a note.

[40] Jäger, “Discourse and Knowledge,” 60-61.

[41] Azoulay and Ophir, “Abandoning Gaza,” 181.

[42] Winter, “Siege of Gaza,” 309.

[43] See for example Azoulay and Ophir, “Abandoning Gaza,” 183; Honaida Ghanim, “Thanatopolitics: The Case of the Colonial Occupation in Palestine,” in Thinking Palestine, ed. Ronit Lentin (London: Zed Books Ltd., 2008), 77.

[44] Tamer Qarmout, Delivering Aid Without Government: International Aid and Civil Society Engagement in the Recovery and Reconstruction of the Gaza Strip (Cham, Switzerland: Springer, 2017), 18.

[45] Ibid., 124.

[46] United Nations Conference on Trade and Development, “Palestinian socioeconomic crisis now at breaking point,” September 10, 2019.

[47] Qarmout, Aid Without Government, 19.

[48] Union of Health Work Committees, Annual Report: January – December 2016 (Al Nasser: Union of Health Work Committees, 2017), 4.

[49] Husseini et al., “Cardiovascular Diseases, Diabetes Mellitus, and Cancer,” 1045.

[50] Union of Health Work Committees, Annual Report, 7.

[51] Michel Foucault, The Birth of the Clinic: An Archaeology of Medical Perception, trans. A.M. Sheridan(Taylor & Francis e-Library: Routledge, 2003), 96-97.

[52] Transliteration from Hans Wehr, A Dictionary of Modern Written Arabic: Third Edition, ed. J. Milton Cowan (Ithaca, NY: Spoken Language Services, Inc., 1976), 472.

[53] This dynamic has been acknowledged by, amongst others, Weizman in other contexts. See Weizman, Least of All Possible Evils, 50.

[54] Ibid., 62.

[55] Edkins and Pin-Fat, “Through the Wire,” 21.

This piece was published in the Spring Issue Print Edition (Volume 11)

“There is no “logic” of anarchy apart from the practices that create and instantiate one structure of identities and interests rather than another; structure has no existence or causal powers apart from process. Self-help and power politics are institutions, not essential features of anarchy.”

• Alexander Wendt, Anarchy Is What States Make of It

Abstract:

For decades, questions about how to engage Iran have vexed American policymakers. Critics of engagement argue Iran is a threat to stability and needs to be contained, with sanctions imposing pressure. On the other hand, proponents of engagement claim that sanctions and pressure are ineffective, merely empowering hardliners in Iran. These debates grew in intensity following the 2015 Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA), where the Obama administration lifted sanctions in exchange for limits on Iran’s nuclear program. The debate has only grown since the Trump administration withdrew from the deal, leaving the United States at an impasse in 2021—should the JCPOA be rejoined or sanctions continued? While both sides have merit, this article argues that the current debate suffers from a limitation. In evaluating sanctions, much of the existing literature appeals to a strictly rationalist account of how actors make decisions, positing that countries such as Iran behave solely as self-interested actors pursuing economic and security-related goods. This paper aims to broaden the scope of the debate over U.S.-Iran policy by introducing a new perspective, constructivism, that begins not by asking how sanctions affect Iran’s self-interest, but instead by defining what Iran’s interests, values, and motivations are. Exploring social science, Iranian history, culture, and population-level dynamics, this paper concludes that sanctions can and have been effective against Iran, not merely because of economic pressure but because of what sanctions represent to Iran’s leaders and people: isolation, dependence, stigma, and exclusion. These motivations—traceable to culture, popular sentiment, and history—are often missed in contemporary sanctions literature. As a result, this paper prescribes how the United States can use this to form effective policy, proposing a dual track of pressure and engagement to achieve a novel deal that improves on the framework of the JCPOA.

Introduction:

“This agreement represents our best chance to stop an Iranian bomb without another war in the Middle East;”[1] “We have found the best available option by peaceful means rather than pursuing a worse option through war.”[2]

“The Iran deal is defective at its core;”[3] “This was a horrible, one-sided deal;”[4] “At the heart of the Iran deal was a giant fiction that a murderous regime desired only a peaceful nuclear energy program.”[5]

Since its birth in July of 2015, the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA) or “Iran Deal” has been mired in controversy, with some labeling it a masterstroke that will hold off Iranian proliferation and others viewing it as a tragic mistake. Proponents argue that the deal ensures Iran’s path to a nuclear weapon is delayed, if not destroyed, while opponents claim that Iran will pocket the sanctions relief and, continuing their uranium enrichment, wait for the day when the deal expires. Both sides surely have merit, but the opponents of the deal won out in May of 2018, when President Donald Trump announced withdrawal from the JCPOA. The other parties involved in the negotiation, namely Iran and European allies, announced their commitment to remain by the terms of the agreement even following U.S. withdrawal, but it was to no avail—the imposition of U.S. sanctions on Iran resulted in the deal entering a death spiral, and Iran eventually ceased compliance.

Since then, relations between the U.S. and Iran have become as bad as ever. Following the resumption of sanctions, the Iranian economy has cratered, entering a recession of historic proportions. Meanwhile, the killing of Iranian Major General Qassim Suleimani in January of 2020 resulted in a political crisis that culminated in a downed airliner over Iran and an attack on a U.S. airbase in Iraq. Near the one-year anniversary of Suleimani’s killing, Iran seized a South Korean tanker in a gambit to pressure South Korea to aid them in skirting U.S. sanctions. Around the same time, Iran announced that they would begin enriching uranium at an alarmingly high level of 20%, putting them within reach of enrichment that would suffice for creating a nuclear bomb. Yet, upon doing so, Iranian leaders made sure to emphasize that this could all end, provided the United States return to compliance with the JCPOA.

Against this backdrop, President Biden has a choice: he can take Iran up on its offer and rejoin the JCPOA, or he can push for something additional. An old negotiating adage is to never accept the first offer: the stronger strategy is to use it as a starting point and use it to secure something even better. This logic is applicable in the case of the JCPOA. While superior to no deal, the JCPOA contains many defects that could be ameliorated by a follow-on deal. The United States should maintain a redline on uranium enrichment, refuse sunset provisions, and walk away from any deal that fails to include those elements.  Doing so is necessary for the sanctity of the non-proliferation regime. Notably, Iran is the one making overtures, not the United States: this signals that the United States holds the leverage.

However, Iran will not be an easy negotiating partner. U.S. policy on Iran is a graveyard of decades of ineffective sanctions and failed attempts at diplomacy. This paper approaches the question of U.S. sanctions by asking a simple question: what makes sanctions effective in general, and what makes them effective in the case of Iran? In doing so, the paper notes two features of current debates surrounding sanctions and Iran. First, such debates are grounded primarily in theories that rely on assumptions of rationalism, positioning Iran as a utility-maximizing state that will respond rationally to economic pressures. Second, discussions of sanctions within the realist tradition focus primarily on Iran as a coherent political entity, with little to no discussion of how internal regime dynamics affect Iranian responses to sanctions.  

This paper argues that these assumptions may obscure as much as they illuminate. Instead, sanctions should be examined through a constructivist lens, or the “social perspective” theory of sanctions. Sanctions do not solely operate as a means of applying economic pressure, but instead have power through what they signify: isolation from the international system, labeling a state as a pariah.

The thesis of this paper is that Iran’s strategic culture, history, and internal regime dynamics make sanctions uniquely effective, a perspective that is obscured by the rationalist and realist assumptions of contemporary analysis on Iran. A detailed study of Iran, both over the past several centuries and today, serves to derive a set of ideational variables that motivate Iran, variables that can be influenced through a sanctions regime. Coupled with an analysis of the precarity of the Iranian regime in the face of current protests, sanctions may “punch above their weight,” doing more to alter Iranian behavior than traditional literature on sanctions may suggest. This helps to explain why, despite their overall ineffectiveness across multiple countries, sanctions were effective in getting Iran to come to the negotiating table for the JCPOA initially.

The paper then concludes with a specific proposal for how U.S.-Iran policy should be negotiated in light of this new constructivist understanding of sanctions. While a pressure track of sanctions is desirable, it must be designed with a set of clearly demarcated carrots and sticks, a calibrated set of incentives aimed to induce compliance. A pressure track must be accompanied by an engagement track. Recent social science has indicated that engagement and tit-for-tat reciprocity can be effective as a negotiating tactic, findings that are especially salient in the case of Iran. Using these tactics, the United States will be able to seek to negotiate and achieve a better alternative to the JCPOA: a deal that includes a prohibition on uranium enrichment and avoids the use of sunset provisions.

The paper makes a necessary contribution to the literature. The dominant trend in discussing U.S. policy towards Iran has been security-centric, approaching it from a positivist lens that views Iran as security-seeking and the Iranian nuclear program as a threat to U.S. interests. While most literature on this question applies a liberal or realist lens, this paper contributes a constructivist perspective, analyzing the ideational variables that motivate Iran. Relatedly, the paper includes one of the only analyses of sanctions from a constructivist perspective, situating U.S. sanctions on Iran within the context of Iranian culture and society, perspectives that are frequently overlooked.

While providing a useful analytic for understanding Iranian behavior, the paper also explicates these observations within the context of specific policy recommendations, creating a set of actionable steps for policymakers to negotiate a successful improvement to the JCPOA. This synthesizes previously separate aspects of the literature. Many scholars recommend improvements to the JCPOA, while many others study sanctions, and more yet analyze Iranian culture. Comparatively few, however, examine the intersection of these three literature bases. Instead of keeping these traditions separate, the paper analyzes them together and contributes a useful theoretical lens of constructivism. By possessing a deeper understanding of what motivates Iran, backed by social science, policymakers can hopefully achieve results in negotiations that exceed expectations.

Section 1: U.S.-Iranian Conflict

Tensions between the United States and Iran reached a boiling point on January 3, 2020, when Iranian Major General Qassim Suleimani was killed by a targeted U.S. drone strike near Baghdad International Airport.[6] The leader of the powerful Quds Force of the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corp, Suleimani was known to be the architect of significant Iranian intelligence and military operations, and his assassination dealt a crippling blow to Iran’s geopolitical planning.[7] In an official statement following the drone strike, the Pentagon claimed that Suleimani was “actively developing plans to attack American diplomats and service members in Iraq and throughout the region.”[8]

While the killing of Suleimani was the most salient example of a deterioration in U.S.-Iranian relations, the problem is more protracted than the killing of a single military commander. This killing takes place against the backdrop of unprecedented sanctions and economic decoupling, disputes over Iranian support for terrorism and attempts at a nuclear program, and disagreements about the role that Iran should have in the Middle East. It has been argued that Iran views itself as a great power waiting to emerge, tapping into a rich cultural heritage that dates back as far as the days of the Persian Empire, when what is modern-day Iran had significant geopolitical influence not only in the region, but across the globe.[9] Additionally, as a theocracy, Iran sees its mission as spreading Islam throughout the region, supporting militant groups such as Hezbollah.[10] In contrast, the U.S. view of Iran is markedly different: from the U.S. perspective, Iran is a state sponsor of terror, an unstable theocracy dangerously close to acquiring a nuclear weapon, and a provocateur in an already-unstable region.[11]

However, a turning point ostensibly took place in 2008 with the election of President Barack Obama. As he campaigned on achieving change both domestically and abroad, many wagered that President Obama would aim to overturn the established consensus on U.S.-Iran relations. In 2009, President Obama recorded a video intended for Iran where he expressed hope for a “new beginning,” communicating the sentiment directly to the people of Iran.[12] While acknowledging that the two countries had “serious differences that have grown over time,” President Obama indicated a desire to “seek instead engagement that is honest and grounded in mutual respect.”[13]

Six years later in 2015, the result was a historic agreement: the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA), colloquially known as the “Iran Deal.” One of President Obama’s signature foreign policy accomplishments, the JCPOA was reached between Iran and the P5+1 (the five permanent members of the United Nations Security Council and Germany). The core of the deal was simple, offering sanctions relief in exchange for restrictions on Iran’s nuclear problem. According to the White House, prior to the deal Iran could have produced one bomb’s worth of fissile material within 2 to 3 months. Known as the “breakout time,” this is an estimate of how quickly Iran could proliferate if it “sprinted toward a bomb.”[14]

As part of the JCPOA, the United States obtained several key guarantees. First, Iran was required to reduce its centrifuges by two-thirds, reduce its stockpile of enriched uranium by 98%, and limit uranium enrichment to 3.67%.[15] The enrichment limit of 3.67% is particularly critical. Iran had previously been enriching at 20%, which is known to be a major technological milestone—enrichment at 20% crosses the highest technological hurdle to enriching at 90%, which is weapons-grade enrichment.[16] Second, Iran was required to provide comprehensive inspection access to the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA), allowing sweeping inspections of its nuclear facilities.[17] In addition, Iran had to close several nuclear facilities. According to the White House, these steps taken in conjunction would raise Iran’s breakout time from 2-3 months to at least 1 year.[18] With this extended window, the United States would have a year to calibrate responses if Iran were sprinting toward a bomb.

In exchange, Iran received numerous benefits. First and most critically, Iran received a tremendous amount of sanctions relief.[19] While sanctions remained in place for conventional weapons, terror support, human rights abuses, and destabilizing regional activities, the United States and international parties lifted all nuclear-related sanctions.[20] These international sanctions were starving the Iranian economy of over 100 billion dollars a year, and Iran was desperate to attain this much-needed relief.[21] Second, Iran was permitted to enrich uranium below the 3.67% enrichment cap imposed in the deal. This was a historic and unprecedented guarantee.[22] Traditionally, the United States has told non-nuclear states that, if interested in nuclear energy, they would be permitted light-water reactors, which the United States will assist with building. However, enrichment for the purpose of nuclear energy has traditionally been a red line, as allowing enrichment runs a risk that weapons-grade material could be enriched. However, the JCPOA allowed Iran to enrich, a guarantee afforded to no other country. Third, Iran secured a “sunset provision” in the agreement, allowing the restrictions on Iran’s centrifuges to expire after 10 years and the limitations on uranium to disappear after 15 years.[23]  

However, in 2018, President Trump withdrew from the deal and unilaterally resumed sanctions, having claimed that it was the “worst, horrible, laughable” in 2015, and arguing that it lacked verification, lost U.S. negotiating leverage, and did not secure assurances concerning Iranian regional activities.[24] For about a year after the U.S. resumed sanctions, Iran remained in compliance with the JCPOA. However, in June 2019 Iran announced that it would renege on the key components of the deal, increasing enrichment of uranium beyond the 3.67% cap and that it would increase its stockpile.[25] Every few months, Iran ramped up enrichment further, moving to 4.5% enrichment by July 2019, developing more advanced centrifuges in September 2019, and injecting uranium gas into centrifuges in November 2019.[26] Following the January 2020 strike on Qassim Suleimani, Iran announced that it would not be complying with any aspect of the deal, and by January 2021 Iran was enriching at the precarious 20% level, providing the capacity to quickly reach the weapons-grade level of 90%.[27]

However, Iran has not gone unscathed during this time. Following the 2018 resumption of sanctions by the United States, Iran has been hit harder than ever. With the reimposition of banking and oil sanctions, Iran’s economy has fallen into a devastating recession. By October of 2019, Iran’s annualized GDP growth rate was -9%, a far cry from its 12% number in October 2016 after sanctions relief was provided.[28] Within a year, Iranian oil production plummeted from nearly 4 million barrels a day to barely 2 million barrels a day, and the Iranian currency (the Rial) lost 50% of its value against the U.S. dollar.[29] Inflation soared to 30.5% in 2018, with inflation particularly high for food items; the IMF estimated that Iran’s meat products were 116% more expensive in April 2019 than in the prior year.[30]

The combined effects of economic breakdown, a global pandemic, and existing discontent with the government have fomented mass protests and disruption in Iran. There have been organized protest movements for years, and they have grown more protracted and frequent as time has gone on.[31] There have been over 2,500 protests from January 2018 to October 2019, demonstrating an increased pace from previous years.[32] Notably, June 2018, the bazaari protests involved urban merchants taking to the streets to protest currency devaluation, resulting in industry shutdowns in some sectors.[33]

Many analysts have argued that the economic situation has grown increasingly precarious for Iran, and that Iran is desperate to cut a deal. Due to their desperation, Iran may be more willing to run risks. In early January 2021, Iran seized a South Korean oil tanker, aiming to gain leverage to gain “access to hard currency oil revenues frozen in South Korean banks because of US sanctions.”[34] January 2021 was a notable month—during the one year anniversary of Qassim Suleimani’s assassination, President Trump dispatched B-52 bombers and a nuclear-powered submarine to the Persian Gulf to maintain order in the event that Iran attempted destabilizing activities.[35] Iran, facing total economic breakdown, is playing a game of chicken by trying to show the United States that “it has potent cards to play” while falling short of justifying a U.S. military response.[36]

 The tactic is aimed at negotiating with President Biden. The combination of destabilizing regional activities and enrichment of uranium at 20% are clear negotiating tactics: Iran aims to communicate that “the longer Biden waits, the more 20 percent-enriched uranium Iran will have and the closer it will be to ‘breakout’.”[37] If Iran’s activities were not a clear enough signal, Iranian statements are. Iran’s foreign minister, Mohammad Javad Zarif, wrote online that “Our measures are fully reversible upon FULL compliance by ALL.” This indicates a clear desire to get sanctions relief immediately.

Section 2: The Conventional Wisdom on Sanctions

For decades, the United States has had sanctions in some form imposed on Iran. Following the 1979 Iran Revolution, Iranian students stormed the U.S. Embassy and took diplomats hostage. The consequences were sanctions and the freezing of $12 billion in Iranian assets.[38] In 1984, the U.S. Department of State designated Iran a state sponsor of terrorism and imposed additional sanctions.[39] In 1992, the U.S. Congress passed the Iran-Iraq Arms Nonproliferation Act of 1992, imposing sanctions for Iran’s under the pretense  transfer of technology related to chemical, biological, nuclear, or advanced conventional weapons.[40] In 1996, the U.S. Congress went after the Iran petroleum industry, believing that the industry was contributing to Iran financing terrorism—this culminated in the Iran Sanctions Act.[41] While the aforementioned sanctions were primarily unilateral, international sanctions began to take force in 2007 due to concerns about the Iranian nuclear program. The UN Security Council, concerned about uranium enrichment, unanimously adopted Resolution 1747 to slap sanctions on Iran for nuclear program violations.[42] This was followed by 2008’s Resolution 1803 and 2010’s Resolution 1929 which continued to tighten nuclear-related sanctions on Iran, accompanied by domestic policy passed by the European Union and the U.S. Congress directly targeting the Iranian financial sector.[43]

Considered within the broader context of U.S. foreign policy, the extensive use of sanctions is unsurprising. Operating as the center of the world’s financial institutions, the United States possesses extensive leverage, able to use sanctions to cut other countries off from access to capital or financial institutions. Against an adversary, this offers the potential to do substantial damage to the economies of other nations while still falling below the threshold of armed aggression. Commonly referred to as “a measure between wars and words,” sanctions allow U.S. policymakers to feel as if they can “do something” when facing an international crisis.[44]

However, existing empirical research is less than enthusiastic about the efficacy of sanctions. Known as the “sanction paradox,” the academic literature for a period of time overwhelmingly was dominated by the view that, while often used, sanctions “do not work.”[45] A groundbreaking study of sanctions was published in 1985 by Gary Hufbauer, Jeffrey Schott, and Kimberly Ann Elliot (henceforth HSE).[46] Examining 115 cases of sanctions from 1914 to 1990, they found that sanctions achieved success in 40 cases (34% in total). In possibly the most well-known criticism of sanctions and the HSE study, “Why Economic Sanctions Do Not Work,” Robert Pape argued that of those 40 cases, few are legitimate successes, finding only 5 successful cases of sanctions out of the 115.[47] Pape argues this is due to a number of factors: states are willing to tolerate external pressure to achieve national interests, can use administrative capabilities to mitigate the economic damage, and can shift damage to the people instead of harming the ruling elite.[48] As a result, Pape claims that sanctions go beyond merely being a “moderately robust arrow in a policymaker’s quiver;” instead, sanctions “have succeeded in only 5 of 115 attempts…a weak instrument.”[49] In a notable response piece by Elliot of HSE, she claims that Pape’s study “sets up a straw man and then boldly proceeds to knock it down,” noting that Pape defines a successful sanctions regime unduly narrowly by focusing on economic sanctions “used in isolation from other tools.”[50] Instead, Elliot claims that while sanctions are of “limited utility” they may be effective, given that the “success rate importantly depends on the type of policy or governmental change sought” and that “it is not true that sanctions ‘never work’.”[51]

Regardless of which methodological choice was ultimately correct, there is clearly an area of consensus: both HSE and Pape are in agreement that sanctions, in the majority of cases, are not effective. More recent empirical evidence has found that the record of sanctions is not uniform, but larger than zero, with a success rate lying between 10% and 30%, depending on the study and methodological choices.[52]

Much of the literature on sanctions is based on a rationalist paradigm of international relations that presumes a set of utility-maximizing, security-seeking states who will respond optimally to a set of externally imposed pressures. In the literature on sanctions, the dominant question of study is how sanctions affect these rational interests, evaluating the extent to which sanctions can apply economic pressure to alter behavior. Known as the “rational actor assumption” in international relations, this presumes a unified and monovalent set of interests that are pursued by states within the international system.[53]

More broadly, this approach must be situated within the realist (and neorealist) tradition of international relations. A tradition with roots extending back thousands of years, realism is the political tradition that emphasizes the competitive and conflictual side of international relations. The objective that all actors hold is attaining power, achieving national interest, and acting against threats to their national security. While classical realism “places emphasis on human and domestic factors” in its study of how political actors aim to achieve security, a major revolution in international relations theory was achieved through the advent of neorealism in the late 1970s.[54] Attributed primarily to Kenneth Waltz in Theory of International Politics (1979), neorealism establishes that there are three levels of analysis: the system, the state, and the individual. For Waltz, the only relevant level of analysis is the system-level. As “external pressure seems to produce internal unity,” changes at the system-level have effects on all levels. Accordingly, the ways that states interact with one another is explained not by individual choices or regime-types, but rather by the pressures exerted on them by an anarchic international system. In this anarchic international system, there is no guarantor of security and no relevant institution that can serve as guarantor. As a result, states can only attain security through self-help and the pursuit of power. Neorealism, while accepting the realist precepts of rationalism and security-seeking, goes a step further: states will hold those as immutable goals due not to individual leaders or regime-type, but rather due to a structural proclivity of the international system.

Much of the literature on sanctions operates within the grammar of rationalism, positing that sanctions will or will not work due to the pressure they can successfully exert on a state. For proponents of sanctions, they will be effective if they can raise costs for a state to a level sufficient for inducing a change in behavior. In contrast, sanctions are unsuccessful if the pressure is too low. In both cases, whether sanctions succeed or fail is determined through the prism of rationalism, or how an objective, utility-maximizing agent would response to external pressures imposed by another actor in the international system.

However, a puzzle emerges: if sanctions are to be understood through a rationalist paradigm, why are the actions of states in relation to sanctions neither uniform nor rational? Examples abound of times when sanctions should have been enough to rationally sway a behavior, but the state incurred unacceptable economic costs in order to pursue a less-valuable objective. Similarly, if the recent empirics are accepted that find sanctions effective in 10-30% of cases, it is hard to explain why sanctions work in some cases but not in others.

A salient example of this phenomenon is Iran, where some have argued that sanctions have been unusually effective. In particular, the targeted sanctions imposed on Iran in 2007 by the UN Security Council and United States have been lauded for their success in applying economic pressure sufficient to force Iran to come to the negotiating table, accepting the Joint Plan of Action (JPA) in 2013 and the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA) in 2015.[55] According to Yesun Yoon, this was a classic ‘carrot and stick’ sanctioning model—robust international sanctions tightened the screws on Iran from 2007 to 2013, resulting in Iran agreeing to an interim deal in 2013 that granted “temporary and modest sanction relief” of $7 billion.[56] Having whet Iran’s appetite for aid with the initial relief, this was followed by the subsequent JCPOA that promised relief totaling $100 billion for full compliance with its terms and conditions.[57]

The success of this strategy was due to the economic and political damage that had been wrought by years of U.S. containment. At the start of the Obama administration, with the exception of Hezbollah, Iran lacked military presence anywhere outside of Iran and Lebanon. At the same time, oil and financial sanctions were substantially damaging the Iranian economy—Iran’s perceived security and economic interests were at stake.[58] According to a study by the Peterson Institute for International Economics, sanctions had a deleterious effect on Iran’s main source of revenue, oil exports, with economic sanctions costing Iran over $160 billion in oil revenues since 2012.[59] Specifically, the effects were most acute in 2012 and 2013, with GDP in 2012 plummeting by 7% and staying negative in 2013; the Iranian rial collapsed 51% in 2013, with inflation spiking 35%.[60] Notably, these effects track closely to the timing of negotiations over the JPA and the subsequent JCPOA. Iran, facing the worst of sanctions during this time, went to the negotiating table.

Why were sanctions more effective in Iran than in other cases? Much of the existing academic literature in recent years has tried to find a cogent theory for what defines “effective” as opposed to “ineffective” sanctions. The Peterson Institute for International Economics noted that effective sanctions are defined by measures that hit hard, financial controls being a big part of the sanctions package, and the enforcement of the package through international cooperation.[61] The presence of these variables in the case of the Iran nuclear sanctions were therefore a part of the regime’s success. A separate analysis by Brian O’Toole also claims that sanctions can be designed in ways to maximize effectiveness.[62] Lauding the effectiveness of the Iran nuclear sanctions and sanctions on the Soviet Union, O’Toole argues that sanctions may work “as part of a comprehensive and executable strategy.”[63] Put differently, sanctions work when they have a clear objective. The receiving state must know a set of actionable steps that will result in sanctions relief, allowing sanctions to operate as a “stick” that can easily be avoided by acceding to the demands of the sanctioning country. For O’Toole, this distinguishes Iran nuclear sanctions from sanctions on Cuba or Venezuela. The former aimed at a specific behavioral change (an end to uranium enrichment), while the latter were general behavioral sanctions for the more vague “human rights abuses.”[64] For sanctions to be effective they must be calibrated, leaving them capable of being lifted if behaviors change.    

An additional contributing element to sanction efficacy is making sanctions multilateral, rather than just unilateral. According to Mortlock and O’Toole, multilateral sanctions demonstrate international resolve, which communicates to the target the longevity of the sanctions; they will be therefore less able to secure workarounds and re-route economic benefits through other means, convincing them to surrender early on.[65] One notable example of a challenge in unilateral sanctions arises in the case of sanctions on North Korea. China, not wanting regime collapse in North Korea, actively works to assist North Korea in circumventing unilateral U.S. sanctions.[66] A comprehensive study by Dizaji et al. also lends credence to the view that multilateral sanctions are meaningfully distinct from unilateral sanctions. Studying reductions in military spending associated with sanctions from 1960 to 2017, Dizaji et al. found that multilateral sanctions reduced spending by 77% in the long run, while the chances of success of unilateral sanctions were “statistically insignificant.”[67]

It is clear that the sanctions on Iran’s nuclear program contain many of these features—they were multilateral in nature (supported by the UN Security Council and allies in the European Union), had a specific policy objective, and were calibrated to reward or punish specific behaviors. Some criticisms of Iran sanctions (such as the 2014 analysis by Agnese Macaluso) allege that the sanctions did not trigger a change in policy but instead changed only the Iranian government’s strategy.[68] However, this draws an unnecessary separation between government strategy and policy change. The objective of the sanctions was to put an end to Iran’s nuclear program, and the result was that Iran was willing to come to the negotiating table and accept limits on their program. Regardless of whether one ultimately holds up the JCPOA as a success or not, the sanctions did achieve their stated objectives. Additionally, many of the criticisms of sanctions that Macaluso makes (lacking a clear objective, focusing on regime change, and being uncoordinated) are not true of the multilateral sanctions that were focused primarily on Iran’s nuclear program. As Macaluso acknowledges, in February 2013 Ayatollah Khamenei had refused to negotiate with those that “take up arms against the nation of Iran” but, by September 2013, had declared that Iran would support diplomatic compromise based on the notion of a “heroic flexibility.”[69] This is the sign of a sanctions regime that was effective in securing its goal of getting Iran to negotiate.

All of the above analysis has one key commonality: it approaches the debate over the efficacy of sanctions from the perspective of rationalism and, subsequently, neorealism. Effective sanctions regimes are predicted on the basis of their ability to apply destabilizing amounts of pressure to economies, creating an incentive for a rational player to maximize gains and push to have sanctions neutralized. Multilateral sanctions are theorized to be more effective by demonstrating a greater degree of resolve, while calibrated sanctions are understood to work due to the ability for the targeted state to be coaxed through a “carrot and stick” incentive structure. Under such an incentive structure, benefits or “carrots” are offered to induce desirable behavior, while punishments or “sticks” are held out as deterrents for undesirable behaviors. This also implicitly relies on a precept of realism: the determinant in foreign policy is a material set of interests that relate to security and power. A country such as Iran will want a strong economy and military and will resist sanctions imposed by other international actors to ensure its self-interest is attained.

Section 3: Constructivism and a New Theory of Iranian Sanctions

However, much of the contemporary literature surrounding sanctions is unduly narrow in its focus on rationalism and its appeal to neorealism. This is because the power of sanctions transcends the neorealist understanding of power as directly compelling behavior. Defined by German sociologist Max Weber as “the likelihood that one actor in a social relationship will be in a position to carry out his will despite resistance,” political scientist Michael Brzoska notes that power can have many faces.[70] Power can operate directly by influencing decision-making, indirectly through shaping the ways in which decision-making occurs, and ideologically through shaping norms of proper behavior.[71] Traditional research on sanctions has focused on the more traditionally realist understanding of power as direct, stating that sanctions work (or do not work) due to imposing economic or military hardships on security-seeking, rational actors. According to Brzoska, “[t]hose targeted are seen as rational decision-makers, who will compare the benefits of actions with their costs. Sanctions which are sufficiently large to tip the balance in such a way that costs outweigh benefits will result in the changes of behavior desired by those mandating the sanctions.”[72]

 However, the second and third forms of power have been neglected in the contemporary debate over sanctions. Sanctions can have power that is not just direct but also ideological, serving as a means of enforcing norms and operating as an important symbol within the liberal international system. Under this broader perspective that includes ideational as well as material variables, “[t]he hope is that sanctions will lead to a change in the targeted behavior not because the cost-benefit calculus is affected, but because social relationships are influenced by the sanctions…[t]his view on sanctions, which could be called the social perspective, moves the analysis away from individualistic cost-benefit calculations into the direction of constructivist ideas about appropriate behavior shaped by norms and ideas.”[73]

Contrary to the neorealist tendency to focus exclusively within the Waltzian third level of analysis (the system level), such an approach recognizes that “[s]ocial relationships on several levels can be relevant: relationships within the decision-makers’ family, among the elite group in a country, but also relationships among countries.”[74] This situates the “social perspective” theory of sanctions squarely within the constructivist theory of international relations. Constructivism is contrasted with realism and liberalism as one of the three central categories of major international relations theories. Realism and liberalism differ dramatically from each other in the assumptions they rely on and prescriptions they make for international politics. While realists believe in an inherently conflictual international sphere that makes cooperation temporary and unreliable, liberals believe that strong institutions and democratic values can engender cooperation.[75]

However, despite their many differences, both realists and liberals rely on one central assumption that is not shared by the constructivists: the positivist/rationalist assumption of a utility-maximizing, security-seeking state. Both realism and liberalism accept as given that states have an interest in attaining security and are primarily focused on the Waltzian third level of analysis, or how states interact with one another at the level of the international system; disagreements surround the extent to which cooperation can be found within the anarchic system of international politics. However, constructivists dispute this positivist/rationalist assumption, arguing that knowledge and, subsequently, the interests of states are socially constructed as opposed to being immutably defined.[76] Illustrating the social construction of reality, Alexander Wendt gives the example of nuclear possession—we find 500 British nuclear weapons less threatening than 5 North Korean nuclear weapons. There is nothing intrinsic to the British weapons (the material structure) that make them less threatening; instead, our reaction is driven by the meaning given to the material structure (the ideational structure).[77] Therefore, threats to security within international politics do not have an intrinsic valence. Rather, the social context imbues them with meaning.

This directly challenges the starting point of anarchy in international politics, accepted by both realism and liberalism. For realism and liberalism, states attempt to navigate their way through an anarchic international system in the hopes of attaining security; the anarchic structure of the international system determines the behavior of states.[78] In contrast, constructivists argue that the relationship between structures and actions is not one-dimensional. Instead, “agency and structure are mutually constituted…structures influence agency and…agency influences structures.”[79] Instead of being an immutable characteristic of international politics, “anarchy is what states make of it.”[80] States have the ability to internalize alternate norms or find values contrary to those that require enmity, anarchy, or security-seeking behavior.

Closely related to the above discussion of agency is the constructivist view of identities and interests. While realism and liberalism view states as having a fairly uniform interest of security-attainment, constructivists view identities and interests as being socially constructed.[81] These interests are shaped by culture, nationalism, and a variety of other ideational forces. For example, a uniform interest in security cannot explain why the India-Pakistan border is defined by disputes while the U.S.-Canadian border is not. Similarly, the notion that states will without fail seek power and influence is difficult to square with the actions of countries such as Switzerland that have positioned themselves as a neutral party in many international disputes.[82] Instead, constructivists argue that states construct images of themselves. Interests are not prefigured to be security-driven, but are instead constructed by the state in accordance with its socially constructed identity.[83]

Beyond identifying the motivating factors for individual states, constructivists provide analysis of how such constructed identities shape politics at the international level, contributing to the formation of international norms.[84] Over time, repeated interactions between agents gives birth to norms and expectations of behaviors; these constrain behaviors, prescribe actions, and shape what states view as the “right thing to do.” One salient example is what Nina Tannewald refers to as the “nuclear taboo,” arguing that states have come to internalize a norm that nuclear use is unacceptable, contributing to the construction of an international political standard standard.[85]

This paper aims to situate sanctions within a broader lens of power than is typically assumed, evaluating power not just as direct but as ideological. Using Brzoska’s social perspective theory of sanctions, this paper hopes to explain the efficacy of Iranian sanctions through a different lens. International sanctions are not merely effective by changing the cost-benefit calculations of targeted states, but rather are effective because of what they convey. In contrast to the rationalist perspective, sanctions do not work merely through direct harm to a nation. Instead, “effects on the relationships…are the measure,” with effective sanctions not being defined solely by the amount of pressure, but rather knowledge of the targeted group, their values, and their relationships.[86] Sanctions can serve a role in enforcing particular international norms or messages; this is particularly effective if the sanctions come from international actors “deemed to be of importance” to the target state.[87] From this perspective, in “moving from rationalist to constructivist thinking, the power of sanctions here is their role in strengthening rules and norms of future appropriate behavior.”[88]

From this perspective, there are two key aspects of U.S. sanction policy towards Iran that get overlooked by the trend towards realism and rationalism in assessing sanctions. Due to the assumption of rationalism, the symbolic and norm-related effects of sanctions have gone under-examined. Similarly, due to the fixation of realism on the third level of analysis, an examination of the inner workings of Iranian domestic politics has been obfuscated. Yet, in both cases, these are particularly salient factors for assessing why sanctions have been (and will be) effective in Iran. This paper argues that sanctions represent a form of exclusion and coercion that is unacceptable to the Iranian government due to critical cultural and national norms. Additionally, the political and economic ramifications of sanctions have resulted in strong pressure from below, with ordinary Iranians protesting the conditions present. Both of these factors are not adequately captured by the realist and rationalist assessments of sanctions, yet are determinative factors in explaining the success of Iranian sanctions. They will be addressed in turn, beginning with the social perspective theory of sanctions applied to Iran and Iran’s social identities.

Mahdi Mohammad Nia argues that the realist approach to international relations uniquely fails to explain Iranian foreign policy, which is driven largely by the set of domestic and historical forces at play. Nia points to the relative continuity in Iranian foreign policy since the 1990 collapse of the Soviet Union. The most significant system level transformation in terms of distribution of power has had little effect on the strategies of Iranian foreign policy, which has witnessed “relative stability” since then.[89] Nia argues that this presupposes a materialistic set of interests that Iran has, making the same rationalist assumption that was criticized earlier. Instead of “implementing its interests in terms of low-cost options and instruments…Iran’s foreign policy has been more consistent with ideological interests than national ones.”[90] Nia argues that one can find eight key drivers for Iranian foreign policy that transcend the material interests of security-seeking, rational states, but are illuminated through a constructivist analysis.[91]

The first point of emphasis is the logic of responsibility, or the “ideological objectives that a state pursues out of the nation-state borders as an ideological ‘duty’.”[92] This is contrasted with the logic of consequentiality, which holds that foreign behaviors of a state are adopted due to their consequences. This responsibility stems from the theocratic nature of the state, and Iran has committed to a responsibility that “undertakes the fraternal commitment towards all Muslims, and unsparing support of the oppressed of the world…defending the rights of all Muslims.”[93] This can be seen prominently in the support for Islamic resistance movements, including the financing of jihad globally. These efforts aim at “establishment of a united single world community to rescue deprived and oppressed nations…”[94]

The second point of emphasis is the discourse of counter-hegemonism, derived from the Islamic rule of “Nafy-e Sabil,” or domination over Muslims.[95] The rule is derived from the Koran, stating that “there is no law to allow domination of infidels over Muslims and ways are closed to foreign hegemony over Muslims.”[96] In practice, this manifests itself through a desire in Iran to avoid foreign domination, seeking out alliances with other nations in the third world, Islamic world, and Asia. Examples include joining the Shanghai Cooperation Organization, urging discourses such as “Look-East Policy” and “South-South Alliances,” and ties with Latin American countries such as Venezuela, Nicaragua, and Bolivia.[97] During the Cold War, Ayatollah Khomeini proclaimed that “We don’t get along with any of the powers. We will be under the domination of neither America nor the Soviet Union.”[98] This runs contrary to the realist assumption that states will either “balance or bandwagon” with great powers in a bipolar system —such theories would predict that Iran would be drawn into either the Soviet or American sphere of influence, lending more credence to an ideological view of Iranian foreign policy.

The third point of emphasis is the notion of independence and self-sufficiency, particularly when related to indigenous technology. Having been rendered dependent and subservient to the West for much of the 19^th and 20^th centuries, Iranian leaders believe that Iran must be “self-sufficient enough to be economically independent and economically independent enough to be politically independent.”[99] This also informs much of Iran’s views on their nuclear program, viewing it as a symbol of independence and economic leverage that Iran could exert over Western nations.

The fourth point of emphasis is the discourse of “Persian Nationalism.” This has been present across markedly different regimes. Just as the Shah promised Iranian independence and encouraged Iranians to yearn for the days of the ancient Iranian Empire and its sphere of influence, Ayatollah Khamenei has argued that Iran’s size, historical significance, and cultural superiority require a strong regional role.[100] Once again, this has proximity to the Iranian nuclear program: Iranian leaders, believing themselves to be a continuation of great Persian leaders of the past, argue that they should have the same nuclear fixings as other great powers.

The fifth point of emphasis is the discourse of the “enemy.” Fueled by the “history of intervention, manipulation, and exploitation of the country by foreign powers,” this discourse creates a common enemy that is continually opposed to the interests of the Iranian people.[101] This discourse of the enemy, frequently understood to be the West, results in a distrust of the outside world and an understanding that the outside powers want to harm Iranian interests. Nia noted that it is “difficult to find a speech of Iran’s officials without emphasizing the role of enemy to destruct the Islamic Republic of Iran,” and she finds one speech of Ayatollah Khamenei that mentioned “enemy” 16 separate times.[102] 

The sixth point of emphasis is the discourse of “Islamic Unity” and “Islamic Solidarity,” working to create unity among the Islamic states, ensuring strong economic and political ties across Islamic countries.[103] In the words of Ayatollah Khomeini, “[o]ur Islamic scheme…is to create a kind of unanimity of view among Moslems of the world, to unite the Islamic countries, to establish fraternity among different Moslems of the world, to make a pledge with all Islamic governments of the world.”[104]

The seventh point of emphasis is the discourse of “Martyrdom,” “Jihad,” and “Fearlessness.” This understands warfare as a moral duty provided it is undertaken “as a sign of commitment to the true faith.”[105] Military strategy therefore transcends a simple understanding of victory or defeat–the value instead is about waging a war against oppression and injustice, taken pursuant to an Islamic duty.

The eighth and final point of emphasis is the discourse of “justice,” contributing toward a revisionist approach to foreign policy. Since the creation of the Islamic Republic of Iran, Iranian leaders have seen the international system as an unfair and hierarchical system that unequally distributes power among nations.[106] This is an extension of the Islamic revolutionary viewpoint that the world is structurally divided along antagonistic lines – there is good, and there is evil, with no possibility of compromise. No matter what costs are incurred, Iran therefore has a duty to seek the attainment of justice, even at the cost of economic prosperity or security.[107] This logic is unrecognizable from the realist standpoint, which holds economic and security-related benefits to be sacrosanct. Yet, Ayatollah Khamenei has said that he “prefers defeat to the victory that could be achieved through injustice or oppression,” choosing to wage “justice-driven policies” against Israel while incurring tremendous economic and political costs.[108] 

If these eight principles are the driving forces for Iranian foreign policy, effective sanctions need to closely map onto these interests. After all, these eight principles define the Iranian identity and subsequent interests, serving as the benchmarks by which Iran defines successful foreign policy.

On face, it seems that these principles would doom any type of negotiations at the outset. Many of these principles pit Iran against the West (and therefore the United States), with a “previously constructed identity that…determines who is ‘friend’ and who is ‘enemy.’”[109] This creates a self-perpetuating cycle where internal normative structures configure the United States as the enemy, prompting antagonistic policies that force antagonistic responses, validating the initial view of the United States as the enemy.[110]

However, the way out of this cycle is by emphasizing cooperative, reciprocal norms, which position the United States as a potential partner as opposed to the enemy. Here, the United States would approach relations with Iran from the standpoint of reciprocal benefit. Approaching Iran with a good-faith effort to find compromise and reach a mutual understanding has a greater chance of eliciting a positive reaction in response. The dynamics in the relationship are after all, tit-for-tat: an antagonistic action from the United States can be expected to elicit an antagonistic response from Iran. However, this goes both ways. A positive action can elicit a positive response.[111]

This is confirmed by various diplomatic episodes between states with diametrically opposed interests and antagonistic relationships, such as the United States and Iran or the United States and North Korea. With North Korea, the United States sought diplomacy by emphasizing in the late 1990s that there would be an assurance of no nuclear strikes on the country. This spurred arms control diplomacy, which was arguably successful until an eventual relationship breakdown. What caused the breakdown? Some attribute it to “aggressive and confrontational norms” pushed by the Bush administration that labeled North Korea part of the “axis of evil,” antagonizing North Korea.[112] In this example, we see a clear pattern: a tit-for-tat exchange where an initial assurance elicited a positive response, but a later negative action spurred a reciprocal negative response.

This has also been demonstrated in the case of Iran. During the Clinton administration, there was a concerted effort to facilitate engagement and cooperation with Iran diplomatically, and Iranian President Khatami responded by attempting to increase Iranian engagement with Western counties while accepting suspension of uranium enrichment.[113] Similarly, diplomatic overtures by President Obama resulted in diplomatic talks and the eventual JCPOA. In contrast, sudden confrontational approaches have empowered hardliners, resulting in Iran becoming more adamant about the need for a strong nuclear program and support for jihadist groups abroad. A major turning point was the policy of the Bush administration (exemplified by the “Axis of Evil” remarks, around the same time that Iranian President Ahmadinejad came into power). As noted by Nia, “…whenever Iran faced a confrontational normative environment, the state responded more aggressively toward international community.”[114]   

As outlined in Nafy-e Sabil, a fundamental wrong for Iran’s regime is the notion of being governed by non-Muslim nations, a system of rule by the infidels. For Iranian leaders, this is manifested in the current structure of the international order, with institutions that they perceive as existing primarily to secure Western interests. No example is more salient than that of international finance, where the United States exists as the epicenter of Western economics and financial control, having unprecedented sway over capital access. Sanctions, cutting Iran off from such a system, offer a notable “stick”. Iranian financial interests are directly targeted by the Western-led system, hampering the ability for Iran to attain what it believes to be sovereignty and self-governance. However, sanctions can also offer a notable “carrot”—the promise of access to capital. Iran can be granted an assurance that sanctions, once imposed, will, with protracted behavioral changes, remain lifted. This affords Iran a sphere of relative inviolability from the economic Sword of Damocles that the United States otherwise possesses.

Sanctions can also notably target the Iranian emphasis on independence and self-sufficiency, as it relates to indigenous technology. As sanctions strategies have grown more sophisticated, policymakers have become attuned to the value of targeted sanctions that harm particular industries. It is here that sanctions present a stick—the United States can use sanctions to directly undercut the Iranian nuclear energy industry, preventing the acquisition of necessary materials for a fledging nuclear program. As the aforementioned Dizaji et al. study indicated, multilateral sanctions have been associated with a 77% reduction in military spending in previous cases.[115] The flip side of such sanctions is that they also present a carrot—sanctions relief can also ensure that Iran can pursue technological sovereignty. While a nuclear program should remain off-limits, there are alternate ways to achieve technological and energy independence. Some have proposed an alternative that works with Iran to help them develop a light water reactor and nuclear fuel. This offers Iran all of the benefits of nuclear energy, but without the latent risk of nuclear proliferation.[116]

The final way that sanctions can target a core Iranian ideological interest is through the principle of Persian nationalism. For centuries, Persia was at the center of the global stage, a veritable world power that had untold influences on other cultures in the surrounding areas. Those days are long gone, with Iran now existing as an isolated state. Iran lacks military presence anywhere outside of Iran and Lebanon, is an international economic pariah, and lacks much of a seat in international fora. Much of this is due to the role of sanctions, which serve as a means of isolating states from one another. This is particularly true of the UN Security Council sanctions, which secured a coalition of many of the world’s greatest powers to shame and ostracize Iran over its nuclear program. However, it can also be true of unilateral, “secondary sanctions” carried out by the United States, which forced firms to choose between doing business with the United States or with Iran. Such choice was no choice at all, and firms fled from Iran, contributing to its isolation. An isolated state is no great power, and sanctions thus serve as a valuable stick. However, the carrot is also present—Iranian leaders are keenly aware of the uptick in business and economic growth that took place in 2016 after sanctions relief was provided, with economic growth roaring back at a 6.4% clip following a contraction of 1.8% the year before.[117] 

However, as the previous sections have discussed, there have been far too many sanctions regimes that have been rendered ineffective due to poor design choices. Subsequent sections will discuss how a sound sanctions regime can be designed to maximize leverage following the breakdown of the JCPOA.

Section 4: The Regime’s Precarious Footing

In addition to the social perspective theory of sanctions justifying why sanctions are effective against Iran, there is an additional component that is too often overlooked by realist analyses of sanctions: the internal regime pressures that Iran faces. This may create an additional sense of urgency for Iran to find sanctions relief.

To understand the pressure that Iranian leaders face to cut a deal requires understanding the internal state dynamics in Iran. This is due to the fact that economic pressure is, by itself, not a sufficient condition for sanctions to produce a change in behavior. When leaders of a country are secure in their power and able to insulate themselves from the deleterious effects of sanctions, sanctions may produce little to no change at all.[118] After all, leaders of many sanctioned countries are among the most authoritarian leaders in the world: harm to their people is of no real consequence provided it does not threaten their own self-interest.[119] One example is North Korea. Subject to perhaps the most onerous sanctions regime in history, North Korea has withstood sanctions for an extended period of time, despite sanctions suppressing nearly all economic activity. The Kim Regime has a strong grip on power and is able to retain prosperity for the ruling class, which gives no real incentive to cave to U.S. sanctions.[120] Thus, a necessary condition for sanctions efficacy is to directly affect the leadership of a country, either affecting their economic interests or making them fear that they will lose their grip on power.

This paper contends that the current internal political situation in Iran is precarious enough that sanctions will threaten the self-interest of Iranian leaders. Ruling against the backdrop of the 1979 revolution, the Ayatollah and his government are well aware that nothing is permanent when it comes to their lease on power. The Iranian leaders understand that their hold on power requires them to secure prestige and economic benefit to their people, and that Iranians are not averse to rising up and demanding change when it fails to come from the government. Whether perceived or actual, the threat of regime change creates a motivation for Iranian leadership to cut a deal before the economy deteriorates too dramatically. Such a view affords the United States greater leverage than a view focused just on the effectiveness of sanctions across other countries. The unique nature of Iran’s system of government makes sanctions likely to deliver more leverage than in other nations.

By these metrics, the Islamic Republic under the two Ayatollahs has been a dismal failure, raising questions as to the legitimacy of the regime. 12 million Iranians live below the absolute poverty line, with 25 to 30 million living below the poverty line; one-third of Iranians are in danger of falling into poverty.[121] 14% of Iranians live in tents, and 50% of the workforce lacks regular employment. According to official statistics, one out of every eight Iranians are unemployed, and projections of unemployment for 2021 have gotten as dire as 26% under poor conditions.[122] These challenges extend beyond poverty to political and economic challenges relating to mismanagement, corruption, nepotism, and an undiversified economy that is nearly entirely petrol-reliant, with no prospects of structural diversification.[123] Inequality has also spiraled out of control, with Iran’s Gini Coefficient remaining over 0.40 for an extended period of time.[124] The Gini Coefficient is taken to represent inequality. A score of 0.0 is perfect equality, while 1.0 is perfect inequality. A 0.40 score indicates higher-than-average inequality. On the question of inequality, Djavad Salehi-Isfahani found that inequality in 2002 was similar to the level of inequality in 1972, noting that “[t]he findings on inequality raise important questions about the nature of the Islamic Revolution. Did it significantly affect the power structure as a social revolution of its magnitude should have…the finding that inequality in 2002 was about the same as in 1972 raises questions about the significance of the Islamic Revolution as a social and political revolution.”[125]

As a result, it comes as no surprise that protests have existed in Iran for some time. However, the scale and fervor of recent protests provides further support for the view that the Iranian regime stands on precarious ground. Throughout Iranian history, protests in Iran have been a common way for ordinary Iranians to register their discontent. One of the earliest protests in modern-day Iran took place in 1890 with the “Tobacco Protests,” when the shah granted a monopoly over the tobacco industry in Iran to a British subject. Merchants rose up, creating a protesting alliance between the bazaaris (merchant class) and the ulema (Muslim leaders).[126] As discussed previously, the Constitutional Revolution was also a notable protest surrounding economic stagnation and corruption, which resulted in a parliament being formed during the Qajar dynasty.[127] Following the 1979 Islamic Revolution and the establishment of the modern-day theocracy, a number of protests have also had particular political significance. In the Squatter Protests from 1991 to 1994, urban squatters protested across Tehran, Shiraz, Arak, Mashad, Ghazvin, and Tabriz, protesting attempts to evict them.[128] In the Green Movement, protests broke out challenging the controversial 2009 Iranian presidential election results.[129] From 2011-2012, Iranians took part in the groundswell of protests sweeping the Arab world during the “Arab Spring,” building off of the success of the Green Movement.[130]

While many of these protests died down, with future protests it may be different. A 2019 study of protests in Iran from the 1890s to the present concluded that “while protests in Iran are not new, the number and breadth of protests today are significant compared to previous years.”[131] While the current protest movement “remains fractured and lacks central leadership…”[132] unlikely coalitions are possible, as when the secular intelligentsia formed an alliance with religious leaders to topple the regime of the shah in 1979. Indeed, the protests of 1979, historical protests, and the protests of today share a common through-line—they are largely driven by economic grievances. As noted in the 2019 study, “economic grievances have triggered the vast majority of protests in Iran, a trend which has historical precedents in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. These grievances frequently include rising unemployment, increasing prices of basic commodities, growing inflation, or a recession.”[133] Since the notable Dey Protests of October 2019, there have been over 4,200 protests registered in Iran, occurring in nearly every province of the country.[134] In 2020, the problem became even more pronounced following the incident where Iran accidentally destroyed a Ukrainian passenger jet. Referring to the incident as putting Iran “closer than ever before” to regime collapse, former National Security Advisor Jim Jones claimed that this was a significant turning point for the protests.[135] Following the airliner incident, thousands of Iranians marched in the streets protesting the regime, with chants of “they are lying that our enemy is America, our enemy is right here” and “death, death to the dictator.[136]”

In the West, this has led to prognostications of regime change, with former U.S. National Security Advisor John Bolton noting that “with the recent protests in Iran, we can see the danger the regime is in.”[137] This was echoed by U.S. Representative Gerry Connolly, who noted that the “clerical rule’s days are numbered.”[138] While these predictions are perhaps premature, the protests show no sign of abating, as the economic problems for the regime remain protracted. U.S. sanctions continue to do severe economic damage, as inflation has skyrocketed while the country has entered a recession.

Decades after the 1979 Revolution, many Iranians question whether the goals of the revolution were achieved. The Iranian Revolution promised three goals: social justice, freedom and democracy, and independence from great power tutelage.[139] In many theocratic systems, the ability for the government to deliver promised benefits to its people is irrelevant; such governments can maintain a veneer of legitimacy through the religious beliefs of their citizens. However, Iran is different—the power of the theocracy was not achieved due to the devout religious beliefs of the Iranian people, but through a series of coalitions formed between secular and religious groups. These coalitions were formed due to the perceived efficacy of the rule of the Ayatollah; failure to achieve the promised benefits would directly undermine the legitimacy of the theocratic system.

Demonstrating the lack of power that religion holds, Tehran political science professor Sadegh Zibakalam argued that a referendum on the Islamic Republic held today would find that over 70% of Iranians oppose the system. This unpopularity spans multiple groups—the wealthy, academics, clerics, villagers, and urban residents.[140] Moreover, what Iranians find important from government is not religious in nature but decidedly more secular: development and a reduction in poverty. The revolution of 1979 was not framed in solely Islamic terms, but instead through the lens of supporting the mostazafin (the downtrodden). This concept is best understood as Marxist-Islamist, rendering the Islamist regime and religion a vehicle for advancing the interests of the marginalized within the shah’s regime.[141] Indeed, one of the primary allures of the Islamic Republic was the promise of shifting from a pro-urban, elite-centered system to a pro-rural and pro-poor approach that prioritized the development of infrastructure in the countryside.[142]

Recent studies have highlighted the dwindling role that religion plays in an increasingly secularized Iran. One study found that only 32% of respondents explicitly identified as Shia Muslims, in contrast to the monolithic depiction of Iran as a Shia nation.[143] While 90% of respondents described themselves as hailing from religious families, 47% reported losing some religious focus within their lifetime. Over 60% admitted to not performing the daily Muslim prayers, and 60% said that they did not observe the fast of Ramadan.[144]

In light of these conditions, one can gain a greater appreciation for the seeming urgency in which Iran has approached the question of sanctions relief in 2021. While a traditional realist analysis of sanctions does capture the economic pressure that sanctions engender, the inner workings of the Iranian regime might be obfuscated by the system-centric level of analysis. Yet, in the case of Iran, the desire for economic relief and international inclusion is strong at the grassroots, which adds additional pressure in favor of cutting a deal.

Section 5: Crafting a Nuclear Deal

As demonstrated thus far, the United States possesses ample leverage at this juncture to secure a beneficial deal with Iran. The negotiating strategy that was undertaken to achieve the JCPOA is a prime example of how a new deal should be achieved. Targeted, multilateral sanctions secured leverage over Iran, forcing Iranian leaders to come to the negotiating table. However, the JCPOA had numerous defects, with allowing uranium enrichment and permitting sunset provisions being the most notable. The United States, in negotiating a new deal with Iran, should not settle for the JCPOA. Instead, the United States comes to the negotiating table from a position of strength, with Iran having made the initial offer (resumption of the JCPOA). This section discusses how the United States should secure a better deal, using the analysis in the prior sections as the basis for a sanctions-driven carrot and stick strategy that secures leverage over Iran.

The first step is to ensure that the United States approaches the negotiations with leverage. For the most part, this step has already been attained. The Iranian economy is in shambles, protests are accelerating, and many of the activities undertaken by Iran in 2021 (such as the event surrounding the South Korean tanker) indicate that the regime knows it is in a state of emergency. U.S. policymakers need to approach negotiations with the awareness that Iran has made the first offer, and that Iran has less ability to wait the United States out than the converse—the United States is not in dire economic straits.

To ensure that leverage is held, existing United States sanctions need to be tightened to the greatest extent possible. Secondary sanctions have been a highly effective tool, ensuring that companies that deal with Iran are barred from much of the global financial system. This has resulted in foreign companies having to choose between business with the United States and business with Iran. While the existing sanctions are already quite onerous, further sanctions are possible. Over the past several years, a graduated approach to sanctions has been applied, with additional sanctions being slapped on oil, banking, and even individual officials in government.[145] The United States should continue these steps, formalizing them by subjecting sanctions to a defined schedule that gradually escalates them the longer that Iran continues to have a nuclear program that engages in uranium enrichment. This makes U.S. escalation predictable and knowable in advance. Demonstrating adherence to such an escalation ladder early on will convince Iran that attempting to wait out the United States is futile, increasing the incentive to cut a deal.

The second step is to approach U.S. allies about embarking on multilateral sanctions. This will admittedly be challenging, considering the degree to which the United States acted unilaterally in abrogating the JCPOA and resuming secondary sanctions without the blessings of the international community. However, the United States should approach transatlantic allies from the standpoint of wanting to build upon the JCPOA, using it as a framework for a stronger deal. As argued by Barbara Slavin, there may be appetite for the United States to work with European allies on reaching an interim agreement that addresses the nuclear issue with Iran.[146]

This will be a tough ask, and the United States will need to make the case to allies that a re-entry into the JCPOA is insufficient. As part of this, the United States will want to emphasize that the international security environment has changed notably since the JCPOA in 2015. Since then, Iran has carried out an increasingly destabilizing set of regional activities (particularly following the killing of Suleimani) and, most critically, is enriching uranium at an unacceptably high level. Officials from France, Germany, and the UK have acknowledged that enriching at 20% is the nuclear equivalent of crossing the Rubicon, arguing that this is “increasingly severe and non-reversible.”[147] This should be the major selling point for the United States. Enriching at 20% puts Iran dangerously close to weapons-grade enrichment. Allowing Iran to enrich at a lower level once the 20% threshold has been crossed (as a return to the JCPOA would permit) is unacceptable—the only recourse is to forbid enrichment altogether.

As a result, there may be appetite in Europe for a more stringent deal, even if public statements call for President Biden to return to the JCPOA. One unnamed European diplomat acknowledged that a return to the JCPOA is “probably not sufficient,” while EU foreign policy chief Josep Borrell expressed deep concern about recent Iranian uranium enrichment.[148]

Achieving multilateral sanctions is ideal—both the traditional realist and the constructivist social perspectives on sanctions are in agreement about that fact. For the realists, multilateral sanctions ensure a unified front that minimizes defections and ensures that the targeted country cannot easily wait out the sanctioning country. For the constructivists, multilateral sanctions contribute to the perception that the sanctions are a true form of social shunning, a powerful force for a country that desires inclusion within the international arena. As such, the ideal mechanism would utilize the “snapback” sanctions at the UN Security Council, ensuring a multilateral coalition was present to enforce sanctions against Iran. Coupled with existing U.S. sanctions, this would apply considerable pressure. However, the perfect should not be made the enemy of the good. If multilateral sanctions cannot be attained, continuing to ratchet up U.S. secondary sanctions is the next best option. The dire straits that Iran’s economy is in since the resumption of unilateral sanctions demonstrates that those are quite effective, operating as the next-best option.

The third step is for the United States to clearly communicate to Iran a timeline as to how sanctions will gradually intensify, using the aforementioned “escalation ladder” of sanctions. This makes punitive steps undertaken by the United States eminently knowable. However, the United States should not offer only sticks; there must be a clearly defined carrot. Instead of a vague, punitive sanction that loosely is related to behavior, the United States should make clear what its demands are and what conditions are sufficient to lift the sanctions. The United States should emphasize that sanctions are strictly geared towards preventing the development of Iran’s nuclear program.

Critically, Iran should be offered some small relief early on. This will help demonstrate that the United States is negotiating in good faith and provide an easily attainable way for Iran to de-escalate the current crisis. Iran should first be offered a small amount for ceasing to reverse uranium at or above 20%, with relief being offered gradually as Iran enriches at a lower and lower level. There should also be a connection between the commencement of negotiations with U.S. officials and sanctions relief, offering Iran some small sanctions relief for agreeing to negotiate.

This calibrated, clear approach to sanctions is supported by the evidence. Sweeping behavioral sanctions without a clear end in sight offer no incentive to comply because the target state lacks a clear guarantee that a change in behavior will result in relief.[149] In contrast, a targeted approach with clear, actionable goals allows Iran to secure some gain by de-escalating. The fourth step is to begin negotiating with Iran on a new nuclear deal. Iran has expressed an interest in returning to the JCPOA, which is a good starting point for negotiations. However, the JCPOA had numerous flaws, and should not be accepted. The United States should instead make clear at the outset that there are three redlines that must be observed for any deal to be acceptable. First, there must be an instant moratorium on uranium enrichment above the level of 20%. Such enrichment runs a dangerously high risk of allowing Iran to get close to weapons-grade enrichment. Second, any final deal must not permit Iran to enrich at any level, among the completion of the deal. This will be explained at length in the subsequent paragraphs, but enrichment offers Iran a permission that is unprecedented. It erodes the sanctity of the Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT) and risks empowering other states to act rashly in the hopes of eventually securing a guarantee of enrichment. Third, the final deal must be extended permanently, without the use of the JCPOA’s sunset provisions. Such provisions run a high risk of Iran waiting for the expiration of the deal to break out and develop weapons in a destabilizing matter.

As part of this, the United States should enter with the realization that negotiating a new, landmark agreement will take time. Additionally, Iran has emphasized that they expect sanctions relief before returning to compliance with the JCPOA, risking an impasse.[150] One idea in the interim is a short-term “less for less” deal, where the United States provides limited sanctions relief in exchange for Iran scaling back its enrichment.[151] While this cannot and should not replace a broader set of negotiations, it offers both sides a benefit, ensuring that Iran gets limited sanctions relief while the United States ensures that Iran’s breakout time is less threatening.[152]

The fifth and final step for the United States to take is to hedge, ensuring that there are contingency plans in case the deal breaks down. To do so, the United States must emphasize that it views enrichment of uranium at or above 20% as a grave security threat and will respond accordingly. A decade ago, Iran approaching the 20% level almost resulted in an Israeli strike against Iranian facilities, and the United States should emphasize that the security imperative present then is equally present now.[153] If Iran refuses to abide by this moratorium, the United States should gradually escalate militarily, with the final and most severe step including an offensive strike against Iranian nuclear facilities. If U.S. concerns are communicated clearly and credibly, Iran would likely abide by this moratorium and not risk a conflagration.

While these steps are necessary for maximizing leverage and attaining a deal, the question remains: what will the deal include? Building off of the framework of the JCPOA, the United States should insist on a new and improved version that substantially reduces the risk of proliferation in the medium- and long- term. According to Matthew Kroenig, the problem with the JCPOA is that it “only delays rather than stops Iran’s quest to develop nuclear weapons.”[154] The fundamental issue is that the JCPOA does not forbid uranium enrichment but allows it to continue at a low level. Kroenig argues this allows two paths to the bomb. The first is the “patient path,” due to the sunset clauses in the JCPOA.[155] After 15 years, Iran will be able to simply build a uranium enrichment program with no constraints. The second path is that Iran can reap the benefits of sanctions relief, grow its economy, and simply exit the agreement. While proponents of the deal claim that the United States can get tough with Iran after both of those scenarios, Kroenig argues that the United States will have lost its leverage at that point. Sanctions relief will have removed much of the economic pressure, while other countries will be reluctant to undo trade ties with Iran.[156]

The other core weakness of the JCPOA in addition to the sunset provisions is that it allows Iran the right to enrich. Beyond the risks that this creates for the sunset provisions, this is intrinsically dangerous. Kroenig notes that the United States has spent half a century working to prevent other countries from enriching. This was a de facto redline for U.S. non-proliferation policy.[157] In contrast, the JCPOA is an “international stamp of approval…setting a dangerous precedent.”[158]

However, these defects can be remedied by a “return to the pressure track” in the pursuit of a new, better deal.[159] Past experience has demonstrated that pressure and sanctions can, for many of the aforementioned reasons, achieve tangible results. Iran suspended uranium enrichment in 2003 among fears that the invasion of Iraq portended a threat to Iranian sovereignty; Iran also did accept a return to the negotiating table following onerous sanctions during the Obama administration.[160] Sanctions and pressure have not been the issue. Rather, “Washington erred…in letting up too early.”[161]

However, a successful deal also can offer Iran numerous benefits. The most obvious is sanctions relief, which can allow a return to economic success, similar to what happened following the JCPOA. However, it is possible for Iran to achieve the benefits of nuclear energy without uranium enrichment. Since the advent of the nuclear age, the United States has been stalwart in its commitment to helping other nations attain the benefits of nuclear energy, living up to Article IV of the NPT’s commitment to the “inalienable right…to develop research production and use of nuclear energy.”[162] The list of countries with “peaceful nuclear programs” (programs incapable of acquiring weapons-grade uranium or plutonium) is extensive. Countries such as Mexico, South Korea, the United Arab Emirates, and more have vibrant nuclear energy programs without enriching uranium or reprocessing plutonium.[163] Instead, the United States allows these countries to operate light-water reactors while supplying these countries with nuclear fuel for reactors. The danger is for states to operate heavy-water reactors and produce their own nuclear fuel, which creates the proliferation risk: a state that can produce nuclear fuel for nuclear reactors can also make fuel for nuclear weapons.[164]

While such a deal may seem unlikely, it is vital to remember that the United States holds the leverage, and not Iran. Additionally, even unlikely deals can materialize. As noted by Kroenig, few would have predicted the suspension of enrichment in Libya in 2003, but it materialized suddenly, to the surprise of many.[165] Through sound negotiating tactics, an end to Iranian enrichment is possible.

However, tactful negotiations will be essential, recalling the constructivist insights that were discussed in Section 3. Iran approaches negotiations with the West not from the vantage point of a security-seeking actor but, like all countries, with interests that are deeply informed by its culture and history. Being mindful of this will be vital for effective negotiations. The United States should make sure that negotiations are reciprocal, with tit-for-tat responses that aim to create a feedback loop of positive engagement. Beyond the empirical and theoretical evidence discussed in Section 3, modern social science evidence vindicates such an approach. An analysis by Nicholas Wright and Karim Sadjadpour titled “The Neuroscience Guide to Negotiations with Iran” sought to explain Iran’s stances psychologically.[166] Wright and Sadjadpour quote the Iranian Foreign Minister Javad Zarif, lamenting that Iran is “being told that you cannot do what everyone else is doing” in being forbidden from having a nuclear program.[167] Recent psychological evidence has confirmed that perceived unfairness is among the most deeply ingrained and pervasive emotions that we feel, impeding our innate desires for accommodation. In fact, “[m]ore than three decades of lab experiments show that humans are prepared to reject unfairness even at substantial cost. This is based on our biology.”[168]

Wright and Sadjadpour use the example of the “ultimatum game” where an individual is given $10 and proposes a split with a second player (e.g., $9 for herself and $1 for the second person).[169] Despite the second player being given an offer for free money, studies find that the second player rejects offers involving less than 25% of the money around half the time.[170] To illustrate how innate this impulse is, Wright and Sadjadpour also give the example of a famous study involving non-human primates—when two monkeys are instructed to carry out a task and only one is rewarded, the other monkey throws a fit.[171]

Iran is no exception, and many of their behaviors can be viewed through this prism. For example, in 1951 Iranian Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh moved to nationalize the British-run Iranian Oil company, incurring tremendous economic costs and a British embargo for little economic upside.[172] An irrational economic decision, Iran likely undertook it to resist an inequitable profit-sharing arrangement. Similarly, Iran has taken on billions of dollars in economic losses under a sanctions regime in recent years for a nuclear energy program that could provide only a fraction of Iran’s energy needs, “debilitat[ing] its chief sources of income—oil and gas revenue—in order to pursue a project with little comparable payoff.”[173]As former Iran nuclear negotiator Hossein Mousavian noted, “the nuclear issue today for Iranians is not nuclear—it’s defending their integrity, independent identity against the pressure of the rest.”[174]

Moreover, unfairness is in the eye of the beholder, with parties frequently disagreeing on what constitutes an injustice. As Wright and Sadjadpour outline, both the United States and Iran view themselves as the wronged party[175]. To the United States, Iran is a sponsor of terror that has resulted in egregious wrongs toward U.S. forces in the Middle East. To Iran, the United States is a powerful hegemon that aims to crush the God-given duty of spreading Islam throughout the world, with Iran being the David to the West’s Goliath that persists in the face of military and economic pressure. In many ways, this represents a Hegelian tragedy: each side positions itself as the hero while simultaneously assuming the role of a villain from a different perspective.

As dire as the social science research may seem, there remains a way out. The best response when “both sides…feel they have a monopoly of fairness” is aiming to start a feedback effect of engagement and accommodation.[176] This is consistent with the conclusions in Section 3 about engagement with Iran and should form the basis for a U.S. negotiating strategy, using the principles of reciprocity, accommodation, and tit-for-tat positive responses. While studies have found that humans innately resent unfairness, other studies have found that this is not mutually exclusive with an innate desire for cooperation and accommodation. Wright and Sadjadpour note this in the context of a “trust game” where the first player is given money (e.g., $20) and can invest any portion of it (e.g., $10) with the second player.[177] The investment immediately triples, and the second player can decide how much of the money to repay. Scientists found a remarkable result—when cooperation breaks down with investments declining, individuals would “build cooperation by making unilateral conciliatory gestures in the form of high repayments – despite the risk that these generous overtures will simply be pocketed and not reciprocated.”[178]

This may have an analogue in the case of U.S.-Iran relations. Some analysts perceived the election of moderate Iranian President Hassan Rouhani as the Iranian gesture of accommodation, following the hostility of President Mahmoud Ahmadeinjad.[179] Unilateral gestures of accommodation are salient and can trigger a positive feedback effect that creates further forms of engagement. When undertaken at an unexpected time, these can be powerful images of conciliation. There exist many examples of this strategy. In 1977, Egyptian leader Anwar Sadat made a surprise address to the Israeli Knesset, a dramatic peace overture to great effect.[180] In 2009, President Obama released a surprise video message to the people of Iran and wrote multiple private letters to Ayatollah Khamenei, which “impressed upon the Iranian public that America was interested in turning the page.”[181] Years later, this was followed by an unexpected phone call between Presidents Rouhani and Obama, resulting in the overture being reciprocated with engagement.

This lends itself well to the negotiating approach sketched in this section. President Trump, by withdrawing from the JCPOA, has set the United States on the pressure track with regards to U.S.-Iran policy. President Biden should not let his foot off the gas, maintaining the pressure. However, President Biden does have the opportunity to make overtures to Iran while simultaneously applying pressure. This juxtaposition of pressure with engagement will make any overture unexpected and, if the neuroscientific is correct, all the more effective. Coupled with careful, calibrated sanctions that offer Iran a clear path to relief, Iran will find a deal all the more effective. Additionally, as Wright and Sadjadpour stress, mutual understanding and empathy is vital to overcoming the distrust created by perceived unfairness.[182] The United States has an opportunity to express in negotiations understanding and empathy for some of the objectives that Iran has, emphasizing that it understands the inalienable right that Iran has to nuclear energy and its desire to meet Iran in the middle on a peaceful nuclear program. Negotiators should also skillfully frame any negotiations as a recognition of the regional and global significance that Iran now has. As mentioned in Section 3, prestige and a desire for international influence is a powerful driver for Iranian behavior and may supersede pure security maximization. Approaching negotiations with that in mind can ensure a positive spin on negotiations, making Iran more prone to engagement. 

Conclusion

Contemporary debates over sanctions, including toward Iran, suffer from a critical flaw—they falsely presume that a tool of economic warfare can solely have economic significance. This has led to a paradox. Despite convincing evidence that sanctions are not effective, sanctions have been inexplicably effective at achieving U.S. objectives with Iran, under particular conditions. This paper aims to situate the sanctions debate within a new context, arguing that sanctions should be seen through a constructivist lens that considers their signification for the target country. From such a perspective, sanctions serve a useful isolating function, creating costs for Iran that fall outside of the typical realist frame. Coupled with recent social science on negotiating, this creates the basis for an effective strategy towards Iran: a dual-track approach of pressure and engagement, using sanctions to secure a superior alternative to the JCPOA that relegates Iran’s proliferation ambitions to the dustbin of the 20^th century.

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References

[1] The White House, “The Historic Deal that Will Prevent Iran from Acquiring a Nuclear Weapon,” The White House, https://obamawhitehouse.archives.gov/issues/foreign-policy/iran-deal

[2] Ibid

[3] Agence France-Presse, “Key Trump Quotes On US Withdrawal From Iran Nuclear Deal,” NDTV, May 9, 2018, https://www.ndtv.com/world-news/key-trump-quotes-on-us-withdrawal-from-iran-nuclear-deal-1849334

[4] Ibid

[5] Ibid

[6] Crowley, Michael, Falih Hassan, and Eric Schmitt, “U.S. Strike in Iraq Kills Qassim Suleimani, Commander of Iranian Forces,” The New York Times, January 2, 2020, https://www.nytimes.com/2020/01/02/world/middleeast/qassem-soleimani-iraq-iran-attack.html

[7] Ibid

[8] Ibid

[9] Wright, Nicholas, and Karim Sadjadpour, “What Neuroscience Can Teach Us About Making a Deal With Iran,” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, January 14, 2014, https://carnegieendowment.org/2014/01/14/what-neuroscience-can-teach-us-about-making-deal-with-iran-pub-54191

[10] Ibid

[11] Ibid

[12] NPR, “Obama Makes Overtures To Iran In Video Message,” NPR, March 20, 2009, https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=102156925

[13] NPR, “Obama Makes Overtures To Iran In Video Message,” NPR, March 20, 2009, https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=102156925

[14] The White House, “The Historic Deal that Will Prevent Iran from Acquiring a Nuclear Weapon,” The White House, https://obamawhitehouse.archives.gov/issues/foreign-policy/iran-deal

[15] Haltiwanger, John “Here’s what’s in the 2015 nuclear deal with Iran that Trump abandoned and Biden pledged to restore,” Business Insider, December 2, 2020, https://www.businessinsider.com/iran-nuclear-deal-explained

[16] Gambrell, Jon, and Isabel Debre, “Iran starts 20% uranium enrichment, seizes South Korean ship,” Associated Press News, January 4, 2021, https://apnews.com/article/iran-uranium-enrichment-20-percent-ab0930064c446114506b8d085941cf84

[17] Haltiwanger, John “Here’s what’s in the 2015 nuclear deal with Iran that Trump abandoned and Biden pledged to restore,” Business Insider, December 2, 2020, https://www.businessinsider.com/iran-nuclear-deal-explained

[18] The White House, “The Historic Deal that Will Prevent Iran from Acquiring a Nuclear Weapon,” The White House, https://obamawhitehouse.archives.gov/issues/foreign-policy/iran-deal

[19] Haltiwanger, John “Here’s what’s in the 2015 nuclear deal with Iran that Trump abandoned and Biden pledged to restore,” Business Insider, December 2, 2020, https://www.businessinsider.com/iran-nuclear-deal-explained

[20] The White House, “The Historic Deal that Will Prevent Iran from Acquiring a Nuclear Weapon,” The White House, https://obamawhitehouse.archives.gov/issues/foreign-policy/iran-deal

[21] Robinson, Kali “What Is the Iran Nuclear Deal,” Council on Foreign Relations, January 4, 2021, https://www.cfr.org/backgrounder/what-iran-nuclear-deal

[22] Kroenig, Matthew “How to Unwind the Iran Nuclear Deal,” The American Interest, February 11, 2016, https://www.the-american-interest.com/2016/02/11/how-to-unwind-the-iran-nuclear-deal/

[23] Haltiwanger, John “Here’s what’s in the 2015 nuclear deal with Iran that Trump abandoned and Biden pledged to restore,” Business Insider, December 2, 2020, https://www.businessinsider.com/iran-nuclear-deal-explained

[24] BBC News, “Trump on the Iran deal: ‘Worst, horrible, laughable,’ BBC News, April 26, 2018, https://www.bbc.com/news/av/world-us-canada-41587428

[25] Haltiwanger, John “Here’s what’s in the 2015 nuclear deal with Iran that Trump abandoned and Biden pledged to restore,” Business Insider, December 2, 2020, https://www.businessinsider.com/iran-nuclear-deal-explained

[26] Ibid

[27] Santora, Marc “Iran Increases Uranium Enrichment at Key Nuclear Facility,” The New York Ties, January 4, 2021, https://www.nytimes.com/2021/01/04/world/middleeast/iran-nuclear-uranium-enrichment.html

[28] BBC News, “Six charts that show how hard US sanctions have hit Iran,” BBC News, December 9, 2019, https://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-48119109

[29] Ibid

[30] Ibid

[31] Jones, Seth G., and Danika Newlee, “Iran’s Protests and the Threat to Domestic Stability,” CSIS, November 2019, 1-2, https://www.csis.org/analysis/irans-protests-and-threat-domestic-stability

[32] Ibid

[33] Ibid

[34] Slavin, Barbara “FAST THINKING: What’s Iran thinking?” Atlantic Council, January 4, 2021, https://www.atlanticcouncil.org/content-series/fastthinking/fast-thinking-whats-iran-thinking-uranium-enrichment-south-korea-tanker/

[35] De Luce, Dan “Iran tries to increase its leverage in future negotiations with President-elect Biden,” NBC News, January 5, 2021, https://www.nbcnews.com/news/world/iran-tries-increase-its-leverage-future-negotiations-president-elect-biden-n1252833

[36] Slavin, Barbara “FAST THINKING: What’s Iran thinking?” Atlantic Council, January 4, 2021, https://www.atlanticcouncil.org/content-series/fastthinking/fast-thinking-whats-iran-thinking-uranium-enrichment-south-korea-tanker/

[37] Ibid

[38] Kumar Sen, Ashish “A Brief History of Sanctions on Iran,” New Atlanticist, May 8, 2018, https://www.atlanticcouncil.org/blogs/new-atlanticist/a-brief-history-of-sanctions-on-iran/

[39] Ibid

[40] Ibid

[41] Ibid

[42] Ibid

[43] Kumar Sen, Ashish“A Brief History of Sanctions on Iran,” New Atlanticist, May 8, 2018, https://www.atlanticcouncil.org/blogs/new-atlanticist/a-brief-history-of-sanctions-on-iran/

[44] Brzoska, Michael“The Power and Consequences of International Sanctions,” May 19, 2014, https://www.e-ir.info/2014/05/19/the-power-and-consequences-of-international-sanctions/

[45] Ibid

[46] Clyde Hufbauer, Gary, Jeffrey J. Schott, Kimberly Ann Elliott, Barbara Oegg, “Economic Sanctions Reconsidered,” Peter G. Peterson Institute for International Economics, 3^rd edition,(2007), 155-160

[47] Pape, Robert A., “Why Economic Sanctions Do Not Work,” International Security, Vol. 22, No. 2, (Fall 1997), 90-93, https://doi.org/10.2307/2539368

[48] Ibid

[49] Pape, Robert A., “Why Economic Sanctions Still Do Not Work,” International Security, Vol. 23, No. 1, (Summer 1998), 66-69, https://doi.org/10.2307/2539263

[50] Elliott, Kimberly Ann “The Sanctions Glass: Half Full or Completely Empty,” International Security, Vol. 23, No. 1 (Summer 1998), 50-52, https://doi.org/10.2307/2539262

[51] Ibid

[52] Brzoska, Michael “The Power and Consequences of International Sanctions,” May 19, 2014, https://www.e-ir.info/2014/05/19/the-power-and-consequences-of-international-sanctions/

[53] Kahler, Miles “Rationality in International Relations,” International Organization, Vol. 52, No. 4, (Autumn 1998), 919-920, https://www.jstor.org/stable/2601362

[54] Joseph, Jonathan “Realism and Neorealism in International Relations Theory,” The Encyclopedia of Political Thought, (September 2014), https://doi.org/10.1002/9781118474396.wbept0864

[55] Yoon, Yesun “Assessment of the Effectiveness of Economic Sanctions: The Case of Iran, North Korea, Myanmar, and Cuba,” Naval Postgraduate School, June 2017, 16-22, https://apps.dtic.mil/dtic/tr/fulltext/u2/1046592.pdf

[56] Ibid

[57] Yoon, Yessun “Assessment of the Effectiveness of Economic Sanctions: The Case of Iran, North Korea, Myanmar, and Cuba,” Naval Postgraduate School, June 2017, 16-22, https://apps.dtic.mil/dtic/tr/fulltext/u2/1046592.pdf

[58] Loyola, Mario “Obama Should Never Have Appeased Iran,” The Atlantic, January 12, 2020, https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2020/01/obama-should-never-have-appeased-iran/604744/

[59] Jung, Euijin “Iran Sanctions: A Successful Episode,” Peterson Institute for International Economics, January 29, 2016, https://www.piie.com/blogs/trade-investment-policy-watch/iran-sanctions-successful-episode

[60] Ibid

[61] Ibid

[62] O’Toole, Brian “Sanctions are effective – if used correctly,” New Atlanticist, November 4, 2019, https://www.atlanticcouncil.org/blogs/new-atlanticist/sanctions-are-effective-if-used-correctly/

[63] Ibid

[64] O’Toole, Brian “Sanctions are effective – if used correctly,” New Atlanticist, November 4, 2019, https://www.atlanticcouncil.org/blogs/new-atlanticist/sanctions-are-effective-if-used-correctly/

[65] Mortlock, David, and Brian O’Toole, “US Sanctions: Using a Coercive Economic and Financial Tool Effectively,” Economic Sanctions Initiative, (November 2018), 6, https://www.atlanticcouncil.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/US-Sanctions-Using-a-Coercive-Economic-and-Financial-Tool-Effectively1.pdf

[66] Ibid

[67] Dizaji, Sajjad F.“Do Sanctions Constrain Military Spending of Iran?” Defense and Peace Economics, (2019), 1-5, https://doi.org/10.1080/10242694.2019.1622059

[68] Macaluso, Agnese “The Apparent Success of Iran Sanctions,” The Hague Institute for Global Justice, Working Paper 2, (August 2014), 1-3, https://www.thehagueinstituteforglobaljustice.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Working-Paper-2-Iran-Sanctions_1409326879.pdf

[69] Macaluso, Agnese “The Apparent Success of Iran Sanctions,” The Hague Institute for Global Justice, Working Paper 2, (August 2014), 19, https://www.thehagueinstituteforglobaljustice.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Working-Paper-2-Iran-Sanctions_1409326879.pdf

[70] Brzoska, Michael “The Power and Consequences of International Sanctions,” May 19, 2014, https://www.e-ir.info/2014/05/19/the-power-and-consequences-of-international-sanctions/

[71] Brzoska, Michael “The Power and Consequences of International Sanctions,” May 19, 2014, https://www.e-ir.info/2014/05/19/the-power-and-consequences-of-international-sanctions/

[72] Ibid

[73] Ibid

[74] Ibid

[75] Walt, Stephen M.  “The Difference Between Realists and Liberals,” Foreign Policy, July 11, 2013, https://foreignpolicy.com/2013/07/11/the-difference-between-realists-and-liberals/

[76] Theys, Sarina “Introducing Constructivism in International Relations Theory,” February 23, 2018,

Introducing Constructivism in International Relations Theory

[77] Ibid

[78] Ibid

[79] Ibid

[80] This is the title of Alexander Wendt’s famous article on constructivism, published in 1992 by International Organization

[81] Theys, Sarina “Introducing Constructivism in International Relations Theory,” February 23, 2018, https://www.e-ir.info/2018/02/23/introducing-constructivism-in-international-relations-theory/

[82] Morris, Kate, and Timothy J. White, “Neutrality and the European Union: The case of Switzerland,” Journal of Law and Conflict Resolution, Vol. 3 (7), 104-111.

[83] Theys, Sarina “Introducing Constructivism in International Relations Theory,” February 23, 2018, https://www.e-ir.info/2018/02/23/introducing-constructivism-in-international-relations-theory/

[84] Ibid

[85] Tannewald, Nina “The Nuclear Taboo: The United States and the Normative Basis of Nuclear Non-Use,” International Organization, Vol. 53, No. 3 (Summer 1999), 433-468, https://www.jstor.org/stable/2601286

[86] Brzoska, Michael “The Power and Consequences of International Sanctions,” May 19, 2014, https://www.e-ir.info/2014/05/19/the-power-and-consequences-of-international-sanctions/

[87] Brzoska, Michael “The Power and Consequences of International Sanctions,” May 19, 2014, https://www.e-ir.info/2014/05/19/the-power-and-consequences-of-international-sanctions/

[88] Ibid

[89] Nia, Mahdi Mohammad “Title: A Holistic Constructivist Approach to Iran’s Foreign Policy,” International Journal of Business and Social Science, Vol. 2, No. 4, (March 2011), 279-280, http://ijbssnet.com/journals/Vol._2_No._4;_March_2011/31.pdf

[90] Nia, Mahdi Mohammad “Title: A Holistic Constructivist Approach to Iran’s Foreign Policy,” International Journal of Business and Social Science, Vol. 2, No. 4, (March 2011), 279-280, http://ijbssnet.com/journals/Vol._2_No._4;_March_2011/31.pdf

[91] Nia, Mahdi Mohammad “Title: A Holistic Constructivist Approach to Iran’s Foreign Policy,” International Journal of Business and Social Science, Vol. 2, No. 4, (March 2011), 283, http://ijbssnet.com/journals/Vol._2_No._4;_March_2011/31.pdf

[92] Ibid

[93] Ibid

[94] Nia, Mahdi Mohammad “Title: A Holistic Constructivist Approach to Iran’s Foreign Policy,” International Journal of Business and Social Science, Vol. 2, No. 4, (March 2011), 283 http://ijbssnet.com/journals/Vol._2_No._4;_March_2011/31.pdf

[95] Nia, Mahdi Mohammad “Title: A Holistic Constructivist Approach to Iran’s Foreign Policy,” International Journal of Business and Social Science, Vol. 2, No. 4, (March 2011), 283-284, http://ijbssnet.com/journals/Vol._2_No._4;_March_2011/31.pdf

[96] Ibid

[97] Ibid

[98] Ibid

[99] Nia, Mahdi Mohammad “Title: A Holistic Constructivist Approach to Iran’s Foreign Policy,” International Journal of Business and Social Science, Vol. 2, No. 4, (March 2011), 285, http://ijbssnet.com/journals/Vol._2_No._4;_March_2011/31.pdf

[100] Ibid

[101] Nia, Mahdi Mohammad “Title: A Holistic Constructivist Approach to Iran’s Foreign Policy,” International Journal of Business and Social Science, Vol. 2, No. 4, (March 2011), 285-287 http://ijbssnet.com/journals/Vol._2_No._4;_March_2011/31.pdf

[102] Nia, Mahdi Mohammad “Title: A Holistic Constructivist Approach to Iran’s Foreign Policy,” International Journal of Business and Social Science, Vol. 2, No. 4, (March 2011), 285-287, http://ijbssnet.com/journals/Vol._2_No._4;_March_2011/31.pdf

[103] Nia, Mahdi Mohammad “Title: A Holistic Constructivist Approach to Iran’s Foreign Policy,” International Journal of Business and Social Science, Vol. 2, No. 4, (March 2011), 287, http://ijbssnet.com/journals/Vol._2_No._4;_March_2011/31.pdf

[104] Nia, Mahdi Mohammad “Title: A Holistic Constructivist Approach to Iran’s Foreign Policy,” International Journal of Business and Social Science, Vol. 2, No. 4, (March 2011), 287-288, http://ijbssnet.com/journals/Vol._2_No._4;_March_2011/31.pdf

[105] Nia, Mahdi Mohammad “Title: A Holistic Constructivist Approach to Iran’s Foreign Policy,” International Journal of Business and Social Science, Vol. 2, No. 4, (March 2011), 288, http://ijbssnet.com/journals/Vol._2_No._4;_March_2011/31.pdf

[106] Ibid

[107] Ibid

[108] Ibid

[109] Nia, Mahdi Mohammad “Title: A Holistic Constructivist Approach to Iran’s Foreign Policy,” International Journal of Business and Social Science, Vol. 2, No. 4, (March 2011), 289, http://ijbssnet.com/journals/Vol._2_No._4;_March_2011/31.pdf

[110] Ibid

[111] Nia, Mahdi Mohammad “Title: A Holistic Constructivist Approach to Iran’s Foreign Policy,” International Journal of Business and Social Science, Vol. 2, No. 4, (March 2011), 290, http://ijbssnet.com/journals/Vol._2_No._4;_March_2011/31.pdf

[112] Ibid

[113] Nia, Mahdi Mohammad “Title: A Holistic Constructivist Approach to Iran’s Foreign Policy,” International Journal of Business and Social Science, Vol. 2, No. 4, (March 2011), 290, http://ijbssnet.com/journals/Vol._2_No._4;_March_2011/31.pdf

[114] Ibid

[115] Dizaji, Sajjad F.  “Do Sanctions Constrain Military Spending of Iran?” Defense and Peace Economics, (2019), 1-5, https://doi.org/10.1080/10242694.2019.1622059

[116] Kroenig, Matthew “How to Unwind the Iran Nuclear Deal,” The American Interest, February 11, 2016, https://www.the-american-interest.com/2016/02/11/how-to-unwind-the-iran-nuclear-deal/

[117] Shanda Consult, “Iran: 12.5% Economy Growth of Iran from 04/2016-03/2017,” Mondaq, August 7, 2017, https://www.mondaq.com/economic-analysis/616720/125-economy-growth-of-iran-from-042016–032017

[118] Yoon, Yesun “Assessment of the Effectiveness of Economic Sanctions: The Case of Iran, North Korea, Myanmar, and Cuba,” Naval Postgraduate School, June 2017, 7, https://apps.dtic.mil/dtic/tr/fulltext/u2/1046592.pdf

[119] Ibid

[120] Yoon, Yesun “Assessment of the Effectiveness of Economic Sanctions: The Case of Iran, North Korea, Myanmar, and Cuba,” Naval Postgraduate School, June 2017, 26-28, https://apps.dtic.mil/dtic/tr/fulltext/u2/1046592.pdf

[121] Fathollah-Nejad, Ali “Four decades later, did the Iranian revolution fulfill its promises?” Brookings Institute, July 11, 2019, https://www.brookings.edu/blog/order-from-chaos/2019/07/11/four-decades-later-did-the-iranian-revolution-fulfill-its-promises/

[122] Ibid

[123] Fathollah-Nejad, Ali “Four decades later, did the Iranian revolution fulfill its promises?” Brookings Institute, July 11, 2019, https://www.brookings.edu/blog/order-from-chaos/2019/07/11/four-decades-later-did-the-iranian-revolution-fulfill-its-promises/

[124] Ibid

[125] Ibid

[126] Jones, Seth G., and Danika Newlee, “Iran’s Protests and the Threat to Domestic Stability,” CSIS, November 2019, 2, https://www.csis.org/analysis/irans-protests-and-threat-domestic-stability

[127] Ibid

[128] Ibid

[129] Ibid

[130] Ibid

[131] Ibid

[132] Ibid

[133] Ibid

[134] Ibid

[135] Turak, Natasha“Iran is closer ‘than ever before’ to regime collapse, says former Obama security advisor,” CNBC, January 13, 2020, https://www.cnbc.com/2020/01/13/iran-is-closer-than-ever-before-to-regime-collapse-says-former-obama-security-adviser.html

[136] Ibid

[137] Jones, Seth G., and Danika Newlee, “Iran’s Protests and the Threat to Domestic Stability,” CSIS, November 2019, 1, https://www.csis.org/analysis/irans-protests-and-threat-domestic-stability

[138] Ibid

[139] Ibid

[140] Fathollah-Nejad, Ali, “Four decades later, did the Iranian revolution fulfill its promises?” Brookings Institute, July 11, 2019, https://www.brookings.edu/blog/order-from-chaos/2019/07/11/four-decades-later-did-the-iranian-revolution-fulfill-its-promises/

[141] Fathollah-Nejad, Ali, “Four decades later, did the Iranian revolution fulfill its promises?” Brookings Institute, July 11, 2019, https://www.brookings.edu/blog/order-from-chaos/2019/07/11/four-decades-later-did-the-iranian-revolution-fulfill-its-promises/

[142] Ibid

[143] Arab, Pooyan Tamimi, and Ammar Maleki, “Iran’s secular shift: new survey reveals huge changes in religious beliefs,” The Conversation, September 10, 2020, https://theconversation.com/irans-secular-shift-new-survey-reveals-huge-changes-in-religious-beliefs-145253

[144] Ibid

[145] Verma, Pranshu, and Farnaz Fassihi, “U.S. Imposes Sanctions on Iran’s Oil Sector,” The New York Times, October 26, 2020, https://www.nytimes.com/2020/10/26/world/middleeast/trump-sanctions-iran-oil.html?auth=login-email&login=email

[146] Geranmayeh, Ellie, Barbara Slavin, Sahil Shah, “Renewing Transatlantic Strategy on Iran,” Atlantic Council, (November 2020), 3, https://www.atlanticcouncil.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/11/Transatlantic-Strategy-Iran-IB.pdf

[147] BBC News, “Iran nuclear deal: Why do the limits on uranium enrichment matter?” BBC News, January 14, 2020, https://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-48776695

[148] Washington Post, “Europe sees a narrow window for Biden to revive Iran nuclear deal,” Washington Post, January 17, 2021, https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/europe/iran-nuclear-europe-biden/2021/01/16/b0e45352-54f1-11eb-acc5-92d2819a1ccb_story.html

[149] O’Toole, Brian, “Sanctions are effective – if used correctly,” New Atlanticist, November 4, 2019, https://www.atlanticcouncil.org/blogs/new-atlanticist/sanctions-are-effective-if-used-correctly/

[150] Washington Post, “Opinion: Biden doesn’t need to rush back into the Iran nuclear deal,” Washington Post, January 19, 2021, https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2021/01/19/biden-doesnt-need-rush-back-into-iran-nuclear-deal-defuse-tensions/

[151] Ibid

[152] Ibid

[153] Gambrell, Jon “Iran plans 20% uranium enrichment ‘as soon as possible,’” Associated Press News, January 1, 2021, https://apnews.com/article/donald-trump-dubai-iran-iran-nuclear-united-arab-emirates-384717b592f8a7012b02d8627f36763a

[154] Kroenig, Matthew “The Return to the Pressure Track: The Trump Administration and the Iran Nuclear Deal,” Diplomacy & Statecraft, Volume 29, Issue 1, (January 2018), 2, https://doi.org/10.1080/09592296.2017.1420529

[155] Ibid

[156] Ibid

[157] Kroenig, Matthew “The Return to the Pressure Track: The Trump Administration and the Iran Nuclear Deal,” Diplomacy & Statecraft, Volume 29, Issue 1, (January 2018), 3, https://doi.org/10.1080/09592296.2017.1420529

[158] Ibid

[159] Kroenig, Matthew “The Return to the Pressure Track: The Trump Administration and the Iran Nuclear Deal,” Diplomacy & Statecraft, Volume 29, Issue 1, (January 2018), 3-5, https://doi.org/10.1080/09592296.2017.1420529

[160] Kroenig, Matthew “The Return to the Pressure Track: The Trump Administration and the Iran Nuclear Deal,” Diplomacy & Statecraft, Volume 29, Issue 1, (January 2018), 6-8, https://doi.org/10.1080/09592296.2017.1420529

[161] Kroenig, Matthew “The Return to the Pressure Track: The Trump Administration and the Iran Nuclear Deal,” Diplomacy & Statecraft, Volume 29, Issue 1, (January 2018), 5, https://doi.org/10.1080/09592296.2017.1420529

[162] Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons (NPT), United Nations Office for Disarmament Affairs, https://www.un.org/disarmament/wmd/nuclear/npt/text

[163] Kroenig, Matthew “How to Unwind the Iran Nuclear Deal,” The American Interest, February 11, 2016, https://www.the-american-interest.com/2016/02/11/how-to-unwind-the-iran-nuclear-deal/

[164] Ibid

[165] Ibid

[166] Wright, Nicholas, and Karim Sadjadpour, “What Neuroscience Can Teach Us About Making a Deal With Iran,” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, January 14, 2014, https://carnegieendowment.org/2014/01/14/what-neuroscience-can-teach-us-about-making-deal-with-iran-pub-54191

[167] Wright, Nicholas, and Karim Sadjadpour, “What Neuroscience Can Teach Us About Making a Deal With Iran,” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, January 14, 2014, https://carnegieendowment.org/2014/01/14/what-neuroscience-can-teach-us-about-making-deal-with-iran-pub-54191

[168] Ibid

[169] Ibid

[170] Ibid

[171] Ibid

[172] Ibid

[173] Ibid

[174] Ibid

[175] Wright, Nicholas, and Karim Sadjadpour, “What Neuroscience Can Teach Us About Making a Deal With Iran,” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, January 14, 2014, https://carnegieendowment.org/2014/01/14/what-neuroscience-can-teach-us-about-making-deal-with-iran-pub-54191

[176] Ibid

[177] Ibid

[178] Ibid

[179] Ibid

[180] Wright, Nicholas, and Karim Sadjadpour, “What Neuroscience Can Teach Us About Making a Deal With Iran,” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, January 14, 2014, https://carnegieendowment.org/2014/01/14/what-neuroscience-can-teach-us-about-making-deal-with-iran-pub-54191

[181] Ibid

[182] Ibid

This piece was published in the Spring Issue Print Edition (Volume 11)

“The real inversion takes place when, in their desire for a certain majesty, the masses join in the madness and clothe themselves in cheap imitations of power so as to reproduce its epistemology; and when, too, power, in its own violent quest for grandeur, makes vulgarity and wrongdoing its main mode of existence.”

— Achille Mbembe, “The Aesthetics of Vulgarity” from On the Postcolony (2001)^[1]

Introduction

The crowd smelled him before they saw him. He reeked of the river, fetid and dank, as his flesh peeled from his bones.^[2] Bobbing in the water, he gently resisted the tide. His pale knees poked from the water’s surface. Every so often, as the river sloshed, more details of his body were revealed: arms and legs bound by rope, head wrapped in packing tape, torso coiled with chains.^[3] The crowd swarmed above, like the flies on his feet. Children jostled as they peered from the bridge. Then the coast guard arrived, the crowd overlooking, as they dragged his corpse onto a rescue raft. He had floated in the river for 36 hours. The body’s name was Ferdinand Jhon Santos, age 44.^[4] But as the crowd scattered and carried on with their day, one questions if his identity really mattered. Did anyone mourn for him, beyond his family and friends? Did anyone wonder who threw him into the river? Or were the events of this humid afternoon like so many others in Manila’s slums? Ferdinand Santos was just one of thousands of corpses discovered under bridges, in alleyways, on sidewalks, in tricycles, and in their own homes that collectively testify to the real impact of Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte’s drug war. As of June 2020, human rights groups have reported more than 27,000 anti-drug campaign deaths, an estimate at odds with government figures of around 8,000.^[5] And even in the throes of a global pandemic, the offensive has only intensified. 

How does one come to terms with this mass slaughter of human beings? How has it been maintained for so long? What accounts for the crowd’s indifference to the corpse? Most of the scholarly explanations for Duterte’s surprise election in 2016 have focused on a range of political and economic considerations. They cite the traction achieved by Duterte’s law and order rhetoric, his calls for a federal form of government, and his proposed infrastructure revitalization plans as reasons for the strong support he received. However, while important, these factors alone furnish neither a complete nor a nuanced analysis of the Philippines’ rapid transformation from a liberal democracy to an authoritarian regime — indeed, they fail to illuminate Duterte’s powerful influence on the body politic. Something else is needed.

Explanations that draw on the psychology of Philippine voters would seem appropriate. But aside from brief comments on Duterte’s populist pull, little work has specifically examined why so many Filipinos have apparently acceded to the fatal violence of Duterte’s drug war. When scholars do consider psychological factors, they tend to focus on the state’s production of terror, with scant discussion of public attitudes and acts. 

This paper attempts to fill this gap by examining the psychology of accepting repression, that is, largely apart from the exercise of formal state power. In short, it seeks to explain how and why ordinary Filipinos have mobilized themselves to prop up and secure Duterte’s deadly regime. I will argue that a distinct, perennial, and human logic rationalizes these actions, and undergirds the celebration of what is, in effect, mass murder. To lay out this argument, I draw on both political theory and survey data. I first contextualize Duterte’s rise to power by briefly discussing the political and economic failures of post-Marcos democracy, which were exemplified by the outgoing President Benigno Aquino III. I then explore Duterte’s affective appeal through his use of populist pathologies and his demonstrations of vulgarity. In this second section, I foreground what I call “civic authoritarianism,” or the willful involvement of citizens in the state’s demonization and repression of targeted groups. Finally, I examine the most dramatic manifestation of “civic authoritarianism” produced by the regime — the public’s passive enabling of and active participation in Duterte’s drug war killings.

Section I: The fall of “good governance” and the rise of Duterte

To many around the world, and even in the Philippines, the 2016 presidential victory of Rodrigo Duterte was a surprise. Entering the race relatively late, the firebrand mayor was dismissed as a long-shot candidate, set against a powerful establishment machinery and boasting only local experience. Yet within months of beginning his campaign, Duterte managed to galvanize national zeal as his law-and-order rhetoric — particularly his scorched earth approach to drugs and crime — immediately set him apart from his opponents and past presidents. Leading up to election day, Duterte’s popularity soared and confused many pollsters. Why the support for these strongman proposals, and the abrasive personality? Neither his repeated flashing of his middle finger to the press, nor his cursing the Pope — a feat once unthinkable in the world’s third most Catholic nation — seemed to produce any negative impact. More than just anti-establishment, Duterte scorned civility and decorum, which further fueled his outsider appeal. In early May 2016, more than 16.5 million Filipinos handed Duterte 39% of the popular vote, an overwhelming win in the nation’s first-past-the-post electoral system.^[6] Some observers, whether out of admiration or disdain, soon referred to the new president as “the Trump of the East.”^[7]

Duterte’s victory shocked many in the West, given that the Philippines, since 1986, was a bastion of human rights and liberal values in a region often convulsed by dictatorships. Within months of the election, the political and ideological trajectory of the nation transformed, casting a dark shadow on its democratic institutions and damaging its social fabric. In short order, the Philippines changed from being one of America’s staunchest regional allies to being one of its most vocal critics, and regressed from the home of the People Power Revolution^[8] to a site of renewed authoritarianism. In what Filipino sociologist Randy David calls “Dutertismo”, the new leader unleashe[d] a torrent of aggressive and resentful impulses not previously seen in our society, except perhaps in social media, [that target] the drug syndicates, criminals, and government functionaries who spend more time making money for themselves than in serving the public.^[9]

At the helm of a populist revolt, Duterte may be, as Filipino academic Walden Bello charges, the most powerful president the Philippines has seen since the fall of the Marcos dictatorship.^[10] Other scholars go further, arguing that Duterte is already more powerful than Marcos ever was, since he commands a deep and diversified base, and has consolidated his grip over state institutions without instituting martial law.^[11] What accounts for this radical departure from liberal democracy? From where does this “authoritarian nostalgia” stem? Did Duterte create this political culture from whole cloth? Or did he unleash it, a monster in waiting? 

As jarring as it is, Duterte’s rise cannot be understood in a vacuum. He is not, as many have posited, simply a political aberration, nor did the movement he inspired emerge out of nowhere. What Duterte represents — or better, what he challenges — must be situated within the broader context and history of the Philippines’ post-Marcos democracy. Populism, after all, responds to an existing political order, from the shifts of power within it to the institutions that maintain it. It is within this structure that populists are produced and from which they draw resistive strength.^[12] Behind Duterte’s idiosyncrasies, then, exists a perennial, and distinctly primal, logic, one borne of a mélange of mass grievances towards a dysfunctional status quo. Put differently, Duterte deftly tapped into the resentments of people who felt alienated from and betrayed by their political system, which, indeed, in some key areas, like crime and corruption, even exploited them. To Duterte and his supporters, decades of liberal reformism after Marcos had offered nothing but elite bluster. From Corazon Aquino to Benigno Aquino III, the Philippine government consistently over-promised and under-served. In the minds of the masses, the entire system had to be dismantled and replaced with a genuine “people’s champion.” Enter Duterte, the wrecking ball of the establishment.

In his book Political Order in Changing Societies, Samuel Huntington provides a compelling account for this gap in political efficacy. Writing about the postcolonial world, he contends that rapidly developing societies like the Philippines — or what Richard Heydarian calls “emerging market democracies” — are particularly vulnerable to political breakdown and/or autocratic takeover. In Huntington’s view, this occurs because social and economic modernization are neither synonymous nor simultaneous with political modernization. Rapid changes in standards of living e.g.,urbanization, industrialization, improvements in literacy and education, etc. “extend political consciousness, multiply political demands, [and] broaden political participation”, but they do not alone create “new bases of political association and new political institutions that can combine legitimacy and effectiveness” in tandem with these changes.^[13] Such a lag in the development of public utilities and state infrastructure will, as Huntington maintains, engender social frustration and political disorder. Francis Fukuyama articulates a similar argument in Political Order and Political Decay about contemporary liberal democracies, “which have failed to supply sufficient public goods due to the rigidity of state institutions and/or their capture by narrow interest.”^[14] These conditions thus ripen the appeal for a challenge to the existing political order, led by an aspirational middle class or a populist demagogue in favor of radical change. Paradoxically, as Huntington and Fukuyama note, the same social forces empowered by an economic boom may likely revolt against the system that created it.^[15]

In many ways, the Philippines experienced this dysfunction prior to Duterte’s rise — in fact, such inefficacy fueled it. The preceding administration of Benigno Aquino III — the son of the first post-Marcos president, Corazon Aquino —was marked by high economic growth and relative political stability. However, these improvements turned out to be shallow in effect, leaving structural inequalities largely in place. This disconnect between rhetoric and reality is often unacknowledged by observers in the developed world, who tend to equate strong economic performance with effective, and even exemplary, governance as well as a flourishing populace. Such assumptions render Duterte’s call for national transformation puzzling, all the more given the high popularity of outgoing President Aquino.^[16] In investigating these seemingly incongruous events, Philippine politics scholar Mark Thompson argues that the Aquino administration — and by extension, Philippine liberal democracy — was “systemically disjunctive.” In other words, liberal reformism as a political order was rhetorically appealing, but decades of its praxis revealed how unequal, callous, and impotent it was. 

When Aquino won the presidency in 2010, he had waged a moralistic campaign against the alleged corruption of his predecessor, Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, who was charged with plunder and abuse of public office. Like his mother, Aquino projected himself as the embodiment of conscientious governance, vowing to take the straight path (Daang Matuwid) and regain public trust. This campaign narrative, and subsequent regime script, resonated with the Filipino electorate since a successful war against corruption was framed as the eradication of poverty (Kung walang kurap, walang mahirap). For a while, Aquino seemed to deliver. Under his administration, the Philippines shed its decades-long reputation as the “sick man of Asia”, with its booming economy showcased as a hallmark of liberal reform. In 2015, the Philippines became the fourth fastest growing economy in the world, and in 2016, the fastest among the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN).^[17] The country also garnered international recognition as it leapt in economic development indices, such as competitiveness and openness, and was lauded by international credit ratings agencies, such as Fitch.^[18] In fact, during Aquino’s last few years in office, Asia’s “new tiger economy”, as the World Bank remarked, witnessed a 6.26% Gross Domestic Product (GDP) growth rate — the Philippines’ highest in nearly half a century.^[19]

Aside from its progress in macroeconomic policy, the Aquino administration also made strides in cracking down on corruption. In his first few years, President Aquino was credited with cutting red tape and quashing graft, efforts that bolstered public confidence in state institutions. According to Heydarian, Aquino allies in the Philippine Congress investigated and removed high-profile senators accused of corruption, and even spearheaded nearly successful efforts to impeach “Arroyo-era holdovers in the Supreme Court and the Ombudsman office — paving the way for a potential conviction of the former president.”^[20] From 2011 to 2015, the administration’s anti-corruption efforts came to fruition, as the Philippines’ ranking in Transparency International’s Corruption Perception Index rose from 129th (out of 177 countries) to 95th.^[21] On the coattails of his high-approval ratings, Aquino was further rewarded with a wave of new allies in the 2013 midterm congressional elections. Such support was taken as a renewed mandate to root out corruption, a task which had seemed impossible. 

However, the apparently remarkable successes of the Aquino administration proved to be transient and hollow. Towards the end of his term, Aquino’s “good governance” credentials were hamstrung by scandals, and subsequently, erosions in public trust. Particularly damaging to the administration were revelations about the Priority Development Assistance Fund (PDAF), a pork barrel vehicle used to dole out patronage to legislators who had helped pass reformist legislation and remove corrupt officials.^[22] It was revealed, moreover, that these “soft project” funds often ended up lining legislators’ pockets instead of going to earmarked development. In follow-up investigations, only anti-Aquino officials were charged, which raised suspicions that the president was only after political enemies instead of pork barrel abuse. A similar pattern of hypocrisy emerged when the Supreme Court declared the Disbursement Acceleration Program (DAP), the successor to the PDAF, partly unconstitutional in 2014. A discretionary fund that was supposed to “source out unspent resources from other agencies of the government”, the DAP came under fire as a “slush fund” used to buy political favors from legislators “in the form of additional pork barrel.”^[23] In response to the Court’s decision, the president lashed out by refusing to advance any investigations into the Department of Management and Budget, the agency responsible for creating the DAP. Instead, Aquino vigorously defended his allies at the expense of a cynical and exasperated public — a shocking change of heart for an accountability and transparency champion. 

More poignant in the administration’s failings, however, was its callous and concentrated inaction. As Heydarian observes, “the faster the Philippines grew, the more obvious its poverty became.”^[24] Hyperfocused on economic growth, the government failed to provide inclusive development and adequately fund public services. According to the IBON Foundation, a Philippine research non-profit, the Aquino administration oversaw a slew of austerity measures and public welfare neglect: affordable housing remained undeveloped, public education budgets shrank, public hospitals were forcibly shuttered, and privatized public utilities — such as power and water — delivered questionable quality at expensive rates.^[25] In megacities like Metro Manila, a sclerotic infrastructure budget engendered a decay in public transportation, resulting in one of the worst traffic landscapes in Asia and what Filipino netizens dubbed “carmageddon.” Moreover, while international spectators marveled at Aquino’s massive wealth generation, ordinary Filipinos barely felt a bump. Such gains remained concentrated among the elite, whose collective wealth increased by 37.9% ($13 billion) from 2010 to 2011.^[26] In fact, in 2013 alone, 76.5% of the Philippines’ newly created growth benefited the country’s 40 richest families.^[27] Meanwhile, “Even as construction cranes topped Manila skyscrapers and the emerging beach town of El Nido unveiled plans for its newest five-star resort”, reports from the National Statistical Coordination Board found that 26.5% of Filipinos lived on less than one dollar a day, and that the first half of 2012 revealed no improvement in levels of national poverty since 2006.^[28]

Broken promises, dashed expectations, and the palpable hypocrisy of “good governance” fed into a potent form of grievance politics that took hold in 2016. In many ways, the Aquino administration’s failures signified a boiling point for many Filipinos, who resented not so much the president personally, but the hollow and self-righteous liberalism he represented. Citizens were fatigued by decades of what Benedict Anderson called “cacique democracy” — the capture and control of the political system by the post-Marcos elite.^[29] Within this milieu of liberal democratic discontent thus emerged Duterte. He offered a refreshing vision of radical change, but was also bent on enacting vengeance — against the establishment, against the elites, against the forces of criminality. And more, he seemed to embody, in word and deed, the sufferings of the masses.

As several scholars have remarked, Duterte’s deep, diverse, and dedicated base is unprecedented in Philippine politics. Even before he declared his candidacy for president, his name floated around in 2015 national surveys, with support never falling below 12%.^[30] This nascent popularity stemmed from a national “roadshow” and “listening tour” he held in 2014 for his advocacy of federalism.^[31] When he eventually launched his campaign in 2016, Duterte was late to the race. However, the delay proved to be an asset, as it bolstered his efforts to spurn political norms. Not only would Duterte be the first president from Mindanao — the southern region of the Philippines — he would also be the first local official, as mayor of Davao, to win the office.^[32] Duterte harnessed this outsider persona to cast himself as the ultimate underdog: a simple provincial mayor with the courage to take on “Imperial Manila” elites. Moreover, Duterte streamlined an impressively strategic campaign, from mobilizing grassroots volunteers and netizens (as opposed to relying on traditional paths of patronage) to consolidating his “Change is Coming” mantra for law and order (against the mixed and abstract reformist messaging of his rivals).

In particular, Duterte revealed himself to be a master of crisis politics. He portrayed the Philippines as an emerging narco-state, overrun by criminals and hampered by corrupt and feeble leadership. National attention was thus drawn to the mayor’s flagship anti-drug war proposal, which Duterte had implemented in Davao several years prior and sought to deploy on a national scale. While certainly controversial, the program’s commitment to purge drug users and dealers at the hands of the “Davao Death Squad” received broad acclaim among Filipinos following the city’s falling crime rates. As a result, Davao became a leading center for investment, one of the fastest growing cities in the Philippines, and according to several surveys, among its safest — a major leap from the 70s and 80s when it was “a site of internecine warfare between communists and right-wing groups.”^[33] In one 2016 survey conducted by the Ateneo de Davao University, 99% of Davao citizens expressed approval of their former mayor’s record.^[34]

Duterte’s iron-fisted stewardship of Davao also fed into a narrative of paternalistic politics, which resonated among Filipinos whose lives had long felt insecure. It is no wonder, then, that attendant to Duterte’s crisis politics was a growing “authoritarian nostalgia.” Gaining alarming ground in the vice presidential race — and eventually finishing  in a narrow second — was Bongbong Marcos Jr., the son of the former dictator. Exactly 30 years from his father’s ouster, he likewise tapped into rising public disaffection, invoking and whitewashing the martial law years as an epoch of decisive and effective leadership. Long gone, it seemed, were the memories of plunder and state terror that sparked the People Power Revolution.^[35] At the height of the 2016 elections, a survey reported that 59% of respondents agreed to the burial of Ferdinand Marcos with “official honors” at the Cemetery of National Heroes.^[36] While the rehabilitation of the Marcos era can be attributed to the family’s years of aggressive public relations, it is more glaringly a reflection of the Filipino public’s exasperation with the post-Marcos elite.^[37] Such indignation produced powerful psychological effects, which Duterte exploited to push his saviorist image. 

Section II: Rootlessness and the “deep story”: Duterte’s populist pathologies 

To fully understand the reach and depth of Duterte’s populism — particularly its violent edge — it is not enough to look at political and economic conditions alone. Indeed, while policies and data illuminate national needs, they only reveal so much about societal conditions, much less explain political behavior. In examining what is visible and factual, these systems of analysis eclipse the symbolic, irrational, and even psychotic implications at the core of populist pathologies.^[38] [39] Duterte’s popularity must then be supplemented by and complicated within the prism of charisma: emotion, spectacle, and ideation. It is within this affective terrain that Duterte not only exploits mass resentment, but creates and projects his own. And it is from it that the polity internalizes and acts, recalibrating to his revisions of reality. 

In The Origins of Totalitarianism, Hannah Arendt describes how demagogues inflame vicious desires and prejudices within the body politic. As Huntington would do later, Arendt grounds her analysis within rapidly developing societies, which generate private wealth but often neglect public welfare. However, Arendt views modernization as a particularly psychic threat, productive of far worse than political dysfunction. Premised on a system of expanding power and profit, so-called progress spawns a culture of rootlessness — the profound sense of alienation and dislocation among the neglected masses. Routinely marginalized by mainstream forces, these “isolated individuals” experience a “loss of the world”, for they are “not held together by a consciousness of common interest” and “lack that specific class articulateness.”^[40] As Frantz Fanon similarly notes, such people are dismissed and discarded as “hordes of vital statistics, […] hysterical masses, […] faces bereft of all humanity, that mob, [and] those children who seem to belong to nobody.”^[41] Shorn of political agency and meaningful social ties, these disaffected masses desperately seek an escape from their agonizing limbo. They yearn insatiably for a voice and for a community, and, in the absence of established or inclusive left-wing alternatives, find recourse in reactionary movements. While Arendt maintains that such efforts are “fictitious and [insecure] homes”, they nevertheless provide stabilizing and totalizing psychic havens for the fearful, resentful, and enraged — they help the rootless avoid “disintegration and disorientation.”^[42] In laying claim to large reservoirs of social and moral energy, the ideologies of these movements “conjure up a lying world of consistency” that accommodates and entertains beyond reason and reality.^[43]

As a result of their growing support, such movements — often led by a charismatic authoritarian — will attempt to overthrow and replace existing systems of power, harnessing and mobilizing mass hostilities in the siege. With remarkable prescience, Plato also warned of opportunistic demagogues, who emerge from the fray of oligarchic excess and the delay of democratic institutions. When the “state falls sick and is at war with herself”, the tyrant, “at the early days of his power”, will enmesh himself with the demos, seeking to become their champion: “he is full of smiles, and he salutes everyone whom he meets — he [makes] promises in public and also in private, liberating debtors and distributing land to the people and his followers, and wanting to be so kind and good to everyone.”^[44] The tyrant, however, only intends to serve himself, conditioning his promises of national salvation and collective empowerment on the masses’ allegiance to his will. 

Who, specifically, are these rootless masses? In what or whom do they find roots? What are the emotional, sensational, and ideational forces facilitating the tyrant’s rise? At the zenith of Donald Trump’s presidential campaign in 2016, sociologist Arlie Hochschild travelled to the Deep South with these questions in mind for Americans. In particular, she was puzzled by how years of relative political stability and economic growth under President Obama could have engendered such profound rage and indignation towards the establishment. This paradox, notably, was the same one brought to reckoning following Aquino’s term. After interviewing 60 hardline conservatives, Hochschild came away with an understanding of a “deep story” that underpins and fortifies robust political convictions — it is an allegorical representation of how people locate their lives, organize their values, discover their communities, and understand their place within the political realm.^[45] [46] Cursory in logic and schematic in form, a deep story foregrounds the visceraland affective: “you take the facts out of it, you take the moral judgements [out of it], and what you’re left with is what feels true.”^[47] If rootlessness marginalizes the masses from the mainstream, then a deep story affords the disaffected their roots: a newfound sense of belonging directed against an unjust and uncaring “other.” As Hochschild notes, many of Trump’s supporters felt dislocated, and even effaced, by the forces of the political mainstream. From the dominance of elite secularists and Hollywood stars to the diffusion of liberal media and sanctuary cities, they increasingly became strangers in their own land […] They felt like they were there, but not seen. [Their] attitudes were a source of ridicule in the mainstream culture, and [their] region was seen as a backward region. They felt like [their] honor [was] being squeezed.^[48]

Donald Trump, however, “embodied the most ineffable aspects of the [conservative] deep story.” That is, he reviled the political establishment, vowed to “drain the swamp”, and spoke of a national return. Promising to salvage them from years of marginalization, Trump offered his base visibility, and in particular, roots. But most of all, he became their secular sufferer, so to say, absorbing the masses and collectively taking them up in a crusade against the wicked elites.^[49]

What, then, was the deep story of Duterte’s supporters? Was Duterte likewise seen by Filipinos as their unifying testament of struggle? Unlike previous Filipino populists, Duterte’s brand of populism cut across the electorate, energizing various regions and classes that felt disempowered.^[50] As such, it can be suggested that there exist multiple deep stories within the “Dutertian” imagination, each “revolts from the periphery against an [incompetent] and uncaring center.”^[51] To Metro Manila, Duterte promised a swift escape from oppressive land and air traffic. To Muslim and indigenous populations, he invoked his family background as an ethnic and linguistic minority. To the Visayan and Mindanao regions, he offered greater representation and resources against corrupt, “Imperial Manila.”^[52]

Equally remarkable and rare, however, is the socioeconomic breadth in Duterte’s voter bloc. The wealthy and middle classes — referred to as class ABC — praised Duterte’s call for a brutal crackdown on drugs and criminality, believing it would improve their personal and business safety. According to a Social Weather Stations (SWS) exit poll conducted on election day, 45.9% of class ABC voted for Duterte, and 49.2% of those voters had had graduate-level education.^[53] Moreover, the poor — known as classes D and E — were drawn to Duterte for his folksy aura, seeing in him a personified transition towards accessible and down-to-earth governance. After the second presidential debate, which voters considered the most watched and consequential of the three, surveys revealed that Duterte’s charisma and candor handed him the best performance — not only among class ABC (46%, 22 points ahead of the runner-up), but in striking conjunction with classes D and E (32% and 39%, respectively).^[54]

While Duterte’s persona brings him into intimacy with the masses, it also divorces him from the conventions of his office. Unlike his predecessors, who spoke in elegant and measured prose, Duterte speaks coarsely and often slurs and rambles. In doing so, he jettisons stately trappings and shrinks the gap of association, bringing the podium to the people instead of orating from above. Tactless, imprecise, and often unscripted, his speeches serve to animate his rogue streams of consciousness. However, Duterte’s openness lies at the crux of the populist performance, of which he is fully aware and which he commands to his political benefit. His punishing language, for example, serves to punctuate his punitive governance. At the beginning of his campaign, Duterte warned Filipinos: 

I will not sit there as president, and just like any other regime, sabihin ko, iyan lang ang kaya ko [say, ‘that’s all that I can do’]. Pero pag nilagay ninyo ako [So if you put me in office], do not fuck with me. If I’m there, wala ng [no more] indecisive, indecisive. Putang ina, sumunod kayong lahat [Son of a bitch, you all better follow]. When I say that you have to stop fucking the people’s money, stop it!^[55]

Such language, while crude, does not delegitimize Duterte. Rather, it projects his authority and sharpens his populism, underscoring the sincerity of his law-and-order mandate. In his politics of discipline, social conventions are beneath him; they fail to communicate urgency and to elicit fear in his rule. Duterte’s open disregard for statesmanship thus reflects the work of Achille Mbembe, whose writings on sub-Saharan Africa provide a useful lens for understanding the Philippines. Mbembe argues that in a postcolony, which has just struggled to reclaim its sovereignty, new leaders will exercise power to reassert the legitimacy of the state. While many regimes coerce or surveil to realize their authority, Mbembe observes that in Cameroon, the ruler and the ruled share an “intimate tyranny”, in which submission is induced instead of imposed.^[56] Namely, the ruler employs vulgarity to speak, act, and live like the masses. As such, postcolonial modes of domination involve not just control, but conviviality — the liberation of the perverse from private use to its recognition and enjoyment in public. According to Mbembe, subjection to this symbolic authority legitimizes the ruler in ways difficult to achieve through coercion: by witnessing and internalizing the sovereign’s indecency, the polity responds by reproducing it.

Duterte’s obscenities pervade his storytelling, which he uses to assert his sovereign power. To the delight of his listeners and the humiliation of his critics, he names and shames as he engages in banter. Unmoored by topical relevance as well as norms of decency, Duterte recounts “stories about masturbation, jokes about rape, publicly kissing women and admiring their anatomy, making references to vaginal odor, and much more.”^[57] For instance, at a 2016 campaign event, Duterte regaled his audience with a rape story. Recalling his time as mayor of Davao, he shared how a bloody prison siege had killed numerous hostages — one of whom was a female Australian missionary. According to Duterte, she, along with the other female prisoners, was repeatedly raped and tortured before she was killed. However, rather than draw from the audience expected rage or grief, Duterte steered them towards his necrophillic desire:

All the women were raped, so during the first assault, because they retreated, their bodies were used as shields. One of them was the corpse of the Australian woman lay minister. Tsk, this was a problem. When the bodies were brought out, they were wrapped. I looked at her face; son of a bitch, she looked like a beautiful American actress. Son of a bitch, what a waste. What came to mind was, ‘they raped her, they took turns.’ Was I angry because she was raped? Sure, that’s one thing. But she was so beautiful, the mayor should have gone first! Son of a bitch, what a waste (sayang).^[58]

In response, the crowd jeered at the mayor and snickered amongst themselves. According to Vicente Rafael, “It was [Duterte’s] failure to assert his claim on the woman’s body that was presumably taken […] to be the object of hilarity.”^[59]The mayor was emasculated, and his authority undercut. However, Duterte inverted this private shame into one palatable for public reception, and was thus able to perform indignation to endear the audience to him. In freely divulging his masochism, he did not himself become subject to derision — he somehow escaped and recovered, while the corpse of the missionary could not. The audience’s laughter, even if from shock, thus surrendered to Duterte’s incivility. It formed a bond with his rhetoric, what they themselves would dare not say, and took from his authority permission to enjoy.   

Reports of this story drew sharp rebukes from feminists, human rights advocates, and the Australian and American embassies. However, this criticism seemed not to faze the mayor and, in fact, bolstered his public support. In breaking away from political correctness, Duterte personifies the populist pathology, discursively asserting himself as the layman’s champion while sundering himself from establishment elites. Just as he defies due process and human rights in his governance, here, too, does he speak with subversive free rein. As a result, his supporters, who “identify with his insurgent energy to upset conventions, [admire how he] escapes unscathed […] his aura seems to be magnified as he becomes even more emboldened with every insult and invective.”^[60] Breaking taboos, Duterte has also taken on institutions once cherished or untouchable. When the Catholic Church warned of a return to martial law, he assailed its clergy as corrupt and pedophillic — charges often interlaced with his own story of abuse. When the United States linked his drug war to human rights violations, he called President Obama a hypocritical “son of a bitch”, adding, “you can go to hell” at the end.^[61] When the European Union did likewise, he flashed his middle finger to the camera and casually said, “fuck you.”^[62]

Refusing to be disciplined, Duterte revels in what Mbembe calls the “aesthetics of vulgarity.” He moves beyond convention and law, yet manages to impose his own. Effectively, then, his irascibility sets him apart even from earlier Filipino strongmen, such as Manuel Quezon and Ferdinand Marcos. As Rafael notes,

Quezon and Marcos were anxious to project a heightened sense of bourgeois masculinity in the service of a benevolent patriarchy in the way they appeared and spoke. They dressed impeccably in formal barong[embroidered male shirt] or tailored suits, and addressed the public in stentorian sentences, meticulously crafted and ponderously pronounced. Under late colonial and Cold War liberal conditions, they could still capitalize on middle-class conventions of respectability to hide from view the more brutal practices of their government.^[63]

Duterte is thus a populist par excellence, disavowing genteel affectations for the unseemly and common. He upends hierarchies, overturns strictures, sutures the gap, and brings into light who and what was once silenced and shunned — “the high is brought down low, and the low is elevated.”^[64] Vicariously rebelling through Duterte’s brazenness, the people thus feel emancipated, their deep stories affirmed and roots established. However, this defiant freedom is superficial, for it is only achieved through submission. The audience cannot reciprocate mockery or openly express their distaste. Duterte’s storytelling, like his governance, is entirely autocratic since shadowing conviviality is a repressive and violent regime. As Plato warned, the tyrant’s legitimacy comes from his performance of democracy. Whatever rebellion — whatever roots — Duterte offers is then only imaginary. 

It is easy to suggest, as many have, that the Philippines is reanimating the Marcos years. But the current president has put the nation on a far more perilous course. Not only has he, in short order, effaced the liberal democratic legacy of EDSA, but his populism has managed to convince Filipinos that there never was one to begin with. In the name of national return, Duterte has since weaponized this belief to unleash unprecedented forms of brutality and unfreedom — many carried out by citizens themselves. The last section of this essay expands on populist pathologies by examining the regime’s most alarming mobilization of terror: its drug war. Inspired by Antonio Gramsci’s notion of cultural hegemony i.e., domination through popular consent, I ask: how is authoritarianism driven by ordinary people, who willfullyparticipate in the violation of others?^[65]  

Section III: Among the living dead: necropolitics and the Philippine Drug War

Since taking office in 2016, Duterte has fallen woefully short of his political and economic promises, from improving the nation’s infrastructure to instituting a federal system of government. However, the campaign pledge the president has consistently and tenaciously realized is his brutal war on drugs, known in the Philippines as Oplan [“Operation”] Tokhang. A Cebuano portmanteau for toktok (“knock”) and hangyo (“request”), Tokhang has become the process by which police place so-called “drug personalities” on a public list, visit their homes to dissuade them from illicit activities, and — should police warnings be ignored — gun them down, leaving their corpses on the streets.^[66] These extrajudicial killings have emerged as the most dramatic manifestations of the drug war, sanctioned by the president’s orders and bolstered by his promises of impunity to the police.^[67] And despite pressure from the international community as well as a pending case from the International Criminal Court (ICC), the anti-drug campaign has only intensified. A 2016 survey revealed that although 94% of Filipinos consider it “very” or “somewhat important” that drug suspects remain alive, 85% of the same respondents expressed approval towards continuing the drug war.^[68] What explains this apparent contradiction? How does one come to grips with the psychic hold of necropower? I first introduce the state’s role in producing and instilling fear.

In his 1973 lecture series “Society Must be Defended”, Michel Foucault contends that public torture and public execution activate a “spectacle of the scaffold”, in which the body of the accused is marked as both socially excluded and a testament of the sovereign’s exercise of power. Ritualistic and excessive, the public administration of death is meant to humiliate the accused: 

In this system, the infraction is no longer something to be redressed […] but rather something to be emphasized [and] fixed in a sort of monument, even if it is a scar, an amputation, or something involving shame or infamy […] [T]he visible or social body must be a blazon of the penalties, and this blazon refers to two things: one the one hand, to the offense, of which it has to be the visible and immediately recognizable trace; […] and on the other hand, to the power that imposed the penalty and that, with this penalty, has left the mark of its sovereignty on the tortured body. It is not just the offense that is visible on the scar or the amputation, it is the sovereign.^[69]

Through real consequences, the sovereign wields a symbolic authority, arousing within the public conscience a fear of what similar transgressions would entail. The state objectifies the enemy body in order to materialize and measure the regime’s power. For instance, when asked about the progress of his anti-drug campaign, Duterte remarked, “The ones who died in Bulacan, 32, in a massive raid, that is beautiful. We could just kill another 32 every day, then maybe we could reduce what ails this country.”^[70] Having been neither investigated nor convicted, the victims of Duterte’s drug war thus consolidate a performed sense of justice, laying bare the capacity of the state in eliminating putative threats to society. This idea is further refined by Allen Feldman, who contends that the inflicted body becomes a medium of political text just as much as it is a result.^[71] In the drug war, this is achieved in two ways: through the public listing of drug suspects, and through the placement of cardboard signs on corpses that bear and humiliate their crime — the most common inscription: Pusher ako, wag tularan [I am a pusher, do not copy me].^[72]

 In its swift and vicious execution, Duterte’s drug war is certainly one of the most graphic exhibitions of inhumanity in our time. However, as Hochschild emphasized, even the vilest of convictions and monstrous of acts betray a perennial condition — a deep story — that only needs to be intensified to unleash the unspeakable. The remainder of this section focuses on how the drug war’s brutality stems from an array of drug pathologies extant among the body politic. These already pervasive “drug addict” caricatures are what Duterte exploited to buttress high and sustained support for his campaign purges. As such, the state is not the sole actor of repression; it is, here, an instrumentality, collaborating with and channeling the beliefs of citizens who aid and participate in the repression. I call this phenomenon “civic authoritarianism.” 

In a lecture at Yale University, Judith Butler discusses how the state actualizes this notion by dehumanizing certain populations into enemies, treating and pursuing them as “non-grievable lives.”^[73] Seeing its operation within the realm of police brutality, Butler asks, 

Does the policeman who [shoots to kill] imagine that the person about to die is actually about to attack? Or that his own life is endangered? Or is it simply that this life is one that can be snuffed out because it is not considered a life, never was a life, does not fit the norm of life […] hence it does not register as a grievable life, a life worth preserving?^[74]

Brought to bear against the drug war, non-grievable lives are formalized through drug addicts, who Duterte makes no qualms about in the extent to which they must be punished, from “You will see the fish in Manila Bay getting fat. That is where I will dump you” to “Hitler massacred three million Jews. Now there are three million drug addicts. I’d be happy to slaughter them”^[75] Met with applause, Duterte further demonized a group already despised within the Filipino consciousness. To many Filipinos, drug addiction is believed to transform users into something inhuman and monstrous. This characterization stems from the (mis)perception that shabu, or crystal meth, thoroughly destroys the body and mind, possessing addicts to commit uncontrollable acts of violence.^[76] Supposedly unable to defer their desire, users completely surrender their mental and moral faculties as they rape children and murder innocent people; in fact, “Their brains supposedly shrink, placing them beyond rehabilitation.”^[77] It is no wonder, then, that in response to criticisms from human rights groups and the UN about his drug war, Duterte rejoined, “What crime against humanity? In the first place, I’d like to be frank with you. Are they [drug users] human?”^[78] Alienated from society, drug addicts and dealers are thus stripped of innocence and devoid of human rights since they pose an existential threat to those around them. For Duterte, the only clear and just solution is their annihilation. 

In her 2014-2016 ethnographic study of Leyte, a rural island in the Southeast Philippines, Nicole Curato observed how civic authoritarianism was operationalized in her interviews and direct observations with residents, who evinced a “latent anxiety [towards] drugs already existing in the public sphere.”^[79] She defines this latent anxiety as a pervasive, yet quiet, distress within the body politic, “folded into everyday realities in both privileged and slum communities. It is present but not central, mundane but still worrisome, publicised but not politicised.”^[80] For instance, while Curato maintains that drug use was aberrational in the Leyte community, the stigma of addiction violated cherished norms of respectability, carrying with it serious material consequences. In middle-class neighborhoods, mothers with young children could be evicted from their homes if they were found to have possessed drugs. In slum communities, drug addicts — typically young men — were seen as wife beaters and absent fathers, and thus were unable to participate in government-sponsored livelihood programs. However, Curato notes that even while drug users were seen as menacing to social relations, their disruption to the community “was not central enough to warrant the sustained attention of the state”, which instead offered perfunctory and privatized solutions e.g., resolution vis a vis neighbors, the local parish, NGOs, or the barangay (village) captain.^[81] The inauguration of Duterte’s penal populism hence signaled a turning point, animating and escalating the moralization of drugs as well as promising a final resolution to this latent anxiety.^[82]During the height of the campaign, when Curato asked a “usually soft-spoken and tentative young mother of four” her thoughts on Duterte’s violent tactics, the latter “confidently replied, ‘That’s just right!’”^[83] Sure enough, this moral judgement found translation in 2016 national survey results: from January until the presidential election in May, illegal drugs consistently emerged as the prime issue in the country — a dramatic departure from 2015 polls that listed inflation, jobs, and health as the top concerns among Filipinos.^[84] [85]

The moralization of drugs is evident in urban areas as well, particularly in Metro Manila, where value judgements are entangled with spatial organizations of class. In his 2009-2014 ethnographic research of the capital’s middle class and poor, Marco Garrido saw civic authoritarianism through each class’ imagined construction of and visceral relation to the other.^[86] Garrido first notes how Metro Manila’s slums and “bourgeois enclaves” (condominiums, exclusive malls, commercial centers, etc.) are often contiguous or in proximity. As a result, the middle and working classes intensely interact within the city. But instead of encouraging class sociality, this spatialization has sharpened socioeconomic boundaries, facilitating and surveilling differential access to employment opportunities, state investments, educational resources, and urban spaces. Garrido reveals how this disparity is enforced and reproduced through fraught moral evaluations levied against the other class, particularly its role in perpetuating disorder. The poor understand disorder as associative of the rich, the corrupt and prejudicial elites who scorn them as dregs of society. Especially relevant, however, is the middle class assessment of disorder, which castigates the urban poor as vectors of encroachment, drugs, and crime. This characterization accounts for why “The people killed [in the drug war] are overwhelmingly drawn from the poorest section of [Philippine] society”, which has “hardened perceptions that this is a war on the poor.”^[87] In an elite political environment that routinely appeals to middle class voters, such marginalization of poor narratives is unsurprising. 

Garrido further explains how various socialization factors within the ecology of Metro Manila — such as higher education, professional occupation, international travel, and neoliberal restructuring — have conditioned this anti-poor sentiment among a rising middle class.^[88] They point to model cities like Davao or countries like Singapore as “pockets of discipline” wherein criminal vagrants, and the urban spaces accommodating them, are effectively brought to heel.^[89][90] Importantly, they see these utopias within reach — what Foucault called “counter-sites” —  as visions of what the Philippines could one day become.^[91] And they trust strongmen like Duterte to impose these pockets of discipline, even if they come at a great human cost.^[92] For this reason, the middle class has, as Garrido suggests, been “waiting for Duterte.”^[93]

Within three hours of the president’s inauguration, corpses began populating the streets of Manila’s slums, which have since served as the predominant sites of the drug war’s carnage and mourning. With unremitting intensity, these nightly killings have morphed the public’s latent anxieties into both passive enabling of and active collaborations with the police.^[94] First, the passive. In December 2016, the priests of Baclaran Church — a popular parish in Metro Manila — mounted a large photo exhibit of recent killings along the church’s entrance, intended to rebuke the regime’s brutality and scandalize people into resistance.^[95] However, passersby seemed indifferent or oblivious to the display as they casually made their way to mass. Some glanced at the photos, at times “remarking something to the effect that ‘they probably were addicts and deserved to die’”, while others “seemed to think that such exhibits aided the war on drugs, seeing them from the perspective of the police: ‘Para matakot ang mga durugista’ [‘so that drug addicts would be frightened.’]”^[96]

Whether they were numb or unmoved towards the recurring reality of death, people seemed incapable of registering, much less generating, any sense of compunction or trauma. If they did, they kept it firmly to themselves, terrified of what open expressions might entail on their own bodies and lives. According to Vicente Rafael, the moral implications of the photos had failed to “furnish a civic space of belonging through grieving”, as the community collapsed under a governance of willed dissociation.^[97] In fact, residents came to believe that the execution of perceived criminals yielded safer neighborhoods — at least the petty thieves hassling store owners were gone, at least the loiterers had disappeared, at least the gangs had vanished. One of the most poignant accounts coming out of the drug war was when a mother, having discovered her employed and college-attending son was killed, grieved out of regret that her other son, a drug addict, was not dead instead. Thus emerges a moral rationalization, what Rafael calls an “economy of substitution.”^[98] Whatever it takes, whomever it takes, as long as justice is apparent. 

This radical reshaping of how people treat death and see life has largely been facilitated by the drug war’s active civil participation. Much of this has to do with how the victims are targeted. In what has been criticized as a considerably arbitrary process, local officials have compiled and publicized watch lists of suspected drug users and dealers. Often informed by community rumors and unsolicited tips, inclusion is largely unvetted. The lists do not appear to discriminate between past and current “drug personalities”, nor between addicts, users, and financiers. Yet nearly all those indexed have later been found dead, described in police reports as nanlaban, meaning they fought back. This reasoning, which implies that police officers killed in self-defense, remains dubious since the vast majority of investigations have been declared inconclusive. It also clashes with remarks from neighborhood watch leaders, who are enthused and convicted by the drug war’s brutality: “We need to make them fear for them to stop using drugs,” one says. “It is effective, this fear of being killed.”^[99] From another local official: “Everyone wants peace […] What is hard is how can you give them peace if they continue to be drug users? What kind of peace will you give to them? It must be death.”^[100]

This outsourcing of surveillance to civilian volunteers has effectively shored up the legitimacy of the drug war. In another example, a Department of Interior and Local Government (DILG) program called MASA MASID [Masses Observe] has recruited civil society actors and faith-based organizations to “heighten community involvement” in the anti-drug campaign.^[101] In what may be the starkest manifestation of civic authoritarianism, these MASA MASID Teams have set up local hotlines to encourage residents to report drug-related incidents and drug addicts in their communities. Moreover, volunteers have handed out “drug-free households” stickers to demarcate the “drug-cleared” from the “drug-suspect”, essentially democratizing and intensifying the role of policing. Such mapping out of households thus renders visible the social humiliation tethered to drugs, not to mention the fatal character of “drug watch lists” in the targeting of undesirable others.

Particularly remarkable is that the police have also colluded with vigilante squads, licensed by Duterte to “‘go ahead and kill them yourself […] if you know any addicts.’”^[102] [103] Riding in tandem on motorcycles, these masked or hooded assassins have been subsidized by the state to obfuscate links to the police, with billions of pesos earmarked — without oversight — towards what have been suspected are “kill bonuses.”^[104] According to the Ateneo Policy Center, as of 2018, more than 1,907 (38%) of the dead were killed by these assailants.^[105] And alongside this financialization of Tokhang is the commodification of the corpses themselves. Journalists have furnished reports, for instance, into the theft of victims’ belongings during arrests and killings. Moreover, funeral parlors, which have seen a boom in their business, have paid police tens of thousands of pesos in commission for every body they bring in.^[106] Each corpse can cost as much as P50,000 ($950) to claim, process, and clean — an exorbitant sum for the mostly indigent families of victims.^[107] Loved ones then either abandon the body or force themselves into debt, fundraising by gambling with each other during wakes. Animated by poverty and a sluggish and corrupt judiciary, the machinery of necropower is seen here restlessly at work, profiting from the accumulation and circulation of the dead. While the authoritarian state purges, the capitalist necro-economy exploits, harnessing the corpse as its labor power. 

To the objective observer, it is almost impossible to imagine that Duterte has improved the national condition. But perhaps justice is a more suitable lens, albeit an abstract and unusual kind. Duterte remains popular among many Filipinos precisely because he is destroying the “social enemy”, reconstituting authority even at the cost of instilling fear. The nightly killings of “drug personalities” thus replenish a mystified trust in an elusive order: at least someone is in charge, finally someone is being punished. Summary executions are, to many, the most visible forms of due process they have ever seen. As Rafael notes, “Where people live on the edge of catastrophe — where that edge defines the very space of civic life […] is it any wonder that [people] see images by not seeing them, by dissociating what they apprehend from what they comprehend?”^[108] Desperation and survival, passivity and vigor, vengeance and terror, the dissolution of sociality — Duterte’s regime has left much in its wake. But it has also captured a paradoxical inclusion, a security and hope not as easily seen. This psychic imprint will be Duterte’s legacy.

Conclusion

As this paper demonstrates, political and economic accounts cannot fully explain the populist rise of Duterte. While they can describe the history and structure of institutions and the consequences of policies, they fail to elucidate the perverse and brutal behaviors within Philippine political life — from the public’s conviviality with Duterte’s vulgarity to its passive and active collaborations in mass murder. To claim that Duterte rose to power simply because liberal democracy was “systemically disjunctive” is to overlook his deeply affective and moralized appeal. The president’s grip on the polity can thus only be captured by psychology. Hyperaware of Filipinos’ distrust of government, Duterte offered strong and effective leadership, sealed by a clear and firm message of delivering law and order. He saw the rootlessness Aquino engendered as inequality and corruption grew, and tapped into the deep stories of Filipinos united in dislocation and rage. However, as much as Duterte claimed he was the people’s champion, he ultimately exploited their indignation, harnessing and pivoting mass grievances to violently scapegoat drug users and dealers. He deployed the police to strike fear through grisly murders, and set examples of his power by humiliating the corpses.

But what this paper seeks to unearth is the uncanny rationalization, and even celebration, of the drug war’s carnage among ordinary Filipinos — neighbors, coworkers, parishioners, and citizens who failed to bat an eye as their countrymen were slaughtered before them. Describing this phenomenon as “civic authoritarianism”, this paper has revealed how Duterte did not introduce an entirely new animosity towards drugs and criminality. Rather, he amplified an already pervasive caricature of drug addicts as violent, inhuman, and dispensable forms of life. This narrative exploitation was captured across geography and class, inspiring people towards passive enabling of and active collaborations with the extrajudicial killings. Such phenomena, in effect, disrupt popular portrayals of how citizens respond to an authoritarian state; how they demand from, challenge, and usurp the political order. Over and against those in the People Power Revolution, the majority of Filipinos today are not actively militating against repression. There has not emerged a national democratic awakening, much less a movement that could soon face down the regime. With civil society in lock step with the state, resistance has been rendered nearly impossible — and democracy, like the legacy of 1986, banished into obscurity.

As such, this paper seeks to not only complicate understandings of Duterte’s drug war, but to make use of political theory to demystify our populist moment. Indeed, as liberal democracy retreats around the globe, one is compelled to interrogate the contradictions of its legitimacy, discerning its appeal from the real impacts of its application. Who is and is not seen in a “pluralistic” society? Who is and is not included in an “egalitarian” state? As a result, which groups are subject to domination and capital? Which groups reproduce and benefit from the conditions of the oppressed? In a system designed to lift every voice, who is pushed onto the margins of political life — and what forces are at work centering their narratives and needs? These are the questions Duterte asked the masses, and to which they rallied behind him in zealous response. Yet if only the conditions behind populism were recognized sooner and the power and depth of populist rhetoric more subdued, a genocide could have been thwarted before it even began.

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References:

^[1] Achille Mbembe, “The Aesthetics of Vulgarity” from On the Postcolony, 133 (2001).

^[2] Lynzy Billing and Regine Cabato, “‘This is Manila’”, The Washington Post (2019), https://www.washingtonpost.com/graphics/2019/world/philippines-manila-body/.

^[3] Billing and Cabato, “‘This is Manila.’”

^[4] Billing and Cabato, “‘This is Manila.’”

^[5] Rebecca Ratcliffe, “Philippines War on Drugs May Have Killed Tens of Thousands, Says UN”, The Guardian (2020), https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/jun/04/philippines-police-may-have-killed-tens-of-thousands-with-near-impunity-in-drug-war-un; “‘License to Kill’: Philippine Police Killings in Duterte’s ‘War on Drugs’”, Human Rights Watch (2017), https://www.hrw.org/report/2017/03/02/license-kill/philippine-police-killings-dutertes-war-drugs.

^[6] Duncan McCargo, “Duterte’s Mediated Populism”, Contemporary Southeast Asia, 189 (2016).

^[7] Emily Rauhala, “‘Trump of the East’ Could be the Next President of the Philippines”, The Washington Post (2016), https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/asias-version-of-donald-trump-may-be-the-philippines-next-president/2016/05/06/f2c30f12-120b-11e6-a9b5-bf703a5a7191_story.html.

^[8] The People Power Revolution of 1986 was a series of popular demonstrations against 14 years of martial law under Ferdinand Marcos. With the support of a mutinous military and the Catholic Church, millions of Filipinos gathered in the streets of Manila in a sustained and nonviolent campaign to force Marcos’ ouster. After the president and his family fled to Hawaii, protesters stormed and looted an empty Malacañang, the Presidential Palace of the Philippines. The four-day resistance signaled a momentous transition towards a liberal democratic regime, and inspired similar popular pro-democracy movements around the world. In 1987, the matriarch of the People Power Revolution, Corazon Aquino, assumed the presidency, and helped draft and enact the new Philippine Constitution.

^[9] Randy David, “‘Dutertismo’”, Philippine Daily Inquirer (2016), https://opinion.inquirer.net/94530/dutertismo.

^[10] Richard Heydarian, The Rise of Duterte: A Populist Revolt Against Elite Democracy, 7 (2017).

^[11] Gil Cabacungan, “Most Powerful PH Leader Since Marcos”, Philippine Daily Inquirer (2016), https://newsinfo.inquirer.net/789789/most-powerful-ph-leader-since-marcos.

^[12] Cas Mudde, “The Populist Zeitgeist”, Government and Opposition, 542–563. (2014).

^[13] Samuel Huntington, Political Order in Changing Societies, 5 (1968).

^[14] Heydarian, The Rise of Duterte, 28.

^[15] For more refutations of neo-modernization theory, see Francis Fukuyama, Political Order and Political Decay (2015).

^[16] Aquino’s share of total votes in the 2010 Philippine presidential election (42.08%) exceeded that of Duterte’s in 2016 (39.5%). Moreover, he entered office with a 74% net trust rating among Filipinos, three times higher than that of his predecessor and 20% higher than that of Duterte. Aquino also stepped down with a “very good” net trust rating of 50% — higher than any of his predecessors at the end of their administrations. For more details, see Kristine Sabillio, “Aquino admin’s last net satisfaction rating ‘very good’ – SWS”, Philippine Daily Inquirer (2016) and Mahar Mangahas, “Baseline trust ratings of Duterte and Robredo”, Philippine Daily Inquirer (2016).  

^[17] “PH is fastest growing economy in Asia, expands by 6.9% in Q1”, CNN Philippines (2016), https://cnnphilippines.com/news/2016/05/19/philippines-fastest-growing-economy-asia-gdp-q1.html,

^[18] Mark Thompson, “Bloodied Democracy: Duterte and the Death of Liberal Reformism in the Philippines”, Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs, 43 (2016). 

^[19] “Philippine Economy From Marcos to Aquino (1972-2015)”, Business World and Philippine Statistics Authority (2016).

^[20] Heydarian, The Rise of Duterte, 26.

^[21] Thompson, “Bloodied Democracy”, 43.

^[22] Thompson, “Bloodied Democracy”, 44.

^[23] Heydarian, The Rise of Duterte, 29.

^[24] Heydarian, The Rise of Duterte, 28.

^[25] “Elitist Politics and Economics: the Real Aquino Legacy”, The IBON Foundation (2016), https://www.ibon.org/elitist-politics-and-economics-the-real-aquino-legacy/.

^[26] Jillian Keenan, “The Grim Reality Behind the Philippines’ Economic Growth”, The Atlantic (2013), https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2013/05/the-grim-reality-behind-the-philippines-economic-growth/275597/.

^[27] Cielito Habito, “Economic Growth for All”, Philippine Daily Inquirer (2012), https://opinion.inquirer.net/31439/economic-growth-for-all.

^[28] Keenan, “The Grim Reality Behind the Philippines’ Economic Growth.”

^[29] Benedict Anderson, “Cacique Democracy and the Philippines: Origins and Dreams”, New Left Review (1988), https://newleftreview.org/issues/i169/articles/benedict-anderson-cacique-democracy-and-the-philippines-origins-and-dreams.

^[30] Ronald Holmes, “The Dark Side of Electoralism: Opinion Polls and Voting in the 2016 Philippine Presidential Election”, Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs, 20 (2016).

^[31] Holmes, “The Dark Side of Electoralism”, 20.

^[32] Mindanao is one of the poorest islands in the Philippines. Notwithstanding Duterte, all past presidents of the Fifth Republic of the Philippines (post-1986) have come from Manila or other wealthy regions of the country. 

^[33] Heydarian, The Rise of Duterte, 35.

^[34] Alex de Jong, “The Philippines’ New Strongman”, Jacobin (2016), https://www.jacobinmag.com/2016/05/philippines-duterte-populism-marcos-neoliberalism.

^[35] Also known as EDSA, named after the collection of streets in Manila where anti-Marcos protests took place.

^[36] Gerry Lirio, “Is Philippines Ready for a State Burial for Marcos?”, ABS-CBN News (2016), https://news.abs-cbn.com/halalan2016/focus/03/13/16/is-philippines-ready-for-a-state-burial-for-marcos.

^[37] For more insight on the Marcos family’s systematic efforts to rehabilitate their public image as well as their vigorous return to national politics, see Lauren Greenfield, The Kingmaker, Evergreen Pictures (2019).

^[38] University of Maryland Department of Government and Politics, “The Psychotic in Public Life: Human Nature and the Political Justification of Brutality”, YouTube (2016), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQpg3vbCmOQ.

^[39] For more discussion on populist pathologies, see Ernesto Laclau, On Populist Reason (2005) and Margaret Canovan, “Trust the People! Populism and the Two Faces of Democracy”, Political Studies, 2-16 (1999).

^[40] Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism, 311 (1951).

^[41] Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, 41 (1961).

^[42] Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism, 381. 

^[43] Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism, 353.

^[44] Plato (translated by C.D.C. Reeve), The Republic, Book VIII (2004).

^[45] Arlie Hochschild, Strangers in Their Own Land: Anger and Mourning on the American Right (2016).

^[46] Hochschild, Strangers in Their Own Land, 135-139. Hochschild imagines the conservative deep story as a long and static pilgrimage line, occupied by hundreds of millions of mostly white and native-born Americans. The queue leads up a precipitous hill, and atop it resides the American Dream. The people behind these Americans, who are identified as minorities, hector at those in the front, calling them “bigoted, “racist”, “sexist”, “homophobic”, etc. Suddenly, the leader at the top of the hill waves at the people in the back of the line, prompting them to pass the white Americans ahead. To the front-liners, such expedience is profoundly unfair, and it makes them resentful, humiliated, and afraid. In their view, not only has order been abandoned for arbitrary preference, but this injustice has become understood as a moral norm. 

^[47] Harvard Kennedy School’s Institute of Politics, “A Conversation with Arlie Hochschild”, YouTube (2017), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=klbtDCQ3bM4.

^[48] Harvard Kennedy School’s Institute of Politics.

^[49] Derek Thompson, “The Deep Story of Trumpism”, The Atlantic (2020), https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2020/12/deep-story-trumpism/617498/.

^[50] Other notable Filipino populists include former President Joseph Estrada and former Vice President Jejomar Binay, both of whom employed class-based appeals and championed pro-poor policies. However, their agendas were largely thwarted by the liberal reformist establishment, which accused them of plunder and corruption, respectively.  

^[51] Heydarian, The Rise of Duterte, 36.

^[52] Duterte aimed to give local governments greater political autonomy and fiscal resources by instituting federalism, which would amend the Philippine Constitution by abolishing its unitary system of government. As a result, power, money, and resources would devolve from Manila to various regions of the country.

^[53] Julio Teehankee, “Duterte’s Resurgent Nationalism in the Philippines: A Discursive Institutional Analysis”, Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs, 72 (2016).

^[54] Holmes, “The Dark Side of Electoralism”, 35.

^[55] Maria Ressa, “Duterte, his 6 contradictions and planned dictatorship”, Rappler (2015), https://www.rappler.com/nation/elections/duterte-contradictions-dictatorship.

^[56] Mbembe, “The Aesthetics of Vulgarity” from On the Postcolony, 128.

^[57] Vicente Rafael, “The Sovereign Trickster”, The Journal of Asian Studies, 153 (2019).

^[58] UC Berkeley Center for Southeast Asian Studies (CSEAS), “Duterte — the Aesthetics and Politics of Authoritarian Vulgarity”, YouTube (2020), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bcup396x9us.

^[59] UC Berkeley Center for Southeast Asian Studies (CSEAS).

^[60] Rafael, “The Sovereign Trickster”, 153-154.

^[61] Richard Paddock, “Rodrigo Duterte, Philippines’ Leader, Says Obama ‘Can Go to Hell’”, The New York Times, (2016), https://www.nytimes.com/2016/10/05/world/asia/rodrigo-duterte-philippines-barack-obama.html.

^[62] Pia Ranada, “Duterte gives middle finger to EU lawmakers again”, Rappler (2016), https://www.rappler.com/nation/duterte-curses-european-union.

^[63] Rafael, “The Sovereign Trickster”, 156-157.

^[64] UC Berkeley Center for Southeast Asian Studies (CSEAS).

^[65] Antonio Gramsci (translated by Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell-Smith), “(i) History of the Subaltern Classes; (ii) The Concept of ‘Ideology’; (iii) Cultural Themes: Ideological Material” from The Prison Notebooks (1971).

^[66] For more insight on the police’s role in the drug war, see Frontline PBS, “Duterte’s Drug War”, YouTube (2019).

^[67] Bea Cupin, “Duterte to PNP: ‘Do your duty and I will die for you”, Rappler (2016), https://www.rappler.com/nation/duterte-pnp-duty-die-for-you.

^[68] “SWS: 78% of Filipinos fear becoming victims of EJK”, CNN Philippines (2016), https://cnnphilippines.com/news/2016/12/19/sws-78-percent-fear-EJK.html.

^[69] Michel Foucault (translated by Graham Burchell), The Punitive Society: Lectures at the Collége de France, 1972-1973 (2015).

^[70] Nestor Corrales and Leila Salaverria, “‘That’s Good,’ Says Duterte on Killing of 32 Bulacan Druggies”, Philippine Daily Inquirer (2017)., https://newsinfo.inquirer.net/923267/president-rodrigo-duterte-drug-war-bulacan-one-time-big-time-operation.

^[71] Allen Feldman, Formations of Violence: The Narrative of the Body and Political Terror in Northern Ireland (1991).

^[72] Danilo Andres Reyes, “The Spectacle of Violence in Duterte’s ‘War on Drugs’”, Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs, 117 (2016).

^[73] Judith Butler, Frames of War: When is Life Grievable? (2009).

^[74] Yale University, “Judith Butler, ‘Legal Violence: An Ethical and Political Critique’”, YouTube (2016), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=coBcQajx18I&t=1509s.

^[75] Human Rights Watch; Oliver Holmes, “Rodrigo Duterte vows to kill 3 million drug addicts and likens himself to Hitler”, The Guardian (2016), https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/sep/30/rodrigo-duterte-vows-to-kill-3-million-drug-addicts-and-likens-himself-to-hitler.

^[76] Gideon Lasco, “Just How Big is the Drug Problem in the Philippines Anyway?”, The Conversation (2018), https://theconversation.com/just-how-big-is-the-drug-problem-in-the-philippines-anyway-66640.

^[77] Leila Salaverria, “Duterte Insists Shabu can Cause Brain Damage”, Philippine Daily Inquirer (2017), https://newsinfo.inquirer.net/895885/duterte-insists-shabu-can-cause-brain-damage.

^[78] Marlon Ramos, “‘Junkies Are Not Humans’”, Philippine Daily Inquirer (2016), https://newsinfo.inquirer.net/810395/junkies-are-not-humans.

^[79] Nicole Curato, “Politics of Anxiety, Politics of Hope: Penal Populism and Duterte’s Rise to Power”, Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs, 98 (2016).

^[80] Curato, “Politics of Anxiety, Politics of Hope”, 99.

^[81] Curato, “Politics of Anxiety, Politics of Hope”, 100.

^[82] While I focused on Curato’s analysis of Duterte’s “politics of anxiety”, Curato also explores Duterte’s “politics of hope”, which mobilized citizens during the 2016 presidential campaign to exercise democratic agency through donating, rallying, selling campaign paraphernalia, and voting en masse. I did not elaborate on the “politics of hope”, however, since it was mostly activated by Duterte’s promises to deliver basic public services and eliminate corruption; the appeal of the war on drugs and criminality is centered principally around the “politics of anxiety.”

^[83] Curato, “Politics of Anxiety, Politics of Hope”, 101.

^[84] Holmes, “The Dark Side of Electoralism”, 32.

^[85] “June 2015 Nationwide Survey on Urgent National Concerns”, Pulse Asia Research (2015), https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B3b9qPFV1cRDcHBxa0J0Yzhid2c/view.

^[86] Marco Garrido, “Waiting for Duterte”, International Journal of Urban and Regional Research (2019), https://www.ijurr.org/spotlight-on/political-geographies-of-right-wing-populism/waiting-for-duterte/ from Garrido’s book The Patchwork City: Class, Space, and Politics in Metro Manila (2019).

^[87] “‘If You Are Poor, You Are Killed’: Extrajudicial Executions in the Philippines’ ‘War on Drugs’”, Amnesty International (2017), https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2017/01/philippines-the-police-murderous-war-on-the-poor/.

^[88] Garrido, “Waiting for Duterte.”

^[89] Garrido, “Waiting for Duterte.”

^[90] For more insight on class appeals to law and order rhetoric, see “Populist psychology: How class division empowers autocratic leaders | Michele Gelfand | Big Think”, YouTube (2018). 

^[91] Michel Foucault (translated by Jay Miskowiec), “Of Other Spaces: Utopias and Heterotopias” (1967).

^[92] For more discussion on the Filipino middle class’ support for Duterte, particularly its break from traditionally backing democratic candidates, see Adele Webb, “Why are the Middle Class Misbehaving?: Exploring Democratic Ambivalence and Authoritarian Nostalgia”, Philippine Sociological Review (2017).

^[93] Garrido, “Waiting for Duterte.”

^[94] For more insight on the extrajudicial killings, see extensive and up-close investigations in “The Impunity Series” from Rappler (2017) as well as data and ethnographic analyses in “The Drug Archive” from the Ateneo School of Government at Ateneo de Manila University, De La Salle Philippines, the University of the Philippines-Diliman, and the Stabile Center for Investigative Journalism at Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism (2018).

^[95] “Graphic Exhibit on Alleged Extrajudicial Killings Held in Popular Catholic Shrine”, CNN Philippines (2016), https://cnnphilippines.com/news/2016/12/21/graphic-exhibit-on-alleged-extrajudicial-killings-held-in-popular-catholic-shrine.html.

^[96] Vicente Rafael, “Photography and the Biopolitics of Fear: Witnessing the Philippine Drug War”, positions: asia critique, 919 (2020).

^[97] Rafael, “Photography and the Biopolitics of Fear”, 919.

^[98] SOAS University of London, “Humanizing the Inhuman: Photographing Death in Duterte’s Drug War”, YouTube (2018), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hunBy0MtVb0&t=2860s.

^[99] Anna Warburg and Steffen Jensen, “Policing the War on Drugs and the Transformation of Urban Space in Manila”, Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 10 (2018).

^[100] Warburg and Jensen, 11.

^[101] Jayson Lamchek, “A Mandate for Mass Killings?” from The Duterte Reader: Critical Essays in Rodrigo Duterte’s Early Presidency, 210-213 (2017).

^[102] “The Philippines’ Duterte Incites Vigilante Violence”, Human Rights Watch (2017), https://www.hrw.org/news/2017/04/19/philippines-duterte-incites-vigilante-violence.

^[103] For more insight on vigilante killers in the Philippine drug war, see The Nightcrawlers, National Geographic Documentary Films (2019).

^[104] “Why Intelligence Funds Require Scrutiny”, Rappler (2017), https://r3.rappler.com/move-ph/issues/budget-watch/191579-duterte-confidential-intelligence-funds-2018-budget-part-2.

^[105] “The Drug Killings: Who, What, Where, When, How?”, The Drug Archive (2018), https://drugarchive.ph/post/26-the-drug-killings-who-what-where-when-how-master.

^[106] Sheila Coronel, “Murder as Enterprise: Police Profiteering in Duterte’s War Against Drugs” from The Duterte Reader: Critical Essays in Rodrigo Duterte’s Early Presidency, 167-198 (2017).

^[107] Rafael, “The Sovereign Trickster”, 149.

^[108] Rafael, “Photography and the Biopolitics of Fear”, 922.