Pol. Transitions in Dominate Party Systems

Political Transitions in Dominant Party Systems

This outstanding anthology has a clear and innovative vision and combines a series of top quality chapters. I expect that it will become a staple of comparative politics, widely read and cited and assigned in comparative politics core seminars for years to come.

Barrett L. McCormick, Marquette University

This is a path-breaking study by leading scholars of comparative politics examining the internal transformations of dominant parties in both authoritarian and democratic settings. The principle question examined in this book is what happens to dominant political parties when they lose or face the very real prospects of losing? Using country-specific case studies, top-rank analysts in the field focus on the lessons that dominant parties might learn from losing and the adaptations they consequently make in order to survive, to remain competitive or to ultimately re-gain power.

Providing historically based, comparative research on issues of theoretical importance, Political Transitions in Dominant Party Systems will be invaluable reading for students and scholars of comparative politics, international politics and political parties.

Edward Friedman is a Professor in the Department of Political Science at the University of Wisconsin.

Joseph Wong is an Associate Professor of Political Science at the University of Toronto, Canada.

Contributors: Shane J. Barter, Tun-jen Cheng, Alberto Díaz-Cayeros, Federico Estévez, Edward Friedman, Anna Grzymala-Busse, Antoinette Handley, John Ishiyama, Cedric Jourde, Byung-Kook Kim, Beatriz Magaloni, Diane K. Mauzy, Christina Murray, T.J. Pempel, Garry Rodan, Susanne Hoeber Rudolph, Lloyd I. Rudolph, Richard Simeon, Laurence Whitehead, Joseph Wong.

Politics in Asia seriesFormerly edited by Michael LeiferLondon School of Economics

ASEAN and the Security of South-East AsiaMichael Leifer

China’s Policy towards Territorial DisputesThe case of the South China Sea IslandsChi-kin Lo

India and Southeast AsiaIndian perceptions and policiesMohammed Ayoob

Gorbachev and Southeast AsiaLeszek Buszynski

Indonesian Politics under SuhartoOrder, development and pressure for changeMichael R.J. Vatikiotis

The State and Ethnic Politics in Southeast AsiaDavid Brown

The Politics of Nation Building and Citizenship in SingaporeMichael Hill and Lian Kwen Fee

Politics in IndonesiaDemocracy, Islam and the ideology of toleranceDouglas E. Ramage

Communitarian Ideology and Democracy in SingaporeBeng-Huat Chua

The Challenge of Democracy in NepalLouise Brown

Japan’s Asia PolicyWolf Mendl

The International Politics of the Asia-Pacific, 1945–1995Michael Yahuda

Political Change in Southeast AsiaTrimming the banyan treeMichael R.J. Vatikiotis

Hong KongChina’s challengeMichael Yahuda

Korea versus KoreaA case of contested legitimacyB.K. Gills

Taiwan and Chinese NationalismNational identity and status in international societyChristopher Hughes

Managing Political Change in SingaporeThe elected presidencyKevin Y.L. Tan and Lam Peng Er

Islam in Malaysian Foreign PolicyShanti Nair

Political Change in ThailandDemocracy and participationKevin Hewison

The Politics of NGOs in Southeast AsiaParticipation and protest in the PhilippinesGerard Clarke

Malaysian Politics Under MahathirR.S. Milne and Diane K. Mauzy

Indonesia and ChinaThe politics of a troubled relationshipRizal Sukma

Arming the Two KoreasState, capital and military powerTaik-young Hamm

Engaging ChinaThe management of an emerging powerEdited by Alastair Iain Johnston and Robert S. Ross

Singapore’s Foreign PolicyCoping with vulnerabilityMichael Leifer

Philippine Politics and Society in the Twentieth CenturyColonial legacies, post-colonial trajectoriesEva-Lotta E. Hedman and John T. Sidel

Constructing a Security Community in Southeast AsiaASEAN and the problem of regional orderAmitav Acharya

Monarchy in South East AsiaThe faces of tradition in transitionRoger Kershaw

Korea After the CrashThe politics of economic recoveryBrian Bridges

The Future of North KoreaEdited by Tsuneo Akaha

The International Relations of Japan and South East AsiaForging a new regionalismSueo Sudo

Power and Change in Central AsiaEdited by Sally N. Cummings

The politics of human rights in Southeast AsiaPhilip Eldridge

Political Business in East AsiaEdited by Edmund Terence Gomez

Singapore Politics under the People’s Action PartyDiane K. Mauzy and R.S. Milne

Media and Politics in Pacific AsiaDuncan McCargo

Japanese GovernanceBeyond Japan Inc.Edited by Jennifer Amyx and Peter Drysdale

China and the InternetPolitics of the digital leap forwardEdited by Christopher R. Hughes and Gudrun Wacker

Challenging Authoritarianism in Southeast AsiaComparing Indonesia and MalaysiaEdited by Ariel Heryanto and Sumit K. Mandal

Cooperative Security and the Balance of Power in ASEAN and the ARFRalf Emmers

Islam in Indonesian Foreign PolicyRizal Sukma

Media, War and TerrorismResponses from the Middle East and AsiaEdited by Peter Van der Veer and Shoma Munshi

China, Arms Control and NonproliferationWendy Frieman

Communitarian Politics in AsiaEdited by Chua Beng Huat

East Timor, Australia and Regional OrderIntervention and its aftermath in Southeast AsiaJames Cotton

Domestic Politics, International Bargaining and China’s Territorial DisputesChien-peng Chung

Democratic Development in East AsiaBecky Shelley

International Politics of the Asia-Pacific since 1945Michael Yahuda

Asian StatesBeyond the developmental perspectiveEdited by Richard Boyd and Tak-Wing Ngo

Civil Life, Globalization, and Political Change in AsiaOrganizing between family and stateEdited by Robert P. Weller

Realism and Interdependence in Singapore’s Foreign PolicyNarayanan Ganesan

Party Politics in TaiwanParty change and the democratic evolution of Taiwan, 1991–2004Dafydd Fell

State Terrorism and Political Identity in IndonesiaFatally belongingAriel Heryanto

China’s Rise, Taiwan’s Dilemmas and International PeaceEdited by Edward Friedman

Japan and China in the World Political EconomyEdited by Saadia M. Pekkanen and Kellee S. Tsai

Order and Security in Southeast AsiaEssays in memory of Michael LeiferEdited by Joseph Chinyong Liow and Ralf Emmers

State Making in AsiaEdited by Richard Boyd and Tak-Wing Ngo

US–China Relations in the 21st CenturyPower transition and peaceZhiqun Zhu

Empire and Neoliberalism in AsiaEdited by Vedi R. Hadiz

South Korean Engagement Policies and North KoreaIdentities, norms and the sunshine policySon Key-young

Chinese Nationalism in the Global EraChristopher R. Hughes

Indonesia’s War over AcehLast stand on Mecca’s porchMatthew N. Davies

Advancing East Asian RegionalismEdited by Melissa G. Curley and Nicholas Thomas

Political Cultures in Asia and EuropeCitizens, states and societal valuesJean Blondel and Takashi Inoguchi

Rethinking Injustice and Reconciliation in Northeast AsiaThe Korean experienceEdited by Gi-Wook Shin, Soon-Won Park and Daqing Yang

Foreign Policy Making in TaiwanFrom principle to pragmatismDennis Van Vranken Hickey

The Balance of Power in Asia-Pacific SecurityUS–China policies on regional orderLiselotte Odgaard

Taiwan in the 21st CenturyAspects and limitations of a development modelEdited by Robert Ash and J. Megan Green

Elections as Popular Culture in AsiaEdited by Chua Beng Huat

Security and Migration in AsiaThe dynamics of securitisationEdited by Melissa G. Curley and Wong Siu-lun

Political Transitions in Dominant Party SystemsLearning to loseEdited by Edward Friedman and Joseph Wong

Political Transitions in Dominant Party SystemsLearning to lose

Edited by Edward Friedman and Joseph Wong

First published 2008by Routledge2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN

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© 2008 Editorial matter and selection, Edward Friedman and Joseph Wong; individual chapters, the contributors

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Contents

List of illustrations xiList of contributors xiii

1 Learning to lose: dominant parties, dominant party systems, and their transitions 1EDWARD FRIEDMAN AND JOSEPH WONG

PART I

Dominant party systems in transition 13

2 Congress learns to lose: from a one-party dominant to a multiparty system in India 15SUSANNE HOEBER RUDOLPH AND LLOYD I . RUDOLPH

3 A house divided against itself: the PRI’s survival strategy after hegemony 42FEDERICO ESTÉVEZ, ALBERTO DÍAZ-CAYEROS AND

BEATRIZ MAGALONI

4 Maintaining KMT dominance: party adaptation in authoritarian and democratic Taiwan 57JOSEPH WONG

5 The master is gone, but does the house still stand? The fate of single-party systems after the defeat of single parties in West Africa 75CÉDRIC JOURDE

6 The Communist exit in East Central Europe and its consequences 91ANNA GRZYMALA-BUSSE

x Contents

PART II

Dominant parties in transition 107

7 Learning to lose is for losers: the Japanese LDP’s reform struggle 109T. J . PEMPEL

8 Embracing defeat: the KMT and the PRI after 2000 127TUN-JEN CHENG

9 Learning to lose (and sometimes win): the neocommunist parties in post-Soviet politics 148JOHN ISHIYAMA

10 Defeat in victory, victory in defeat: the Korean conservatives in democratic consolidation 169BYUNG-KOOK KIM

PART III

Resisting losing 189

11 Learning to lose, learning to win: government and opposition in South Africa’s transition to democracy 191ANTOINETTE HANDLEY, CHRISTINA MURRAY AND RICHARD SIMEON

12 Learning to lose? Not if UMNO can help it 211DIANE K. MAUZY AND SHANE J. BARTER

13 Singapore “exceptionalism”? Authoritarian rule and state transformation 231GARRY RODAN

14 Why the dominant party in China won’t lose 252EDWARD FRIEDMAN

15 Dominant parties and democratization: theory and comparative experience 269LAURENCE WHITEHEAD

Index 285

Illustrations

Figures

3.1 Support of the PRI by partisanship of the governor 47 3.2 Simulated probability of PRI victory 49 6.1 Communist successor electoral performance 93 6.2 The Communist exit and its impact on political competition 99 10.1 Heterogeneity of political support for Roh Moo-hyun, June 2003 179

Tables

3.1 Mobility matrix of gubernatorial elections, 1989–2005 48 3.2 Estimates of probability of PRI victory, 1989–2005 48 8.1 Electoral rules for the KMT Central Committee (CC) and

Central Standing Committee (CSC) 134 8.2 Post-2000 KMT electoral performance 141 8.3 PRI’s control at various levels of government 141

Contributors

Shane Joshua Barter is a PhD candidate at the University of British Columbia. His dissertation explores how village leaders respond to intrastate conflict in Aceh in Southeast Asia. Shane has worked with the European Union, Carter Center, and Forum-Asia.

Tun-jen Cheng is Class of 1935 Professor, Department of Government, the College of William and Mary, and editor of Taiwan Journal of Democracy. He has published extensively on East Asian newly industrialized economies and democratization.

Alberto Díaz-Cayeros is an assistant professor in the Department of Political Science at Stanford University and is affiliated to the Center for Democracy, Development and Rule of Law (CDDRL), the Stanford Center for International Development (SCID) and a member of the board of the Center for Latin American Studies. His research interests fall into the topics of poverty, development, federalism, clientelism and patronage, and Mexico.

Federico Estévez is Professor and Researcher of Political Science at the Instituto Tecnológico Autónomo de México. Educated at UCSD and Stanford, he has worked extensively on parties and elections, distributive politics and public opinion in Mexico. His latest publication (with Eric Magar and Guillermo Rosas) is ‘Partisanship in non-partisan electoral agencies and democratic compliance: evidence from Mexico’s Federal Electoral Institute” in Electoral Studies.

Edward Friedman, a professor in the Department of Political Science at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, specializes in both Chinese politics and the challenges of democratization. His recent books include Revolution, Resistance and Reform in Village China, Asia’s Giants: Comparing China and India and Regional Cooperation and Its Enemies in Northeast Asia.

Anna Grzymala-Busse is Associate Professor of Political Science at the University of Michigan. Her research examines the internal organization and transformation of political parties, state building, corruption, informal institutions, and causation and temporality in social science explanations. She has published two books with Cambridge University Press.

xiv Contributors

Antoinette Handley is Assistant Professor in the department of Political Science at the University of Toronto. Her research interests include the political economy of development and economic reform, African politics and political transitions, state–business relations and the politics of disease and epidemics.

John Ishiyama is Professor of Political Science at the University of North Texas. He is the author or editor of three books, 90 journal articles and book chapters on party politics, ethnic politics, post communist Russian, Central Asian, European and African politics, and political science education. In addition, he is a Research Fellow at the University of Kansas’ Center for Russian and East European Studies. Currently, he also serves as Editor-in-Chief of the Journal of Political Science Education.

Cédric Jourde is Assistant Professor at the School of Political Studies, University of Ottawa. His research and publications focus upon issues in democratization and authoritarian restoration in West Africa; in Islam and politics in Africa; and in the role of discourses and representations in South–North relations. He has published his work in Comparative Politics, International Studies Quarterly, Journal of Contemporary African Studies, and in various edited volumes.

Byung-Kook Kim teaches comparative politics at Korea University. He graduated from Harvard with a BA and PhD, and recently co-edited Between Compliance and Conflict: East Asia, Latin America, and the “New” Pax Americana and Power and Security in Northeast Asia: Shifting Strategies.

Beatriz Magaloni is an assistant professor at the Political Science Department at Stanford University. She is affiliated to the Center for Democracy, Development and Rule of Law (CDDRL), the Stanford Center for International Development (SCID) and the Center for Latin American Studies. Her work deals primarily with authoritarianism, poverty, elections and the rule of law.

Diane K. Mauzy is Professor of Political Science at the University of British Columbia. She specializes in Southeast Asian politics and is the author/co-author of seven books, including Singapore Politics Under the People’s Action Party and Malaysian Politics Under Mahathir, and numerous articles. She is past president of the Canadian Council for Southeast Asian Studies.

Christina Murray is a professor in the Department of Public Law at the University of Cape Town. She was an adviser to the South African Constitutional Assembly in 1994–6 and works on South African and comparative constitutional law.

T.J. Pempel is a political scientist at the University of California, Berkeley. His research focuses on comparative politics, Japanese political economy, and Asian regionalism. His most recent books include Remapping East Asia: The Construction of a Region (Cornell University Press), and Beyond Bilateralism: U.S.–Japan Relations in the New Asia-Pacific (Stanford University Press).

Garry Rodan is Director of the Asia Research Centre and Professor of Politics and International Studies at Murdoch University, Perth, Australia.

Contributors xv

Susanne Hoeber Rudolph and Lloyd I. Rudolph are Professors of Political Science Emeriti, University of Chicago. Their most recent books are Reversing the Gaze (2002), Postmodern Gandhi (2006) and Explaining Indian Democracy (2008). Susanne Rudolph is a past president of the Association for Asian Studies and of the American Political Science Association.

Richard Simeon is Professor of Political Science and Law at the University of Toronto, and a Fellow of the Royal Society of Canada. His work is focused on Canadian and comparative federalism and intergovernmental relations, and on institutional design in divided societies.

Laurence Whitehead is an Official Fellow in Politics at Nuffield College, Oxford University, and a Senior Fellow of the College. He currently chairs Research Committee 13 of the International Political Science Association (Comparative Democratization) and the section on Europe and Latin America of the Latin American Studies Association; belongs to the steering committee of the Red Eurolatinamericano de Gobernabilidad para el Desarrollo; and serves as a Region Head for Latin America at Oxford Analytica. He directs the programme on Mexican Studies at Oxford’s Latin American Centre.

Joseph Wong is an Associate Professor of Political Science at the University of Toronto, where he holds the Canada Research Chair in development and democracy. Wong is also the Director of the university’s Asian Institute. He is the author of Healthy Democracies: Welfare Politics in Taiwan and South Korea (Cornell University Press).

Democracy is about institutionalized contestation, producing winners and losers. Democracies require the winners to submit to norms and practices, which prevent tyranny or vengeance against losers. Losers are expected to remain faithful to the rules of the game; they will not defect from democratic practices when they are out of power. Losers of today can become, or at least hope to become, the winners of tomorrow. Democracy’s resilience is in the stability of its institutionalized uncertainty, an uncertainty that even the most dominant of political parties has to confront. While repression may appear to facilitate political stability, authoritarianism actually creates destabilizing conditions. Chinese chauvinism, a purported manifestation of Han nationalism, reflects, among other things, the central regime’s anxieties about its political vulnerabilities. The Chinese Communist Party (CCP) is not alone in using repressive tactics. Authoritarian single-party states, a kind of dominant party system, feel vulnerable to losing their hold on power, even if they are not subjected to regular elections. Yet, every party eventually suffers some political crisis during which its defeat appears imminent, be it peacefully or violently. Dominant parties in both democracies and non-democracies similarly confront, as James Scott puts it, the “inconvenience” of losing.1 Comparisons across the authoritarian–democracy divide along this particular dimension—losing—can be meaningful and insightful.

Learning to Lose looks at dominant parties, both democratic and non-democratic, and examines the consequences of their defeat or moments and situations when they face the prospects of losing. What happens to these dominant parties? How do they adapt? How does losing or the possibilities of losing re-shape political systems? Do dominant party systems endure, or do they give way to other kinds of authoritarian systems or to meaningful multi-party competition? The contributors to this book assume that losing in politics can entail big changes, that when dominant parties lose, transformative processes are unleashed.

Much of the recent work on political transitions, however, has almost exclusively focused on authoritarian crises leading to transitions from non-democracy to democracy or to failed transitions. Though the transitology literature provides much insight into the processes of democratization, its singular attention to a specific mode and direction of change, authoritarian to democratic, misses other kinds of transitions which can occur when dominant parties lose power or when they face

1 Learning to lose

Dominant parties, dominant party systems, and their transitions

Edward Friedman and Joseph Wong

2 Edward Friedman and Joseph Wong

significant threats to their power. These transitions could include, for example, the transition from Stalinist totalitarianism to authoritarianism. China’s CCP regime, Edward Friedman shows, is an instance of an actually significant transformation but often treated as incomplete because it did not lead to democracy. The CPP of today is different than the CCP of Mao Zedong. Transformations can occur in stable democracies as well when dominant parties lose. As Susanne Rudolph and Lloyd Rudolph explain, the historic defeat of the Indian Congress Party prompted a re-invention of the party and the creation of a multi-party system in India. According to T.J. Pempel, Japan’s LDP, after its brief time out of power during the early 1990s, bears increasingly little resemblance to the LDP of the 1950s or 1970s. Japan’s democracy has been transformed as a result of adaptations meant to keep the party from losing again.

This book is therefore not just about democratic transitions from authoritarianism as it is conventionally understood in the mainstream transitology literature. The comparative scope of the book offers a broader conceptualization of “transition” which includes other, perhaps more subtle though no less significant, forms of political transformation. After all, Japan’s is an established postwar democracy, while Mexico’s is a relatively new democracy. China is not democratic, but also is no longer the closed, mobilizational political system of the Mao era. Benin’s nascent democracy is struggling, while Malaysia’s is flawed and shallow. Despite clear distinctions in regime type, these polities feature or have featured dominant parties which have not been impervious to challenges or the potential threat of the inconvenience of losing. We explore not only transitions to democracy but also the ways in which dominant party nation-states, democratic or authoritarian, can undergo significant transformations and yet remain democratic or authoritarian, in part building on the important work of Barbara Geddes (1999) in developing a more nuanced approach to authoritarianisms.

Comparing political systems

An institutional reality that is common across a diverse range of political systems is the central place of political parties. Studying them comparatively ought to be illuminating. However, until recently, parties and party systems were treated in an overly stylized fashion, an approach which limited comparative imagination. The scope and ambition of this volume reflects a collective effort to break down the categories once used to make sense of the world’s political systems. Learning to Lose reveals the old conventions, however otherwise important, to be static, homogenizing and relatively unconnected to some of the emerging complexities of the political world.

The end of the Cold War

Cold War categories simplified the world and limited comparative analysis of parties and party systems. Diverse non-Leninist authoritarianisms were homogenized such that important commonalities among the single-party systems

Learning to lose 3

of Mexico, Taiwan, South Korea and Singapore, which distinguished them from other types of authoritarian systems, were glossed over. Even among democracies, the dominant discourse seemed more ideological than analytical. The conventional perspective, then, was that democracies came in one of two forms: multi-party parliaments with proportional representation arrangements, on the one hand, and two-party presidential systems with plurality rules, on the other. Simplistic binaries such as these limited the comparative study of political systems because of over-simplification. There was little concern for the single-party democracies of Italy, Sweden, Israel, Malaysia, India and Japan as a different kind of democracy. As with authoritarian systems, diversity was lost.

The comparative study of parties and party systems has been in great flux since the end of the Cold War. It became increasingly clear to analysts that the prior dominant approach to categorizing the world’s political systems was more political ideology than comparative political science. It became clear in the post-Cold War era among industrial democracies that the categorization of political systems proffered by the Soviet bloc was pure propaganda. For Moscow, there were three kinds of political systems: the good guys, or peace-loving socialists, the bad guys, who were dubbed war-prone capitalists, and the non-aligned which were the countries to be fought over. On the flipside, the NATO alliance offered a mirror image, a perception derived more from realpolitik than from political science, the other side of counterfeit coinage. The good guys were democracies, while the bad guys were totalitarian communists. The others were developing nations, authoritarian, but nonetheless potential allies.

By the 1960s and 1970s, when the Soviet Union stagnated economically, when Beijing turned against Moscow, and when Eastern European countries cautiously reached out to the rest of Europe to their west, some social scientists began to focus on Soviet-style states as changeable, not totalitarian, as replete with potentially disruptive conflicts. They began to model the concept of “development” and of bureaucratic state interests. Still, some Cold War ideologues maintained an absolute divide in their categorizations of authoritarian and totalitarian regimes (Kirkpatrick 1982), deriding the possibility that the Shah’s Iran or Somoza’s Nicaragua could be in the same despotic league as, or even worse than, Kadar’s Hungary, Poland, Czechoslovakia or Mongolia. Into the 1970s and 1980s, when the Americans aligned with communist China and the military dictatorship of Pakistan and not with the democracy in India, and when America sided with military dictators who destroyed democracy in Chile and elsewhere, old Cold War categories seemed to make less and less sense. It was likewise increasingly difficult to embrace the socialists’ imaginary anti-imperialist peace camp when Brezhnev violently crushed the Prague Spring and when Vietnam invaded Cambodia, China invaded Vietnam, and the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan. Comparative categories cried out for a re-thinking.

The post-Cold War challenges of political crafting re-focused analytical attention onto political parties and party systems. As Thomas Carothers (2006) points out, democratic prospects in much of the transitioning world depend on the organization of party systems and the strength of political parties. The


institutionalization of parties and new party systems mattered (Di Palma 1990; Sartori 1994), aiding democratization (O’Donnell and Schmitter 1986; Linz and Stepan 1996) and crafting democratic institutions to grapple with deeply divided societies (Horowitz 1991; Reilly 2001; O’Flynn and Russell 2005). In the old political science, deeply divided societies could be dismissed. But as the new political science confronted hitherto ignored challenges, old binaries were being broken down. This book builds on and adds to this new thinking.

Dominant parties

The end of the Cold War and the democratization of Eastern Europe led to a fruitful discussion about dominant party systems that provided a vantage point from which to re-conceptualize a hitherto one-dimensional authoritarian–democracy binary. T.J. Pempel’s path-breaking volume, Uncommon Democracies (1990), explored a unique set of democracies which featured single dominant parties. His study illuminated how dominant parties in democracies mobilize their resources and strategically adapt to overcome periodic challenges. The insights of Uncommon Democracies are also significant for those studying authoritarian regimes. Not only could an authoritarian political system transit to another type of authoritarian system but the previously dominant party could survive and even subsequently facilitate a change from authoritarianism to democracy. Pempel’s study and the scholarship which followed identified a sub-set of political systems—the dominant party system—which cross-cut the authoritarian–democracy divide and permitted a re-conceptualization of political systems and their transitions.

This is not to say that the comparative analysis of dominant parties means that authoritarian and democratic systems ought to be considered one and the same. They clearly are not. But the range of regimes within these broad categories is richly diverse. Uncommon Democracies is careful in qualifying its comparative scope and its theoretical import. Still, understanding similarities and differences between how such political systems work and how they have been transformed is significant. It reveals, for example, that a liberalizing Taiwan during the 1990s was not dissimilar to events which occurred in Mexico and Korea. This broadly comparative approach highlights the uniqueness of the post-apartheid ANC government in South Africa, where the rules of democratic pluralism are regularly challenged, an argument developed by Handley, Murray and Simeon. It allows Mauzy and Barter to interrogate the Malaysian case and demonstrate how UMNO’s dominance in a flawed and shallow democracy is different than the PAP’s dominance in non-democratic Singapore. Indeed, current discussions about “competitive authoritarianism” (Levitsky and Way 2002), “electoral authoritarianism” (Schedler 2006) and an authoritarian type some call “hybrid regimes” (Diamond 2002), suggest how the comparative study of dominant parties and systems across and within the authoritarian–democracy divide is going in new directions.

This book focuses on dominant parties and dominant party systems. The contributors assume that all dominant parties experience moments of political

Learning to lose 5

crisis, during which they lose or could lose their political dominance. The extent to which parties demonstrate a willingness to accept the loss of power—“losers’ consent” (Anderson et al. 2005)—gauges their commitment to deepening or hijacking democracy. Authoritarian parties might, for example, choose to crush their democratic challengers, as in China and Uzbekistan. Dominant parties may choose to recognize their defeat, adapt and try to hold power as a dominant party in democracy. Either way, how parties react to losing shapes political transformation.

The contributors also assume that former dominant parties aspire not merely to survive but to win again. Learning to lose is not only about accepting defeat but also about devising strategies for winning. Losing need not be permanent. The contributors engage three inter-related questions: What adaptive strategies did dominant parties pursue in the face of political defeat or the prospect of defeat? Why did these parties choose the adaptive strategies they did? And finally, what were the consequences of these choices in terms of the party’s political fortunes and the nature of the dominant party system more generally? Grappling with these questions permits a conceptually rich, inductive analytical framework.

A comparative framework: the politics of adaptive choice

Crises are not times of normal politics but rather characterized by their open-endedness. Such Machiavellian moments produce different outcomes for dominant parties. Some parties collapse and disappear, others merely survive and attempt to challenge for power, and yet others re-gain national power. Consequences vary. Political crisis moments are times when political entrepreneurs have to make “hard” choices and potentially effect “big” changes, bearing consequences for the future of the party and the political system. Adaptive choices, in this respect, have to be purposive, not passive. They reflect the lessons learned from losing.

The open-endedness of crisis moments means that the range of political choices is vast. A former dominant party or one that is severely threatened might choose to re-invent its identity and ideologies to re-configure the party’s appeal. It might choose to re-program its policy platforms to expand its constituency base while minimizing losses to existing support bases. Parties might choose, for example, to re-organize by reforming internal institutions to mediate leadership succession, promote (or inhibit) intra-party democracy, facilitate membership renewal, and to innovate new policies. Finally, some dominant parties might choose to crush their opponents, foreclosing any possibility of a democratic opening. The empirical evidence drawn together in this volume suggests that former dominant parties have tended to pursue a mix of adaptive strategies. Five factors seem to shape the politics of adaptive choice.

First, political contingencies need to be accounted for. It is a truism in politics, that sometimes “things happen.” Accidents, unforeseen events, unique conjunctures, larger crises, both fortuitous and devastating, can occur. Contingencies animate political realities and can easily defeat the most rational of calculations. During moments of crisis, parties have to react to rapidly changing


and sometimes unforeseeable circumstances. Panic is possible. The unanticipated popular and bureaucratic reactions to Perestroika, to the fall of the Berlin Wall, to the June 4 movement in Beijing during the spring of 1989, to the end of apartheid in South Africa, and to factional splits in Taiwan’s KMT were unexpected. The contingent nature of such crisis moments has to be central to the processes of learning to lose.

Second, the nature of political crises matters. All dominant parties confront crisis moments, though the precise nature of these challenges varies. Losing and the prospects of losing are not experienced uniformly across cases and they can be experienced at different historical moments, even within one country. The NP’s defeat in South Africa’s democratic transition shares little in common with the ANC’s provincial electoral defeats in Kwazulu-Natal and the Western Cape in 1994 and 1999. How the former dominant party loses is important. The degree to which the formerly dominant party was defeated, soundly or by the slimmest of margins, and by whom, affects the party’s choice of adaptive strategies. Similarly in authoritarian cases, the extent to which the dominant party was threatened, and by whom, shape the parties’ adaptive strategies. The length of the dominant party’s incumbency, for example, and its past efforts in adapting to new political challenges affect how it adapts during times of political crisis. Parties learn and draw from a repertoire of historic experiences and strategies. Losing and learning from losing also extend beyond the national electoral arena. Seemingly dominant parties can “lose” in other non-electoral or sub-national political arenas, such as the ANC in South Africa, which would require a different mix of adaptive strategies for shoring up political legitimacy. How, when, and where dominant parties lose shapes their strategic decisions.

Third, party adaptation in times of crisis depends on the resources available to former dominant parties. Resources could include, for instance, patronage networks or material endowments held-over from a party’s dominant past. Exploiting resources can be a particularly attractive strategic option, especially if opposing parties are unable to mobilize similar stocks of political capital. However, an overabundance of resources could be viewed as inappropriate and even illegitimate in democratic settings, which might hurt the former dominant party in the eyes of voters. Resource endowment utilities vary. A party’s “usable past”—positive historical legacies, founding myths, or records of achievement—can be an important resource in the post-transition order (Grzymala-Busse 2002), yet balancing a party’s usable past with the negative legacies associated with its authoritarian past can be difficult.

Fourth, constraints proscribe choices. Not all choices are available or feasible. The programmatic nature of a party system raises the costs of new constituent appeals, especially if such appeals alienate a party’s former supporters, as the former communist parties of the Soviet Union learned when they adapted to democracy. Kim (this volume) describes a similar tension among reform-oriented conservatives in Korea, where efforts to make the party more “progressive” ended up alienating the party’s core supporters. Intra-party factionalism tends to undermine efforts towards internal organizational reform. Normative commitments

Learning to lose 7

to democracy raise the costs for parties looking to subvert democratic practices in order to regain political dominance. In other words, while political crises and the processes of learning from losing are open-ended, their vastness is ultimately circumscribed by institutional, ideological and other interest-based constraints.

The final factor is leadership. The cases explored in this volume highlight how party adaptation amidst political crisis depends upon effective leadership and political entrepreneurship. The ability of leaders to marshal resources and support from within the party ranks and to broadly appeal to constituencies determine the strategic choices a transforming party can viably pursue. Strong, unified and coherent leadership along with successful coalition building appear to be more conducive to adaptation, as evidenced by Japan’s LDP during the late 1990s. Meanwhile, weak and fragmented leadership, such as in Korea’s Grand National Party (GNP) and in Mexico’s PRI, tends to weaken a former dominant party’s adaptive prospects.

Looking ahead: the organization of the book

The book is divided into three sections. Though the authors all attend to the more general themes of crisis and adaptation and the major political transformations that ensue, the chapters emphasize different aspects of political change. They entail different vantage points on dominant party and party system transformations. Part I of the book explores the consequences of learning to lose for the dominant party system. Part II examines the transformations of former dominant parties themselves, identifying different patterns of adaptive change and the reasons for such variations. Part III focuses on dominant parties which have yet to lose, have in fact resisted losing, but which have had to undergo significant changes in the face of severe political crisis. Even the most authoritarian of parties, such as the CCP in China, have had to evolve in order to resist losing.

Systems in transition

The chapters in Part I, Dominant Party Systems in Transition, weave a common thread among otherwise disparate cases: when a dominant party loses power, a multi-party system is formed. Even in West Africa, where party development is weakly institutionalized, “alternation parties,” as Jourde calls them, have found themselves in relatively competitive situations. Elections, however problematic, bear consequences, and thus losing is meaningful with respect to transforming political systems. Yet, in going beyond the “procedural” or “minimalist” democratic baseline (Karl 1990), the various case studies also demonstrate how differences among the system emerge. The “robustness” of competition has varied. Party clientelism has been gradually weakened in some places (Taiwan), re-fashioned in other places (Mexico), and persisted in others (West Africa). Some former dominant parties have internalized the principle of “loyal opposition,” such as the Congress Party in India, while others have paid mere lip-service to the idea and have looked to perpetuate authoritarian practices. How former dominant


parties transform the political system depends on the strategic choices they make. Understanding these decisions is critical. A comparative reading of the chapters reveals some general factors which can help explain the range of choices and thus transformative outcomes.

One factor, explored by Diaz-Cayeros et al., is the institutional opportunities available to the former dominant party to ensure its survival. Mexico’s PRI, having been defeated at the national level, turned to sub-national contests as a way of re-building its diminished power. As Linz and Stepan (1996) teach, democratic institutionalization involves a spectrum of “arenas” of conflict and negotiation, providing opportunities for former dominant parties to enter into and, in turn, re-shape the terrain of political contestation. Second are the political cleavages driving democratic competition. Wong’s chapter on the KMT in Taiwan shows how the politics of “issue ownership” was mediated differently in authoritarian and democratic contexts. While the authoritarian KMT was able to manipulate and control social, economic and political cleavages for its advantage, the democratic KMT in opposition has had to contest political and policy agendas with the governing party. Party re-alignments in post-transition Taiwan have thus ensued. A third factor explored by Grzymala-Busse in her chapter on East Central Europe, is political skill. By political skill, she means the ability of elites to re-invent the former ruling party so that they can become viable players in democracy. Some post-communist parties were competitive, having eschewed programmatic leftist ideologies for more mainstream social democratic programs. Other post-communist parties were less successful in making similar transformations. The choices made by former dominant party elites, Grzymala-Busse finds, affect the robustness of party competition and the party system’s ideological range.

A fourth factor, and perhaps the most important in terms of institutionalizing democratic practice beyond the “artificial and structured conventions” of electoral politics (Whitehead 2007: 15), is the acceptance or rejection of democratic norms, specifically the principles of loyal opposition and victor’s restraint. Rudolph and Rudolph discuss these concepts in their chapter, first in the context of early English and American democratic development and later in democratic India. For them, the development of India’s multi-party system rested on the early internalization of the norm of losing and dissent among Congress Party elites. Even in West Africa’s fragile democracies, where, according to Jourde, neopatrimonial institutions persist, the norm of democratic restraint effectively (and somewhat surprisingly) reined in former despotic rulers from outright crushing their opponents. In a story of what would otherwise be tremendous institutional continuity, democratic norms and the decisions of African autocrats to abide by some of them transformed the dynamics of political contestation in West Africa.

Parties in transition

The chapters in Part II, Dominant Parties in Transition, focus more closely on the political transformations of former dominant parties themselves. They examine

Learning to lose 9

the inter-related processes of “learning to lose” and “learning from losing.” With few exceptions, most of the former dominant parties survived their defeats, though their subsequent political fortunes have varied considerably. Japan’s LDP regained power after having lost it for a brief time during the early 1990s and after sharing power during the latter half of the decade. The former communist party of Moldova similarly regained power, also the result of successfully transforming itself. Most former dominant parties, however, merely survived, with some poised to challenge for power (such as the KMT in Taiwan, the conservatives in Korea, and the former communist party of Russia) and with others on the decline (such as the Mexico’s PRI and the communist party in Kyrgyzstan). The point of these chapters is that how former dominant parties adapt is critical to their subsequent political fortunes.

When it comes to democratic transitions, Huntington (1993), Linz and Stepan (1996), Diamond (1999), O’Donnell, Schmitter and Whitehead (1986) stress that an authoritarian party’s past leaves an imprint on its future development. The moment of democratic breakthrough cannot negate in toto the legacies of a dominant party’s non-democratic origins. This alone, however, is not sufficient to sink a party’s democratic future. To be sure, all polities find their origins in a non-democratic past. Grzymala-Busse (2002) and others argue that former dominant parties need to showcase their past achievements while distancing themselves from their non-democratic heritage. Claims for the former, past achievements, however, are much more acceptable to voters when former dominant parties can make a “clean break” from their less auspicious pasts. This is not easy to do, as evidenced by the authoritarian legacies that continue to haunt the legitimacy of the KMT, the PRI, and the former communist parties of Russia and Kyrgyzstan. The conservative party in Korea, Kim explains, has been forced to confront its historical contradictions over its proclaimed postwar “liberal” roots, which has weakened the former dominant party’s legitimacy in democracy. Even in democratic Japan, Pempel explains, the LDP of the early 2000s was forced to break from its postwar past, uprooting its clientelistic networks, and scrapping its strategy of “pork” over “productivity.”

Dominant party adaptation and transformation are shaped by political choices. Strategic adaptive decisions are high-risk, and as such, political agents matter. Structural constraints shape and limit the range of choices available, but it is ultimately political agents—party elites and leaders—who decide which strategies will help (and in some cases hinder) in the re-building of the former dominant party. Koizumi’s decision to call a general election, for example, was as much motivated by the LDP’s ambition to regain power as it was, according to Pempel, to purge the dominant party of certain factions and to elevate Koizumi’s own reform agenda. His strategy paid off, but it was risky. The different ways in which political party leaders in the former communist parties of Russia, Moldova and Kyrgyzstan re-crafted party identities and party bases were similarly consequential with respect to their political futures. Their decisions, according to Ishiyama, were risky as well. Cheng’s chapter comparing adaptive decisions of the KMT (organizational reform) and the PRI (elite pact-making) highlights different strategic calculations


by party elites. He finds that the PRI’s decisions proved in the end to be less effective than the KMT’s approach to adaptation.

Resisting losing

The chapters in Part III, Resisting Losing, examine cases where the dominant party has not lost. These parties have successfully resisted losing, at least electorally. A common theme throughout is that while these dominant parties have avoided losing, they have had to face political uncertainties, moments of political crisis which threatened their dominance. Ironically, the party which is most secure and certain about its near-term hold on power is the ANC in democratic South Africa. In other words, to resist losing entails transformation. For dominant parties to stay dominant requires them to continually adapt. Otherwise, the ANC could split.

That China and Singapore have not transited to democracy or that the extent to which Malaysia’s democracy is flawed and shallow remains a contentious debate among comparative politics analysts (Schedler 2006), does not mean that these dominant parties and these dominant party systems have been impervious to significant challenges and the impetuses for adaptation. Challenges to their power have come from outside the electoral arena, however. Handley et al., in their chapter on South Africa, search in alternative institutional arenas for sources of opposition to the ANC’s otherwise unassailable hold on national power. Civil society mobilization, the possibilities of judicial autonomy, and the prospects of a free and open media in the age of globalization have challenged those dominant parties which have resisted losing in South Africa, Malaysia, Singapore, and even in China. Furthermore, conflicts surrounding leadership succession in single-party states have occasionally opened stresses within the dominant party and threatened its efforts to reproduce itself. Indeed, internal party conflict, evident in all of the cases, may be one way in which single-party dominance might end. This is certainly the case in Malaysia and China, and it appears to be the only way the ANC’s dominance could be undermined in democratic South Africa.

The ability of dominant parties to effectively resist losing, and in the cases of China, Singapore and debatably Malaysia, to resist full democratic transition (which entails losing) rests on strategic choices made by party elites and leaders. As Friedman notes, it was not unreasonable at the time for watchers of China to expect in 1989 some sort of democratic opening. A demonstration or domino effect was the conventional wisdom, especially with the democratic transitions among China’s neighbors, Taiwan and South Korea. That the CCP leadership, and Deng Xiaoping and his allies specifically, decided against a political opening at the time, however, was a strategic choice and one which evidently paid off for the dominant party. The CCP has remained in power, and according to Friedman, has augmented its legitimacy among powerholders in a globally connected and increasingly wealthy China. In 1989, it looked to many as though Deng was on the wrong side of history. But a transformed Chinese authoritarianism can be an anti-democratic model for others to emulate, and many are trying to do so at the moment. The longevity of the CCP and the PAP in Singapore suggest that

Learning to lose 11

the presumed structural forces of modernization (Lipset 1959) or the simple rationalistic explanations of elite behavior in transitional moments (Acemoglu and Robinson 2005) cannot fully explain why parties choose to learn to lose, or agree to lose in the first place. Democratization is not inevitable. In fact, it appears we are at a moment, not dissimilar to the immediate post-World War I moment, when non-democratic routes to modernity have gained traction at the expense of democracy’s appeal.

The chapters in Part III showcase dominant party strategies which have kept ruling parties socially, economically and politically relevant, to ensure that they do not go the way of the National Party in South Africa. The ANC has continued to benefit from ethnic and racial divisions. The PAP in Singapore, according to Rodan, has ensured that economic stakeholders and indeed the “pivotal” middle classes remain dependent on the party-state. UMNO in Malaysia has effectively reinforced its position as a relatively secular, re-distributive and paternalistic party. The CCP has successfully crafted a nationalist discourse, buttressed by China’s extraordinary economic development, which has de-legitimated democratic alternatives. The Chinese way, according even to some international analysts, is clearly the superior way to modernity. Yet, all four case studies demonstrate that eschewing the lessons of losing (or the prospects of losing) is not easy or automatic. Not learning to lose is no simple task. Single-party dominance has had to be carefully cultivated and adjusted to pre-empt the inconveniences of losing. Even these authoritarian dominant parties have had to adapt in order not to lose—yet?

Note

1 Commentary by James Scott at the Learning to Lose workshop, University of Toronto, March 31 to April 1, 2006.

References

Acemoglu, D. and Robinson, J. (2005) The Economic Origins of Dictatorship and Democracy, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Anderson, C. et al. (eds.) (2005) Losers’ Consent: Elections and Democratic Legitimacy, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Carothers, T. (2006) Confronting the Weakest Link: Aiding Political Parties in New Democracies, Washington, DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace.

Di Palma, G. (1990) To Craft Democracies: An Essay on Democratic Transition, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

Diamond, L. (1999) Developing Democracy: Toward Consolidation, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press.

Diamond, L. (2002) “Thinking about hybrid regimes,” Journal of Democracy, 13, 2.Geddes, B. (1999) “What do we know about democratization after twenty years?” American

Review of Political Science, 2.Grzymala-Busse, A. (2002) Redeeming the Communist Past: The Regeneration of

Communist Parties in East Central Europe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.


Horowitz, D. (1991) A Democratic South Africa? Constitutional Engineering in a Divided Society, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

Huntington, S. (1993) The Third Wave: Democratization in the Late Twentieth Century, Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press.

Karl, T.L. (1990) “Dilemmas of democratization in Latin America,” Comparative Politics, Vol. 23.

Kirkpatrick, J. (1982) Dictatorships and Double Standards, New York: Simon and Schuster.

Levitsky, S. and Way, L. (2002) “The rise of competitive authoritarianism,” Journal of Democracy, 13, 2.

Linz, J. and Stepan, A. (1996) Problems of Democratic Transition and Consolidation, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press.

Lipset, S.M. (1959) “Some social requisites of democracy: economic development and political legitimacy,” American Political Science Review, 53 (March).

O’Donnell, G. and Schmitter, P. (1986) Transitions from Authoritarian Rule: Tentative Conclusions, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press.

O’Flynn, I. and Russell, D. (eds.) (2005) Power Sharing, London: Pluto Press.Pempel, T.J. (1990) (ed.) Uncommon Democracies, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.Reilly, B. (2001) Democracy in Divided Societies, Cambridge: Cambridge University

Press.Sartori, G. (1994) Comparative Constitutional Engineering, New York: New York

University Press.Schedler, A. (ed.) (2006) Electoral Authoritarianism: the Dynamics of Unfree Competition,

Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner.Whitehead, L. (2007) “The challenge of closely fought elections,” Journal of Democracy,

18, 2.

Part I

Dominant party systems in transition

P.G.A. Pocock once described his scholarly enterprise as “the history of political thought, studied as the history of change in the self-conceptualization of political societies” (Pocock 1957: frontis page). We find this an attractive framing for our task, writing about “learning to lose” as an idea and as a practice. The title of the volume, Learning to Lose, arises from a question first raised by the literature on transitions to democracy in Latin America and Southern Europe (O’Donnell et al. 1986) and subsequently in Eastern Europe, the former Soviet empire and East Asia. In the transition from some form of authoritarian rule to some version of democracy, can the party being displaced or the party that follows “learn to lose”? What are the conditions and the reasons that will lead a party that loses power to believe that it will be allowed to regain it? What are the conditions and the reasons that lead a party that has gained power to allow a formed opposition to challenge it?

In this essay we extend the “learning to lose” question to South Asia by examining why and how the Congress party in India learned to lose. We also extend the “learning to lose” question to political thought and to the history of state formation. How was “opposition” conceptualized in the political theory of the early modern state? Where, why and how did the idea and practice of opposition arise? The answers take us to the political thought of Thomas Hobbes and Jean-Jacque Rousseau on sovereignty, the nascent democratic experiences of eighteenth-century England and America with respect to the appearance of public opinion and the formation of a public sphere, the emergence of political associations and the formation of political parties (Habermas, 1992: 422),1 processes that culminated in the recognition and legitimization of “loyal opposition.”

Legitimizing and institutionalizing a loyal opposition provides an example of what Pocock has referred to as a “change in the self conceptualization of political societies.” Sovereignty has to be re-imagined as limited, shared and put in commission. Manifest sovereignty exercised by the government party on behalf of the crown comes to be understood as de facto limited and conditioned by the latent or shadow sovereignty of the opposition party’s government in waiting, the alternative government. The parties contest for power in the context of a shared commitment to the crown (in times of kingship) or to the constitution (republican government). In either case contesting parties agree on procedures for contesting

2 Congress learns to lose

From a one-party dominant to a multiparty system in India

Susanne Hoeber Rudolph and Lloyd I. Rudolph

16 Susanne Hoeber Rudolph and Lloyd I. Rudolph

for power. As in competitive games with winners and losers, the contending parties seek to defeat each other but do so only by following the rules, which are designed to allow the loser to survive to fight another day. “Learning to lose” rules allow for victory and defeat but not the destruction of the adversary or the calling off of the game.

Instead of being perceived as subversive, as constituting a threat to government’s authority, opposition came to be re-conceptualized as part of government. A loyal opposition shared sovereignty with government and constituted an alternative to it. Such a reconceptualization entailed that winners, the party in power, not take advantage of its authority to handicap, shackle or eliminate the opposition. The losers, in turn, had to observe limits on how they sought to challenge, displace or remove the party in power. The reconceptualization begins with recognizing the legitimacy of dissent, opposition, political parties and their struggle for power. At the same time the reconceptualization supporting the idea of loyal opposition limits the struggle for power by accepting one of Aristotle’s definitions of democracy: to rule and be ruled in turn (Jowett 1943: 260). These understandings led to the emergence in eighteenth-century England and America of what had hitherto been regarded as an oxymoron, the idea and practice of a loyal opposition.

For an opposition party to remain loyal it must have confidence that the governing party is committed to “ruling and being ruled in turn”; like the governing party it must be confident that losing is not forever. If either side comes to believe that losing is forever, that the governing party will not allow another contest for power or that an opposition victory will make the next election the last, neither side can be said to have “learned to lose.” We conclude our stylized account of learning to lose by noting that winners have to be prepared to be losers and losers have to be confident that they can become winners for the self-conceptualization of learning to lose to survive and prosper. “Learning to lose” as self-conceptualization may be in jeopardy if a party holds power too long without a turnover, or holds it with an overwhelming majority (Przeworski et al. 2000).

How have political thought and historical experience contributed to a changed self-conceptualization of the modern state that incorporates the idea and practice of learning to lose? We answer this question by examining the sources in early modern political thought and in eighteenth-century English and American history that led to the formation and legitimation of a loyal opposition. The second part of the chapter applies the “learning to lose” model to the Indian National Congress, the movement that for 62 years led the nationalist struggle for Indian independence from British rule, won independence in 1947, and was India’s governing party for 42 years.

From opposition as subversion to loyal opposition in state formation

The idea of opposition, much less loyal opposition, is anathema to theorists of the early modern state. Thomas Hobbes speaking for seventeenth-century absolutism and Jean-Jacque Rousseau for eighteenth-century popular sovereignty excoriate

Congress learns to lose 17

dissent, opposition and lesser associations. The political theory of absolutism and monopoly sovereignty reaches its apogee in 1651 with the publication of Hobbes’ Leviathan. In it Hobbes addresses the consequences for the theory of sovereignty of the universal fear generated by the war of all against all in the state of nature. In order to survive, men must surrender their liberty of thought and action to an absolute sovereign, what he depicted as a Leviathan. Here is how Hobbes puts it:

A Common-wealth is said to be Instituted, when a Multitude of men do agree, and covenant, every one, with every one, that to whatsoever Man, or Assembly of Men, shall be given the major part, the Right to Person of them all [that is to say be their Representative], every one, as well as he that Voted for it, as he that Voted against it, shall authorize all the Actions and Judgements, of that Man, or Assembly of men, in the same manner, as if it were his own, to the end, to live peaceably amongst themselves, and be protected against other men.

(Hobbes 1991: 121)

Hobbes then argues that the terms of the contract ban dissent; the minority must obey on pain of death. To his way of reasoning, dissent threatens peace and tranquility. Only the sovereign is in a position to know what views are conducive to peace. He writes,

… because the major part hath by consenting voices declared a Soveraigne, he that dissented must now consent with the rest; that is, be contented to avow all the actions he shall do, or else justly be destroyed by the rest. For if he voluntarily entered into the Congregation of them that were assembled, he sufficiently declared thereby is will [and therefore tacitly covenanted] to stand to what the major part should ordayne …

(Hobbes 1991: 123)

And Hobbes continues:

… it is annexed to the Soveraignty, to be Judge of what Opinions and Doctrines are averse, and what conducing to Peace; and consequently, on what occasions, how farre, and what, men are to be trusted withal, in speaking to Multitudes of people; and who shall examine the Doctrines of all bookes before they be published. For the Actions of men proceed from their Opinions, and in the well governing of opinions, consisteth the well governing of men’s actions in order to their Peace and Concord.

(Hobbes 1991: 124)

In Book XXIX on “Of those things that Weaken, or tend to the DISSOLUTION of a Common-wealth”, Hobbes invokes a powerful metaphor to characterize the opposition when he speaks of “lesser Common-wealths … like wormes in the entrayles of a natural man (emphasis supplied)” (Hobbes 1991: 230). He also


warns against dividing the sovereign for “Powers divided mutually destroy each other” (Hobbes 1991: 225).

Rousseau in the eighteenth century, like Hobbes in the seventeenth, argued for an absolute sovereign and against opposition and lesser associations. Rousseau’s sovereign was the general will, the collective will of a people or nation. Its sovereignty was indivisible. Particular wills of individuals or of lesser collective wills subverted the general will and thus the common good. “Whoever refuses to obey the general will shall be constrained to do by the whole body, which means nothing other than he shall be forced to be free …” (Rousseau 2006: I, 19). He adds:

There is often a great deal of difference between the will of all … and the general will; the general will studies only the common interest, while the will of all studies private interest, and is indeed no more than the sum of individual desires.

(Rousseau 2006: II, 30)

Like Hobbes, Rousseau regards associations as worms in the entrails of the body politic:

But when factions arise, and partial associations are formed at the expense of the great association, the will of each of these associations becomes general in relation to its members, while it remains particular in relation to the State … It is therefore essential, if the general will is to be able to express itself, that there should be no partial society within the State, and that each citizen should think only his own thoughts.

(Rousseau 1950: II, 27)2

The third great contract theorist, John Locke, hinted at the need for a loyal opposition. Locke in his First Treatise on Government echoes Hobbes, saying that “if the supreme authority and power of making laws be conferred on the magistrate by the consent of the people … then it is evident that they have resigned up the liberty of their actions into his pleasure” (Locke 1997: 12). But he says in the Second Treatise “where the majority cannot conclude the rest, there they cannot act as one Body, and consequently will be immediately dissolved again” (Locke 1965: I, 99). This suggests that unless there is a loyal opposition (i.e. minorities who are willing to obey the laws and commands of a majority), the body politic will be dissolved and revert to a state of nature. The requirement that the majority be able “to conclude the rest” suggests that the body politic cannot remain viable unless both sides agree on a procedural constitution. We can infer from Locke’s phrase about the majority being able to conclude the rest that the majority’s legitimacy to govern and be obeyed depends on the minority’s ability to believe at a minimum that its values and interest are secure and at a maximum that it might become a majority.


Given this record of rejection in the political thought of the contract theorists of the modern state, how did opposition, associations and divided and shared sovereignty come to acquire a good name and honored place in the modern state? For the answer to that question we turn to the political history of the eighteenth

century in England and America.

Transition to the idea of loyal opposition

As we have seen, the “self-conceptualization” or dominant discourse in the political thought of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries had no place for opposition, associations or divided and shared sovereignty. In 1747, Jean Bernard Le Blanc wrote that “a nation can not make itself feared abroad but in proportion as it is united at home” (Le Blanc 1747: 101). It was difficult to consider rivals of the government of the day as anything other than enemies of the state. Transforming opposition from subversion to loyalty was the work of events, persons and ideas in a long eighteenth century in England and a shorter one in America. What seems at first blush as alchemy is explained as process in a remarkable book by Archibald S. Foord, His Majesty’s Opposition, 1714–1830 (Foord 1964).

The term, “His Majesty’s Opposition,” Foord tells us, was first used in 1826 by a British parliamentarian who meant it as an amusing “bit of parliamentary persiflage” about the conventional term, His Majesty’s Government.3 The term naturalized the idea of a loyal opposition by associating it with the legitimating power of the monarchy. What began as a witty analogy became a constitutional reality. As George Tierney, a leading Whig of the time, put it: “My honorable friend could not have invented a better phrase to designate us than that which he has adopted, for we are certainly to all intents and purposes a branch of His Majesty’s Government” (Foord 1964: 1).

Foord tracks the cumulative process in the eighteenth century where the seed of occasional dissent grows into the tree of loyal opposition. And while Foord’s narrative seems excessively teleological, it does suggest the aggregative process by which rejection of opposition turned into acceptance. He counts as a first step the English parliament’s decision not to impeach the Tory ex-ministers who went into opposition in 1717. Parliament could have severely punished them, but parliament held its hand. He counts Walpole’s sheltering of his rivals from retribution in 1720 another contribution to the institutionalization of loyal opposition. Both are cases of the winners learning to restrain themselves. Both call attention to the fact that loyal opposition is an interactive process that needs recognition and enactment by two parties, winners and losers.

Progress toward the institutionalization of opposition was not uninterrupted. The coalition of the Pittites in 1757 allotted to each faction its share of the spoils, buying off the possibility of a formed opposition. But by the end of the century the Pittites, who professed to despise party and systematic opposition, came around. Regarding themselves as the true friends of the monarchy, they formed a union in 1806 for the purpose of recapturing office from Grenville’s party who equally


regarded themselves as the best friends of the crown. By 1806 the operation of two parties, government and opposition, had been inaugurated.

For a Whig historian such as Foord the emergence of loyal opposition is a development that perfects the conventional constitution. He provides an ideal image of the opposition, of the losers.

The immediate purpose of Opposition criticism is to check, prevent, and rectify any abuses of which government may be guilty. The ultimate purpose is to replace the party or parties in power … The Opposition employs none but such peaceful means to achieve power. It operates wholly within the laws and conventions of the state, to which it is completely loyal. The opposition is a responsible body, obliged not to take any action calculated to drive the country into chaos … The assumption of loyalty and responsibility by the Opposition converts it from a mere political faction into “His Majesty’s Opposition”.

(Foord 1964: 2)

Foord’s summary provides a sort of Hippocratic oath for parliamentarians. It emphasizes exclusively the normative power of the loyal opposition. The conclusion scants the role interest plays in the arrangements. To recognize the role norms play in the construction of effective political institutions is not to disdain interest. The alternation of the relationship between winner and loser forces the players into a situation where it is in their long-term interest to observe Foord’s oath.

The idea of “protected losing” implied in the term “loyal opposition” was anathema to the earlier political tradition of monarchical sovereignty or a sovereign king-in-parliament. It entails the protection of dissent, which means protection for dissenting words not only in the legislature but also on the hustings and in print. It means recognizing the standing and legitimacy of “opinion out of doors,” that is, outside the halls of parliament as it is articulated by political parties. In Britain, as M. Ostrogorski showed in Democracy and the Organization of Political Parties (1902), dissent and its reflection in “parties” was first legitimized in parliament, then in political associations in the counties and London and well before the expansion of the franchise.4

In the US, a similar struggle about the legitimacy of opposition took place, but the contestation was over the legitimacy of party. That contestation is bracketed by George Washington’s Farewell Address at the close of his second term (1796) and Jefferson’s first Inaugural Address (March 4, 1801). By Washington’s second term the sharp differences over financial and foreign policy that divided Alexander Hamilton, secretary of the treasury, and Thomas Jefferson, the Secretary of State, had led to Jefferson’s exit from the cabinet at the end of 1793. When Jefferson left the government he fostered the formation of local Democratic Societies, a partisan press and, in time, the Democratic-Republican Party. During John Adams’ term as president (1796–1800), partisan differences between Federalists and Democratic-Republicans intensified. Adams pursued a policy of neutrality in


the war for world supremacy between imperial Britain and revolutionary France while Jefferson was sympathetic to the French cause. The Adams administration tried to silence and eliminate the Jeffersonian opposition by using the draconian Alien and Sedition Laws. The country seemed to be on the verge of secession or civil war. The bitterly fought 1800 presidential election brought Jefferson into office. How would Jefferson interpret his victory? Washington’s Farewell Address rejected opposition as subversive; Jefferson’s first inaugural accepted opposition as constructive. Washington’s Farewell Address makes the case against opposition by arguing that:

the unity of government which constitutes you as one people is … a main pillar in the edifice of your real independence … [Americans share] with slight shades of difference the same religion, manners, habits and political principles. You have in a common cause fought and triumphed together.

(Washington 1796)

The bonds of shared identity and collective memory, Washington argues

are greatly outweighed by those which apply more immediately to your interest. Here every portion of the country finds the most commanding motives for carefully guarding and preserving the union of the whole.

Washington then proceeds to spell out why and how the economies of the South and North, the East and West, are “intertwined and mutually beneficial.” But there are “causes which may disturb our Union,” the first of which is geographical parties. “Designing men may endeavor to excite a belief that there is a real difference of local interests and views” between “Northern and Southern, Atlantic and Western.” The second cause is “combinations and associations under whatever plausible character” whose “real design” is “to direct, control, counteract, or awe the regular deliberations and actions of the constituted authorities.” Such “self-created societies”5 “serve to organize faction” and “put in the place of the delegated will of the nation the will of a party …” Party animosity “foments occasionally riot and insurrection … [and]opens the door to foreign influence and corruption.”6 According to Richard Hofstadter, “the fundamental problem of the legitimacy of organized opposition and the possibility of a peaceful turnover of power to an opposition party was posed with unmistakable force” (Hofstadter 1969: 102–3).

So how did Jefferson do it? How did he find a way to legitimize opposition and for the Federalists to “learn to lose?” Instead of turning vengefully on his opponents, as might have been expected given the intensity of the campaign rhetoric, he adopted a conciliatory attitude. His inaugural in March 1801 contained the famous phrase, “We are all Republicans, we are all Federalists.” On the one hand it evokes Washington’s invocation of “the unity of government which constitutes you one people” and on the other it suggests that agreement on principle does not preclude differences over policy. “Every difference of opinion is not a difference


of principle. We have called by different names brethren of the same principle.” Jefferson went on to promise his opponents freedom and security.

All, too, will bear in mind this sacred principle, that though the will of the majority is in all cases to prevail, that will to be rightful must be reasonable; that the minority possess their equal rights, which equal law must protect, and to violate would be oppression.

(Jefferson 1801)

He was promising the Federalists not only freedom of expression and association but also that there would be no Alien and Sedition Laws to silence or crush them. If Britain, “the mother of parliaments,” provided a model of legitimizing opposition and learning to lose, America, the first state to make “We the people” sovereign, provided a model for legitimizing opposition and for learning to lose under conditions of competitive democratic politics.

Learning to lose travels to India: the colonial era

We fast-forward our analytic gaze 150 years to 1947, the date of India’s indepen-dence, and ask how the Indian National Congress, the party of the nationalist movement and, for several decades after independence, the dominant party of a dominant-party system, learned to lose. The possibility of institutional transfer and learning suggests that India might be in a position to benefit from the institutional innovations with respect to “loyal opposition” and learning to lose that Britain and the US pioneered in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. As Alexander Gerschenkron argued with respect to economic development, there can be certain advantages to “backwardness;” late developers can learn from rather than repeat the course the industrial revolution took in England where it began. In the Indian case, the nature of its colonial experience and the kind of nationalist response that colonial rule generated contributed substantially to whether and how the Congress learned to lose.

The explanatory claims of new institutionalism (North 1990) lead us to believe that political institutions such as a “loyal opposition,” which traveled to India during the colonial era, can shape political development as much or more than economic or social structural variables. At its founding in 1885 the Indian National Congress (hereafter the Congress) questioned British rule in India; by the time Gandhi became Congress’ leader in 1920, it was challenging British rule. For most of the 62 years between its founding in 1885 and independence in 1947 it played the role of an “opposition party” to the British Government of India, one, however, whose chance of winning lay in a distant future. After the demise of East India Company rule and the onset of direct rule in 1858 the raj advanced a variety of stories to legitimize its claim to be the Government of India: conquest, the loyalty of peasants and princes, the white man’s burden, the mission to lead India eventually toward representative government.


The Congress was launched in 1885 under the guidance of Allan Octavian Hume, a retired ICS officer critical of official policy, with the modest goal of creating a public opinion capable of influencing government policy. Over time Congress developed more ambitious goals: election to the provincial Councils created in 1892 and made up of officials and nominated members;7 Home Rule during World War I;8 the attainment of Swaraj 9 by peaceful means, which Congress attempted to realize in the hugely successful Non-Cooperation campaign between 1920 and 1922;10 civil disobedience in the Gandhi-led Salt Satyagraha in March and April 1930 that not only undermined the moral authority for British rule in India but also drew world attention to India’s demand for dominion status; and the Quit India movement in 1942 that challenged Britain’s unilateral decision to take India into World War II and its authority to rule India.

The principal actors in the migration and assimilation of learning to lose in India were the British colonial state and the Indian National Congress.11 Sixty years after the end of colonialism in India, Indian and imperial public intellectuals are still contesting the meaning and consequences of British rule in India. Niall Ferguson, for example, argues that Britain’s imperialism made India what it is today, the world’s largest democracy, and that British-style imperialism can be the vehicle for the export of liberal democratic institutions (Ferguson 2003). Two of India’s leading public intellectuals, Ashis Nandy and Partha Chatterjee, argue respectively that colonial modernity created an “intimate enemy” and a “derivative discourse” that deprived Indians of an authentic identity and an indigenous conceptual vocabulary (Nandy 1983; Chatterjee 1993). They reject as inauthentic the hybridity of the English speaking descendents of Macauley’s 1835 “Minute on Education” whose aim was to create “a class of persons, Indian in blood and colour, but English in taste, in opinion, in morals, and in intellect.”

We are inclined to take a more positive view of the hybridity associated with colonial rule in the realm of political culture and institutions. Like cricket, parliamentary politics became an Indian game (Nandy 1989: 1–2).12 The establishment and growth of liberal parliamentarism and party democracy in India can be read as the consequence of an interactive process between raj liberal reform measures and nationalist responses to them. In the process several generations of nationalist leaders from Gopal Krishna Gokhale to Jawaharlal Nehru became thoroughly at home with parliamentary language and practice. Successive generations of a burgeoning political class acquired a stake in parliamentary institutions and became skillful in deploying them. Among the lessons they learned was learning to lose.

There was a certain division of labor in the building of political institutions. The structures and play book for parliamentarianism, the vehicle of policy-making and deliberation, were initially supplied by Great Britain as it introduced legislative councils, meant to evolve along the Westminster model. But Indian nationalists supplied the party, the component of the new institutions that would make them democratic. When they founded and grew the nationalist movement, they laid the basis of a structure that would build a voting public and mobilize support and


opposition to policy. The Indian National Congress easily morphed into a party suited for competitive democratic politics.

Congress accomplished the transition to liberal democracy under the aegis of a contradictory political environment. On the one hand, Indians were engaged in a parliamentary game. As they participated in policy discussions first at the municipal, then at the provincial and central levels they acquired the basics of parliamentary culture: freedom of speech and association, procedural understanding between government and its opponents, influence of public opinion, and recognition of the legitimacy of competition and dissent. On the other hand, Indians were engaged in a nationalist movement that, by rejecting the colonial government’s understanding of the relationship between Britain and India, denied foundational consent to the government. While the empire professed to be setting India on the path to self-government, an alternative that came within reach of the possible with discussions of dominion status in the late 1920s and early 1930s, India’s British rulers were sufficiently divided about dominion status for India to make the profession spurious. And as long as the British ruled India there was no possibility of realizing the principle of ruling and being ruled in turn. Congress was assigned the role of a permanent loyal opposition.

If Great Britain provided a parliamentary model, and Congress supplied party structure, Nehru and Gandhi in different ways articulated a political culture that could sustain parliamentary institutions. Larger than life political figures, they provided pedagogy in political culture that stressed the normative and cultural requisites for learning to lose. They drew on different normative traditions. Nehru, educated in English political culture, provided a model of parliamentary civility, respect for opponents, restraint on those actions of the ruling party that would unfairly damage the opposition, willingness to observe rules when they were to one’s own disadvantage. He was seen as a kind of political schoolmaster, a role he enacted through fortnightly letters, ranging from two to thirty pages, addressed to Congress Chief Ministers and occasionally to the presidents of state Congress parties. Personal and non-official, the letters represented an effort to provide policy and procedural guidance to state leaders. They are informed and informative, sometimes preachy. They inform the chief ministers of the importance of the role of opposition: “Indeed an effective opposition is desirable from many points of view. It may, and does, delay the disposal of matters … But nevertheless, it tends to keep Government and the majority party wide awake [and] help win the political education of the country” (Parthasarathi 1987; Nehru 1955).

Gandhi’s mode of conducting the nationalist movement complemented and reinforced Nehru’s commitment to parliamentary procedure. For Gandhi these rules, however, arose as much out of the philosophy of satyagraha—respect for the humanity, values and interests of the opponent, and adherence to non-violence—as out of the British protocols in which Gandhi the barrister had been trained. His adherence to the view that means governed ends, and not the reverse, reinforced the restraints built into the rules of a functioning parliamentary system.

By Indian independence in 1947, the colonial and nationalist experience had equipped India’s growing political class with knowledge of parliamentary


institutions, electoral processes and party organization. Starting with municipal government in the 1870s and extending through the Morley–Minto reforms of 1909, the Montagu–Chelmsford reforms of 1919 and into the reforms of the Government of India Act of 1935, India’s political class learned a good deal about how to how operate legislative, electoral and party institutions. The “Diarchy” set up by the Montagu–Chelmsford reforms in 1918–19 turned over certain provincial ministries to Indian ministers, a practice expanded by the Government of India Act of 1935 and implemented after the provincial elections of 1937 (Singh 1988: I, 385–6).13 Congress formed governments in eight of the eleven provinces. The governments functioned for two years, until the outbreak of World War II, when Congress resigned in protest against not having been consulted on India’s participation in the war.

The provincial elections of 1937 represented a major trial run in competitive politics. Even with the franchise restricted to 10 percent of the population, the electorate amounted to 30 million. While the Congress dominated the scene, there were several smaller parties which contested. Congress campaigned vigorously. The Annual Report of the Congress in 1937 reported that,

[t]he President and the members of the Working Committee toured India visiting every province … [the President] traveled at the rate of 1500 and more miles every week … Congress workers spread themselves in every nook and corner of the vast continent of India … in one sense the elections had been won already. Our masters had been educated.

(Zaidi and Zaidi 1980: 510–11)

After the election, the winning parties had to form governments, satisfy the state governors that they had the numbers to claim the government, and survive a vote of confidence. These institutional conventions, both the experience in the legislatures and the elections, served as pedagogy in democratic processes.

The legislative experience was paralleled by the organizational experience accumulated by Congress, experience that served it when, at independence, it had to organize itself as a political party. Not only had it accumulated political capital—name recognition, networks, political debts—during the 62 years (1885 to 1947) that it had championed the struggle against British colonial rule; as a nationalist movement it had acted as a consensus builder, reaching out to and incorporating urban and rural, mass and class, in a comprehensive multi-class, multi-regional alliance. It was this comprehensiveness which allowed it to set up in 1947 as a dominant party.

Much of the organization building was the work of Mohandas Gandhi, whose reputation for spirituality and whose role as architect of civil disobedience tend to obscure his capacities as an organizational genius (Rudolph and Rudolph 2006: 235ff.). Returning in 1915 from 21 years in South Africa where he had organized the Indian minority to resist incipient apartheid, Gandhi was unfavorably impressed with the composition of Congress, an assembly of English-speaking notables that ran the Congress as an occasional enterprise, meeting mainly for


policy-making annual conventions. While Bal Gangadhar Tilak’s popular politics and nationalist initiatives in Maharashtra and the Bengali nationalism that flowed from the partition of Bengal both expanded the class base of the Congress and gave it a more populist voice, they had not remade Congress. Accustomed as he was to mobilizing poor Indian laborers during the struggle in South Africa, Gandhi worked to transplant the South African model to India. In 1920 he transformed the Congress from an institution catering to anglicized elites to a popular organization capable of reaching into the urban lower classes and rural areas.14 He did so in the first instance by anchoring Congress’ regional committees, which so far had paralleled the provinces created by the British for administrative convenience, in India’s linguistic and cultural areas, enabling political participation by speakers of regional languages.15 He also transformed the symbolic idiom of the Congress, drawing on indigenous concepts of language, dress, food, calendar, and conflict resolution. In consequence, Congress emerged at independence with broad experience in popular participation and as a political class capable of deploying wide-reaching networks.

Learning to lose within Congress

As we have seen in the British and American inventions of “loyal opposition,” a precondition for their institutionalization is a political culture that recognizes and legitimizes dissent rather than treating it as subversion or treason. The Congress, unlike some of the dominant parties examined in this book,16 had almost from its inception in 1885 operated with the expectation that dissent was legitimate. By the turn of the twentieth century it began treating opposition as normal even though many in the raj establishment did not. After Gandhi assumed its leadership in 1920, Congress began to present itself as an alternative government and continued to do so until it became one on August 15, 1947.

But Congress developed ideas about “loyal opposition” and learning to lose from its own internal governance experience and political rivalries, as well as in its relationship to the British colonial state. The first of the internal battles over strategy, ideology and leadership that contributed to Congress learning to lose was the split in December of 1905 at the Surat annual session between the “extremists” and the “moderates.” The extremists were led by Bal Gangadhar Tilak, the moderates by Gopal Krishna Gokhale. Tilak, a Hindu revivalist who countenanced violent means, expected to succeed Gokhale as Congress President, though Gokhale and his liberal supporters blocked his selection. Tilak’s Hindu-mindedness led him to assert the superiority of Hindu civilization and oppose social reform in the name of preserving the privileged place of the brahman and kshatriyas castes and of maintaining the seclusion of women. Tilak argued that social change should follow independence, not, as the Moderates advocated, facilitate it. Gokhale like his mentor, Mahadev Govind Ranade, worked for social reform. He believed that social reform would help achieve self-rule. Gokhale was a political liberal who favored constitutional means to achieve responsible government.


Gokhale’s leadership and views prevailed. Tilak and the “extremists” were expelled and formed a new party. Gokhale groomed Gandhi for Congress leadership and Gandhi recognized Gokhale as his “political guru.”17 In time Tilak returned to the party, and in 1916 he and Annie Besant founded Home Rule Leagues to advance India toward self-government. Gokhale died in 1915, Tilak in 1916. When Gandhi assumed leadership of the Congress in 1920, part of his appeal was his ability to combine the moderates’ non-violent means for self-rule with the direct action of the extremists. The various resolutions of the Surat split between the moderates and extremists helped Congress learn to lose by normalizing the practice of dissent and opposition.

Another split occurred in 1922 over the issue of “Council entry.” Should the Congress cooperate with the government by participating in the legislative councils that the Montagu–Chelmsford constitutional reforms brought into being? Or should it continue with Gandhi’s effort to end colonial rule through a strategy of mass-based non-cooperation? Two prominent initiators of the Swaraj Party were Anglicized liberals C.R. Das, leader of the Congress in Bengal, and Motilal Nehru, a leader of the Congress in UP. They were successful lawyers, prosperous and esteemed professionals who had studied law in England. They contested elections and entered provincial legislatures in order, inter alia, to press for the realization of Dominion Status for India. When Muslim–Hindu differences erupted in the mid-1920s, the Swaraj party split (in 1926), with some members joining the Hindu Mahasabha and some rejoining the Congress. Again, as in 1907, the idea and practice of dissent and opposition had been normalized

Less visible to the public gaze but important for developing a political culture within the Congress that recognized learning to lose were momentous struggles between its pre-eminent leaders, Mahatma Gandhi and his designated political heir, Jawaharlal Nehru. The first of these struggles took place in 1927–9 over whether Congress should continue, as Gandhi believed it should, with the political objective of Dominion Status or, as Nehru advocated, change its objective to purna swaraj, complete independence (Rudolph and Rudolph 2006: 22–7, 66–71).18 The struggle was intense, involving competition for the loyalty of the younger generation. It took place behind the scenes during Congress’ annual sessions in December 1927, 1928 and 1929. Gandhi “lost,” but in a prudent gesture of conciliation himself offered the resolution for purna swaraj at the annual session in 1929. The pre-eminent leader of the Congress enacted a visible and exemplary instance of losing to his rival.

This experience and others like it fostered an expectation that dissent and opposition need not be subversive, destabilizing or destructive. Congress’ experi-ence with internal struggles normalized the idea of regulated conflict. Congress’ political culture made it possible to rule and be ruled in turn. Losers could acquiesce in their loss because they could expect to become winners.


Congress learns to lose: towards a multi-party system

How and why do dominant parties cease to be dominant? Before addressing this question, we need to say more about what is indicated by the term dominant party. We approach an understanding of the concept inductively. What are the key characteristics of the dominant parties examined in this volume: the LDP in Japan; the INC in India; the KMT in Taiwan; the PRI in Mexico? Their most important feature is durability. They have won elections and held power for decades. We would not call a party dominant if it served for only a single term. Another characteristic is the tendency for dominant parties to command large majorities of seats and/or votes. Consistently large majorities suggest that elections are less than free and fair and that competitive parties and voters are being intimidated. Whether or not a dominant party wins by large majorities, its long-term incumbency gives it an advantage over its competitors by putting the powers of government in its hands.

Durability and the powers of incumbency raise suspicions about a party’s democratic credentials. There seems to be a tendency for dominant parties to engage in authoritarian practices. Of the four dominant parties under consideration, the KMT and the PRI were more prone to such practices than the LDP and the Congress. Yet it was the KMT and the PRI that lost power. And when Congress engaged in authoritarian practices during the Indira Gandhi imposed Emergency of 1975–77, it led to its defeat in the 1977 election. Durability seems to be the least ambiguous characteristic. Adam Przeworski counts party alternation as the most important criteria for counting a regime as democratic. Because durability negates the idea of ruling and being ruled in turn, it seems that it is the most reliable way to identify a dominant party (Przeworski et al. 2000: 23–30).

Having set out a few characteristics of dominant parties and raised questions about their operation in democratic regimes, we turn to the Congress as a dominant party. That the Congress’ experience of dissent and internal opposition did not result in its fragmentation had a lot to do with the nationalist movement’s strategic need to face the colonial power in a reasonably unified fashion. From 1920, when he first came to lead the Congress, through World War II, Gandhi made this strategy paramount. In the face of demands to give peasants or workers or Hindu identity top priority, he was able at various critical moments to subordinate such demands to the goal of freeing India from British rule. For two decades after independence the Congress was able to remain hegemonic for several reasons. First, it enjoyed an enormous advantage over its competitors from the political capital it had acquired from when it led the nationalist movement and freed the country from British rule. Second, as the hegemon of a dominant-party system, Congress was challenged by “pressure at the margin,” rather than by efforts to displace Congress governments (Kothari 1967). Opposition parties influenced Congress policies by working on like-minded factions within the Congress; e.g. the socialists on the socialists in Congress, the Hindu nationalists on the Hindu nationalists in Congress. As much out of necessity as out of choice, opposition parties responded to what the Praja Socialist Party leader, Ashok Mehta, referred to as “the political compulsions of a


backward country.” Those compulsions entailed engaging in criticism but not for opposition’s sake because “the axiom of opposition’s job to oppose would make economic development difficult” (Goray 1953; Narayan 1957).19

In the case of Congress, durability meant Congress ruled for between 20 and 40 years, depending on where the historical marker is placed noting the end of the party’s dominance. Conventionally, an historical marker is placed in 1967, the year of the fourth national election. Compared with the third national election in 1962, Congress’ share of seats in parliament dropped from 73 percent to 54 percent and its share of votes from 45 percent to 41 percent. It also failed to win majorities in the assemblies of eight of the sixteen large states (Hardgrave and Kochanek 1986: 234–41; Rudolph and Rudolph 1987: 127–32). There is also a case for using 1989, the year that a multi-party system and coalition governments replaced the dominant-party system and majority governments.

Describing Congress as a dominant party is based on the first three national elections in 1952, 1957 and 1962 when Congress won 74 percent, 75 percent and 73 percent of the seats in parliament. These margins cannot be attributed to restrictions on freedom or intimidation of competitive parties. From the beginning of universal suffrage in 1952, elections have been free and fair, entry for opposition parties easy and press freedom secure. Congress’ dominance resulted not only from the political capital it commanded as the party of the nationalist movement, of independence and of Gandhi and Nehru, but also from a first-past-the-post electoral system that results in plurality victories in parliamentary and state assembly constituencies. Plurality victories enabled Congress to win a much higher percentage of seats than votes. Eric Da Costa analyzed that difference by calculating a “multiplier,” a measure of the difference between percentage of seats won and percentage of votes won (Dixon 2006). In the first three elections Congress won 74 percent, 75 percent and 73 percent of the parliamentary seats and 45 percent, 48 percent and 45 percent of the vote, resulting in multipliers of 1.6, 1.5 and 1.6. The opposition parties, on the other hand, together won 55 percent, 52 percent and 55 percent of the vote but only 26 percent, 25 percent and 27 percent of the seats, resulting in multipliers of 0.47, 0.48 and 0.49. In the fourth parliamentary election of 1967, Congress came dangerously close to losing its seat majority when its multiplier fell from 1.6 to 1.3 as a result of its vote share falling 4 percent to 41 percent.20

The alternative view to the era of Congress dominance coming to an end in the 1967 election is the view that the dominant-party system with majority governments ended over two decades later in 1989 when India’s first “hung” parliament ushered in a multi-party system with coalition governments. In the next parliamentary election after 1967 in 1971, Congress dominance was restored. Under Indira Gandhi’s leadership Congress’ vote share rose from 41 percent to 43 percent and its seat share from 55 percent to 68 percent, levels comparable to the first three parliamentary elections when Congress dominated. We will discuss the case for both the 1967 and the 1989 dates as the end of Congress dominance.

How can Congress’ poor showing in 1967 be accounted for? Jawaharlal Nehru had died in May 1964, his spirit broken and his reputation diminished by defeat


in the October 1962 war with China and by the shortfall between the expectations and results of a much-heralded second five-year economic plan. Nehru’s successor, the competent but colorless Lal Bahadur Shastri (Rudolph and Rudolph 1964), died suddenly in January of 1966. Unable to agree among themselves about who should be prime minister, the regional Congress party bosses known collectively as “the Syndicate,” who had taken charge of the party after Nehru’s death, settled on Nehru’s untested daughter, Indira Gandhi. Congress entered the 1967 election with its political capital from the nationalist era much diminished, its promise of economic growth unfilled, without a prime ministerial leader who could inspire the party and the country, and with its core constituencies disaffected and beginning to turn elsewhere. Its loss of seats and votes was clear, the causes of it enigmatic (Varma and Narain 1968; Morris-Jones and Dasgupta 1975).21

But the 1971 results contradicted those of 1967, suggesting 1967 was a temporary deviation from the trend line. Between 1967 and 1971, Indira Gandhi took control of the party. Syndicate members’ expectations that Indira Gandhi would defer to them proved wrong. In November of 1969 Indira Gandhi split the party by backing V.V. Giri rather than the Congress’ candidate for President of India, Sanjiva Reddy. She then went on to win a decisive test of strength in the Congress parliamentary party. By the 1971 parliamentary election, the first conducted separately from elections to state assemblies, she had moved leftward, sweeping to victory with the populist campaign slogan, garibi hatao or abolish poverty. In December 1971 under her leadership, India emerged victorious from a 16-day war with Pakistan that “liberated” Bangladesh. And in early 1972 Congress won most state assembly elections in what has been labeled a “khaki election.” It seemed as though Congress dominance had been restored.

Having over-run the party bosses and won decisive campaign victories and a war with Pakistan, Indira Gandhi began to over-reach herself. She became increasingly imperious, surrounding herself with yes-men and sycophants in New Delhi and imposing hand-picked chief ministers in the states. She set loose processes that de-institutionalized the party and moved it toward an authoritarian regime (Rudolph and Rudolph 1987: 127–58). By 1974, Jayaprakash Narayan was leading a movement against her authoritarian rule. When the Allahabad High Court threatened to debar her from politics for six years for violating campaign rules, she manipulated the cabinet and the president in ways that allowed her to declare Emergency rule. She was not prepared to lose by abiding by the decision of a court of law.

At first many were pleased with the Emergency’s attack on corruption and inefficiency and the apparent restoration of order. The trains seemed to be running on time. Soon, however, the arrest and silencing of opposition leaders and severe limitations on freedom of the press, speech and civil rights began to make an impact on the mood of the country. Freedom to speak, act and argue was, it seemed, deeply engrained in India’s political culture. When Indira Gandhi’s younger son, Sanjay, without office or experience, took increasing control of party and state affairs, bull-dozing poor Muslims’ dwellings near the Jama Masjid in the center of old Delhi and rounding up lower-caste males in northern India for vasectomies,


the mood in the country began to turn against her.22 Her advisers, however, told her what she wanted to hear, that she would win, not lose, an election. Electoral victory would renew her mandate and legitimacy. She called an election.

The result was disastrous for her and the Congress cause. She achieved what the fragmented opposition to Congress had not been able to achieve for itself. She united the opposition parties by arresting their leaders and putting them in jail together.23 There they came to know and cooperate with each other. It was evident from left to right that the parties’ over-riding priority was to oppose the Congress. Released from jail, they joined together to form the Janata Party, frame a common platform and, after great difficulty, agree on who should lead the party (Rudolph and Rudolph 1987: 159–77).

Janata’s victories in both the parliamentary and state assembly elections of 1977 once again seemed to mark the end of the dominant-party system. Congress’ 30-year hegemony over India’s national and state governments was broken when Janata governments took office in New Delhi and in nine of the seventeen large states. Janata’s vote share was 43 percent, Congress’ 34 percent. Janata and its allies occupied 60 percent of the seats in Parliament (330 of 542 seats), Congress 28 percent. Janata’s successes and Congress’ reduced but still substantial strength had put two fairly equal national parties at the center of the party system. Together, with about 77 percent of the seats and votes, the two parties appeared to constitute a new party system, one similar to the British party system of “two-plus” (Labour, Conservative and Liberal Democrats) competitive parties.

This did not happen. India’s dominant-party system was not replaced by a competitive two party-plus system. What had begun as a bold experiment in party building, political realignment, and national reconstruction along Gandhian lines ended in shambles. A potential critical election that promised to transform the party system was dissipated in a miasma of debilitating efforts at personal aggrandizement. Janata’s truncated term in office (1977–9) betrayed its founding and destroyed its promise as a great national party. The voters rejected its political performance. In the parliamentary election of 1980, a second “Indira wave” swept Congress back into power. It seemed that, once again, Congress had restored the dominant-party system by winning 67 percent of the seats with 43 percent of the votes.

Tumultuous years preceded Indira Gandhi’s assassination on October 31, 1984. She was gunned down by two Sikh bodyguards in the garden of her residence at No. 1 Safardarjung Road, New Delhi. Their act arose out of a rebellion by extremist Sikhs demanding an independent Sikh state, Khalistan. The rebellion was led by Jarnail Singh Bhrindanwale. In October 1984 he had retreated to the Golden Temple, the Sikh’s holiest shrine, in Amritsar. In an attempt to crush the rebellion and to capture its leader, Indira Gandhi ordered the Indian Army to launch Operation Blue Star, an attack on the Golden Temple. After a fierce two-day battle that badly damaged the temple, Bhrindanwale was killed along with many innocent Sikh pilgrims (Rudolph, L. 1986).24

This brings us to the last iteration of Congress as the dominant party, the eighth parliamentary election in 1984 when Rajiv Gandhi led Congress to its largest


victory ever, winning 79 percent of the seats and 49 percent of the vote. Born on the eve of Independence, he was, in Salmon Rushdie’s phrase, a “midnight’s child.” He attracted votes for his youth, modern outlook and honesty. As the son of a martyred mother, he also attracted a massive sympathy vote. Rajiv Gandhi’s five-year term began with high hopes that he would bring India into the twenty-first century by reforming the economy, the state and the party, but finished with him presiding over the end of Congress party dominance (Rudolph, L. 1989).

Congress lost the ninth parliamentary election in 1989 for a variety of reasons (Gould and Ganguly 1993), not least of which was how a corruption scandal made Rajiv Gandhi into a liability rather than an asset (Rudolph, L. 1993). The party was tarnished by the allegation that large kick-back payments were associated with an order for long-distance howitzers from the Swedish gun-maker, Bofors.25 The party lacked a prime ministerial candidate who could attract voters to the Congress banner. The Bofors scandal was only the tip of the iceberg for Congress’ loss of the 1989 parliamentary election and demise as India’s dominant party. It was in this election that Congress lost substantial portions of it core constituencies in the Hindi-speaking northern states, particularly in Uttar Pradesh whose 85 parliamentary seats represented 12 percent of the total seats. Substantial proportions of Congress’ support among Dalit,26 Muslim and upper-caste voters shifted to emergent caste and religious parties: the Bahujan Samaj Party (BSP) for Dalits (Chandra 2004: 185–9), the Lok Dal (later the Samajwadi Party) for Yadavs and other OBCs27 and for Muslims,28 and the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) for the upper castes and Hindu nationalists.29

Outside the Hindi-speaking northern states, the rise of regional parties in Tamilnadu, Andhra Pradesh, West Bengal, Punjab and Assam substantially reduced Congress’ ability to win the super-majorities that had enabled it to be the dominant party for so long. The 1989 election also revealed that the cancer of party de-institutionalization, launched by Indira Gandhi and not addressed by Rajiv Gandhi, left the party with “hollow battalions,” an organization that was increasingly less capable of generating support and delivering the vote.30

Some have argued that Congress’ secular decline resulted in the end of India’s dominant-party system in the fourth parliamentary election of 1967. It was only extraneous and fortuitous events, so the argument goes, such as Indira Gandhi’s charismatic leadership, the Emergency and its aftermath, the formation and collapse of the Janata party, Indira Gandhi’s assassination and the sympathy vote it generated for her son, Rajiv Gandhi, that prolonged Congress’ life as India’s dominant party for two more decades. We have argued that because agency and events such as those just mentioned matter in historical and social science explanation, the end of Congress’ dominance more properly should be counted as its defeat in the ninth parliamentary election of 1989. That election revealed that India’s first hung parliament resulted from high proportions of Congress’ core constituencies shifting their support to newly formed caste, religious and regionally-based parties. The result led to the formation of a multi-party system.


The formation and consolidation of a multi-party system

The first step in Congress’ learning to lose was getting over being a dominant party. It had to learn what it meant to be one party among a number of parties in a multi-party system. Success depended not only on its ability to win votes but also on its ability to make electoral alliances and form coalition governments. As we have noted, the ninth parliamentary election in 1989 resulted in India’s first hung parliament; no party won a majority of seats. The election ushered in a multi-party system and coalition governments which characterized Indian politics over the next five parliamentary elections, through 2004. The first coalition government in 1989 was formed by the left populist Janata Dal, which won 141 seats in a house of 525. It formed a minority government with the “outside support” of the right leaning BJP (88 seats) and the left leaning CPI-M (43). The government was led by V.P. Singh, a former Congress Chief Minister of Uttar Pradesh, India’s most populous state. Singh had won fame and popularity as Rajiv Gandhi’s erstwhile Finance and later Defense Minister, by exposing corruption in both ministries. After being ejected from the Congress party, he went into opposition, forming the Janata Dal, a merger of the Janata and Lok Dal parties. Singh’s minority government lasted eleven months and was succeeded by the even shorter (seven month) Chandra Shekhar government. Its fall in early 1991 led to a mid-term poll, the tenth parliamentary election, and India’s third minority government within two years.

Congress party leader Rajiv Gandhi’s assassination on May 21, 1991 after the first of the tenth election’s three rounds of voting was followed by a three-week postponement, enough time to allow Congress to select P.V. Narasimha Rao, a former Chief Minister of the southern state of Andhra Pradesh and Home, Defense and External Affairs minister under prime ministers Indira Gandhi and Rajiv Gandhi, to lead the party through the last two rounds of the election. Congress won a plurality of the seats in another hung parliament. As the single largest party, Congress was asked by the President to form a government. After an internal party battle, Rao was chosen leader of the parliamentary party and, as such, became prime minister of a Congress minority government.31 The Rao government lasted a full five-year term and is credited with the initiation of the momentous economic reforms that have transformed India’s economy. It also had to deal with the rise of the Hindu nationalist BJP from a marginal party on the fringes of power to a national party with enough votes and seats to form a government in 1996. The apogee of its rise was the violent destruction by youthful Hindu extremists on December 6, 1992 of the Babri Masjid [Babur’s mosque] in the ancient city of Ayodhya (Gopal 1990, 1991). With the Janata party having failed to become a second national party, the BJP now became a live candidate for that role, the first time a Hindu Nationalist party was able to mount such a challenge.

In the 11th parliamentary election in 1996 the BJP won a plurality of seats and was asked by the President to try to form a government. It did not succeed in doing so because the other parties, foregrounding their multi-cultural perspective, shunned it. No party was prepared to cross the aisle to sit with it on government


benches. It had not yet learned to win by making the compromises needed for alliance and coalition politics. Instead, a Janata Dal led United Front minority government headed by Prime Ministers H.D. Deve Gowda followed by Inder Kumar Gujral, with Congress supporting (and dictating) from outside, held office for 19 months. The United Front government collapsed in November 1997 when Congress withdrew support from the fractious coalition. No alternative government could be formed, parliament was dissolved and a mid-term election was held.

By the 12th parliamentary election in 1998 the BJP had learned to win; it constructed a pre-election coalition based on a common minimum program that excluded the three key planks of its Hindu nationalist agenda.32 The election result brought an Atal Behari Vajpayee-led National Democratic Alliance (NDA) government to power in New Delhi. After 13 months, the government fell as a result of a show of strength by one of the regional parties that were to become critical for coalition building. The Madras-based AIA-DMK withdrew from the coalition and Congress was unable to construct a viable alternative.33 The mid-term election that followed in 1999, India’s 13th, returned the Vajpayee-led coalition government to power, this time for a full five-year term.

Both the BJP and the Congress were surprised at the outcome of the 14th parliamentary election in 2004. A seemingly invulnerable incumbent NDA lost to a Congress apparently in decline. But the Congress-led United Progressive Alliance (UPA) surprised informed observers and itself by winning more seats than the BJP-led NDA (223 to 189).34 It did so with the same percentage of votes, 36 percent, won by the BJP-led NDA coalition. Congress and its allies in the UPA also improved their vote share (plus 2.1 percent) and the NDA lost vote share (minus 5 percent) compared with the 1999 election. One important reason for the difference in seats was that Congress did better at making electoral alliances than did the BJP.35 BJP lost vote share in part because the BJP’s “India Shining” slogan highlighted its disregard for India’s rural poor and socially marginalized communities. Congress gained vote share in part because it appealed to the rural poor and minority community voters. Whatever the explanations for these unanticipated results of the 2004 national election, as of April 2008, the Congress-led UPA government of Prime Minister Man Mohan Singh and its presiding presence, Congress president, Sonia Gandhi, took credit for a booming economy that augured well for its completing a five-year term in office.

A question mark hovers over what appears to be India’s well-established multi-party system. Just as the dominant-party system depended on Congress winning 40 percent or more of the vote to claim 67 percent or better of parliamentary seats, the multi-party coalition system depends for its effectiveness on two large national parties, the Congress and the BJP or other party, to attract together about 70 percent of the vote. Otherwise they will not be in a position to form and lead alliances made up increasingly of state parties that have, over the past 15 years increased their share of seats and votes so that they now occupy a pivotal place in Indian national politics (Rudolph and Rudolph 2001: 1541–52).36 Since the 10th parliamentary election in 1991 through the 14th in 2004, national parties’ seat share declined by 10 percent from 77 percent in the 10th parliamentary election of


1991 to 67 percent in 2004. National parties’ vote share declined even more, from 78 percent in 1991 to 63 percent in 2004. Will the center hold? Will the Congress and BJP be able to capture enough votes in the face of the state parties’ challenge to keep India’s multi-party system viable?

A special problem that Congress has faced in learning to lose is its dynastic leadership. Can a dynasty remain a dynasty if it loses power? Can there be such a thing as a democratic dynasty? Off and on, the party has been led by Nehrus, from 1920 when Motilal Nehru first served as Congress president, through Jawaharlal’s Congress presidency in 1929 into the independence period when he became India’s first prime minister and, from time to time Congress president, to his daughter, Indira Gandhi as prime minister (1966–77; 1980–4) and Congress president, through her son, Rajiv Gandhi’s prime ministership (1984–8), to Sonia Gandhi’s Congress presidency (1998–) and Rahul Gandhi’s (the son of Rajiv and Sonia) entry into politics in April 2007 during the election campaign for the UP assembly. It seems that the family name and reputation continue to provide the party with political capital. Indeed there are those who say that it is the party’s most valuable and enduring asset. By providing a default position, the dynasty has pre-empted factional struggles for the succession. And dynasty has become compatible with democracy by learning to lose: Indira Gandhi in 1977; Rajiv Gandhi in 1989; Sonia Gandhi in 1996, 1998, and 1999.

Sonia Gandhi renewed the family’s charisma and increased the party’s capital when, after the Congress-led UPA coalition won the 2004 election, she renounced power by announcing that she did not seek to be Prime Minister of the new government.37 In one move, Sonia Gandhi disarmed her foes within and without the Congress who planned to use her foreign origin and Catholic religious identity against her. She enhanced her legitimacy by becoming a renouncer, a much valued, even revered, figure in Indian civilization. Here we seem to have a clear instance of winning by losing. Which leaves the larger question, can Congress continue to keep its dynastic provenance and lineage alive and well by acts of democratic renewal?

Concluding thoughts

We have come a long way in our story of how learning to lose became a part of the story of the modern state. We started with Hobbes’ and Rousseau’s view that sovereignty must be indivisible if anarchy and violence are to be avoided. They taught that dissent and opposition challenge and divide sovereignty and cannot be tolerated. We argued that agency and events in late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century England and America contributed to making learning to lose part of the story of state formation by legitimizing dissent and opposition. In England, the King’s government came to include his “loyal opposition” and in America, Thomas Jefferson’s first inaugural declared “We are all Republicans, we are all Federalists,” evoking on the one hand George Washington’s argument that it is “the unity of government which constitutes you one people,” and on the other, suggesting that agreement on principle does not preclude differences over policy.


In India, colonial rule and nationalist resistance to it contributed in different ways to the story of learning to lose. The reformist version of the colonial state introduced a political culture and parliamentary institutions at the local, then the provincial and national levels of government. It taught an emergent political class that it could dissent and oppose even if it could not hold government accountable, much less govern. The Indian National Congress spent 62 years in opposition. Only after Gandhi began to lead the Congress in 1920 did opposition move from constitutional gradualism to non-cooperation (1920–2) and civil disobedience (1930–1). Both movements called for the end of British rule, but did so non-violently. Gandhi’s nationalist politics contributed to learning to lose by insisting on right means and by rejecting the idea that the end justifies the means.

Congress’ evolving political culture also contributed to learning to lose by developing norms and practices that respected dissent and opposition within the organization. Gandhi in particular accepted defeat by Nehru on two occasions, in 1927–9 on the issue of whether dominion status or complete independence should be the nationalist movement’s political objective, and again in 1945 over the issue of whether Hind Swaraj or industrialization should be independent India’s development goal. Congress after independence learned to lose by being able to transform itself from the dominant party in a dominant-party system to a competitive party in a multi-party system. In the process India learned what it meant to learn to lose by responding positively and effectively to a multi-party system at the state and national levels. Unlike in the US where the “incumbency effect” refers to most Congressmen and Senators winning re-election, in India the “incumbency effect” refers to the likelihood of incumbent governments at the national and state level losing. Indians have learned that losing is a key to accountability in a democracy.

Notes

1 Jürgen Habermas found a “public sphere embedded in the activities of coffee houses, literary and cultural societies, political clubs, and literary journals and journals of opinion. The societies for enlightenment, cultural associations, secret freemasonry lodges and orders of illuminati were associations constituted by the free, that is, private decisions of their founding members, based on voluntary membership and characterized internally by egalitarian practices of sociability, free discussion, decision by majority, etc.” Some years earlier Lloyd Rudolph found something similar, i.e. “the politics of opinion” in eighteenth century English and colonial American political life that supported extra-parliamentary political parties. His analysis went beyond the bourgeois public sphere of the coffee house and the literary and cultural society to include “radical” political associations and “opinion out doors” in England and “committees of correspondence” and “sons of liberty” in the American colonies (Rudolph, L. 1956).

2 We prefer G.D.H. Cole’s translation on the question of associations and partial societies within the state to Maurice Cranston’s who speaks of “groups” and “sectional associations.”

3 The term was first used by Sir John Cam Hobhouse, “a radical statesman of moderate distinction,” during a debate on the Civil List Act of 1826. “It was said to be very hard on His Majesty’s ministers to raise objections to this proposition [that the number


of government officers sitting in the House of Commons should be increased],” Hobhouse said. “For my part,” he continued, “I think it is much more hard on His Majesty’s Opposition to compel them to take this course.” “Laughter followed this sally,” Foord tells us. “In his retort Canning drew another laugh by repeating the phrase. It was picked up shortly afterward by a leading Whig, George Tierney, who thought Hobhouse had said ‘the King’s Opposition’ ” (Foord 1964: 1).

4 For these developments as well as a detailed analysis of the literature on political associations from the 1760s onward, see Rudolph 1956.

5 The phrase “self-created societies” is taken from Washington’s 1794 annual message to Congress. In this message—and elsewhere—Washington characterized the Democratic Societies as “self-created” (Richardson c.1897: 155–8).

6 Having warned his countrymen that the spirit of party and its exercise can produce despotism, Washington relented. “There is an opinion,” he said, “that parties in free countries are useful checks upon the administration of the government and serve to keep alive the spirit of liberty. This within certain limits is probably true.”

7 The goal of election was realized for the Governor-General’s Legislative Council at the center as well as in the councils in the provinces in the Morley–Minto reforms of 1909. The constituencies, however, were designated communities and groups [e.g. universities, chambers of commerce], not the general constituencies used in democratic elections in England and the US (Coupland 1944: 24–5).

8 Home Rule Leagues were created by Bal Gangadhar Tilak and Annie Besant in 1916. They provided momentum to the national movement between the pre-war era and the beginning of Gandhi’s leadership of the Congress in 1920.

9 Swaraj, literally “self-rule,” more broadly responsible government. 10 In 1922, for example, soon after Gandhi had called off Congress’ enormously

effective non-violent Civil Disobedience Campaign against the Rowlatt Acts and British rule more broadly because of the outbreak of violence at Chauri Chaura in Gorakpur District, U.P., Gandhi was tried, convicted and sentenced to six years in jail for promoting disaffection against Government through his writings in Young India. For Gandhi’s trial, see Kaviraj (2006: 293–308).

11 For an overview of how the British colonial state fostered parliamentary government, starting with local government institutions in the 1880s, the Morley–Minto Reforms of 1909, the Montagu–Chelmsford Reforms of 1919, and the Government of India Act of 1935, see Coupland (1944), Brass and Robinson (1987) and Rudolph, S. (1955). The latter provides an overview of Congress’ governing institutions.

12 Nandy opens The Tao of Cricket with this provocative first sentence: “Cricket is an Indian game accidentally discovered by the English.” His book is devoted to trying to explain this paradox.

13 The Montagu–Chelmsford reforms represented “a kind of concubinage between democracy and bureaucratic despotism by dividing the functions of provincial governments into two branches, namely, ‘Transferred Subjects’ which would be presided over by the ‘Ministers’ and the ‘Reserved Subjects’ under the control of the officials.” The (Indian) ministers were to be chosen by the (British) Governor. The most powerful departments, Law and Order, Civil Justice, and Land Revenue were reserved.

14 At the Congress session in December 1919, Gandhi was asked to revise the constitution of the Congress (Gandhi 1958: XVII, 487 note 2).

15 The twentieth resolution passed at the Congress annual meeting at Calcutta in 1917 stipulated that “the Telugu Districts in the Madras Presidency, Sind in the Bombay Presidency and Delhi with Ajmer-Merwara and British Rajputana, be constituted into separate Congress circles” (Singh, I. 1987–8: I, 346).

16 Authoritarian single parties of course are not free of conflict, but the illegitimate nature of conflict drives its expression underground and out of sight.


17 Gokhale visited Gandhi in South Africa in 1912, and welcomed and counseled him on his return to India from South Africa in January 1915.

18 The second struggle between Gandhi and Nehru took place in October–November 1945 over the relevance of Hind Swaraj for the course of development in an independent India. Gandhi there too accepted his loss.

19 Shriman Narayan, speaking as a general secretary of the Congress party in 1957, echoed Mehta’s view: “Economically underdeveloped countries like ours can hardly afford the luxury of opposition only for the sake of opposition” (Narayan 1957: 25).

20 What accounted for Congress’ favorable multipliers? Typically Congress contests against three or four parties in a parliamentary constituency. Taking as a benchmark a vote split into thirds or quarters, the party that gets more than 33 percent or 25 percent of the vote wins. As long as Congress won 40 percent or more of the vote it benefited from a positive multiplier, i.e. a multiplier of more than 1. Competitive opposition parties divide the majority opposition vote two, three or more ways, leaving the second ranking party with less than 40 percent of the vote.

21 Morris-Jones and Dasgupta attempted to show relationships between socio-economic variables and parties’ electoral performance in the 1952, 1957, 1962 and 1967 national elections. Their unit of analysis was the district. Correlations could sometimes be found at the district level but washed out at the state and national levels.

22 We spent the academic year 1975–6 in India, living in Jaipur where the Emergency writ from Delhi was very much in evidence. For our ethnographic account of life under Emergency rule, see Rudolph and Rudolph (1977).

23 In jail together were the leaders of the Socialists [led by George Fernandes, head of the railway workers who had struck against Mrs. Gandhi in 1974], the Jana Sangh [led by Atal Behari Vajpayee], Congress-O [led by Morarji Desai, it was composed of those Congressmen who had split with Mrs. Gandhi in 1969], and BLD parties. The BLD or Bharatiya Lok Dal was made up of a merger of seven parties. Formed in 1974, its largest component was the UP-based BKD or Bharatiya Kranti Dal, party of “yeomen farmers” led by Charan Singh, and its next largest component the market-oriented Swatantra Party with strength in Gujarat, Rajasthan, and Andhra Pradesh.

24 A Sikh pogrom followed. Sikhs were killed by mobs in New Delhi, Kanpur and elsewhere in north India. For the context of the Sikh Khalistan movement and rebellion, see Rudolph (1985).

25 The Bofors scandal and its impact on the Gandhi legacy is discussed in Rudolph, L. (1989).

26 We use the word, Dalit, meaning oppressed, for the ex-untouchable community. It is the word used by the politically self-conscious and activist members of the ex-untouchable community. In colonial times the British Government of India used the term Scheduled Castes to refer to official listing of specific designated sub-castes. Gandhi used the term, Harijan, meaning children of god [Hari], to suggest the equality implied by the idea that all humans are children of God. As of the 1991 census, Dalits represented 16.5 percent of India’s population. In Uttar Pradesh, the percentage as of the 1991 census was 21.

27 OBC stands for Other Backward Castes, another British raj euphemism. The term broadly refers these days to lower castes who are said to be or claim to be disadvantaged in comparison to upper castes such as Brahmins and Rajputs. For more on caste in Indian society, history and politics, see Rudolph and Rudolph (1967: part I).

28 For why and how Muslims vote strategically for parties perceived to be best able to provide security in a political world often prone to discrimination and violence against Muslims, see Rudolph and Rudolph (1987: 187–200).

29 For the story of how the Bahujan Samaj Party siphoned off Dalit support from the Congress, see Chandra (2004); Gould explains how Mulayam Singh Yadav via the Janata Dal [later via the Samajwadi Party] deprived the Congress of Yadav and other OBC caste support in Gould and Ganguly (1993: 27–33). There is a very large


literature on the BJP as a Hindu nationalist party. For a recent overview by leading scholars, see Jaffrelot (2005), which brings together some of the best scholars on the subject.

30 For how Indira Gandhi de-institutionalized the Congress party and Rajiv Gandhi exacerbated the problem, see Rudolph and Rudolph (1987: Chapter 2).

31 Congress won 227 of 525 seats in parliament, or 43 percent, and 37.6 percent of the vote, down 1.9 percent from its vote share in the previous 1989 parliamentary election.

32 Excluded from the NDA’s Common Minimum Program were building a temple to Lord Ram on the site of the Babri Masjid, which the BJP claimed was his birthplace; giving up the demand for a Uniform Civil Code which would force Muslims to give up key provisions of their personal law; and amending the Constitution to remove Article 370, the provision giving the Muslim majority state of Kashmir autonomous powers not given to other states of the Indian Union.

33 Sonia Gandhi, the Congress party president, was unwilling to share power in a coalition government with Mulayam Singh Yadav, leader of the UP-based Samajwadi [Socialist] Party. By the 14th national election in 2004 she became more flexible and adept in making alliances and coalitions.

34 The BJP-led NDA lost 111 seats compared with its performance in 1999 and the Congress-led UPA gained 89 seats compared with its performance in 1999. These and the figures below comparing the 1999 and the 2004 elections were prepared by Alistair Macmillan, Subhas Palshikar and Yogendra Yadav of the Center for the Study of Developing Societies for a Special Panel on Indian Elections 2004.

35 For example, in Tamil Nadu where Congress, despite Sonia Gandhi’s deep misgivings because of suspicions that the DMK may have been complicit in her husband, Rajiv Gandhi’s assassination in that state, allied with a DMK-led state-level coalition, the combination won 39 of 39 parliamentary seats.

36 For the importance for “centrism” of the two large national parties garnering a substantial proportion of the vote, see Gupta (2007).

37 She turned that position over to Dr. Man Mohan Singh, the architect of liberal economic reform in the P.V. Narasimhan Rao government [1991–6].

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“If we do not win the big house, let us give up on the future of our political organization” (El Universal, March 2, 2006). With these words Roberto Madrazo, presidential candidate of the Partido Revolucionario Institucional (PRI) in Mexico, expressed uncertainty as to whether his political party, which maintained hegemonic control of politics in the country for 71 years, would be able to survive into the democratic age and regain control of the presidency. The PRI’s performance in the 2006 elections was a disaster. Madrazo came a distant third in the presidential election. His party lost many of the supposedly safe single-member district races in the federal legislature. The PRI was no longer assured the “green vote” of poor peasants in the countryside. Divisions reflective of conflicting socio-economic bases and growth strategies are challenges to the party’s survival in the democratic era.

Mexico unambiguously transited to democracy in 2000 when the PRI lost the presidential race and accepted its defeat.1 Some analysts believed the party would not survive. Others believed that since the party retained a formidable nation-wide political ‘machine’ and still controlled corporatist organizations and the vast majority of executive posts (governorships and mayoralties), the PRI could make a comeback in the 2006 elections. The first scenario was one of collapse of the traditional political system, similar to what occurred to the Christian Democrats in Italy; the second scenario looked more like the reconstitution of Communist Parties in many countries in Eastern Europe, as discussed by Grzymala-Busse and Ishiyama in this volume.

Although the PRI lost the presidency in 2006 and its showing in the single-member districts of the Congressional election was the worst ever, the party is not dead. Although it faces a real danger of disintegrating, the strength of the contemporary PRI lies in its capacity to win state-level elections. The PRI has continued to be the strongest party at the subnational level. The electoral success of the PRI at the local level results from a combination of factors. In the nomination processes, the central party leadership has gradually been displaced in favor of local-level party conventions and primary elections. This has compelled the PRI to pay closer attention to its local electorates. Furthermore, governors in the current era have access to enlarged fiscal federal transfers made available through fiscal decentralization, a reform that was originally a by-product of the

3 A house divided against itself

The PRI’s survival strategy after hegemony

Federico Estévez, Alberto Díaz-Cayeros and Beatriz Magaloni

A house divided against itself 43

democratization process. Formerly given as a pay-off to obtain the cooperation of the long-standing opposition party, the PAN (National Action Party), fiscal decentralization has been capitalized on by PRI governors to entrench themselves in power. As a consequence, power within the PRI has dramatically shifted from the national leadership to the governors2 and the local electoral machines’ rank-and-file.

The future of the PRI, however, hinges upon its ability to keep winning local and national elections, including the presidential race. To win local elections the party must be able to field candidates that can command popular support among traditional PRI electoral constituencies, while appealing to moderate voters primarily interested in government performance, particularly urban voters, who have become decisive in the state races. To win national elections, the PRI must accommodate a heterogeneous set of actors, most notably the governors and their local electoral machines. Having lost the presidency and control of the vast resources in the federal bureaucracy that had traditionally been used to glue its ruling coalition, the PRI faces formidable challenges to remain united at the national level. What then are the factors that allow the PRI to keep winning local elections, and what factors are pulling the national PRI apart?

The contemporary PRI is fundamentally a collection of highly entrenched governors who fall into one faction or the other: a left-wing populist faction and a liberal, free-market one. Most analyses trace PRI factionalism to ideological divisions within the party. Instead, we argue that policy divisions result from: (i) regionalism, that is particular socioeconomic characteristics of the politician’s state, including how well the local economy performed during the years of Import Substitution Industrialization (ISI); (ii) the state’s economic performance during the more recent years of structural adjustment and market reforms; and (iii) exposure to international trade. The main line of division within the PRI thus mirrors the tremendous regional disparities in the country which in turn prevents the national party organization from aggregating interests and articulating a coherent national agenda.

Hegemonic rule of the PRI

The PRI was a regional and functional coalition which ruled Mexico from 1929 to 2000. The regime was more benign than any of the dictatorships in the rest of Latin America. The political system was remarkably stable. During those long years of hegemony, the dominant party was able to easily win elections, only resorting to electoral fraud as an exceptional device. Before the 1980s, the party usually won all state, municipal, and congressional elections, and by hefty margins.3

The central pillar of the PRI regime was its monopolization of mass support through economic performance, the distribution of material rewards at election time (everything from land titles to subsidized credit, construction materials, and food baskets) and the mobilization of voters through wide-reaching clientelistic networks. The PRI mobilized mass support long before elections became competitive during the 1980s to deter elite opponents from within the ruling

44 Federico Estévez, Alberto Díaz-Cayeros and Beatriz Magaloni

party (Magaloni, 2006). During the hegemonic era, the key vulnerability of the PRI was internal divisions, especially disgruntled politicians denied the party’s nominations. Major splits occurred in 1940, 1946, 1952 and 1987 when powerful politicians who did not obtain the presidential nomination opted to challenge for the presidency. The 1987 split was different, however. It resulted in the formation of a new political party, the Party of the Democratic Revolution (PRD). Still, given the PRI’s mobilization of mass support, ambitious politicians had little hope of gaining office and access to government spoils if they exited from the hegemonic coalition.

Ideological divisions had existed within the PRI since its founding in 1929. Nonetheless, the party’s founding revolutionary ideals had been pragmatically refashioned into a populist and corporatist creed. Once hegemony was fully established during the 1950s, the PRI became a monolithic political organization with a broad coalition of support. The PRI adjusted its policies to changes in national and international conditions.

Mexico held regular elections at all levels of government since 1918. Although there was undoubtedly a large degree of centralization of political power in the hands of the president, state elections facilitated the stability of this political arrangement (Diaz-Cayeros, 2006; Diaz-Cayeros and Langston, 2006). Federalism afforded politicians at the local levels the possibility of pursuing attractive political careers in their states, the benefits of federal resources, and the use of national party organizations to mobilize local political support.

The PRI was a highly heterogeneous coalition of entrenched governors and local politicians, professional bureaucrats, and officials from the party’s corporatist institutions, including the CTM (Confederation of Mexican Workers) and the CNC (Confederation of Mexican Peasants). Ambition and rent-seeking, rather than a common ideology, maintained the heterogeneous coalition. All major politicians in the country remained within the PRI because they recognized that this was the only party that presented a real possibility of being elected to office or acquiring a bureaucratic position, both of which offered access to government spoils and ample opportunities to do business under the aegis of the state. During the hegemonic era, the PRI balanced the interests of disparate groups by distributing legislative positions among corporatist organizations and governors on a more or less proportional basis.

The 1980s witnessed a redistribution of power within the PRI. The confederations of workers and peasants were unable to respond to the electoral challenges of the opposition parties, the PRD and the PAN. The PRI then redistributed power away from the functional (i.e. corporatist) organizations in favor of state governors. After 1988, almost half of the members of the federal cabinets were governors. Furthermore, during the 1990s, workers’ and peasants’ confederations began to lose their traditional share of legislative seats within the federal Congress. The redistribution of power from the center to the states was even more dramatic after the PRI lost the presidency in 2000. The PRI’s most important leaders during the democratic era emerged from the ranks of sitting or former governors, and not from within the federal bureaucracies or corporatist organizations. In fact, the


political strength of state governors and their increasingly central role in party politics since the 1990s explain the PRI’s capacity to survive democracy after its defeat in 2000.

Decentralization

The era of single-party hegemony was characterized by the centralization of power within the PRI. Fiscal federal arrangements were centralized (Diaz-Cayeros, 2006). The national government, and thus the national PRI, controlled most of the country’s economic resources. State politicians had virtually no leeway to make autonomous spending decisions. Governors depended on the center’s largesse to finance social development projects, infrastructure and public works, and other administrative expenses. Public investment from the central government was highly skewed in favor of certain states and cities, most notably Mexico City. As the political system became more competitive, the PRI undermined the opposition by diverting fiscal resources away from states and municipalities controlled by opposition parties and by rewarding its regional bases with more funds (Rodríguez, 1997; Diaz-Cayeros et al., 2005; Magaloni, 2006). Without access to federal fiscal transfers, local opposition governments faced enormous challenges to govern and to build solid party organizations.

The distribution of funds from the center to the states was governed by a “federal fiscal pact” negotiated between the states and the federation called the National System of Fiscal Coordination. Fiscal formulas were originally drafted in 1980 to compensate rich states for the loss of revenue that had resulted from the introduction of a national Value Added Tax (VAT). Gradually, the fiscal formulas evolved so that poorer states, where the PRI was stronger, received increasing shares of central resources. After 1993, the federal government devolved education expenditure to the states. A few years later, funds for health and basic municipal infrastructure were also decentralized. By 1998, the various subsidies granted by the federal government to finance the provision of public goods and services in the states had been incorporated into the National System of Fiscal Coordination. While subsidies were earmarked to further federal policy priorities, in practice, states had ample leeway to allocate them. Revenue-sharing funds were the other major source of federal resources which states could spend with some discretion. When the PRI lost its majority in the Chamber of Deputies in 1997, it was forced to build coalitions with other political parties, most notably the PAN, to pass legislation. In return, the PAN got more transfers and programs allocated to local and state authorities. Simply put, fiscal decentralization accompanied the democratic transition in Mexico.

Except for the years of the oil boom during the late 1970s, significantly more resources have been allocated to the states in the democratic era. Most of the increase after 1995 has come from revenue-sharing funds and subsidies. Hence, a key difference in the contemporary period is that governors have virtually had a free hand to use such resources at will. Fiscal decentralization, a concession to the PAN, has allowed PRI governors to employ increased resources to entrench


themselves in power. This became particularly significant after the PRI lost the presidency in 2000.

In the democratic era, the nomination processes within the PRI has been democratized. During the 1990s, the PRI gradually moved away from nomination procedures where the national leadership and the president played the key role in candidate nominations at all levels of government. The party moved toward open conventions and party primaries. Starting with competitive party conventions, with delegates selected by an Athenian-style lottery, President Ernesto Zedillo proceeded to introduce open primaries for about half of the PRI’s gubernatorial candidates. The party extended the open primary to select the PRI’s presidential candidate in 1999. Primaries produced about 40 percent of the PRI’s candidates for governor during the Vincente Fox administration. In addition, an open national election was held in early 2002 for the party presidency. The 2005 presidential primary was botched, however, by the abrupt withdrawal of a major contender for the nomination due to a corruption scandal.

A consensus within the PRI on the rapid decentralization of party politics emerged even before the PRI’s loss of the presidency in 2000. The local rank-and-file and electorate became increasingly decisive in determining the fate of politicians contending for the party’s nomination (Poiré, 2002; Diaz-Cayeros and Langston, 2005). Less agreement is apparent, however, with respect to the motivations behind the decentralization of nomination procedures within the PRI. Some find that external competition forced the PRI to seek candidates anchored in local electoral politics to meet the challenge posed by rival parties. Others emphasize that pluralism within many state chapters of the PRI—with power and resources widely dispersed among different political contenders—tied the leadership’s hands in terms of recruitment and avoiding party defection, and thus forced the party to open up the local process of candidate selection.

In the Zedillo years, competitive party conventions were soon abandoned, given the party’s bleak record in the wake of the 1995 recession. Primaries introduced in 1998 proved better harbingers of victory in the general election, while the centralized procedure of producing a “unity candidate” was accompanied by notable losses. However, neither primaries nor leadership imposition were particularly effective in stemming defections of important politicians or in preventing state-level splits in the PRI. In seven of the ten cases of PRI splits between 1994 and 2000, losing contenders went on to head major opposition tickets, which resulted in five gubernatorial losses for the PRI.

After the Fox triumph in 2000, the PRI continued to diversify its nomination rules, reviving party conventions in states dominated by the PRI. The competitive procedures of conventions and primaries have clearly been successful in electoral terms. After 2002, most of the leadership impositions have involved coalitions with the Greens (PVEM) and other minor parties, which under the current election laws permit the recentralization of candidate selection even if such practices go against local party statutes mandating some level of open competition. Again, in the matter of defections, none of the selection methods have managed to deter disloyalty to the party. Party splits, both major and minor, have therefore become


more common, rising from one-third of the PRI´s state parties before 2000 to one-half since 2000. Of the fourteen splits since 2000, six involved turncoat candidacies of losing or discarded contenders from within the PRI. They went on to head a major rival’s ticket, though only one loss of a state governorship was generated by the defections.

Surviving democracy: the PRI’s entrenched governors

Despite the defections, the PRI has been able to survive as the strongest electoral force in sub-national states. Thus, the resilience of the PRI in the democratic era needs to be understood as a function of its ability to retain and win gubernatorial elections. This section explores the magnitude of the PRI’s incumbency advantage in state elections. The support for the PRI is quite high in the seventeen states it governs. As Figure 3.1 illustrates, in spite of the precipitous drop in PRI support, particularly after the entry of opposition governors after 1989, the party has been able to keep its electoral support at around 50 percent since the late 1990s. In those states where the party has lost to the PAN, the PRD, or to a coalition of both parties, the PRI’s average support has remained above 33 percent.

The resilience of the PRI is directly related to its capacity to retain several states as safe bastions of electoral support. But another part of the story is the capacity of the party to win elections under democratic rules and to win in those states where the PRI had suffered a previous defeat. The PRI has learned from losing. To clarify this process, we summarize the patterns of gubernatorial elections through a mobility matrix. Table 3.1 shows the partisanship of governors from one election to the next (1989–2005).4 The way to read Table 3.1 is to consider first the shaded diagonal cells. During the period from 1989 to 2005, the PAN was able to retain governorship in 7 of the states it governed, while losing re-election in 3. The PRD

Figure 3.1 Support of the PRI by partisanship of the governor

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198019

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kept power in 3 states, while losing control in one. The PRI has maintained its incumbent status in 64 states, while losing the governorship to rivals in 16.

What the matrix tells us is that all three parties have about a 75 percent chance of retaining their state governorships, though the PRI, with odds of 80 percent, enjoys a small but important advantage over its rivals. This increases the probability that the PRI can recover lost states. The probability of defeating the PRI is higher for the PAN than for the PRD.

In order to assess the party’s capabilities, one can estimate the probability that the PRI can retain office in individual states, given the political configuration of competition and its incumbency status. Table 3.2 estimates a model of the probability of a PRI victory during the 1989–2005 period. The analysis takes into account, at most, three elections of a given state, and controls for the incumbency of the PRI. As independent variables in the first column we use the incumbency status of the PRI (prigov), and the electoral support received by the party (privote). The variable prigov estimates a conditional probability.

Table 3.2 Estimates of probability of PRI victory, 1989–2005

(1) (2) (3)

C –9.69 (2.05) 10.82 (4.05) 11.97 (2.97)

Prigov 1.13 (0.61) 1.94 (0.79) 1.68 (0.64)

Privote 20.29 (4.39)

Prdvote –42.34 (11.05) –23.70 (5.51)

Panvote –43.53 (11.24) –25.47 (5.86)

Pricoal 1.32 (0.87) 1.07 (0.63)

NP 4.23 (1.22)

Oppcoal –2.52 (1.09)

N 99 99 99

Chi 2 71.2 97.99 84.76

Pseudo R2 0.56 0.78 0.67

NoteAll coefficients statistically significant at the 99 percent level, except those for pricoal and oppcoal, which are only significant at the 90 percent level.

Table 3.1 Mobility matrix of gubernatorial elections, 1989–2005

Next election:

Previous election: PAN PRI PRD

PAN 7 3 0

PRI 10 64 6

PRD 1 0 3


The vote support for the party, however, controls for the popularity of the party in each state and in each election, which might be the consequence of other voter choice variables. Estimations are based purely on political aspects of the elections, without introducing socioeconomic variables. Although it is clear that socioeconomic variables influence voting patterns, one can use electoral support to determine the probability of PRI victory, and thus control for an omitted set of complex socioeconomic variables that determine voting patterns in each state. In a rich state, for example, it is likely that the PRI will enjoy lower levels of support. But we do not need to introduce income or wealth, since vote shares can proxy such controls. Of course, when support is greater than 50 percent, the PRI is certain to win the election. The party can also win the election with lower levels of support, depending on the configuration of partisan support for all competitors.

The first estimation in Table 3.2 is a minimal specification in which the probability of victory is proportional to the vote share the PRI was able to mobilize and its incumbency status. This estimation finds that if the PRI is not the incumbent, it still has a 69 percent chance of winning the election. If the PRI is the incumbent, the probability of victory jumps to 94 percent. In order to gain better insight into the meaning of the estimation regarding the vote shares, it is useful to provide the simulated probabilities of victory by vote share. Figure 3.2 suggests that the PRI is unlikely to recover a previously lost state, denoted by the solid line, unless its vote share is close to 50 percent. However, in places where the PRI is the incumbent, denoted by the dotted line, it is likely to win even with vote shares in the 40 percent range. The gap between the two lines represents the incumbency advantage for the party.

Figure 3.2 Simulated probability of PRI victory

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Although the first estimation in Table 3.2 already provides some insight into the value of incumbency, the analysis of the next two estimations (columns 2 and 3) clarifies whether the PRD or the PAN has posed a greater threat to the PRI and whether coalition behavior between its major rivals has played any role in the PRI’s electoral fate. Column 2 reports an estimation using vote shares for the PAN and PRD (support for the PRI cannot be used simultaneously). If the PRI faces a greater challenge from one of those parties the coefficient should be larger. The estimation also includes a dummy variable indicating whether the PRI ran in a given state with a coalition or not. And it controls for the effective number of candidates running in each state election. This last indicator can provide an idea of whether voters or politicians have been able to coordinate, forcing a Duvergerian equilibrium (Cox, 1997) with a smaller number of candidates, and hence a greater challenge to the PRI.

Column 2 reveals that the estimated coefficients for PRD and PAN are virtually the same. This means that the PRI does not find one party or the other more challenging. The estimation also shows that the PRI can boost its probabilities of winning by forging electoral coalitions with other, much smaller parties, most notably the PVEM (the Greens).5 The variable measuring the effective number of candidates suggests that the PRI is more likely to win when it faces a fragmented opposition. That is, when there are more candidates running, a smaller vote share can allow the PRI to claim victory. A divided opposition probably competes among itself for votes, rather than taking support solely from the PRI. The last estimation in column 3 shows that when the PAN and the PRD have successfully crafted a coalition against the PRI, the latter is more likely to lose.

In order to get an idea of the effects involved in such coalitional dynamics, one can simulate the probability of victory for the PRI for various scenarios by changing the value of the independent variables. If all the independent variables are set at their mean value, taking the estimation in column 3, the probability of victory for the PRI is 97 percent. That is, the PRI is virtually guaranteed to keep on winning state elections if all states are like the average state. But of course there is no such thing as an average state. Instead, the most crucial distinction between states after 1989 is whether the PRI is the incumbent. When it is not, its probability of winning falls by 27 percent. The effect of coalitions is, nonetheless, rather large. Even if a state is governed by the PRI, if it faces a unified opposition, the probability of winning is only a coin toss (50.4 percent).6 But the estimate shows that the PRI can also use coalitions in its favor. If it runs a candidate in coalition with the PVEM, even facing a unified front of the PRD and the PAN, the PRI’s probability of wining jumps back to 75 percent.

The national PRI and factionalism

The PRI has become a highly decentralized collection of entrenched governors, who have an impressive ability to win elections in part because of federal fiscal decentralization. However, its ability to survive as a national party capable of winning federal elections will hinge, first upon its ability to coordinate its local (and


state) electoral machines, and second, on its capacity to keep the heterogeneous coalition united. These are critical challenges given the factionalism within the national PRI, as noted by T.J. Cheng in this volume. Our analysis systematically traces the source of internal party factionalism to policy divisions embedded in the socio-structural conditions of the politicians’ local economies.

Internal party splits could lead to massive defections of voters and the rank-and-file to other parties. The specter of the 1987 factional split led by Cuauhtémoc Cárdenas and Porfirio Muñoz Ledo, who later founded the PRD as the main leftwing opposition party, inspires this premonition. Such a split is not without precedent, even within the former dominant PRI. In the mid-1980s, the leftwing faction strenuously objected to the social costs inflicted by stabilization policies and structural reform of the economy, both of which were made possible by the authoritarian features of party hegemony and the extreme concentration of power in the presidency.

In the wake of the collapse of Mexico’s economy in 1982 and the ensuing drastic measures of structural adjustment and reform, ideological divisions among the PRI’s political elite became prevalent. There were conflicts between the technocrats that dominated the government and the politicians who dominated the ruling party (Centeno, 1994; Domínguez, 1996). President Carlos Salinas referred to the division as one between liberal modernizing reformers, on the one hand, and the vast “nomenklatura” of conservative statists, populists, defensive nationalists, corporatists and die-hard authoritarians, on the other (Salinas, 2000). Despite the consolidation of the PRD, ideological conflict remains a source of defections from the PRI.

Through the Salinas term, there was little systematic evidence demonstrating that ideological factions mattered for policy and governance beyond the PRI elite itself. Aside from general elections, which united the ruling party’s reformers and anti-reformers against a shared opposition, there were no explicit factional contests within the PRI that could indicate levels of support for either side of that ideological divide. Internal divides stayed internal to the party. This changed abruptly with the onset of Ernesto Zedillo’s term as president in late 1994. Innovations imposed by Zedillo on selection procedures for candidates to office opened the PRI’s internal politics to public scrutiny and participation. Internal divisions within PRI were revealed to the rank-and-file as well as voters.

Factional politics and leadership selection

To study ideological factionalism within the PRI, we focus on national intra-party contests for high office and leadership positions. The open presidential primary of 1999, the open party-leadership race of 2002 and the presidential nomination process of 2005 were accompanied by intense mobilization of the rank-and-file throughout the country, intense news coverage, campaigns that saturated the airwaves, televised debates in some cases, and the plentiful production of opinion surveys and exit polls. Since all of these contests involved the electoral fate of Roberto Madrazo, who lost the 1999 race but regained leadership in subsequent


contests, the conventional wisdom is that ideological splits reflect power struggles among party heavyweights and their political coteries. Since sitting and former state governors played prominent roles in all three contests, there has been much speculation about the personal and factional ambitions of the players.

Three of the four contenders, including the two frontrunners, in the 1999 primary were governors: Labastida from Sinaloa, Madrazo from Tabasco, and Bartlett from Puebla. In addition, a “syndicate” of governors from the eastern and southern regions routinely met with Bartlett and Madrazo in 1998 to pressure the national leadership into opening up the nomination process. The leadership race in 2002 featured two former Governors, Madrazo again and Paredes from Tlaxcala, with many sitting governors maneuvering noisily in favor of one or the other. In early 2005, a group of sitting governors, mostly from northern states, formed an alliance, known colloquially as TUCOM (“Todos Unidos Contra Madrzo” or “All United Against Madrazo”). Their singular purpose was to engineer an alternative nomination process within the PRI, one that was capable of producing a candidate strong enough to wrest control of the party and the presidential nomination from Madrazo. In the end, the alliance chose Arturo Montiel, the governor of the state of Mexico, to champion the cause, though his candidacy was aborted in the fall of 2005 when charges of corruption against him and his family were revealed. These three episodes shared similar regional alignments which extended across presidential and gubernatorial administrations. Governors, and eventually voters, from the northern and central regions of the country backed, first Labastida, then Paredes and later Montiel. Backing Madrazo in all three races were those from the South and Southeast.

Survey research finds no evidence of issue-voting among PRI supporters, regardless of the faction or candidate being supported. One study on the congres-sional budget battle of 1997 finds no evidence of internal cleavages among PRI voters on fiscal controversies concerning the size of government and redistributive allocation of fiscal resources (Estévez and Magaloni, 2000). Numerous studies on the 1999 presidential primary arrive at similar results (see Estévez and Moreno, 2002; Estévez and Poiré, 2001; Moreno, 2003; and Méndez, 2003). Neither self-identification on the left–right ideological spectrum, nor issue positions on the privatization of the electric energy sector, nor even intensity of identification with the PRI revealed differences in voting choice in the primary. Some retrospective evaluations, such as presidential approval, clearly distinguished Labastida and Madrazo backers, but this could be interpreted as endogenous to the ins-versus-outs nature of the primary contest. Aside from this factor, only issues stemming from the campaign itself (negativity overload) and the quality or fairness of the primary (expectations of vote-rigging) defined cleavages among the backers of either candidate. That the contest was a divisive primary for the PRI, hurting the winner Labastida’s prospects in the general election, remains an unsettled question.7 However, the lack of evidence for issue-based or policy-based voting suggests that PRI voter choices in the primaries reflected the largely candidate-centered nature of the contest. Indeed, the geographic array of preferences mirrored a pattern of voters backing their regional favorite sons.


Factionalism at the national level of party politics, sustained at least since the presidential primary of 1999, reflects the local political-economy which state chapters of the PRI inherited from their hegemonic past as well as the large variance in states’ economic performance since the breakdown and stabilization of the 1980s “lost decade.” The subsequent dynamics of growth in Mexico’s regional economies are a function of the state’s market-orientation, openness to foreign trade and attractiveness to direct foreign investment. At one end of the spectrum we find states that are growing, highly integrated into the world economy and market-oriented. At the other end of the continuum are state-driven local economies that are largely closed to foreign trade and highly dependent on flows of federal public investment and other resource transfers from the center. These patterns are mirrored in the PRI’s internal politics through each state’s alignment with one of the two national factions; PRI politicians from states with state-driven economies allied with Madrazo after 1999 while those from more market-oriented states allied with his adversaries.

The regional variation in factional support was tied to the policy issues prominently debated in the PRI caucus. Put another way, the “ideological” conflicts between modernizers and traditionalists, liberals and populist-statists, are reflected in regional differences in factional alignment, rooted not only in the alliances among the party’s politicians but more deeply in the voting choices of the PRI’s core constituencies.

Conclusions

The 2006 presidential election pitted a leftist candidate stressing poverty alleviation and social justice, Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador of the PRD, against Felipe Calderon Hinojosa of the PAN, who emphasized conservative and market-oriented policies. The PRI candidate trailed in third place in this polarized electoral contest. The polarization reflected Mexico’s political development in the post-NAFTA era. Two Mexicos have emerged: a cosmopolitan, vibrant modern nation with high prospects for economic growth and improved well-being, and a stagnating country of impoverished peasants and marginal urban dwellers who seem left behind by the transformations of the 1990s. The two Mexicos are clustered in territorially distinct areas of the country, although not simply along a north–south divide.

The social cleavages are reflected in the divisions within the PRI. For decades the former dominant party constituted a multi-class and multi-sector coalition among a heterogeneous array of interests. The authoritarian aspect of hegemonic rule was reflected in the exclusion of dissident groups and citizens, and in the abuse by PRI politicians of their privileges while in office. But the party remained in office for reasons beyond the threat of violence or the exercise of electoral fraud. Vast sectors chose to vote for the party. These bases of support are reflected in the survival of the party into the democratic era which was inaugurated by the PRI’s 2000 defeat.


The survival of the PRI is predicated on its ability to win democratic elections. In around half of Mexico’s states the party has become entrenched in gubernatorial office. The governors have become the key players in the reconstruction of the national party. They will continue to play the most prominent roles in the foreseeable future. Governors from the state-driven core expect that the party will push for regional compensatory policies benefiting the poorest states with federal transfers that are to be used at the discretion of governors. Governors from the market-driven core states will push for greater fiscal devolution and the freedom for state governments to retain a larger part of their tax revenue. If the PRI is to survive as a national political party, leaders will have to reconcile the dual character of its members’ ideological visions, reflective of the dualism of Mexico’s development.

Notes

1 The timing of Mexico’s transition to democracy is somewhat problematic. The PRI had won a clean and relatively fair election in 1994, and had already lost control of the federal legislature since 1997, but alternation in executive power provides a clear threshold to qualify the country as democratic. See Przeworski et al. (2000).

2 A point made quite presciently by Trejo (1999). 3 The literature on the Mexican PRI is quite vast. A good classic account of the

workings of the party is provided by Brandenburg (1964). On electoral politics during PRI hegemony, see Molinar (1991). On Mexican electoral behavior in the democratic era, see Moreno (2003). For the democratization process from various angles, see Domínguez and McCann (1996); Dominguez and Poiré (1999); Lawson (2002); Domínguez and Lawson (2004); Middlebrook (2004); Eisenstadt (2004); and Magaloni (2006). Good introductory accounts are Camp (1999); Levy and Bruhn (2001); and Preston and Dillon (2004).

4 The mobility matrix is constructed by assigning coalitions to the strongest party in the state or to which the candidate was most closely associated with.

5 This is partly endogenous, to the extent that the party enters coalitions in races which it expects to be very close. However, we should note that (unreported) estimates showed that the prior margin of victory is a very poor predictor of success. And the prior margin was not a good predictor of the PRI pursuing a coalition. An ex ante margin of victory, before the actual election takes place but after the elections six years before, would make a good instrument to perform a two-stage estimation of the effect of the PRI coalitions. However, there are not enough publicly available state-level opinion polls before state elections that would allow for such estimation.

6 This is a less reliable estimate given that the standard errors are somewhat large. 7 Both Poiré (2002) and Moreno and Pierce (2002) substantiate this interpretation, but

see McCann (2004) for the opposing view.

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Eisenstadt, T. (2004) Courting Democracy in Mexico, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Estévez, F. and Magaloni, B. (2000) “Legislative Parties and their Constituencies in the Budget Battle of 1997,” Documento de Trabajo WPPS 2000–01, Political Science Department, ITAM.

Estévez, F. and Moreno, A. (2002) “Campaign Effects and Issue Voting in the PRI Primary,” Documento de Trabajo WPPS 2002-01, Political Science Department, ITAM.

Estévez, F. and Poiré, A. (2001) “Early Campaign Dynamics in the 2000 Mexican Presidencial Election,” Documento de Trabajo WPPS 2001-01, Political Science Department, ITAM.

Langston, J. (1994) “An empirical view of the political groups in México: The camarillas,” CIDE, DEP, No. 15.

Lawson, C. (2002) Building the Fourth Estate: Democratization and the Rise of a Free Press in Mexico, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

Magaloni, B. (2006) Voting for Autocracy: Hegemonic Party Survival and its Demise in Mexico, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Middlebrook, K. (ed.) (2004) Dilemas of Political Change in Mexico, London: Institute of Latin American Studies/Center for U.S.–Mexico Studies, University of California, San Diego.

Molinar, J. (1991) El Tiempo de la Legitimidad, Mexico: Cal y Arena.Moreno, A. (2003) El Votante Mexicano, Mexico: Fondo de Cultura Economica.Moreno, A. and Pierce, R. (2002) “The impact of the PRI Primary of November 1999 on

the Mexican Presidential Election of July 2000,” unpublished manuscript.Poiré, A. (2002) “Bounded Ambitions. Party Nominations, Discipline, and Defection:

Mexico’s PRI in Comparative Perspective,” Unpublished PhD dissertation, Harvard University, Department of Government.

Preston, J. and Dillon, S. (2004) Opening Mexico: The Making of a Democracy, New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux.


Przeworski, A. et al. (2000) Democracy and Development, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Trejo, G. (1999) “A la Hora de la Alternancia”, Nexos, April.

The Kuomintang (KMT) governed Taiwan without interruption from the late 1940s through to the twenty-first century. The party initially ruled as an authoritarian party-state, though later, beginning in the 1990s, as a democratically elected government. The KMT appeared undefeatable over this long period, overcoming periodic challenges to the authoritarian regime’s legitimacy and the uncertainties of democratic competition. Rather unexpectedly, however, the KMT failed to win the presidency in 2000 and subsequently lost its majority in the Legislative Yuan in 2001. The party began adapting to its new role as opposition, with an eye towards re-gaining power in the near term. Its efforts fell short, when the KMT lost the 2004 Presidential election.

This chapter examines the challenges constraining the KMT’s ability to adapt and quickly rebound in democracy. The chapter also compares those with the KMT’s experience under authoritarianism. The two political contexts—democracy and authoritarianism—differ fundamentally, reflecting, importantly, the transformation of both Taiwan’s dominant party system and the political basis of the dominant party itself. Past practices no longer work. Democracy entails new constraints. New strategies have to be crafted. Quite simply, the game has changed and so too have the politics of party dominance. This chapter clarifies these transformations.

Losing

KMT candidate, Lien Chan, lost the 2000 presidential election to the opposition’s Chen Shui-Bian in what was a three-way race. Former KMT elder James Soong ran as an independent candidate and won 37 percent of the popular vote, narrowly losing to Chen who gained around 39 percent. Soong decimated his former KMT ally, Lien, who polled only 23 percent of the vote. A year later, the KMT lost its majority in the legislature for the first time when the opposition Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) won a plurality of seats, more than any other party. The DPP and the Taiwan Solidarity Union (TSU) together gained the “pan-green” alliance a total of 100 legislative seats with 45 percent of the popular vote, an unprecedented margin in Taiwan’s democratic politics.

4 Maintaining KMT dominance

Party adaptation in authoritarian and democratic Taiwan

Joseph Wong

58 Joseph Wong

The KMT’s electoral woes continued in 2004 when Lien, then running with the popular Soong under the “pan-blue” banner, was defeated by incumbent President Chen, though this time in a tightly contested two-ticket election. The KMT bounced back later during the December 2004 legislative elections. The pan-blue alliance—comprising the KMT and Soong’s splinter party, the People’s First Party (PFP)—won a combined 114 seats and about 51 percent of the popular vote, outpolling the governing DPP. A less sanguine interpretation of the results, from the perspective of the KMT, underscores the fact that the former ruling party and its slate of candidates gained only 80 seats and 36 percent of the vote, a result still short of the DPP’s electoral performance. Among the four major contending parties in 2004, the DPP again carried the largest vote share (40 percent) and number of legislative seats (89). The DPP had evolved from a grassroots social movement during the 1970s into an effective electoral organization (Rigger 2001). Taiwan’s democracy is working. It is competitive.

Still, after the KMT’s historic defeat in 2000, when it ran two candidates and split the vote, it was not unreasonable to expect that the former dominant party would re-gain power relatively quickly. KMT members experienced losing as an “aberration.” Partisans felt that the 2000 election was a moment when rivalries among the leadership momentarily overwhelmed the KMT’s otherwise tried-and-true electoral machine. The party seemed to have learned from this when Lien and Soong ran together in the 2004 presidential elections. The fact that they lost that contest was attributed by partisans to the assassination attempt on President Chen which they believe swayed some undecided voters in the eleventh hour of the elections. Losing in 2004 was understood as idiosyncratic, an unexpected “hiccup” in KMT political dominance.

John Hsieh (2002) points out that the pan-blue electoral base remained sizable and steady. As such, it expected to soon re-gain power from the inexperienced DPP government. Political adaptation for political survival is not new to the KMT. The authoritarian party-state strategically adapted to changing social, political and economic circumstances, which allowed the KMT to manage democratic transition in Taiwan during the late 1980s. The KMT’s demonstrated skills in party adaptation ensured its continued electoral dominance throughout the 1990s. Adapting yet again during the early 2000s, therefore, did not seem a tall order.

KMT efforts to reform (Cheng, this volume) and recent electoral wins for the KMT notwithstanding, this chapter contends that the former ruling party has nonetheless failed to re-invent itself and to effectively consolidate its party leadership and rank-and-file. The notion that KMT support was unchanged into the 2000s was one that was initially based on an aggregation of pan-blue versus pan-green supporters. Though pan-blue support remained sizable, the KMT qua KMT, until very recently, failed to successfully win back its voter base. Even the current consensus surrounding the KMT’s most recent electoral success during the January 2008 legislative and March 2008 Presidential elections is one which attributes the KMT’s win to the DPP’s collapse under President Chen’s leadership rather than a wholesale transformation of the former ruling party. As some observers have put it, the KMT of today is merely “old wine in a new bottle.”

Maintaining KMT dominance 59

Adaptation in authoritarian Taiwan

The KMT began to govern Taiwan during the late 1940s, when it was defeated by Mao Zedong and his forces in the Chinese civil war, and when KMT leader Chiang Kai-Shek relocated the Republic of China (ROC) government to Taiwan. The KMT aspired to re-take the mainland through diplomatic and military means. Taiwan, then, was merely a temporary stop for the KMT. The state apparatus established by the KMT on Taiwan was unequivocally authoritarian, a Leninist party-state. The KMT penetrated Taiwanese society. President Chiang ruled through highly repressive measures. Political opposition was de-mobilized. Civil society was razed. The regime was brutal.

Yet state-sanctioned repression was only one tactic of many used by the KMT to maintain its political dominance in Taiwan. The KMT leadership understood that violent repression, tactically speaking, was limited in its long-term effectiveness. Alternative means for maintaining the party’s dominance were necessary. The KMT regime actively promoted—and certainly took credit for—economic growth with equity (Cheng 1990). Through state intervention in land reform, indirect incentives encouraging high levels of household savings and policies aiding small and medium sized enterprise (SME) development, the KMT-led developmental state ensured a relatively flat distribution of wealth. Taiwan’s gini coefficient, a measure of the distribution of income, consistently ranked among the most egalitarian in the world, while aggregate growth rates were astronomical.

Policies which promoted equitable development in Taiwan were motivated by the KMT’s strategic political considerations, not by a social democratic impulse associated with modern welfare states (Lin 1994). Land reform not only re-distributed tenure and increased agricultural production (Wade 1990), it also destroyed the potentially threatening landlord class and cultivated the tacit support of Taiwanese peasant farmers. Land reform, in effect, gained the party-state considerable political autonomy (unlike in Latin America) and to some extent, regime legitimacy. The KMT had learned from its experiences in China, where the party’s inability and unwillingness to gain support from villagers in the countryside led to its defeat against the Chinese Communist Party. Equitable industrial growth, primarily through the development of SMEs, also ensured that wealth was not concentrated. Economic resources available to potential opposition forces remained diffuse and disparate, ensuring the KMT’s uncontested hold on power.

For the first 20 years of the KMT’s reign, the growth with equity “pact” pre-empted the rise of any real opposition. Peoples’ lives improved and the KMT took credit for having delivered development. Through a mix of periodic repression, Leninist-style political penetration, and rapid economic growth with equity, the KMT adapted well to the changing social, economic and political circumstances on Taiwan in the immediate postwar period. The basis for this pact began to come undone during the 1970s. Domestically, Taiwanese nationalists started to mobilize in opposition to the Chinese “mainlander” KMT regime, demanding a greater voice for ethnic Taiwanese. Social activists tied Taiwanese identity and the goal

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of self-determination to the fate of domestic democratic reform (Wachman 1994). Internationally, the US, as part of its Cold War strategy, normalized relations with Communist China during the 1970s to contain Brezhnev’s militaristic Soviet Union. Taiwan lost its United Nations seat to China. Taiwan (or the Republic of China) and the KMT government were officially de-recognized in the international arena. The KMT lost political legitimacy in Taiwan.

Confronted with severe political crises on both the domestic and international fronts, the KMT party-state needed to adapt again in order to maintain its dominance. Though episodes of state repression and the enforcement of martial law persisted, the KMT turned inward to build political legitimacy. If the KMT was to no longer be recognized internationally as the sovereign government of China, then it would have to build its legitimacy from the inside-out. The “KMT transferred attention away from its mainland aspirations and devoted them to improving the living standards on Taiwan and the party’s own prestige” (Dickson 1997: 160). The KMT began to re-shape both itself and the political system. That the ruling party continued to enjoy tremendously centralized power and authority meant that the KMT could effectively control this transformative process.

In an effort to re-constitute the KMT and to distance the party from the perception that it was predominantly a Chinese mainlander or “foreign” party, the KMT leadership initiated a process of “Taiwanization.” Ethnic Taiwanese were recruited into the party rank-and-file. By 1975 the ethnic composition of the party had been reversed (i.e. more Taiwanese than mainlanders), and by the mid 1980s two-thirds of the party’s membership comprised ethnic Taiwanese (Huang 1996: 115). The Taiwanization of the KMT elevated Taiwan-born members into prominent leadership positions within the party, the government, and in local KMT offices (Winckler 1984: 489–90; Dickson 1996: 55).

The Taiwanization strategy, along with pressures from within society for political reform more generally, led the KMT party-state to initiate a gradual process of political liberalization. Reform-oriented cadres in the ruling party, supported by President Chiang Ching-Kuo, carried out reform with the gradual expansion of local, provincial and eventually national level elections. While maintaining a formal ban on the formation of opposition parties, the KMT regime did allow independent (non-KMT) candidates to run in these elections. Given the party’s organizational resources, however, the KMT continued to easily win overwhelming majorities in the legislature. This strategy paid off for the KMT in several other ways. It portrayed the ruling party as a transformative party-state and not as an ossified and unresponsive Leninist-style organization (Dickson 1997). Furthermore, the gradual expansion of electoral participation institutionalized important feedback mechanisms which further immersed the party-state within society. And finally, the KMT’s overwhelming electoral dominance into the 1980s effectively legitimated its hold on power (Cheng 1989; Winckler 1984; Dickson 1997; Rigger 1999).

Reformers within the KMT also engaged the opposition tangwai (or “outside the party”) movement during the early 1980s. In 1981, KMT soft-liners and moderate opposition leaders met to discuss how democratic competition could be


further institutionalized. As early as 1983, President Chiang Ching-kuo himself began to consider how best to introduce a political opening while at the same time maintaining the KMT’s political upper-hand (Dickson 1997: 206–10; Myers and Chao 1998). When opposition forces announced in 1986 the founding of the DPP—technically an illegal proclamation at the time—it was received with conciliation by the ruling KMT (Chou and Nathan 1987). Chiang also spearheaded the passage of the Civil Organizations Law and lifted martial law in 1987. The KMT pre-empted the opposition by initiating political reform in Taiwan. This strategic move allowed the KMT to essentially “manage” a democratic transition “from above.” Dickson reasons that “[w]ith new opposition parties ready to compete for political power, KMT leaders decided that refusing to adapt to the changed environment was a greater threat than setting and enforcing the terms and pace of political change” (Dickson 1997: 213, emphasis mine). The DPP was weak, unproven, and the KMT only gradually opened up the electoral arena. Full legislative elections were not held until 1992 and Taiwan’s first presidential election was delayed until 1996. With the KMT at the helm of the political reform process, it was able to continue to dominate the electoral arena throughout the 1990s. The KMT won subsequent majorities in the legislature and easily took the presidency in the founding election of 1996.

The politics of party adaptation

The authoritarian KMT party-state demonstrated tremendous skill in addressing political crises, ensuring its hold on power remained uncontested throughout the 1970s into the late 1980s. Though an authoritarian party-state initially, the KMT benefited from what T.J. Pempel calls the “virtuous cycle of dominance,” which lasted for the KMT even into the early days of democracy in Taiwan (1990: 16).1 The KMT experience offers important insights into the dynamics of dominant party adaptation. Though the dominant party system was constituted by non-democratic institutions, the early KMT experience nonetheless provides a baseline from which to compare and to ultimately understand the challenges of adaptation the dominant party would have to face in democratic Taiwan.

The early experience of the KMT on Taiwan and the party’s ability to weather several political crises point to three interrelated processes. The first is the presence of some environmental change or stimulus which prompts a political crisis and the impetus for change (Harmel and Janda 1994). The rise of a Taiwanese-based movement and the normalization of diplomatic relations between China and the US provided the internal and external impetuses for adaptation within the KMT organization and the broader political system. The KMT altered its strategies and the dominant party system in Taiwan was re-configured. Second, party leaders identify and understand the complexities of environmental change through feedback mechanisms. The early introduction of limited elections in Taiwan served as not only a legitimating factor for the regime, but also more importantly an institutionalized channel for information gathering for the KMT. In this respect, “learning” is crucial to adaptation. Third, adaptive strategic decisions are

62 Joseph Wong

shaped by the choices of well-positioned actors within the party apparatus. Party adaptation is determined by the balance of power among contending elites and the degree to which one group in the party is able to coalesce and execute a coherent strategy for adaptation. Party splits can be deadly. In Taiwan, Chiang Ching-Kuo crafted a reform faction within the KMT leadership which strategically engaged the opposition movement. This pre-emptive strategy facilitated the continued dominance of the KMT well into the 1990s.

Whereas the KMT under authoritarianism was skilled in reacting and adapting to changes in Taiwan’s social, economic and political arenas, the KMT subsequently demonstrated less adaptive prowess. Election results show the KMT’s declining vote share has not mirrored a proportionate increase in the DPP’s share of the popular vote. When it comes to elections, the KMT’s disappointments cannot be entirely attributed to the DPP’s gains. With the exception of the 2004 presidential election, which was a two-ticket race, the DPP’s vote share has remained relatively stable since the late 1980s: about 30–40 percent of the popular vote. As Hsieh notes, the level of pan-blue support—the combination of KMT-PFP or KMT-NP support—has similarly stayed relatively stable. The KMT, as a party and a political entity in and of itself, however, has experienced a significant decline in popular support, from nearly 60 percent in 1989 to 46 percent of the popular vote in the 1998 legislative elections to just 31 percent in 2001, a decline of 29 percent in 12 years. Party identification among voters with the former ruling party had weakened. The KMT’s mobilizational capacity diminished vis-à-vis other splinter parties. The party had failed to re-energize its base, losing voters to the PFP, the NP, and even the DPP on a consistent basis. The KMT, despite its long dominance on Taiwan, saw its “virtuous cycle of dominance” come to a slow end.

The inability of the KMT to quickly bounce back at the polls after 2000 was somewhat puzzling given the party’s demonstrated record of effective adaptation to crises in the past, the fact that the pan-blue electoral base endured (even though it had split), and the DPP’s vulnerability. The Chen administration was weak from the start and the KMT continued to possess tremendous power within the legislature. Given the KMT’s vast resources, the DPP was hardly expected to be a resilient opponent to the former dominant party. It seemed, then, the KMT enjoyed a fortuitous window of opportunity to quickly and decisively re-assert itself electorally. Yet, the KMT failed to do so. Why was the KMT of old so adroit at party adaptation while the subsequent KMT came up short in demonstrating the same political savvy and skill? The political logic of party adaptation (environmental change, gathering feedback and learning, followed by strategic choices), while still relevant to the KMT, differs in a democratic context. The dominant party system was transformed in Taiwan. The political constraints on party adaptation in authoritarian and democratic contexts are different. The KMT was slow to master the latter.

Anna Grzymala-Busse, in her important book on the electoral fate of former communist parties, suggests that unified and coherent leadership in formerly dominant parties is a pre-requisite for effective party “regeneration” (2002: 9). In


democratic contexts, however, internal party conflicts become amplified, making coherent party leadership difficult to craft, particularly with more transparency (i.e. media coverage). Internal party dissension and elite conflicts are increasingly revealed for public consumption. This has posed a significant challenge for the fractious KMT as well as UMNO in Malaysia (Mauzy and Barter, this volume), in contrast to the PAP in Singapore which has remained remarkably unified over the course of its post-independence history. Moreover, under democratic rules of the game, dissatisfied factions within a party can defect by forming splinter parties. Conflicting actors in a democracy have available to them institutional opportunities for not only “voice” (i.e. dissent), but also “exit.” The KMT experienced “exit” twice, first with the creation of the New Party in 1993 followed by the People’s First Party in 2000. This would have been impossible in an authoritarian system. In both instances, the splinter parties split the KMT electoral base.

With the proliferation of political actors in democracy, the political game becomes one of multiple players. Adaptive strategies in this competitive context cannot adhere to a political logic where one-party dominance is a priori presumed. Formerly dominant parties, such as the KMT, can no longer rely on the institutions of the state and advantages of perpetual incumbency to bolster their political dominance. In a democracy, parties compete for control of the political and policy agendas and thus adaptive strategies must be mindful of and even anticipate the actions and reactions of viable opponents. Maintaining and re-gaining political dominance in a competitive democracy is a matter of “winning” electoral support, which is fundamentally distinct from the authoritarian logic of maintaining political dominance by “eliminating” dissent. The KMT must therefore “win” back its dominance, while authoritarian parties such as Singapore’s PAP and the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) have remained dominant by ensuring the absence of any real competition. This is democracy’s hallmark.

Strategic adaptation and competitive democracy

Adapting to the role of the opposition, after a long period of dominance, is rarely straightforward. As T.J. Pempel shows for Japan, learning to lose was effectively a “suicide pact” for the Liberal Democratic Party. The KMT’s defeats in the early 2000s were understood by the formerly dominant party itself to be an “aberration” (Cheng 2003: 12), and were met with utter disbelief. Immediate threats of impeachment leveled against newly elected President Chen in 2001, combined with obstructive pan-blue rallies and a failed legal challenge against Chen in the wake of the 2004 presidential elections re-affirmed some KMT members’ unwillingness to accept its role as the opposition (Wu 2001; Wong et al. 2004/5). The KMT, then, was hardly in the mood to learn to lose, never mind learning from having lost. Image matters and as Cheng points out, there is a fine though politically significant line between the defeated party as “loyal opposition” and as “poor loser” (Cheng 2003: 27). Indeed, bad opposition is bad for democracy. The inability of the KMT to swiftly adapt to win again in democratic Taiwan has gone beyond poor political optics and negative images, however. There are deep-seated

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factors which severely constrained the former ruling party’s ability to strategically adapt to its new political realities.

Intra-party conflict

The KMT lacks, and has lacked for some time now, internal party cohesion. Dating back to when former President and then KMT Chairman Lee Teng-Hui ascended to the party leadership during the late 1980s, internal factionalism has threatened the unity of the KMT (Myers and Chao 1998). The lines of conflict within the party have been numerous and varied. Ideologically, Taiwan’s relations with China have pitted factions within the KMT against one another, loosely mirroring the ethnic composition of the party. Though the KMT has recently looked to bring more of its legislative rank-and-file into decision-making positions within the party, the longstanding gap and tensions between legislators and party leaders have only just begun to be addressed (Cheng 2003).

Inter-generational tensions have also emerged as a significant cleavage. The KMT has attempted to rejuvenate its party membership with the recruitment of younger members, which has actually widened the already growing distance between the party’s young talent and high-ranking KMT elders. The impetus to replace Lien Chan as party Chairman in 2004 and 2005, for instance, was due in large part to the perception that Lien was increasingly out of touch with Taiwan’s on-the-ground political realities. Lien’s perceived stubbornness and initial unwillingness to step down as party leader, even after the KMT’s spectacular defeats in 2000, 2001 and again in 2004, exacerbated this inter-generational acrimony, especially given that a purportedly new generation of leadership was impatiently waiting in the wings.

Party unity was also undermined by Taiwan’s electoral system. Taiwan’s single non-transferable vote, multi-member district (SNTV-MM) scheme required that legislative candidates run against members of their own party within each electoral district. Cadres were therefore incentivized to develop distinct platforms and to nurture local factional ties rather than rely on central party resources or the party’s efforts to coordinate legislative behavior. The SNTV-MM scheme, in short, pits partisan allies against one another. Party identification was hence diluted. Intra-party cooperation became increasingly difficult. Though the electoral system originally ensured KMT electoral dominance over weak opposition parties, the SNTV-MM over time fostered deep “ideological strife” and “serious coordination problems” for the KMT, and was a key factor “responsible for factionalism” within the party (Lin 2005: 21).

Personal rivalries have been particularly damaging to the party. The conflict between Lee Teng-Hui and former KMT Governor James Soong resulted in the latter’s independent candidacy for the presidency in 2000. Lee himself was purged from the KMT shortly thereafter. Personal enmity between Lien and James Soong intensified during the 2000 presidential election when they ran against one another, split the pan-blue vote, and allowed DPP candidate Chen to win the presidency with less than 40 percent of the popular vote. Tensions between Lien and Soong


continued until the two joined forces for the 2004 presidential election. Even then, however, it was unclear as to how Lien and Soong would accommodate one another in the event that they won the election (Lin 2003). Tensions have also emerged between recently elected KMT Chairman Ma Ying-Jeou, a mainlander, and long-time KMT loyalist Wang Jin-Ping, a Taiwanese, even though both are regarded as moderate politicians, popular and capable, and touted to be the “next generation” of leadership for the re-building party. Ma eventually won the party’s Chairmanship in the summer of 2005. But Wang has not completely surrendered.

Ameliorating elite conflict and maintaining the organizational integrity of the party have not been easy tasks for the KMT. Democratic transparency has meant that internal party conflicts are well publicized, particularly conflict among party leaders. Enmity between Lee and Soong, Soong and Lien, Lee and Lien, and recently Ma and Wang, is common knowledge among voters, reinforcing perceptions that the KMT was fragmented at the top.2

Despite efforts to modernize political parties, personalism and voters’ fixation on individual leaders remain critical lenses through which the Taiwanese analyze politics. The absence (until very recently) of institutionalized succession mechanisms for KMT leadership reinforced the highly personalistic nature of party politics. Prior to the election of Ma Ying-Jeou to the KMT Chairmanship by party members in the summer of 2005, KMT leaders had typically been selected on the basis of their personal ties with the outgoing leader. The historical absence of routinized (and democratic) procedures for determining the outcome of leadership struggles drew attention to the specter of intra-party conflict and of party fragmentation more generally. That democracy in Taiwan affords an institutionalized and viable “exit” alternative for party dissenters has also meant that elite conflicts can (and have) reverberate throughout the KMT’s rank-and-file, resulting in the creation of splinter parties. The KMT did not enjoy the coherence and consolidated leadership needed to effectively re-invent, or as Grzymala-Busse terms it, “regenerate” itself. The balance of power among factions remains in flux. As a result, the former ruling party failed to regain control of the political and policy agendas. Its policy positions and the basis for party identification were convoluted and indistinct, especially during the early Chen presidency.

Issue ownership

One of the advantages afforded to an authoritarian dominant party is its uncontested management of state resources. Control over the allocation of resources can contribute to insidious forms of patronage, a common means for political domination in neo-patrimonial regimes in Africa and beyond (Jourde, this volume). A more benign outcome of such arrangements, though one that nonetheless serves to reinforce the power of the authoritarian dominant party, is its overwhelming control of the policy agenda and its ability to “own” and thus take credit for public policy initiatives. The authoritarian KMT benefited from this as it effectively utilized state resources to “lead” Taiwan’s postwar developmental

66 Joseph Wong

state in ways that met its own political-economic objectives (Cheng 1990; Wade 1990). Into the democratic era on Taiwan, and when the KMT was still the dominant party, the ruling party continued to win voter support by highlighting its performance in promoting rapid and equitable economic growth and for initiating democratic reform in Taiwan. The KMT “owned” the policy agenda by virtue of its political dominance.

In a democracy, however, “issue ownership” is contested. Policy agendas—and the political credit that parties attempt to claim from them—are the products of competition rather than the exclusive domain of single-party states. They reflect the preferences of voters, rather than the political-economic objectives of the dominant party. Since the late 1990s, the KMT and DPP have competed over issue ownership and control of the policy agenda. The KMT, on balance, performed poorly.

Part of this can be explained by the KMT’s inexperience as the opposition party. When the DPP government was formed in 2000, the KMT resorted primarily to attack tactics, while offering few viable political and policy alternatives. Early on, the KMT portrayed the DPP government as inexperienced and responsible for what it saw to be a crisis of governance and perpetual legislative deadlock. Soon, however, the general public began to perceive the KMT as partly responsible for the legislative logjam. Empirical evidence shows that legislative efficiency (the ratio of bills passed to bills sponsored in the legislature) in fact increased under the DPP government (Liao 2004; Wong et al. 2004/5). Taiwan’s governance crisis was increasingly seen to be a symptom of larger constitutional inefficiencies rather than solely attributable to the DPP administration. The KMT did little to convince the voting public that it ought to be considered a viable alternative. Rather, it increasingly cast itself as a “sore loser.”

Because democracy is a multi-player game, control of the policy agenda for the KMT depends as much on the strategic moves of its opponents as it does on the party’s own strategic adaptations. The DPP fared relatively well in out-maneuvering the KMT since the late 1990s, gaining ownership of the key issues which matter to Taiwan’s voters. According to Dafydd Fell’s survey data, the most salient issues in democratic Taiwan during the early 2000s were national identity and cross-straits relations, economic growth, corruption and social welfare (2005a: 111).

The identity issue remains the single most important cleavage. The tangwai movement which preceded democratic transition in Taiwan centered on self-determination. The looming threat from China and Beijing’s increased belligerence make the issue even more pressing. The constraints of China’s “one country, two systems” scheme in Hong Kong have been met with understandable skepticism in Taiwan. Taiwan’s exclusion from international organizations is felt as a slight to the Taiwanese and reinforces the feeling of insecurity on the island. Yet, while debates about independence versus unification with China dominate political discourse on Taiwan, the identity issue increasingly delivered less and less electoral utility. As Cal Clark puts it, national identity had become in the early 2000s “a loser at the polls” (2001: 106).


The vast majority of people living in Taiwan look to preserve the status quo when it comes to cross-straits relations: neither immediate independence nor unification. Put another way, despite the powerful rhetoric and emotion associated with the identity issue, most people in Taiwan have sided with prudence when it comes to actual policy. Radical positions on either side of the status quo gained only marginally in national elections, evidenced by the disappearance of the New Party (NP) and the steady decline and anticipated disappearance of the People’s First Party (PFP) and the pro-independence Taiwan Solidarity Union (TSU). Because of this, both the DPP and KMT moderated their policy positions on the identity question, even if their political rhetoric remained strong.

The DPP has continued to lean towards a separate Taiwan identity to safeguard Taiwan’s democratic autonomy, while the KMT tends towards less confrontation with Beijing, contending that it is the better suited party to protect Taiwan’s political and economic interests. The reality, however, is that over the past several years “inter-party competition has encouraged convergence” on the national identity issue (Fell 2005a: 117). Both sides, especially during the early 2000s, converged towards moderation. Indeed, flanked by the pro-independence TSU, the DPP was able to soften its stance, moving the party’s position towards the middle-ground. President Chen stated time and again early on that his administration would not declare independence. On the other side, the KMT demonstrated itself to be hardly “pro-China” when it comes to the question of national self-determination. For instance, the “mainstream” faction of the KMT under Lee Teng-Hui during the late 1990s rejected the “One China” principle as the basis for cross-straits negotiation, a significant refinement of the KMT’s historically hard-line position. Subsequent KMT leaders Lien Chan and now Ma Ying-Jeou understand that the majority of Taiwan voters do not seek unification with China in the near-term. The public’s perception of such a convergence meant that neither the KMT nor the DPP owned the policy agenda outright for this particular political issue (Schubert 2004: 534).

Convergence on the identity issue did not mean, however, that the available “space” to accommodate and facilitate the emergence of new electoral cleavages and policy issues were constrained. In fact, democratic deepening in Taiwan resulted in quite the opposite. The expansion of elections, the rejuvenation of civil society activism, and the dynamics of political entrepreneurship encouraged during democratic transition the construction of new politically salient cleavages, notably in the areas of social policy, the environment, “good governance,” and so on. Furthermore, because Taiwan’s political parties are not programmatic in the conventional European sense (i.e. left versus right) they were not constrained by ideological rigidities. Political entrepreneurs in Taiwan took advantage of this sort of ideological flexibility and looked to a broad range of social, economic and political issues upon which to build policy positions and in turn attract new electoral coalitions. The politics of issue and policy agenda ownership in Taiwan appeared relatively open-ended (Wong 2003).

Taiwan’s slowing economy during the early part of the Chen administration was targeted by the KMT as an issue to exploit. The “hollowing out” of Taiwan’s

68 Joseph Wong

traditional industrial manufacturing base as factories began to move to China and growing unemployment rates were highlighted by the KMT as evidence of the DPP government’s inability to manage the economy. The DPP contended that it had inherited an already slowing economy from the KMT and that the former ruling party’s own business interests (some illicit, some legitimate) had hamstrung the government’s efforts to further liberalize Taiwan’s economy. The DPP administration pledged to develop new knowledge-intensive industrial sectors to eventually replace Taiwan’s increasingly less competitive manufacturing industries, investing hundreds of millions of dollars into technology R&D and new industrial ventures. Taiwan’s economic recovery later during Chen’s presidency also softened the KMT’s criticisms of the government’s ability to manage the economy. Like the national identity issue, neither party has been able to effectively claim credit for and thus own economic policy issues.

The DPP, however, dominated early on the corruption and social welfare reform agendas. The DPP centered its election campaigns on the issue of “black-gold” (hei-jin) politics: black symbolizing criminal elements among elected KMT legislators and gold representing graft and corruption. Even though the DPP has itself been found to not be innocent of similar forms of corruption, the party was nonetheless able to focus the black-gold issue on the former ruling party. Black-gold accusations tarnished the legacy of former President Lee Teng-Hui and forced KMT leader Lien Chan during the 2000 and 2004 presidential elections to defend his candidacy, his running-mates, and his party against such charges. Longstanding KMT legislators associated with local criminal networks were decimated in legislative elections. The DPP also managed, during the early 2000s, to take ownership of the social welfare reform agenda, despite the fact that it was the KMT which first introduced universal health insurance during the mid-1990s. By having taken on such issues as gender equality, social care for the elderly and old-age income security, the early Chen administration and the DPP government effectively dictated the direction and scope of social welfare reform in Taiwan. Over the course of the late 1990s and into the 2000s, the DPP steered the social policy reform agenda in Taiwan, forcing the KMT to respond rather than lead reform in this politically salient policy issue (Wong 2004: Ch. 7; Fell 2005a).

In this multi-player game, the early DPP government became much more politically entrepreneurial and skilled because of what Fell saw to be a very dynamic “election-oriented” leadership within the DPP. The KMT, on the other hand, was constrained by what Fell (2005a) argues were “ideologically conservative” factions within or near the party’s leadership ranks. Moreover, while factional tensions have persisted in both contending parties, the KMT’s rank-and-file appeared to be more divided internally over two of Taiwan’s most salient policy issues during the early 2000s: social welfare reform and policy measures to eradicate corruption. Conservatives within the KMT, for instance, were hesitant to match the DPP’s social policy commitments. Some KMT factions were reluctant to admit that corruption exists within the party in the first place, and have been even more unwilling to open up the party and its practices to outside scrutiny.


Overcoming legacies

Party adaptation and re-invention in democracy require that former authoritarian parties make a clean break with their pasts. For instance, a major challenge for the successors to the communist parties in East Central Europe has been to create some ideological and programmatic distance from the earlier Soviet era, re-inventing themselves as new parties abiding by the democratic rules of the game. Overcoming authoritarian legacies is not easy. While making a clean break from history is critical, Grzymala-Busse (2002) suggests that formerly dominant parties must also draw on its “usable past”—a positive legacy—to re-cast the party’s appeal in democracy. The KMT has had to deal with this dual imperative of both breaking with and embracing its past.

It is true that the KMT not only survived but continued to hold most of its base immediately after Taiwan’s democratic breakthrough during the late 1980s. This is not always the case for formerly dominant parties in other democratic transitions (i.e. the National Party in South Africa). During what was an uncertain time in Taiwan’s politics, the KMT enjoyed a deep reservoir of legitimacy which it was able to effectively use to appeal to voters. The former authoritarian party claimed that it had delivered democracy to Taiwan and that it had engineered Taiwan’s postwar economic miracle. The KMT thus enjoyed a “usable past,” and it relied on its legacies to maintain the party’s electoral dominance in the early days of Taiwan’s young democracy.

That the KMT was not challenged early on meant that the eventual transformation of the party (intra-party democratization) lagged behind the transformation of Taiwan’s political system. The dominant party did not need to break with its past to remain dominant during the 1990s. As politics in Taiwan became more competitive, however, the KMT increasingly found itself needing to address and ultimately overcome the party’s authoritarian legacies. Despite efforts on the part of the KMT leadership to re-invent the party (Cheng, this volume), the legacies of the KMT’s past have continued to linger, if not entirely in empirical reality then most certainly in the public’s perception of the authoritarian-turned-democratic party. It has failed to break from its record of repression during the pre-democratic era, surrendering that issue to the DPP.

The KMT has attempted to democratize the internal workings of the party. The election of Central Standing Committee members by the party and the imposition of term limits for party Chairmen are procedural innovations intended to make the leadership more accountable. To re-constitute the KMT’s relationship with Taiwan society, the party has also attempted to integrate more public input into party decision-making. Observers of Taiwanese politics nonetheless question the effectiveness of these democratic reforms (Cheng, this volume; Tan 2002). The party’s commitment to reforming its candidate nomination procedures has been inconsistent (Fell 2005b). The KMT’s first “elected” Chairman, Lien Chan, was actually uncontested in 2001. After Ma Ying-Jeou was elected in what was a contested race to the party Chairmanship in 2005, outgoing leader Lien Chan was named the KMT’s only “honorary chairman,” raising doubt about the extent

70 Joseph Wong

to which Lien has been willing to exit the political stage and thus the latitude and support that Ma enjoys among party elders. While speculation about the extent of the party’s wealth is common in Taiwan, little has been revealed by the KMT. The party leadership, even after its defeats in 2000 and 2004, has continued to refuse to fully disclose its financial assets. This undercuts claims by the KMT about its sincerity in democratizing the party.

Perhaps most damaging to the KMT’s reputation have been its historical ties with local crime syndicates and the instrumental use of such ties to ensure the party’s past electoral dominance, even after the moment of democratic transition in Taiwan. Public attention surrounding black-gold politics first emerged when the KMT was in power, and specifically during the Lee Teng-Hui presidency (Lu 2002: 64–6). Vote buying on the part of the KMT emerged as a major issue during the 1990s when the DPP began to contest many of the KMT’s historical electoral strongholds (Rigger 1999). Known criminals were elected to the legislature under the KMT banner then, after having benefited from local criminal and factional networks. Heidao (the “black way”) politics permeated especially local elections, where it was believed that in 1996, 286 of 858 (or 33 percent) city and county councilors were alleged to have criminal backgrounds (Chin 2003: 14), almost all of whom had ties with the KMT. Political corruption and criminal ties—which in the minds of people in Taiwan developed long before the democratic era—have seriously undermined the KMT’s credibility as a viable alternative to the DPP. These have been hard legacies for the KMT to shake.

Conclusion: learning from losing

The dominant party system in Taiwan has been transformed. The authoritarian system, in which the KMT was able to swiftly adapt, pre-empt its opposition, and thus ensure its long dominance, has been replaced. Democracy’s introduction entailed an entirely new political game for both the KMT and its opponents, and thus new constraints on the former dominant party in adapting and maintaining its political dominance. As this chapter has shown, the KMT was slow to regain its former dominance early on, despite a vulnerable DPP government and an overwhelming disparity in political and economic resources which favored the KMT. The lack of party unity undermined the party’s efforts to steer a new reform path. The party’s inability to effectively compete for control of the issue and policy agendas in Taiwan weakened its claims to be a superior alternative to the governing DPP. The KMT has yet to fully overcome the legacies of its authoritarian past, in part because many of the past practices associated with the authoritarian period in fact carried over into the early democratic era.

The KMT’s electoral defeats in 2000 and again in 2004 were historic moments for the party, but not solely because it lost power for the first time. Democracy is not just about winning political contests. Rather, the dynamism of democracy is also about learning from defeat, adapting to new political realities, and ultimately winning again. Yet learning to lose and learning from losing are not easy to do. Parties, as Robert Michels (1962) observes, are inherently conservative


institutions when it comes to their ideological moorings, tactical repertoires and accustomed behaviors. Even when faced with the realities of declining electoral performance—precisely the times when parties are expected to transform and adapt—longstanding norms and organizational practices are resistant to change. Effective party adaptation is about continual political learning, and not just re-learning what worked in the past. Political entrepreneurs have to creatively find new ways to re-claim issue ownership, to re-cast party image and identity, to re-connect with civil society actors and to eventually re-gain electoral support. The premium on creativity—unlearning the old and learning the new—ironically imposes an even steeper learning curve for parties such as the KMT which had previously enjoyed the benefits of long-term and uncontested dominant rule. Learning to lose and learning from losing for the KMT will continue to take time. But this has not meant that the former dominant party has lost sight of electorally re-claiming government power.

Corruption allegations involving Ma Ying-Jeou from when he was Mayor of Taipei seemed to slow the KMT’s momentum towards re-gaining national power in 2006 and 2007. The party, however, effectively “closed ranks” in support of Ma, who stepped down as party Chairman in early 2007 but who nonetheless gained his party’s nomination for the presidential contest in 2008. His primary rival for the KMT’s leadership, Wang Jin-Ping, also refrained from challenging Ma for the KMT’s support during the run-up to the 2008 elections. The conventional wisdom in Taiwan has pointed to the strong possibility of a resurrected KMT. Procedurally, the election of Ma to the KMT Chairmanship in the summer of 2005 was smooth. Ma continues to be popular, even in Southern Taiwan where the DPP has tended to dominate electorally. In the year-end 2005 local elections, Ma campaigned vigorously, helping the KMT-led slate of candidates take 17 of 23 races. The KMT, after having resolved its rift with its splinter parties, also prompted a landslide victory during the legislative elections in early 2008. The DPP recorded an all-time low in the number of seats it gained in the national contests. The 2008 presidential election was essentially Ma’s, and by extension the KMT’s, to lose. The KMT was clearly on the rise again (Ross 2006).

There are two ways to interpret the KMT’s resurrection in electoral politics. Some see it as attributable to the political blunders and miscalculations of the DPP government and of President Chen. Chen’s political rhetoric about a more assertive Taiwan identity has been interpreted as irresponsible posturing. His attempt to play the identity card to mobilize the “deep green” voting base was not welcomed in either Beijing or Washington DC. Recent allegations of corruption aimed at Chen, his family, and his colleagues also undermined the DPP’s claim to be Taiwan’s only “clean” political party. Some of the DPP’s own support base asked for Chen’s resignation in order to save the party. The party has split. It would therefore not be unreasonable to conclude that the resurgence of the KMT in early 2008 was mainly the consequence of the DPP’s own implosion.

In this interpretation, the KMT has not had to learn very much. To be sure, many contend that Ma’s KMT is merely “old wine in a new bottle.” Party elders such as

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Lien Chan continue to wield tremendous influence in the party’s power structure, constraining Ma’s efforts to reform the KMT. The KMT has not re-invented itself in any substantive way in terms of policy initiatives. The conventional wisdom in Taiwan during early 2008 was that the legislative elections were not so much “won” by the KMT as they were “lost” by the moribund DPP, a view echoed by Ma himself shortly after the elections.

Yet, another perspective sees the KMT’s recent resurrection as the result of a process of political learning, and specifically the processes of learning to lose to ultimately win again. Proponents of this view contend that the KMT has earnestly tried to break from its past. The KMT re-located its party headquarters in 2006 away from its original behemoth near the presidential offices to a much more modest space in Taipei’s downtown financial district. To the extent that image and political optics matter, this move may be interpreted to mean the KMT no longer conceives of itself in terms of historical wealth and that it no longer believes its political fortunes are pre-ordained. The party increasingly looks like a “normal” party. The KMT under Ma has also approached diplomacy differently, with Ma making several overseas trips to great receptions in Europe and the US, leaving “retired” party elders of the earlier generation, such as Lien Chan and James Soong, to maintain the party’s ties with China. Unlike the increasingly unpopular President Chen, Ma’s diplomatic strategy much more effectively quelled anxieties in Beijing, Washington, and most importantly within Taiwan. Finally, the KMT seems to have learned the most important lesson of all regarding its tactics towards its opponent, the governing DPP: doing nothing and thus allowing the DPP to undermine itself. The significance of this cannot be overstated. Until recently the KMT in opposition, and especially under the leadership of Lien Chan, tended to overplay its strategy of attacking and obstructing the DPP government. It often crossed the line between loyal opposition and sore loser. The current strategy of holding back and waiting is a new KMT tactic, however, and by most indications, a learned strategy that played a big part in the party’s rise again to electoral dominance.

Notes

1 Pempel writes that one-party dominance “involves an interrelated set of mutually reinforcing processes that have the potential to beget even more dominance” (1990: 16). He later elaborates that the “weightiest political consequence of long-term dominance lies in the ability of the dominant party to shape, over time, the nation’s nexus of public policies, its rules of political conflict, and the benefits and burdens imposed on different socioeconomic sectors of the society” (334).

2 Incidentally, the same sort of negative publicity and transparency have weakened party unity within the DPP as well in recent years.

References

Cheng, T.J. (1989) “Democratizing the Quasi-Leninist Regime in Taiwan”, World Politics, July.


Cheng, T.J. (1990) “Political Regimes and Development Strategies: South Korea and Taiwan,” in G. Gereffi and D. Wyman (eds.) Manufacturing Miracles, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

Cheng, T.J. (2003) “Embracing Defeat: The KMT and the PRI After 2000”, unpublished manuscript.

Chin, K.L. (2003) Heijin: Organized Crime, Business, and Politics in Taiwan, Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe.

Chou, Y.S. and Nathan, A. (1987) “Democratizing Transition in Taiwan”, Asian Survey, 27, 3.

Clark, C. (2001) “Lee Teng-Hui and the Emergence of a Competitive Party System in Taiwan,” in W.C. Lee and T.Y. Wang (eds.) Sayonara to the Lee Teng-Hui Era: Politics in Taiwan, 1988–2000, Lanham, MD: University Press of America.

Dickson, B. (1996) “The Kuomintang Before Democratization: Organizational Change and the Role of Elections,” in H.M. Tien (ed.) Taiwan’s Electoral Politics and Democratic Transition: Riding the Third Wave, Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe.

Dickson, B. (1997) Democratization in China and Taiwan: The Adaptability of Leninist Parties, Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Fell, D. (2005a) “Measuring and Explaining Party Change in Taiwan: 1991–2004,” Journal of East Asian Studies, 5.

Fell, D. (2005b) “Democratization of Candidate Selection in Taiwanese Political Parties”, paper presented at the American Political Science Association Meeting, Washington DC, September 1–4.

Grzymala-Busse, A. (2002) Redeeming the Communist Past: The Regeneration of Communist Parties in East Central Europe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Harmel, R. and Janda, K. (1994) “Towards an Integrated Theory of Party Change”, Journal of Theoretical Politics, 6, 3.

Hsieh, J. (2002) “Whither the Kuomintang?” in B. Dickson and C.M. Chao (eds.) Assessing the Lee Teng-Hui Legacy in Taiwan’s Politics: Democratic Consolidation and External Relations, Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe.

Huang, T.F. (1996) “Elections and the Evolution of the Kuomintang”, in H.M. Tien (ed.) Taiwan’s Electoral Politics and Democratic Transition, Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe.

Liao, D.C. (2004) “No Confucianism, Only Machiavellism: A Predictive Analysis of Taiwan’s Executive and Legislative Relations after the 2004 Presidential and Legislative Elections,” paper presented at the 2004 Conference on Taiwan Issues, University of South Carolina, September 10.

Lin, J.W. (2003) “A Blue Tango: Electoral Competition and the Formation of Taiwan’s Opposition Coalition,” Issues and Studies, 39, 2.

Lin, J.W. (2005) “Party Re-alignment and the Demise of the SNTV: The East Asian Experiences,” unpublished manuscript.

Lin, W.I. (1994) The Welfare State: A Historical and Comparative Analysis, Taipei: Great Current Press [in Chinese].

Lu, Y.L. (2002) “Lee Teng-Hui’s Role in Taiwan’s Democratization: A Preliminary Assessment,” in B. Dickson and C.M. Chao (eds.) Assessing the Lee Teng-Hui Legacy in Taiwan’s Politics, Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe.

Michels, R. (1962) Political Parties, New York: Free Press.Myers, R. and Chao, L. (1998) The First Chinese Democracy: Political Life in the Republic

of China on Taiwan, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.Pempel, T.J. (ed.) (1990) Uncommon Democracies: The One-Party Dominant Regimes,

Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

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Rigger, S. (1999) Politics in Taiwan: Voting for Democracy, London: Routledge.Rigger, S. (2001) From Opposition to Power: Taiwan’s Democratic Progressive Party,

Boulder, CO: Lynne Reinner.Ross, R. (2006) “Taiwan’s Fading Independence Movement,” Foreign Affairs, March/

April.Schubert, G. (2004) “Taiwan’s Political Parties and National Identity: The Rise of An

Overarching Consensus,” Asian Survey, July/August.Tan, A. (2002) “The Transformation of the Kuomintang Party in Taiwan”, Democratization,

9, 3.Wachman, A. (1994) Taiwan: National Identity and Democratization, Armonk, NY: M.E.

Sharpe.Wade, R. (1990) Governing the Market, Princeton: Princeton University Press.Winckler, E. (1984) “Institutionalization and Participation on Taiwan: From Hard to Soft

Authoritarianism?” The China Quarterly, September.Wong, J. (2003) “Deepening Democracy in Taiwan”, Pacific Affairs, 76, 3.Wong, J. (2004) Healthy Democracies: Welfare Politics in Taiwan and South Korea, Ithaca,

NY: Cornell University Press.Wong, J. et al. (2004/5) “Domestic and International Considerations of Taiwan’s 2004

Presidential Elections: An Interdisciplinary Roundtable”, Pacific Affairs, 77, 4.Wu, Y.S. (2001) “Taiwan in 2000: Managing the Aftershocks from Power Transfer”, Asian

Survey, Jan/Feb.

Authoritarian one-party regimes were the dominant form of political organization among Africa’s 53 states on the eve of the Third Wave’s initial impact on the African continent. Between Independence (around 1960 for most states) and 1990, only four regimes held relatively free multi-party elections (Botswana, Senegal, the Gambia, and Mauritius). Since 1990, however, the vast majority of African states have held multi-party elections, both legislative and presidential. Some have not held them because of violent civil wars (Somalia). Only three states have continued to reject a multi-party system (Libya, Eritrea and Sudan).

The outburst of multi-party elections, however, meant neither the end of authoritarianism in Africa nor the death of de facto single-party regimes. Excluding cases of civil war and those which have just begun post-war reconstruction, former single parties have remained in power in 17 states, though now in the context of formal multi-party systems. There have been 14 incidences of “alternation of power” among Africa’s 53 states, however, where the incumbent single party was democratically defeated and replaced by an opposition party. These include South Africa, Kenya, Ghana and Senegal. Still, the defeat of the “Master,” the former ruling party, has not resulted in the end of a single-party dominant system. Transitions have by and large been incomplete. Single-party rule persists despite the departure of the former ruling party, as newly elected opposition parties have replicated, some more faithfully than others, the system they had fought against. In other words, the “Master” may be gone but the de facto single-party “house” it built is now occupied by successors which do not seem to be eager to rebuild a new and different house.

This trend is exemplified by six countries in West Africa, where the former single party was defeated by the opposition. The sub-region captures the diverse dynamics of specific cases. Among West Africa’s 16 states, in four countries the former de facto and de jure single parties remain in power, despite the formal adoption of multi-party elections (in Burkina Faso, Togo, Guinée, and more loosely so in post-coup Mauritania). Four countries are either trying to end a civil war (Côte d’Ivoire and Guinea Bissau) or rebuild their political institutions after many years of civil war (Liberia and Sierra Leone). In six countries the ruling

5 The master is gone, but does the house still stand?

The fate of single-party systems after the defeat of single parties in West Africa

Cédric Jourde

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party was defeated and left power; that is, there are six “alternation countries” (Benin, Cape Verde, Ghana, Mali, Niger, and Senegal). This chapter will focus on these six cases. Finally, there is Africa’s giant, Nigeria, which in 1999 adopted a multi-party system after 18 years of military rule (some would say 33 years, with a gap between 1979 and 1983), and where the same party has won all presidential and legislative elections ever since.

Transforming neopatrimonial rule

Between Independence (1960) and the democratic reforms associated with third wave transitions, most West African countries were single-party regimes. They were also presidentialist and neopatrimonial. That is, extensive powers, both formal and informal, were concentrated in the president and his entourage. Other institutions such as the parliament, the judiciary and the media, were generally at the service of, rather than balancing, executive power. In addition, the presidency constituted the summit of a neopatrimonial pyramid of power, a vertical network of clientelistic relations that permeated the formal institutions of the state, and held together by exchanges of personal loyalties and favors. The extraction, allocation and use of public office and the resources of the state apparatus were used to build and maintain relations of personal loyalty.

These regimes nonetheless varied in inclusiveness and repression. In Senegal, Côte d’Ivoire, Ghana and Gambia, ruling elites from these countries’ various ethnic communities and social circles (civil service, traditional chieftaincies, as well as religious organizations) were included and integrated in a broad coalition, which the French political scientist Jean-François Bayart (1989) calls the “reciprocal assimilation of elites.” These regimes also tolerated a certain degree of contestation and criticism. Some allowed relatively free elections within the ruling party, such as the Parti Démocratique de la Côte d’Ivoire. Others, such as in Mali, Guinée, Togo, Nigeria under General Abacha, Liberia under Samuel Doe or Mauritania under Ould Taya, were much more exclusive and repressive. They were “exacerbated neopatrimonialist” regimes whereby power and resources were highly concentrated within a small elite circle, often (but not always) with major ethnic imbalances. Violence was often used extensively against an increasingly exhausted population. Nonetheless, as Van de Walle (2003: 312) points out, neopatrimonial regimes, regardless of the variations in their degrees of inclusiveness and coerciveness rarely produced “trickle down” effects. The extraction and allocation of political and economic resources were arbitrary and elite-driven and were not channelled to the lower strata.

Surviving the third wave

West Africa’s neopatrimonial single-party regimes faced intense pressure from the third wave of the 1980s. Some neo-authoritarian regimes remained in power, despite the formal instauration of democratic constitutions and multi-party elections. In countries such as Burkina Faso, Mauritania, Guinée, Togo, and Côte

Single party-systems in West Africa 77

d’Ivoire to a certain extent, the incumbent president and the incumbent dominant party managed to win the first multi-party elections during the early 1990s and all subsequent elections. These are cases where the dominant parties have learned not to lose, even in the context of multi-party elections. They adapted and won. Why is this so?

For Patrick Quantin (2000: 485), the establishment of formal democratic rules and the institutionalization of multi-party elections were seen as a significant challenge for the leaders of these single-party regimes, threatening the neopatrimonial use of state resources and the reproduction of a small and politically insulated elite class. Incumbent rulers consequently designed “strategies of sabotage” to reduce the risks associated with democratization. As Richard Joseph argues (1999: 61), the capacity of these regimes to remain in power was based on “a more nuanced process of learning to submit without succumbing. There was a sharp learning curve after 1989 as authoritarian regimes mastered the script of contemporary democratization while finding ways to neutralize and disable its transformative mechanisms.” Consequently, “if ex-single parties managed to survive the move to multi-party politics with its hold on power intact, it was able to use all its resources to marginalise the opposition and re-consolidate power in the second and third multiparty elections” (Van de Walle 2003: 301; see also Bratton 1998). International factors also contributed to this process. The international democratization pressure of the early 1990s soon faded away. Joseph suggests that (1999: 63) “[t]he primacy accorded stability and political by external powers had been a powerful resource for the consolidation of authoritarian systems in postcolonial Africa.” In Mauritania and Guinea, for instance, the neoauthoritarian regimes adroitly represented themselves as “bastions” against transnational Islamism and regional warlordism, respectively, to extract support from Western states and repress domestic opposition movements (Jourde 2007). In short, some West African ex-single parties had no intention of learning to lose and used domestic and external resources to continue to dominate.

It is important to note, however, that in more recent years some of these regimes have been increasingly under pressure to deepen democratic reforms. Because the incumbent dominant party forecloses any possibility of real change through democratic institutions, more and more opposition activists are using tactics outside of the electoral arena. In West Africa’s Mauritania, Côte d’Ivoire, Guinea and Guinea Bissau (but also in the Tuareg areas of Niger and Mali), there were attempted coups, successful coups, and armed movements.

Maintaining one-party dominance

Six other West African countries, however, have undergone an alternation of power. An opposition party or coalition of parties has defeated the incumbent dominant party both in the legislative assembly and in the presidency. However, in three countries the former dominant (authoritarian) parties spent some years in the opposition and then democratically defeated the first alternation governments, whereas in the other three, the former single parties that were

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defeated failed to come back to power in a subsequent election (Ghana, Senegal and Mali).

As a new (and formerly opposition) party rises to power, one might reasonably expect the new governing party to adhere to or even deepen democratization. The empirical evidence, however, suggests a more complex picture. The defeat of the former dominant party does not necessarily lead to the dismantling of the one-party system. The new governing parties (“alternation” governments), while eschewing overt authoritarian tactics, nonetheless resort to arbitrary, exclusionary, unaccountable and at times repressive strategies to maintain their newfound hold on power, as their dominant single-party predecessors did.

Reproducing dominant party systems

Five inter-related factors explain why a de facto dominant party system survives the departure of the original dominant party: (i) the inheritance of a highly centralized presidential institution; (ii) the resilience of neopatrimonial practices in the context of multi-party elections; (iii) the absence of elite renewal; (iv) the (real or imaginary) fear of an anti-democratic return of the former authoritarian party; and (v) weak external pressures favoring democratic deepening. All five of these factors are closely inter-connected.

Centralized presidentialism

The first factor which has contributed to the persistence of single-party rule after the defeat of ex-single parties is the inheritance of a very centralized presidential institution (Van de Walle 2003). In West Africa, when the new alternation govern-ments came to power they inherited a set of formal and informal institutions which strongly favored the executive office. Interestingly, these new parties were confronting a dilemma that the governing parties of the colonial–postcolonial transitional phase confronted in the early 1960s. As the colonial power, by nature an authoritarian regime, was about to leave, incoming African government elites contemplated whether the government of the newly independent state ought to fully dismantle the authoritarian, repressive and centralized institutions of the colonial state, or to keep them as such and thus maintain a tight control over their society. Most decided not to substantially transform their inherited authoritarian colonial institutions. Many actually abolished the few institutions that had begun to democratize during the last years of the colonial era, such as the multi-party elected assemblies erected in the 1940s and 1950s across the region. Highly centralized and authoritarian presidential systems emerged during the early post-colonial years.

Into the 1990s many democratically elected parties in “alternation” countries similarly kept many of the earlier authoritarian institutions and practices in place. In Ghana, President Kufuor and his New Patriotic Party (NPP) have maintained a constitutional article that gives the president control over the country’s resources and insulates him from parliamentary oversight. Article 108 “gives the President


the upper-hand if not a virtual monopoly in the making of the national budget and the allocation of public funds, including determining the size of Parliament’s operating budget” (Ghana Centre for Democratic Development 2005: 9). The President has also retained the exclusive right to “create new Ministries or departments at anytime without specific legislation authorizing the change” (Ghana Centre for Democratic Development 2005: 10), a right which not only strengthens his administrative power but which inevitably helps him nurture and expand his neopatrimonial network throughout the state apparatus.

In Senegal, in the wake of the alternation of 2000–1 which saw the defeat of the 40-year incumbent Socialist Party, the new President, Abdoulaye Wade and his Parti démocratique sénégalais (PDS) have maintained a constitutional article that provides for the arrest of individuals who criticize the president, and they have used it against opponents (Africa Confidential 2005: 6). Ironically, this article was used by the prior authoritarian state to send him to jail when he was in the opposition. Similarly, President Wade has used a repressive constitutional article on “state security,” ordering the arrest of one of his former associates (and potential successor). Though President Wade revised some constitutional articles, such as shortening presidential terms from seven to five years (though it did not apply to his first term!), other revisions actually expanded presidential powers, such as the right to dissolve the National Assembly, “which was previously possible only following a motion of censure against the government” (Thomas and Sissokho 2005: 101). Wade also sponsored a new “law of amnesty” that absolved anyone involved in “political motivated crimes” between 1983 and 2004, which included some of Wade’s close supporters (Africa Confidential 2005: 6).

In Niger, the President has similarly used his powers to repress opposition forces. He ordered the arrest of several journalists and shut down private radio stations that he felt were too critical of his government (Reporters sans Frontières 2004). Other journalists were either threatened or arrested when reporting on the Army’s conduct in areas where the latter clashed with Tuareg rebels in the fall of 2007. A former minister, from the Tuareg ethnic minority, was arrested on dubious charges of murder.

Meanwhile, the Beninese presidents have also centralized political power. For instance, both presidents Soglo (1991–96) and Kérékou (1996–2006) failed to hold a single local or municipal election in the first eleven years of the democratic transition (Bierschenk 2005: 4). In addition, President Kérékou adopted the country’s budget by decree on two occasions, bypassing parliament entirely (Bierschenk 2005: 6). Following the election of Boni Yayi in 2006, the new Beninese president finds himself in the interesting situation of having no opposition parties in the National Assembly. Though there is an official coalition of parties officially supporting the President, which gained control of 49 of the 83 seats in the March 2007 legislative election, the parties that are not in that “presidential coalition” nonetheless refuse to be seen as being in the “opposition,” because doing so would mean being against the President, a risky position given the supremacy of the President in this political system. The same situation occurred in Mali, where no party was officially in the opposition between 2001 and 2007,

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and after the July 2007 election only nine deputies decided to do so, out of 147 deputies sitting in the Assembly.

In sum, as the new alternation parties and presidents came to power in West Africa, they had to decide whether they would maintain or reduce the power of the institutions they inherited, including most notably the power of the presidency. Many chose not to curb the centralization of power which characterized the earlier regimes. In terms of the ruling party, it stood to gain more resources and power if its leading figure controlled the most powerful political institution in the country.

Institutionalized neopatrimonialism

The second factor is the resilience of neopatrimonial practices, despite the alternation of power. Neopatrimonial practices, though they drew in part from precolonial political patterns, were mostly institutionalized under colonialism (Berman 1998), and consolidated during the postcolonial era (Bayart 1989). As with any political institution, formal and informal, neopatrimonialism is reproduced by those actors with a vested interest in its persistence. Looking at the post-Soviet states, Hale (2005: 142) rightfully argues that “old institutions are almost never completely eliminated in a transfer of presidential power, and thus continuing with old, comfortable, and self-serving methods can be an attractive option.” Hence, from a pragmatic point of view the new “alternation” parties in power could not instantaneously dispose of the thousands of individuals whose positions within the state apparatus—including those in the most sensitive branches such as security and intelligence—were allocated not through a meritocratic logic but rather on the basis of personal and political loyalty. Nor could they suddenly stop the flow of financial resources that complemented these appointments. If they attempted to do so, the new governments would face tremendous resistance and opposition, without the necessary resources and political support to counter such hostility. Often, the new government staffed some critical sectors of the state apparatus with its own men and women (when it could), while trying to gain the loyalty of those who had been appointed by the former dominant party.

Elections are not necessarily antithetical to neopatrimonialism. Clientelistic exchanges can take pace in the context of elections, as state resources are allocated to loyal supporters and allies in exchange for their electoral support. Though many voters may be frustrated by the particularistic use of public resources, others may be attracted to the privileges and resources they hope they can get by exploiting clientelistic ties. Wantchekon’s (2003) innovative study on West Africa’s first country to experience an alternation of power, Benin, finds that neopatrimonial practices continue, even in the context of multi-party elections, though not all segments of society respond identically to clientelistic incentives. Bierschenk (2005: 7) confirms that in Benin, the successful electoral comeback of former authoritarian and Marxist leader Mathieu Kérékou was made possible because of his skilful capacity to integrate local and regional networks of elites through clientelistic networks.


Once in power, the alternation parties are tempted to continue playing the neopatrimonial game, a temptation that can be materialized in electoral politics. In Benin, the first “alternation” government of President Nicéphore Soglo quickly turned to a neopatrimonial style of managing public affairs. Following a pattern that had been established by his predecessor and the former de jure single-party regime, the new president’s family and clients from his home region were allocated key positions in the state apparatus and awarded profitable government contracts (Bako-Arifari 1995: 22–3; see also Banégas 2000; Gazibo 2005). Similarly, in the months that followed the first alternation in Niger, President Ousmane took control of important state services, lucrative resources and clientelistic redistribution (Gazibo 2005: 176).

Even in cases where the governing “alternation” parties do not resort to neopatrimonial strategies systematically, they may do so partially, either on a geographic basis or on an issue basis (and sometimes both). For instance, in Ghana’s rural areas, such as in the Northern Region, clientelism remains a key political strategy of control for the “alternation” party in power (Nugent 2005: 138; see also GCDD 2004). Similarly, in the case of Senegal, Dennis Galvan (2001: 60) finds that both the Socialist Party (former dominant party from 1960 to 2000) and the Senegalese Democratic Party (PDS, in power since 2000), “continue to rely on Colonial Territory-style familial patronage more than on interest aggregation or ideological appeals.” The inclination to use public resources to attract loyal supporters and to root out any form of opposition persists in peripheral regions under the “alternation” governments, just as they were used during the post-colonial single-party era, and before that, during the colonial period. Interestingly, the year after his “alternation” victory the new Senegalese president reduced the number of seats in the parliament (from 140 to 120), arguing that the previous dominant party had boosted the number of seats just to redistribute more clientelistic resources. But President Wade and his party eventually changed their mind six years later (in the months preceding the 2007 elections) and eventually added more seats (150) than their Socialist predecessors had done. More generally, as Thomas and Sissokho (2005: 114) conclude, the Senegalese alternation led to “increasing disappointment. ‘This is the PS [clientelist] system, restaffed, at incredible speed’, reported one observer. ‘Nothing has changed. If anything, it has got worse.’ Many perceived worsening corruption, weaker rule of law, and a stronger centralisation of power in the presidency. ‘This is a big step backwards for democracy’, said a private sector leader.”

The persistence of neopatrimonialism in alternation countries, despite the departure of the former authoritarian party, enables the survival of de facto one-party systems. State resources are used by the new presidents and parties in power to consolidate their position and to weaken their opponents. The allocation of state patronage and resources with which to build and expand clientelistic networks, and thus to perpetuate the new governing party’s hold on power, makes the eventual demise of de facto single-party systems less likely. Van de Walle (2003: 301) observes about Africa more generally: “Gaining control of the state apparatus provided the resources and motivations to strengthen the party’s organisation.”

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The absence of elite renewal

A third factor that has contributed to the persistence of one-party systems in West Africa is the lack of elite replacement at the apex of the state apparatus. According to Patrick Quantin (2000: 492), the new “alternation” regimes are similar to their neoauthoritarian counterparts in large part because of “weak renewal of political personnel.” In their quantitative analysis of African party systems, Kuenzi and Lambright (2005: 439–40) note that “even where there have been alternations of power in African countries, the pool from which government officials are selected has remained relatively constant. Many opposition leaders have been ‘recycled elites’ who became disgruntled with the ruling party.” A point made by Romain Bertrand (2001: 442) in the case of Indonesia is applicable to West Africa. Indonesia’s democratization is characterized by “sociological inertia” and multi-party elections have reproduced what he calls a “principle of notability domination.” This “sociological inertia” is evident in West Africa, where many leaders of the new alternation governments had in fact served under the former authoritarian single-party regimes.

Leaders of the “new” alternation governments include President Soglo of Benin, who had previously served as Prime Minister and minister of finance under the former single-party regime. He is also the son of former President General Christophe Soglo, who ruled during the mid to late 1960s (Lindberg 206: 76). President Kufuor was formerly the Minister of Local Government in Ghana. In Mali, President Konaré was a former Minister of Youth, while the current President, A.T. Touré, was a top military officer. Niger’s President Tandja was also a top army official and had served as Foreign Affairs Minister and Interior Minister in the ancien régime. At the local level, the continued domination of old or recycled elites is even more evident. For instance, Bierschenk (2005) argues that in Benin “[f]or the most part, the same actors and, in particular, the former members of the mass organisations of the one-party state and the peasant elite got themselves re-elected in the local elections after the fall of Kérékou in 1990.”

The men and women who wield power in the alternation governments often belong to the same socio-economic and political classes (and cliques) that staffed the previous one-party regimes. These elites were socialized during the authoritarian period, shaping their notions of how state power ought to be exercised. And because cases of alternation of power in West Africa have been so recent, it will take time before a new generation without ties to previous authoritarian regimes can come to power. This third factor, the absence of elite renewal within the state, is closely connected to the previous two points, in that the reproduction of neopatrimonialism and highly centralized presidential institutions can be explained in part by the lack of elite renewal and the socialization of leaders during the earlier period of neopatrimonial single-party rule.


Learning to lose and fearing revenge

A fourth factor explaining the perpetuation of formal and informal practices that are reminiscent of the single-party system has to do with both the anticipated and actual behavior of the outgoing dominant party. If former dominant parties signal that they will attempt to regain power or take vengeance by means outside the democratic game, the new alternation parties may opt for undemocratic means to counter the ex-single parties’ strategies. This can lead to a tit-for-tat dynamic, which solidifies rather than undermines the neopatrimonial political logic. Indeed, even if the former ruling party does not send explicit signals that it will not accept its defeat, the new alternation party in power may anticipate, in a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy way, the old ruling party using any means possible to come back to power. Consequently, insecure “alternation” governments adopt authoritarian means to preserve their newly gained political power.

The perceived threat that former ruling parties represent for new alternation governments stems from the fact that after years and decades of neopatrimonial rule, these prior regimes were effectively “party-states.” In effect, former single dominant parties were not regular parties; they formed a political organization that, in addition to its official party staff and structure, enjoyed strong, almost organic, connections with state officials in every echelon of the state apparatus. These neopatrimonial parties also counted on illicit resources accumulated through uncontested rule. When alternation governments believe (rightly or wrongly) that the defeated ex-single parties will refuse to learn to lose, resorting to a “single-party regime” style of political domination may be an option. In other words, Joseph Wong’s insightful argument (this volume) that “bad opposition is bad for democracy” is particularly acute when officials in alternation governments anticipate that the formal democratic means at their disposal are no match for the informal and “shadow” resources that the ex-single party can count on, thereby forcing them to play by their rival’s rules.

This is a dangerous dynamic. It can trigger a vicious circle, especially in the early days of the alternation, as each party suspects the other of not playing by the rules. Under these circumstances, misinterpretation and misinformation among the parties are common. After defeating General Kérékou’s single party, Benin’s first alternation government faced rumors of coup attempts and actual armed attacks in 1992 and 1995, probably organized by military officers close to General Kérékou. Several officers and cronies connected to the former Marxist President were eventually arrested. The “growing tensions in the army and in the North,” which is the Kérékou regional stronghold, sent worrying signals to the alternation government (Economist Intelligence Unit 1996: 35). In addition, international neopatrimonialism was at stake: the Soglo government felt threatened by the “strategic contacts” that Kérékou and his clique had maintained with powerful players in the French government, who “actively supported” Soglo’s rivals (Magnusson and Clark 2005: 568, 576).

Similarly, in the early days of Ghana’s new alternation government, defeated president Jerry Rawlings and his former dominant party sent mixed signals.

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Specifically, the decision to investigate past human rights abuses as well as widespread corruption under the former regime made the government of John Kufuor nervous. Rawlings’ former security guards seemed to remain faithful to their ex-boss and were “ambivalent towards Kufuor,” a situation that worsened when Rawlings himself declared that the new government “would not last long,” a statement condemned by the governing NPP as “treasonable.” Following that declaration, newspapers circulated rumors of coup plots by the former party (Africa Confidential 2001b: 3). That they did not materialize was beside the point; the alternation government was increasingly unsure about democratic institutions’ capacity to protect its ability to govern.

Weak external pressures

Finally, external forces have also contributed to the persistence of single-party systems despite the departure of former single dominant parties. In fact, the international pressure on former single parties that remained strongly authoritarian despite some formal democratic reforms, such as those of Togo, Guinée, Burkina Faso, and Mauritania (before the coup of 2005) is already weak. Therefore, “alternation governments,” which have moved farther along a democratic reform path, can expect even less external pressure to deepen democracy, even if they perpetuate many practices of the old single-party regime. The minimalist and teleological approach to democratic reform held by European and North American democracies assumes a priori that alternation parties are so rare in Africa that such parties should not be subjected to more external democratization pressures. Their status as alternation regimes, that is as the most “advanced” regimes along the democratization path, provides them with immunity from external pressures, giving them the space to resort to practices reminiscent of the former one-party system.

Comparing alternation and authoritarian regimes

For all this continuity in one-party dominance, there are important distinctions among alternation regimes and neoauthoritarian regimes in which no alternation has taken place. The fact that the former regimes underwent some transition is significant in terms of political development, even if neopatrimonial tendencies remain and democracy is very shallow.

Unlike the neoauthoritarian regimes, alternation regimes are defined by the fact that ex-single parties have lost power through free and fair elections. The founding election that led to the defeat of the ex-single party sets a precedent. It acts as a reminder to the new parties in power that they too can be elected out of office. Unless the new alternation party overtly interrupts or severely corrupts the electoral process (outside of West Africa, Zambia could be such a case), the new parties in power face the possibility of losing future elections. Consequently, an alternation party that becomes experienced as too autocratic, too much like the old single party, runs the risk of losing future elections. As Thomas and Sissokho (2005: 114) point out, in Senegal “[t]he fall of the PS as a result of an election has made voters conscious of their electoral power. There is a broad consensus that Senegal’s voters


have become more demanding, more politically aware of the power of the ballot, and more willing to ‘sanction’ government for failure to deliver.”

So far, no alternation parties, even those which have looked the most like their single-party predecessors, have overtly sabotaged elections. None has dared to explicitly resort to the exacerbated undemocratic strategies that neoauthoritarian parties have. This could confirm Staffan Lindberg’s (2006) impressive study of elections in Africa, which finds that elections have a “self-reinforcing power” that improves the quality of democracy across almost all African cases. He demonstrates that after three or four electoral rounds, “[t]he electoral cycles create a positive spiral of self-reinforcement leading to increasingly democratic elections…Playing within the rules of the electoral game feeds on itself ” (Lindberg 2006: 71).

Second, in some of West Africa’s alternation regimes, the judiciary has emerged as a key institution. It has proven autonomous and legitimate. It successfully imposes limits to the alternation parties’ “single-party deviation.” In countries where the new alternation parties in power have actually tried to subvert the democratic rules of the game, the judiciary has often checked the governing party. In Benin, President Soglo and his party took a more authoritarian path soon after the alternation elections. On several occasions, Soglo tried to use illegal means to repress his opponents, to weaken the national assembly, and to impose illegal budgetary measures. But these efforts were always thwarted by the country’s Constitutional Court, which defended the democratic rules of the game (Magnusson and Clark 2005: 560; Gazibo 2005; for Ghana see Gyimah-Boadi 2001). It remains to be seen if Benin is an exception or whether there is a general pattern. For instance, one could see new alternation parties trying to capture the judiciary. Packing the courts with loyal agents could be a strategic option for parties trying to create loyal judiciary institutions,1 though we still need to bear in mind that partisan appointees do not necessarily obey those who have appointed them (the principal–agent problem).

Third, some observers of African politics have suggested that even if the alternation parties in power resort to clientelism and neopatrimonialism, these strategies may prove to be less arbitrary and exclusive than they were during the single-party era. Because alternation parties must face the electorate on a regular basis, clientelistic practices tend to be more democratic and inclusive than before. According to Banégas (1997), alternation ruling parties evolve in a more competitive environment and thus their clientelistic redistribution of resources must satisfy a much larger base. People “from below,” who could barely benefit from clientelistic use of resources under the former neopatrimonial single-party regime, have the possibility of switching allegiance to another party. Therefore, even if the new alternation party in power benefits from the advantages of incumbency (i.e. state resources), opposition parties have the possibility of pointing to the ruling party’s failure to deliver goods and to deliver them broadly. Banégas (1997: 79) depicts an “instrumentalization of popular vote” and “competitive clientelism” by which those at the “bottom” re-appropriate democratic competition for themselves. As Wantchekon (2003: 422) argues, “[o]pposition candidates can take advantage of the revealed incompetence of the incumbent in providing the public goods

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during the previous electoral cycle to make its public goods-type promises more appealing and more credible.”

Fourth, criticisms of Africa’s incomplete transition to democracy, even among those which have experienced an alternation of power, need to be considered against the fact that democratization and multi-party competition in Africa are very recent phenomena. The transition to multi-party politics occurred only 15 years ago in four cases (interrupted by a coup in Niger), with alternations as recent as 2000 in two cases. Expectations of a complete rupture within just a few years may be unrealistic. More time needs to pass before one can draw strong conclusions about the perpetuation of single-party systems in West Africa.

The final element to consider is the case of former dominant parties which lost to an “alternation” party but which eventually came back to power. Hence the question is, After having been in opposition, how do former dominant parties act once they get back to power? This question applies to Cape Verde and Niger, the only two cases (to date) in which the former ruling party, after having been democratically defeated during the transition, eventually made a comeback and re-took control of the state. A third case, that of Benin, could be added but with some nuances. In effect, Benin’s former Marxist leader General Mathieu Kérékou (1972–91) and his Marxist party (PRPB) were defeated in the first election of the transition. But Kérékou was eventually elected to power again during the second and third elections (1996 and 2001), though he did so without his former Marxist party, whose fate was similar to many other former MarxistLeninist regimes, as Ishiyama (2004) indicates, becoming empty shells once a democratic transition was initiated. However, Kérékou counted on one large party and several party coalitions (Bierschenk 2005: 17), which were in fact staffed with loyal supporters, notably former leaders and cadres of the old Marxist party, the “Barons of the PRPB.” His loose coalition shared a common hatred of President Soglo’s alternation government (Mayrargue 1996: 127–8). Though the former ruling party did not come back to power, PRPB people, networks, and PRPB ways of doing politics, re-emerged.

The question, again, is How do former dominant parties act, after having been in opposition? Have the former single-parties and former authoritarian leaders learned to lose? Have they become partners in deepening democracy in Cape Verde, Niger or Benin? The evidence is ambiguous. Cape Verde is perhaps the clearest case of a country where the old single party, the formerly Marxist PAIVC, has literally transformed itself into a democratic party. After losing in the first two elections of the transition era (in 1991 and 1995) and spending ten years in the opposition, it came back to power in 2001 (and won again in 2006). Since then, it has not displayed any significant authoritarian tendencies and has played by the rule (it is the only country in this region with the highest Freedom House score possible).

Niger, on the other hand, has shown much fewer democratic credentials. First, the “alternation” party was in power for only two years (1993–95), after which the former single party (MNSD) re-took control of the parliament, forcing the alternation president to share power for a year (1995), before the military staged a coup and stopped the transition until 1999. As we have already discussed in


previous sections, the former single party, MNSD, and its leader, President Tandja, regularly rely on ancient regime tactics, including clientelistic use of resources, violent repression and harassment of the opposition. The continuing (but informal) power of the military, who ruled from 1974 to 1991, and again between 1996 and 1999, is also weakening the democratic quality of the regime. The president himself is an Army colonel who served the former military regime for 15 years.

Benin stands in-between Cape Verde and Niger. On the one hand, Kérékou did display authoritarian features that were reminiscent of the ancient regime era. The 2001 elections were plagued by “massive electoral irregularities” (Mayrargue, 2006: 171). Opponents accused the Kérékou government of having staffed the Electoral Commission with loyal clients whose job was to ensure his victory (Africa Confidential 2001a: 8). When the Electoral Commission and the Constitutional Court published electoral results with a difference of 10 percent, suspicions arose of electoral fraud (Economist Intelligence Unit 2001: 24). The situation worsened at the end of his second term in 2005–6. Kérékou attempted to change the rule which prevented him from running for a third time. He ignored the constitutional provision imposing an age limit (70 years old) that automatically barred Kérékou, but he eventually faced a highly mobilized civil society (Mayrargue 2006: 156) and an independent judiciary. Also, his party adopted a law that was specifically designed to block Kérékou’s principal opponent, Yayi Boni. The Constitutional Court declared this new law unconstitutional. After finally agreeing not to run again, Kérékou tried to sabotage the elections, cutting funding to the Electoral Commission so as to spark chaos during the elections. Kérékou attempted to sway the public and foreign observers (i.e. diplomats) that the elections were fraudulent and lacked transparency. Irregularities occurred on election day, apparently orchestrated by people close to the President. When the Electoral Commission and many political parties asked Kérékou to postpone the second round of the elections, Kérékou rejected the demand, declaring that further chaos would nullify the electoral results. Despite Kérékou’s efforts, the second round took place and a new president was elected.

On the other hand, Kérékou and his allies did in the end refrain from exercising outright authoritarian power. He conceded to the various constitutional rulings which prevented him from running again and which opened the door for his opposition. He did not resort to extremely violent and explicitly illegal means to derail the electoral process. Thus, one might argue that Kérékou and his strongmen had in fact learned something after their initial defeat during the early years of the transition in 1991. In fact, when Kérékou and his party originally acknowledged their electoral defeat in the country’s first election 15 years earlier, they had established a new and important political standard. He reinforced that “standard” when he came back to power in 1996, as his victory was based, to a large extent, on his capacity to present himself with “democratic credentials,” as having been a loser in 1991. It was therefore difficult for him to oppose or dismantle the gradual institutionalization of democracy in 2001 and 2006.

This illustrates Lindberg’s (2006: 71) argument about the “self-reinforcing power of election,” whereby old authoritarian-parties-turned-democratic-parties

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find themselves increasingly locked in, both discursively and institutionally, on a relatively democratic path. As Seely (2005: 371) so eloquently puts it, “[t]he precedents of compromise and admitting defeat that were established in the transition period [1991] still hold sway over political events more than a decade later.” Benin’s autocrats-turned-democrats would not cross a certain line, beyond which the violation of basic democratic norms was unacceptable for the other players.

Conclusion

The Third Wave produced three paths after 1990. A first cluster of countries, while adopting democratic institutions and multi-party elections, saw the incumbent dominant party (from the pre-democratic era) staying in power, using its control over state resources to defeat its opponents. These countries definitely are neoauthoritarian regimes. Here the adoption of multi-party competition did not substantially change the political game. A second cluster has either been destroyed by civil wars or are in the middle of one, or are attempting to rebuild after a civil war. Finally, a third cluster, the focus of this chapter, after adopting democratic reforms, witnessed opposition parties defeating the former dominant parties. Democracy may be consolidating in more than a third of West Africa’s 16 countries.

However, the defeat of the dominant authoritarian single party, an alternation, did not necessarily lead to the end of the system of single-party rule. Many of the new parties have maintained the practices and institutions of the previous one-party regime. More specifically, neopatrimonialism and the centralization of power in the hands of the president have persisted. “Alternation” parties which came to power through elections have tried to consolidate their position by using strategies not dissimilar to those of the previous era. There remain critical obstacles that the parties of new alternation governments will eventually have to overcome if they wish to consolidate democracy.

In addition, as Snyder (2001), Gibson (2005) and Bierschenk (2005) contend, that national parties may learn to lose (and accept losing in the first place) at the national level does not necessarily mean that the same assumption can be applied to local levels. These are what Guillermo O’Donnell (2001) refers to as the “brown areas,” where overt authoritarian patterns continue to unfold, as seen in the arbitrary and unfair extraction and allocation of resources or in the lack of political accountability and fairness in governing–governed relations.

Finally, to comprehend the vicissitudes of democratization, one should problematize, both theoretically and empirically, the distinction between formal and informal politics, the difference between the formal structure and leadership of parties and the informal, shadowy and network life of political parties. The processes of learning to lose (or not learning to lose) seem to be influenced by the relative institutionalization of formal party structures and by the extent to which networks and factional relations are informally institutionalized, routinized and broadly encompassing.


Note

1 I am thankful to Erik Kuhonta for highlighting this issue.

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One of the bigger surprises of the communist collapse in East Central Europe in 1989 was the persistence of the former ruling political parties on the political scene. In all but Estonia and Latvia, these parties survived, competed in democratic elections, and in some cases reinvented themselves as moderate democratic parties that went on to win elections, govern, and successfully oversee both economic and political reform. The forces behind the transformations of the communist parties have been widely examined, and several analyses have focused on the internal transformations and adaptations that made their initial democratic success possible (Zubek 1994; Ishiyama 1995; Kovacs 1995; Waller 1995; Szelenyi et al. 1997; Grzymala-Busse 2002).

Less well known are the subsequent fates of these communist successor parties, and how the communist exit and reinvention (or the parties’ failure to exit or reinvent themselves) later affected democratic competition in East Central European post-communist countries. This chapter will focus in particular on the Polish, Hungarian, Czech and Slovak successor parties over the 15 years since the collapse of communism in 1989 to their entry into the European Union in 2004, a moment that marked the consolidation of democracy and markets for many observers. These four countries are all parliamentary democracies, allowing political parties to compete and to govern in policymaking. Bulgaria and Romania are also considered in the comparative analysis, as two cases of “belated democratization” where the communist parties did not exit power during the transition.

This chapter sketches the divergent trajectories of the post-communist parties after 1989, and traces how the decisions and transformations of the parties affected the configurations of democratic competition and political reform in East Central Europe. I first examine the fates of the communist successor parties after the collapse of the communist regime. I then argue that these parties’ decisions and strategies had a profound impact on the configurations of democratic party competition in the region.

6 The Communist exit in East Central Europe and its consequences1

Anna Grzymala-Busse

92 Anna Grzymala-Busse

Where are they now?

In the post-communist democracies of East Central Europe, the former ruling parties accepted their formal loss of power, abiding by electoral results and leaving unchallenged the nascent democratic system of competition. Communist parties committed themselves to the new democratic rules for three reasons. First, without the backing of either domestic electorates or the Soviet Union, they could not stay in power. Second, by remaining at the table, communist parties stood to affect (and favor themselves through) the new economic and political institutions that they would be helping to create. Finally, neither the mid-level elites nor the rank-and-file were particularly inimical towards democracy, all the more so since it rapidly became clear that few sanctions would be applied to former party members and activists, who now had numerous other opportunities and spoils to pursue. Thus, when communism fell, communist party membership dropped by as much as 95 percent, as mid-level members simply left and took advantage of the new opportunities available in the nascent market economy (Grzymala-Busse 2002).

We can divide the communist successor parties into (i) those that exited from power in 1989 and reinvented themselves as moderate democratic parties, (ii) those that exited from power but did not transform themselves or return to power, and (iii) those that did not exit, staying in power through the communist collapse. Thus, some successors had transformed themselves radically, into moderate Social Democratic parties that were accepted democratic competitors and managers of economic reforms. For instance, the Polish SdRP, the Hungarian MSzP, and the Slovene LDS were re-elected to power on the strength of their commitment to democracy and managerial expertise.2 Other communists dispersed into several other parties, with the rump organization transforming itself but not achieving consistent electoral success (Slovak SDL’). Yet others retained many of their old appeals and old organization. The Czech KSČM, for instance, failed to transform but exited power in 1989. Finally, the Romanian NSF (then PDSR) and the Bulgarian BSP neither transformed nor exited from power during the collapse of the communist regimes and retained their rule.

This variation in outcomes stems from the decisions of communist party mid-level elites, who assumed power in the parties in 1989, and reflects their set of political skills: their past experience in implementing reform policies, politicking within party organizations, and even winning secret ballot elections in auxiliary party organizations. The regime collapse provided an enormous incentive for all parties to reinvent themselves. However, only those parties that had the skilled elites and a usable past of earlier reform, liberalization, and engagement with the opposition could credibly transform themselves into viable competitors.

Consequently, in order to reinvent themselves into moderate social democrats, the new party elites had to streamline the parties’ membership, abolish auxiliary organizations and allow internal diversity of opinion, and centralize power within the parties themselves in order to make a clean ideological, organizational, and

The Communist exit in East Central Europe 93

symbolic break with communism. Centralization and streamlining after 1989 allowed the successors to pursue further ideological and symbolic change, and to court a new electorate. Organizational change depended on the party’s credibility. The more that communist parties had earlier implemented political and economic reforms, and the more that they had attempted to recognize and appease societal opposition, the more credible the claims of their reinvention (Grzymala-Busse 2002). This is not to say that reinvented parties were guaranteed long-term success, or that parties which failed to moderate disappeared altogether. Instead, some parties developed fairly stable electoral support and a parliamentary presence, while others experienced considerable turmoil. Figure 6.1 illustrates the electoral performance of the Czech, Slovak, Polish, and Hungarian parties.

Both transformed successors, and their more orthodox counterparts could develop an appealing political identity and steady popular support. Thus, the Hungarian MSzP began with 11 percent of the vote in 1990, increasing this to 33 percent in the 1994 and 1998 elections, and then obtaining over 42 percent in the 2002 and 2006 elections. Its organization and membership remained stable. The party had little difficulty maintaining a steadfast identity and electorate, and leadership succession proceeded with few problems (despite the notoriety surrounding the resignation of MSzP Prime Minister Peter Medgyessy in 2004, after he was revealed to be a former communist secret agent). Having made a very different set of organizational, ideological, and symbolic choices in 1989, the Czech KSČM maintained a steadfast communist identity. It nonetheless obtained steady support as a protest party by opposing globalization, the European Union, and by highlighting the social challenges arising with capitalist development in the Czech Republic. Once the extreme-right Republicans imploded, the KSČM gained even further support, peaking at 18 percent of the votes in 2002.

Figure 6.1 Communist successor electoral performance

0

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In contrast, not all reinvented parties could continue on a trajectory of reform and increased acceptance. The Polish SLD obtained ever-increasing votes and parliamentary power, peaking in 2001 with 41 percent of the vote, only to collapse as a parliamentary party and an organization in the spring of 2004. Corruption scandals and internal splintering led to the replacement of the party leader, Leszek Miller, and his eventual resignation as Prime Minister. As the party fractured into the Social Democracy of Poland (Socjaldemokracja Polska) led by Marek Borowski and the rump party, it received 11 percent of the vote in the 2005 elections, its lowest standing yet. Similarly, the Slovak SDL’ peaked in 1998 with 15 percent of the vote, and then disintegrated as an organization after gaining only 1.4 percent of the vote in the 2005 elections and thus failing to clear the parliamentary entrance threshold.

These patterns of stable or increasing support, or radical fragmentation, were also a reflection of the elites’ ability to retain centralized power within these parties. Both the Polish SLD and the Slovak SDL’ suffered electoral downturns as a result of organizational changes designed to build broader support for the party elites within the party itself. These changes led to the sharing of power and resources with new actors that broadened the parties’ organizational base in the short term, but which then belied their reformist message in the long run. In Poland, Leszek Miller assumed power in the SLD in 1999, and attempted to consolidate his own power and to gain greater electoral traction by building a new regional power base. He decentralized the party and empowered the regional “barons” (party leaders), breaking with the party’s earlier organizational concentration and centralization of power. The strategy failed as these leaders then began to demand more power and more side-payments in order to continue to support Miller. The result was a spate of corruption scandals, and increased tension within the party between the barons and other SLD parliamentarians. Similarly, in Slovakia, the first wave of reformist elites concentrated power, without ensuring a stable succession. When other elites in the party attempted to broaden the electoral base of the party by reaching out to the “red managers” during the late 1990s (the former communists who had succeeded in capitalism), the result was two fold: first, the party lost its reformist credentials as it became increasingly populist, and second, several splinters left the party, taking many voters with them, most notably, Smer, led by Robert Fico, a former SDL’ elite.

Impact of Communist successors

What were the consequences of these different patterns of exit and transformation? Some effects had long-lasting implications. The reinvention of the communist parties, for example, pre-empted the rise of other moderate Left parties. Other effects were much more immediate and malleable. The communist successors were both the target and the source of extensive criticism between the government and the opposition. Furthermore, a downturn in the successors’ ability to offer such criticism gave leeway for incumbent governments to act with greater discretion.


Communist parties were in a privileged position to shape democratic political competition on two fronts. First, they were inevitable negotiation partners. The opposition took many forms, but in all cases the opposition had to face the former ruling party. Thus, even if their fates after 1989 varied, the initial decisions made by the communist parties at that time entailed considerable effects on the new institutional architecture which underpinned democratic competition. Second, communist parties enjoyed key advantages, notably access to organizational resources and material assets that the nascent opposition could only hope for. If they were not divested of these, communist parties were able to control an automatic lead in voter mobilization, while formal and informal advantages would continue to privilege the outgoing communist parties. They were therefore in a position to shape both the institutional framework and the substance of competition that took place within it. Three key moves made by the communist successors affected political outcomes: (i) their mode of exit from power in 1989, (ii) the diffusion of communist elites into different parties thereafter, and (iii) their reinvention, which determined who would occupy the moderate left space, and which influenced the robustness of the opposition and ultimately public policy outcomes.

The Communist exit

Where the communist rulers left power during the transition, all of the competitors stood more of an even chance in electoral competition. The rejection of the communist system in the first elections is associated with both greater democratic consolidation and free market reforms (Fish 1998). Where the communist party rapidly admitted its defeat and exited governance, several mechanisms were set into motion. First, the communist party lost much of its power to dominate formal institutional creation and was divested of many of its formal assets, both of which would have privileged the communist party vis-à-vis its potential competitors. Second, it lost many of its informal advantages. While communist managers could still “spontaneously” privatize state enterprises in order to gain resources, the party as a whole lost its privileged access to state resources and thus the potential it had for building popular support and undermining competitors through patronage, media control, and the like. Finally, communist exit early on was a powerful mobilizing signal to the potential opposition that new opportunities were opening up and that considerable power was now up for grabs. The full exit of the communist parties was a necessary, if not sufficient, condition for democratic party competition.

In both Hungary and Poland, the communist parties attempted to hold on to the advantages of power by liberalizing the communist system enough to ensure their survival in the spring and summer of 1989. They nonetheless had to eventually exit power due to an emboldened opposition which reflected societal demands (Bruszt and Stark 1991; Elster 1996; Bernhard 2000). Communist party proposals that were expected to benefit the communists either failed to have the expected effect (as in the case of the formal electoral institutions) or they were rejected outright (as in the case of the late communist proposals that parties only rely


on funds they already possess). In Hungary, the communist party itself began to fragment and to dissolve as the Opposition Round Table got underway. By the time the Hungarian communist party dissolved in October 1989, fully free elections had been agreed upon for the spring of the following year. The communist party won less than 10 percent of the vote and duly ceded power to the opposition. In Poland, the Round Table negotiations of 1989 initially resulted in electoral quotas that gave a parliamentary advantage to the communists. Within months of the semi-free elections of June 1989, however, the entire deal was renegotiated after their parliamentary allies, the PSL and SD, abandoned the communists and threatened their ability to govern. The 1989 electoral law was scrapped in favor of a fully free and highly permissive replacement. The first fully free elections of 1991 thus confirmed, rather than led to, communist exit. In both Poland and Hungary, the formal institutional framework was negotiated and re-negotiated to ensure equality for the competitors, and the communist exit itself prevented the former ruling party’s informal entrenchment.

When the communist regime collapsed in Czechoslovakia in November 1989, rapid negotiations took place between the newly emboldened opposition and a seriously weakened communist party. As a result, the June 1990 elections were fully free, and greatly reduced the communist presence in the legislature. No competitor had the built-in advantages of controlling the media, access to state funding, the electoral boards, or the electoral outcomes. State bureaucrats also had less time to convert their political power into economic assets.

Conversely, the longer the communist party stayed in office, the more it could continue to draw informal benefits and create formal institutional advantages. In this respect, the first preference of the communist parties was to stay in power, continuing their clientelist relationships to society (Colomer 1995). If they could not retain power, their next preference was to try to undercut programmatic parties, given that their advantage lay in patronage and side payments and not broad electoral appeals (Kitschelt 1995). A communist party that stayed in power continued to draw material and political benefits from office, especially since the communist state and the ruling party had earlier fused (Fish 1998). Under such circumstances, these parties could build in competitive advantages, such as institutions favoring big parties, state funding based on organizational strength, and so on.

Where the communist party managed the transition, it was able to privilege its position both under the guise of electoral laws designed to “stabilize” competition and through the informal drawing of privilege. In Bulgaria, for example, electoral laws initially favored major parties (i.e., the communist successors) with a partial PR and majoritarian electoral system. Furthermore, state funds were given only to parties with more than 50,000 votes. This privileged the outgoing communist party. The party also continued to use its informal advantages, with vote manipulation, suspiciously high turnout (about half a million extra votes were probably cast), and outright fraud surfacing after the June 1990 elections (Birch et al. 2002). Formal institutions eventually became more equitable. However, as the opposition gained in strength and threatened to withdraw from the October 1991 elections


(an outcome the communists were eager to avoid, as it would delegitimize their rule), compromises led to more PR seats and to the parliamentary elections of the president. All of this eventually evened out the playing field. Still, the BSP continued to accrue the informal advantages that it initially gained in the transition, “carrying off” state assets into private hands via party-controlled informal networks that remained in the state regulatory, information, and financial sectors (Ganev 2001).

The more completely a communist party dominated the transition, the more able it was to favor itself both through formal institutions and through informal practices. Thus, in Romania, “political insiders retained the initiative” (Gallagher 1996). The communist National Salvation Front initially promised it would not stand in the June 1990 free elections, and announced a proportional representation system with a low 3 percent threshold that would ostensibly benefit the weak opposition (Crampton 1997). However, the NSF then reneged on this promise by insisting on a strong presidency and used both physical intimidation and isolation of the competition to ensure a communist victory. State funding was given to parties only if they received 5 percent of the vote. Parliamentary parties received twice as much media time as non-parliamentary parties, thus favoring the incumbents. The combination of democratic rhetoric and quasi-authoritarian tactics skewed the field (Tismaneanu 1997). Not surprisingly, the communist presidential candidate, Ion Iliescu, won 85 percent of the presidential vote, and the NSF took 66 percent of the legislative vote. Iliescu then began to rule the country by diktat (Tismaneanu 1997), and the communists under their various guises (NSF, DNSF, PDSR) stayed in power until 1996.

In short, the mode of communist exit was important not only for the formal institutional space it opened up, promoting the crafting of institutions that favored no player ex ante, but also for its informal aspects. Communist parties lost their privileged position and their ability to continue to benefit privately en masse from public assets and institutions. While their personal networks continued, they were nonetheless cut off from access to the state at key points. Without exiting from power, the communist parties could lock in informal advantages and delay the creation of formal institutions that leveled the playing field. Since the resources of the state were both finite and limited, those who enjoyed early access to state authority could extract from the state far more than the relative latecomers.

Diffusion and party differentiation

Second, how the communist party elites left power—in other words, the degree to which communist elites stayed with the successor party or alternatively diffused into numerous other new parties—influenced party differentiation within the political party system. In the post-communist cases, an initial precondition for clear competition consisted of two camps: the communist successors and the anti-communist opposition. Given the opaqueness of the transition, the distinction between the two camps was one way for voters and other parties to orient themselves. Put another way, electoral distinctions were initially drawn chiefly on


the basis of political pedigree and not well-established policy records. Where the communist party elites diffused into multiple parties or where they did not exit during the transition, the boundaries between the two camps were blurred; this was the case in Slovakia, Bulgaria, and Romania. Voters had greater difficulties telling apart political parties, especially if many of them contained the familiar elites from the former communist parties.

In Poland, the Czech Republic, and in Hungary, the communists did not diffuse into multiple parties. This was the result not just of the strength of the opposition, as Snyder and Vachudová (1997) argue. After all, the Czech opposition was tiny, and the Hungarian opposition was far smaller than the Polish Solidarity. Rather, what mattered was the extent to which the opposition had criticized and differentiated themselves from the regime prior to 1989. Thus, in Hungary, Poland, and the Czech Republic, the opposition had denounced communist shortcomings so vehemently that these opposition parties could not accept communist elites without paying a heavy electoral price in the first free elections and thereafter. In fact, several leaders of historical parties, such as the Czech ČSSD or the Polish PPS, initially staked their political standing on refusing to accept communists into party ranks. Communist elites could not easily disperse into other parties.

In contrast, in Slovakia, Bulgaria, and Romania, clear boundaries between parties took longer to emerge. The opposition, insofar as it existed, had not sharply differentiated itself from the communists prior to 1989, and their critiques were not enough to discredit the communists. As a result, the latter could disperse into and co-found numerous new parties, with little political hostility from the non-communist camp. In Slovakia and elsewhere, the dispersal of communists into several parties, such as the HZDS, SNS, SDL’, and ZRS meant that the new elites comprised a “combination of dissidents and ‘laundered communists’ ” (Innes 1997: 406). Such dispersal meant that there would be fewer actors in whose interest it would be to consistently and credibly critique the communist record, or the communist party itself; to do so would be to call their own records into question.

Many politicians instead chose to exploit nationalist grievances and to make populist appeals, rather than highlighting clear policy divisions. Most notably, Slovakia’s Vladimir Mečiar went over from the communist party to the opposition Public Against Violence in 1989. He then founded the ironically-named Movement for a Democratic Slovakia (HZDS), which managed to dominate Slovak politics from 1991 to 1998 with a mixture of nationalism, populism, intimidation, and a disrespect for minority and civic rights. Similarly, the “laundered communists” in Bulgaria and especially in Romania diffused into multiple parties, initially even buttressing rather than responding to opposition forces (Karasimeonov 1995). Such diffusion meant that many parties, constrained by their own historical records, chose to turn to ultra-nationalist mobilization in lieu of public policy differentiation.


Communist reinvention and robust competition

Until the communist party actually exited office, fully democratic competition could not emerge in East Central Europe. If the elites diffused into other parties, such parties were unable or unwilling to differentiate themselves along conventional programmatic lines, which in turn undercut meaningful electoral competition. Finally, unless the parties regenerated—that is, transformed their organizations and moderated their appeals—they could not become credible and contentious competitors. If they did reinvent themselves, they were less likely to be excluded from governance and they had more capacity to criticize and to present alternatives to governing parties.

Figure 6.2 summarizes this relationship between the communist exit, reinvention, and competition.

Reinvention had consequences for the opposition, the Left, and for public policy. The communist exit and the transformation of its successors influenced the degree to which the opposition could present a credible threat of replacement to governing parties. Such robust opposition thus fulfills the fundamental role of opposition in a democracy: to present alternatives to both voters and to potential coalition partners. When this occurs, competition is clear. Elite camps are easily differentiated and parties have easily distinguishable identities. Contestation is also robust. Competitors monitor and publicly critique government actions. Finally, such competition is credible. Parties are not excluded a priori from coalitions

1989: Communist Party in crisis

CP stays in office CP exits office

No robust opposition Multiparty rule

(Bulgaria, Romania)

No diffusion Diffusion

(Slovakia)

CP fails to reinvent itself

CP reinvents itself

Weaker opposition More robust opposition (Czech Republic) (Poland until 1004, Hungary)

Figure 6.2 The Communist exit and its impact on political competition


or governance, and are seen by the electorate as capable of governing. The same endowments that allowed elites to streamline and transform the parties in the first instance would prove important in later developing convincing and effective criticisms of governing parties. They could effectively use the parliamentary and mass media channels to differentiate themselves from their opposition, and to point out the shortcomings of other parties.

In most advanced democracies, the programmatic bases for party competition are diverse and historically rooted, ranging from ethnic and cultural pluralism, to industrial production profiles and economic inequalities, to varied modes of social organization including unionization or religious membership. These cleavages often took decades, if not centuries, of democratic experience (and contestation) to develop. In most post-communist countries, however, where robust competition existed, it did so thanks largely to the reinvented communist successor parties: former authoritarian rulers that successfully transformed themselves into moderate and professional democratic competitors.

Reinvented communist parties were the most suspect and the most skeptical of the post-communist political formations. The former communists and their former opponents had the strongest incentives to monitor and criticize each other’s misdoings, thanks both to existing antagonisms and to the electoral threat each posed to the other. Communist successor parties are especially keen critics, since they are also defending their own existence and their historical record. They also had the capacity to criticize. The same skills and adaptive processes which allowed the communist successors to initially transform after the communist collapse made them able critics and highly competent governors. The regenerated communist successors constantly criticized the shortcomings of the non-communist governments. At the same time, they offered credible claims of democratic commitment and managerial competence—claims that were especially striking in the light of the instability and inexperience of the first few years of democratic governance after the communist collapse. One result is that in almost all post-communist countries (all but Estonia), robust opposition exists where communist successor parties have regenerated.3 Another consequence is that where the communist successors were forced to exit and then reinvent themselves, reforms of the markets, the polity, and the state often played out as political exercises in anti-communism.

Where the successors regenerated, as in Poland and in Hungary,4 they became the core alternative to the governing parties. They emerged as clear and credible options and were strongly critical of the political instability and incompetence they perceived. Given the clear dividing line that ran between the two camps, governments were rendered vulnerable and electorates were given a meaningful choice (Bartolini 2000). Even as governments changed, the post-communist option was consistently on offer, and garnered widespread popular support. By the same token, however, when such strong critics collapsed as organizations, as was the case in Poland in 2004, so too did the levels and effectiveness of their criticism of the government.


Without full-fledged reinvention, communist successors could not gain access in parliament and win the public credibility with which to challenge governing parties and to threaten them with replacement. In turn, without a credible critic to hold governing parties in check, one-party dominance could arise, thus weakening the opposition even further. For example, in the Czech Republic, the post-communist KSČM could do little to oppose the ruling ODS, which governed in one guise or another from 1990 to 1998 (and then became the crucial pillar for the 1998–2002 minority government of the Social Democrats). It had neither the parliamentary access nor the elite capacities to credibly criticize the government. Instead, it was excluded a priori from potential governing coalitions by all the other parties and often dismissed in parliament. In Slovakia, similarly, opposition parties had considerable difficulties mounting a challenge to the HZDS dominance from 1991 to 1998. The SDL did transform itself considerably, changing its constituency base and even flirting with entering a coalition with the HZDS. As a result, the SDL failed to present itself as a credible alternative to the ruling party, and became an even weaker critic once it fragmented. Thus, without communist regeneration, a single political actor could continue to dominate the political scene and extract private benefits and make questionable policy decisions that hindered political economic development in the Czech Republic (Appel 2001).

The situation was all the worse where the communist parties did not exit from power. The BSP was re-elected in Bulgaria in 1991 and 1994, and the Romanian PDSR governed until 1996. Their continued rule meant that even if other parties entered office, the political institutions were fragile, and vulnerable to constant tinkering and discretion. The media, rather than serving as a forum for public debate, were seen by the ruling parties as one of the pillars of power and little parliamentary criticism was successfully mounted (Gallagher 1996; Karasimeonov 1995). In short, through their parliamentary access, capacity to monitor and criticize, and public credibility, the regenerated communist successors were a key source of a threat of replacement to the governing parties.

Communist reinvention and the moderate left

The communist reinvention also allowed the communist successor to occupy the moderate left end of the spectrum and to pre-empt the success of other Leftist parties. Where communist parties regenerated fully, as was the case in Poland and in Hungary, no social democratic parties arose. Where communist parties did not regenerate, as in the Czech Republic, they continued with Marxist or radical protest appeals, leaving considerable room for moderate social democratic alternatives. These, however, had to arise ab novo, handicapped by organizational weakness, low electoral support, and tiny parliamentary representations. The moderate left, under these circumstances, was weakened, at least initially.

Thus, the Czech Social Democrats became a powerful opposition only 7 years into the transition. The party started in a very weak position—4 percent to 7 percent of the vote in the 1990 and 1992 elections, respectively—but was able to slowly gather electoral support in view of the Czech communist successor’s


narrow protest orientation. By 1996, the Social Democrats won over a quarter of the votes. Until then, the ODS hegemony faced little credible challenge. Where communist elites diffused or communist successors failed to regenerate, there was less moderate left space to occupy, since the axes of competition centered on nationalist rhetoric and basic questions of the desirability of democratic procedures in the first place. Official social democratic parties, such as the Slovak SDSS or the Romanian PSDR, could not clear electoral thresholds and enter parliament; they remained on the political margins.

The Communist reinvention and public policy

Even as they offered an alternative to the governing parties that were their chief opponents, reinvented communist successors contributed to general policy consensus on democracy and market reform. Their campaign appeals and programs did not question the need for democracy and market reform, but focused instead on how to best administer reform. And once they returned to govern, this time freely elected, these parties further stabilized both the political party system and the policy consensus by continuing the economic and administrative reforms of their predecessors (Bartlett 1996; Blazyca and Rapacki 1996). Reinvented communists helped facilitate rather than hinder the processes of political and economic reform.

Robust political party competition helped economic reform (Hellman 1998). It also determined how effective the rules and institutions which guided political parties were with respect to promoting strategic voting and strategic party decision-making in emerging democracies (Moser 1999). Fundamentally, robust competition enhances democratic legitimacy and accountability (Huntington 1968; Przeworski 1992). Where the party system is not robust, voters have had to resort to mass protests (Albania after the collapse of the pyramid schemes in 1996–7) or to referenda and mass mobilization against the ruling party (Slovakia in 1997–8).

Finally, the robustness of competition limited rent-seeking behaviors and the extent to which political parties can extract resources from the state directly, and their ability to build institutions that further such extraction (Grzymala-Busse 2007). In Hungary and Poland until the mid-2000s, attempts at rent-seeking were constrained both by their opponents’ immediate airing of any dirty laundry, and by the credible threat of replacement posed by the opposition. This threat led all parties to institute a slew of formal state reforms relatively early on in the transition, in an attempt to prevent their opponents from taking advantage of the benefits of office. In the other cases examined, for example, the Czech Republic or Romania, dominant governing parties could extract private benefits more freely from the state, which precluded the introduction of formal state reforms that could have insulated the state from such predation (Grzymala-Busse 2003).


Conclusion

The communist successors’ initial strategies of exit and reinvention shaped the dynamics of political competition in post-communist democracies. How parties lose and the lessons they learn from losing affect democratic outcomes and dominant party system transformation. Their adaptive choices determined whether free democratic competition would arise or not, who would occupy the Left in the political spectrum, and how robust democratic competition would be. This chapter suggests that communist successor parties influenced the robustness of party competition through their strategies of exit, diffusion, and regeneration. This is not to say that the adaptive choices made by communist parties determined all aspects of competition, or that the influence of such choices remained constant. Other political actors learned and gained experience in parliamentary and electoral maneuvering. International pressures, such as the prospect of European Union membership, curbed and constrained political competition as well. However, since such parties were the biggest players in the authoritarian era and because they continued to participate into the era of democratic politics, the communist successor parties shaped who would compete, how they would do so, and with what policy consequences.

Notes

1 This chapter draws both on Grzymala-Busse, A. (2007) Rebuilding Leviathan: Party Competition and State Exploitation in Post-Communist Democracies, and on Grzymala-Busse, A. (2006) “Authoritarian Determinants of Democratic Party Competition,” Party Politics, April/May.

2 As were the Slovenian ZSLD and the Lithuanian LDDP, not included in this sample. 3 As the cases of Estonia and Latvia indicate, they were not the only such source. In both

countries, the communist party disappeared after the regime collapse. Competition was accordingly weak in Latvia—but it was robust in Estonia, despite the absence of a communist successor party to anchor such competition. Estonia, however, had clear and salient cleavages that partly centered around the controversial figure of Edgar Savisaar and the Centre Party.

4 Other out-of-sample cases of regeneration include Slovenia and Lithuania.

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Szelenyi, I., Fodor, E., and Hanley, E. (1997) “Left Turn in Post Communist Politics: Bringing Class Back In?” East European Politics and Societies, Winter: 190–224.

Tismaneanu, V. (1997) “Romanian Exceptionalism?” In K. Dawisha and B. Parrott (eds.) Politics, Power, and the Struggle for Democracy in South-East Europe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.


Waller, M. (1995) “Adaptation of the Former Communist Parties of East Central Europe,” Party Politics, 1 (1): 473–90.

Zubek, V. (1994) “The Reassertion of the Left in Post-Communist Poland,” Europe-Asia Studies, 5: 801–37.

Part II

Dominant parties in transition

In the fall of 2005, specialists on Japanese politics were salivating with analytic anticipation at the reappearance of political uncertainty within that country’s usually predictable politics. The long-ruling Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), in power almost continually since 1955, was at serious risk of losing its parliamentary majority in elections scheduled for September 11, 2005 (a date not without irony). The party’s electoral difficulties were most immediately the result of its own internal divisions over a proposed reform of the national postal system championed by Prime Minister Koizumi. Koizumi treated the bill as emblematic of his broader efforts at political and economic reform. Yet the specific issue was also a symptom of the much deeper division within the party, a division that might be thought of as being between “continuity” and “change,” “resistance” and “reform,” or, more economically specific, between “pork” and “productivity.”

The LDP, as a result of its coalition with the small New Komeito, enjoyed a clear majority in the Lower House of Parliament as well as a functioning majority in the Upper House. However, the prime minister’s postal reform bill only narrowly passed the Lower House and then was defeated in the Upper House on August 8, 2005. Negative votes or abstentions by LDP members, normally subject to tight party discipline, had created the problem. Determined to punish those party members who had impeded his pet legislative project, Koizumi treated the defeat as a no-confidence vote, dissolved the Lower House and called for Lower House elections.

Koizumi’s clear intent was to punish those party members who had impeded his proposal by denying them the party’s endorsement in the election, and (in most cases) by running fresh new LDP candidates, known as assassins, against them, thereby forcing his opponents to run as independents or as members of some other party. Most were older politicians from rural districts anxious to protect their longstanding power positions against Koizumi’s agenda of economic reform. Koizumi, in turn, sought to obliterate, or at least to weaken, such internal dissidents, replacing them where possible by “reformers” loyal to him and his policy agenda.

The strategy was hardly without risks. At least two were obvious. First, the election created vitriolic competition between the incumbent dissidents and new official LDP challengers in 33 of Japan’s single-member districts (two

7 Learning to lose is for losers

The Japanese LDP’s reform struggle

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additional dissidents chose not to run). Such head-to-head competition enhanced the possibility that any potential LDP vote would be split two ways, leaving the door open for candidates from the opposition Democratic Party of Japan (DPJ) to capture winning pluralities in these multiply-contested seats. A parliamentary majority for the DPJ could shut the fragmented LDP out of power. A second risk was that many of the dissidents could rely on longstanding electoral strength within their districts, win election as independents, rejoin the LDP, and carry out a purge of a thus weakened Koizumi and his “pro-reform” followers. Under either scenario the LDP could have splintered in several ways, leading to a much deeper party reorganization that could have effectively diminished or even eliminated the party.

As it turned out, Koizumi’s strategy proved to be brilliant (although he was no doubt helped by the tactical ineptitude of his opposition). Koizumi effectively cast the entire election as one pitting “reform” against “resistance” and in turning most voter and media attention to the intra-LDP battles rather than to issues raised by the opposition. In effect, he managed to equate “pro-reform” with “pro-Koizumi” with astonishing results. Going into the election, the LDP held 212 seats in the Lower House; when it was over it had 296 (61.7 percent), a level never before enjoyed by any postwar Japanese party. The opposition DPJ meanwhile was devastated, falling from 177 to 117 seats. Moreover, among LDP candidates the Koizumi forces did spectacularly well. Thirty-three dissidents were denied party endorsement and against each of them Koizumi dispatched his generally young, personable and media-savvy assassins. A substantial number were women (his “lipstick ninja”). Only 15 of the 33 dissidents succeeded in defending their seats; two others were defeated in their single-seat constituencies but were returned through proportional representation. Meanwhile, 14 of the Koizumi assassins won; another 12 gained seats through proportional representation (Asahi Shimbun, September 12, 2005). And with 296 LDP members in parliament after the election, Koizumi had no incentive whatsoever to follow earlier precedents by allowing dissidents who had won seats to rejoin the party following the election. Without question, Koizumi had carried out a successful intra-party purge of his major opponents while simultaneously crushing the opposition DPJ. Following the election the now transformed LDP was hard pressed not to support the Koizumi reform proposals.

The particulars of the election and the struggle that preceded it raise a more intriguing political problem that goes well beyond Japan. How does a political party like the LDP, one which has enjoyed virtually unchallenged dominance for the better part of half a century, go about adjusting itself when the political conditions that once sustained it no longer prevail? Unlike authoritarian regimes where single-party dominance may result simply from unshackled mobilization of state power or a continued changing of the rules of competition, long-term dominance within a democracy requires ongoing social and economic adaptation by the dominant party (Pempel 1990). Particularly intriguing is the question of how such adaptation and reform occur when the party in question continues to hold office. Introspection and potential metamorphosis are surely easier and more

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compelling when a party is out of power. Yet, when control over office, and the powers that it brings, have been the vital glue that has kept the party together, the very loss of office may undermine the party’s raison d’etre and thus the party itself. This was a lesson learned in 1993–4 when the LDP was in opposition for the first time in its history, subject to fragmentations and probable dissolutions. For the LDP at that time, as with the Koizumi election 12 years later, “learning to lose” was little more than a suicide pact. Far better was to “learn how not to lose again.”

To appreciate the recent situation and to shed light on the broader problem of a once-dominant party facing possible loss of control, this chapter is divided into three main parts. The first provides a brief summary sketch of the one-party dominant conservative regime under which the LDP flourished politically, a system frequently referred to as the “1955 system,” reflecting the year in which the LDP was formed and which began its long-term rule. The next section examines the key structural changes that undermined the LDP’s continuity in power when it split and lost office in 1993, and that continued to haunt the party since its return to power in 1994. The third section examines these internal party tensions and efforts to resolve them through public policy measures, highlighting the contest over the LDP’s continuity but also the internal battles in the party precisely over its future direction.

Japan’s one-party dominant regime

Elsewhere I have described Japan’s one-party dominant regime as involving a mutually reinforcing mixture of institutions, a socio-economic coalition and public policies (Pempel 1998). In essence, Japan’s so-called 1955 system involved a self-sustaining equilibrium among institutions, policies and socio-economic blocs that engendered a “positive cycle of reinforcing dominance.” That cycle was upended in the early 1990s when the economic bubble burst (1991) and the LDP split (1993). Longstanding predictabilities gave way to a decade of political fluidity as the country ambled toward a new system based on unaccustomed relationships that are likely to shape and structure Japanese politics for several decades to come.

For most of the period from 1955 until roughly 1990, this reinforcing interplay among institutions, socio-economics and public policy kept the LDP in office for longer, and with fewer coalitional or oppositional constraints, than in any other democracy in the industrialized world (Pempel 1990). The “1955 regime” was complicated and has been described in great detail in various studies (Pempel 1998 inter alia). But for our purposes the following points are most central. When it was formed in 1955, a period in Japan that Samuels (2003: 230) astutely characterizes as one of “fluid ideological borders and political desperation,” the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) was a cobbled-together alliance of highly diverse constituencies united less by any agreed-upon policy agenda than by common opposition to the recently unified Japan Socialist Party (JSP) leavened by a shared desire to divvy up the spoils of office (Ōtake 1996). Formally and institutionally united under the LDP umbrella, the newly merged conservatives were continually

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cleft internally by numerous issues including security, rearmament, ties to China, education, and constitutional revision, among others.

On economics, however, potentially divisive tensions among the party’s competing constituencies were resolved by particularly fortuitous compromises. Economic nationalism remained an overarching umbrella—improving the national economy’s competitive standing was a sweepingly accepted goal—but there were sharp divisions over the specific mechanisms by which to do so. Big business, many government agencies and former bureaucrats in the LDP such as Ikeda, Kishi, Fukuda, and Sato leaned heavily toward bureaucratically-led industrial policies, tightly balanced budgets, and rapid technological improvement of large-scale firms, domestic oligopolization, and the aggressive pursuit of export markets. Economically, their principal focus was on rapidly improving national productivity.

Equally importantly, however, many of the new party’s most powerful politicians represented constituencies where small businesses and farming were the strongest voices in the economic choir. As such, these politicians were less hospitable to the productivity-based orientations of the first group, demanding instead local protection from both urban Japanese businesses and from overseas imports. Constituent interests drove such politicians to embrace classic pork-barrel politics, intra-national redistribution of governmental tax revenues, and the maintenance of a social safety net designed to prevent market forces from undercutting key businesses and employment bases in their districts. If such policies contravened tightly balanced budgets, so be it (Ōtake 1996: 110–46). Schlesinger (1997: 109) captures the LDP’s consequent inclusiveness by suggesting that the party was a vehicle for both “the bagmen and the statesmen.” Alternatively phrased, the party represented an alliance between “pork and productivity.”

The ingenuity of the LDP lay in its accommodation of competing socio-economic and political elements through a fusion of high growth and local protection. As is well established, various government policies and considerable corporate creativity gave Japan an exceptionally productive economy with high growth rates from the early 1950s until at least 1990. But equally vital to the party’s longevity was control over the public purse and the regulatory powers that came with controlling the reins of government.

Productivity was fused with pork, building into Japan a strong “welfare” component, but one that was radically different from the model prevalent in much of Western Europe. The Japanese safety net focused not on providing public assistance for disadvantaged individuals. Rather, government programs aided economically distressed or slow-growing geographical areas and economic sectors. In theory, such assistance offered the time needed to make difficult structural transitions. In fact, just as many individual social welfare recipients in Europe became progressively dependent on public subsidization for their livelihood, so in Japan the various forms of government aid left numerous Japanese regions, economic sectors, and individual corporations little more than semi-permanent wards of the Japanese treasury. Local LDP parliamentarians received large blocs


of votes from these wards in exchange for delivering regular state welfare checks in the form of pork barrel projects or regional subsidies.

The shotgun marriage of these two broadly different constituencies—pork and productivity—rested on continued conservative control over governmental offices, high growth and the consequently expanding budgetary resources available to the Japanese government. Numerous front and back channels with varying degrees of legality and illegality enriched party coffers, financed party leaders, and kept potential opponents at an impoverished distance from the ever-more-lucrative public money spigots.

In an October 3, 2006 editorial, the New York Times wrote the following in response to alleged cover ups by Republican party leaders of the Mark Foley page scandal: “History suggests that once a political party achieves sweeping power, it will only be a matter of time before the power becomes the entire point. Policy, ideology, ethics all gradually fall away, replaced by a political machine that exists to win elections and dispense the goodies that come as a result. The only surprise in Washington now is that the Congressional Republicans managed to reach that point of decayed purpose so thoroughly, so fast.” The example of the Republicans, with total dominance of American national political institutions for only six years, was more than paralleled by that of Japan’s LDP which ruled for 38 years before its split. Though it began with a variety of ideological and policy goals, over time holding power gradually became the major raison d’etre for the party. Or as Gerald Curtis (1988: 43) wrote five years before the LDP’s split “…the single most impressive characteristic of this ruling party over the past thirty years has been its total commitment to the goal of winning Diet majorities and retaining political power.” Simultaneously, as Ethan Scheiner (2005) has demonstrated so ably, opposition parties faced the difficult hurdles of fiscal centralization and LDP clientelism. And the longer the opposition was kept out of power the more difficult it was for them to gain credibility as an alternative to LDP governance. Mutual recognition by all LDP party members of the incalculable political benefits accrued by perennial LDP control of public office, as well as the financial and regulatory powers that came with it, facilitated in turn the resolution of most intra-party disputes over economic policies.

Meanwhile, almost all national bureaucratic agencies enjoyed tightly delimited spheres of regulatory control over, and regularized interactions with, competing socio-economic constituencies. Thus, the Ministry of Finance had virtually sole responsibility for the country’s banks and financial institutions, the Ministries of Agriculture and Construction provided powerful links to the rural areas, MITI was the agency most closely tied to big firms and oligopoly, but with an Agency for Small Business also being under its purview holding an explicitly different representational mandate.

The LDP oversaw these networks primarily through the functionally-specific committees on its Policy Affairs Research Council (PARC). PARC committees paralleled the country’s various cabinet offices and bureaucratic agencies. And over time, individual LDP parliamentarians interested in particular areas of policy gained credibility as members of zoku (tribal) groups serving as legislative

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advocates. Horizontal coordination and integration of separate spheres of national economic activity was less the practice than was their vertical separateness (e.g. Yamamoto 1972: 115). Essentially, policy oversight and any tentative proposals for change involved a number of “iron triangles” each composed of a bureaucratic agency, one or more interest groups and selected LDP politicians. Agreement within these functionally-specific triangles was a prerequisite to new proposals reaching the cabinet and parliament. The system thus provided little room for independent cabinet initiation or extensive horizontal coordination among agencies or affected interests or for parliamentary give-and-take. Over time, such vertically organized networks became ever more deeply entrenched and difficult to dislodge. With time many became implacable impediments to sustained economic productivity.

Japan’s economic policies represented what I have characterized as “embedded mercantilism” (Pempel 1998, 1999). Japan’s domestic markets were effectively closed to most foreign products and investments capable of challenging Japan’s domestic industries. This went a long way toward protecting the LDP’s pork constituency but it also provided a nurturing soil within which Japan’s globally competitive firms could thrive, enhancing the nation’s productivity. With the home market largely closed to outside penetration, such firms moved to dominance in the home market and then on to exporting their best products globally. Along with their smaller domestic subcontractors and distributors, such firms were the vital engines of Japan’s high growth economy for the first 35 to 40 years after the end of World War II. Meanwhile, firms and sectors lacking such global competitiveness and whose primary markets remained domestic nevertheless survived by virtue of the entrenched system of politically enhanced protection and oligopolistic privileges at home. The resultant “national economy” was in fact an oil and water combination with some parts highly sophisticated, productive and closely integrated with global markets (the productivity component) and other parts predominantly dependent on protected national markets, almost totally buffered from global challenges and competition (Japan’s pork component).

Long-term LDP rule depended on, and in turn was critical to the fusion of, these two dramatically different streams. A sequence of LDP-run governments pursued economic politics free from hard choices between its two potentially competing constituencies. High growth by large globally competitive firms generated ever-rising treasury incomes that allowed the ruling politicians to dole out extensive levels of pork and protection. The party grew accustomed to—indeed it thrived on—economic policies driven by the seemingly antagonistic logics of growth and redistribution.

Blisteringly hot GNP growth rates from the 1950s until 1990–1 meant government revenues spiraling continually and automatically upward. This in turn allowed officials to undertake new policy initiatives without having to make offsetting cutbacks in support for inefficient sectors. Progressively more costly over time, economic protection of Japan’s least competitive sectors—construction, distribution, financial services, air transport, road freight, food, agriculture, and small business generally—could be sustained without automatically undercutting


the broader competitiveness of firms in areas such as automobiles, consumer electronics and machine tools.

Internal party cohesion among LDP members was enhanced by the party’s ongoing and solid electoral majorities. The opposition parties were marginalized and could be shut out of most policy formation, making it progressively more difficult for these opposition groups to gain credibility as an alternative government or to attract appealing and upwardly mobile political candidates. For most of the period from its formation in 1955 until the party split in 1993, the LDP held control of virtually all cabinet positions as well as nearly 2:1 majorities over the next strongest party in both houses of parliament, and hence had relatively free rein in the formation of public policies. This combination of strong parliamentary majorities, extensive regulatory control, and high economic growth allowed the party to undertake a number of internal adjustments on policy matters, often pre-empting programs pushed by the opposition. As the LDP dominance continued, smart up-and-coming political aspirants were drawn disproportionately into its orbit. The LDP as an organization became the magnetic core of party politics attracting top-heavily large numbers of ambitious younger politicians to its ranks. In the terms of Albert Hirschman (1970) the incentives for individual party members to “exit” the LDP were low while those toward party “loyalty” were continually reinforced.

Also softening intra-party economic tensions was Japan’s multi-member, single-ballot electoral system. That system enabled candidates to the Lower House to be elected with as little as 12–15 percent of the district’s total vote. Hence, two, three, four, or theoretically even five different LDP parliamentarians could be elected from the same district, even if (perhaps particularly if ) they embraced somewhat different constituencies and supported different policy goals. By voting their most narrow preferences, voters from even the most particularistic groups (dentists, veterans, grocers, etc.) could gain some measures of parliamentary representation. National party policy positions got short shrift during electoral competition while personalistic and clientelistic politics drove most campaigns (Miyake 1985; Kobayashi 1991; Kabashima 2004).

The electoral system also made it particularly difficult to vote against the party in power. With only one ballot per voter and as many as five representatives per district, it was far more common for citizens to vote against individuals whom they opposed by shifting votes to another candidate of the same party or to a nominal independent who, post election, would affiliate with the ruling LDP. It was extremely difficult for opposition parties to mobilize allegedly unhappy voters against the LDP as a party when the LDP had more than one representative in the district.

Extensive gerrymandering further bolstered the overrepresentation of the LDP’s pork contingent. Rural districts could often elect parliamentarians with one-third or fewer votes than were needed to win in urban areas. And rural areas continue to account for roughly one-third of all the seats in the Lower House of parliament. It is there that conservatives were strongest and where the new opposition parties—and any demands for economic liberalization, deregulation

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and an end to subsidies—faced their greatest hurdles. Meanwhile, as Japan became a more urban and suburban country, rural overrepresentation militated against the easy translation of such socio-economic and demographic changes into political power. Pork began to trump productivity.

In all of these ways, Japan’s political system privileged many of the country’s least economically viable geographical areas and economic sectors. Control of government office, internal oligopoly, protectionism, and high growth by the country’s globally competitive firms and sectors, in turn, buffered less-productive areas and sectors from the “creative destruction” of market competition. The model however could only be sustained if the LDP retained political control, and as long as the economic growth of the country continued. Yet the very policies that ensured economic growth created new conditions that undermined key structures critical to the model’s original success. The question became how to adjust—and after its loss in 1994—how to learn from losing, and how to win again.

Challenges to one-party dominance

Critical to the end of the 1955 system and posing the most formidable challenge to continued LDP rule was the 1993 splintering of the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) and the formation of Japan’s first non-conservative government since 1947. The LDP had split over a host of issues, largely related to a combination of electoral reform proposals and internal contests for party leadership. But it had not anticipated the actual loss of power. Surprisingly, the now-fragmented LDP saw its 38 years of government control replaced by a highly improbable seven-party coalition. From August 1993 until June 1994, the LDP was out of office, effectively given the opportunity to “learn how to lose.” Quickly, party leaders concluded that any such lesson, however morally beneficial it might have been, was decidedly unwelcome. Out of office, the party was buffeted by internal bickering and a continued trickle of defections. As Curtis (1999: 187) so aptly characterized the situation “[h]aving been in power for nearly forty years, LDP Diet members had developed campaign strategies that were rooted in their ability to deliver concrete benefits to their constituents. Political power was the oxygen that kept the LDP alive. If deprived of this political oxygen for some months longer, many of its Diet members, facing an impending election under the new, predominantly single-member-district, electoral system, might well have concluded that they would be better off joining the coalition and running as candidates of a party that was in government rather than remain in the opposition in the LDP.” Vital to the party’s continuation, in the eyes of its leaders, was a return to office. The mechanism by which they returned to office proved brilliant.

Essentially, had the shaky ruling coalition of prior opposition parties held together long enough to deprive the LDP of the spoils of office, it is probable that the LDP would have continued to fracture and would have been incapable of sustaining itself for more than a year or so. Coalition kingmaker, Ozawa Ichiro, however, assuming that the Social Democratic Party of Japan (SDP), one of the core elements in the seven-party coalition, had no viable alternatives, ignored its


policy demands and pressed his efforts to marginalize the socialists as part of his broader efforts at party system restructuring. This opened up political space for the LDP. In an ideologically astonishing move, the LDP, following a series of high-level meetings with SDP leaders in late June 1994, forged a “strange bedfellows” coalition with their longstanding bête noir by offering the prime ministership to SDP head, Murayama Tomiichi. The SDP and its socialist agenda had become increasingly marginalized due to its failure to adjust to changes in Japan and elsewhere; it had been almost completely discredited with the collapse of the USSR. Yet suddenly, because of the tactical needs and negotiating skills of the LDP, it was suddenly in a powerful negotiating position. Once the LDP was back in (a coalition) government, Murayama quickly made a series of policy adaptations that undercut his party’s few longstanding positions, with the result that the party was all but eliminated in its next electoral test, leaving the LDP again in a commanding position.

From 1994 until the present the LDP has remained the largest party in parliament, once again dominating all subsequent government coalitions. Its prior hegemony was compromised by its post-1994 necessity to rely on coalition partners (usually the former Clean Government Party, CGP). Furthermore, for much of the time, internal party divisions made policy coherence, particularly on economics, all but impossible. Still, even though Japan’s one-party dominance had changed it had hardly been eradicated. Most importantly, the LDP, after returning to power, faced pressures to adjust its policy agenda and to confront previously papered-over economic policy divisions and new institutional arrangements. Related changes in three areas are most critical to understanding both the problems of the LDP and the broader tensions undermining the more extensive “1955 system.”

The first of these changes centered on socio-economics and demographics. The very economic success of long-term conservative rule created a socially and economically reconfigured Japan, strikingly different from the Japan that the LDP first came to govern. Most tangibly, Japan by the early 1990s had become a vastly more urban, middle-class and older country than when the LDP was formed in 1955. Naturally enough, these shifts affected the LDP’s electoral base and the demands on public policy. In 1960 just under 60 million Japanese lived in large cities; by 1990 this figure was up to 95 million or over three-quarters of the total population (Nihon Kokusei Zue 1991: 68). Conservative electoral support in the large cities dropped precipitously between the 1960s and the 1990s (Ishikawa and Hirose 1989: 73–85). Only continued success in Japan’s less urbanized areas kept the LDP in office. But even strong rural support could not permanently overcome the broader demographic shifts affecting the country. Thus, in the 1955 election, 43 percent of the LDP’s vote had come from farmers; by 1965 this was already down to 29 percent and by 1985 farmers made up only 13 percent of the LDP’s support. Support from small business people fell over the same time period from 27 percent of the LDP’s total to 19 percent (Ishikawa and Hirose 1989: 73–85). Even though both groups remained disproportionately strong electoral supporters of conservative candidates (Kobayashi 1991: 130) the two constituencies had shrunk in number, in economic significance, and in the electoral support they could provide for conservative politicians. Yet their powerful backers within the LDP continued to

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hold strategic positions that enabled them to veto many policies challenging these interests.

During the same period voters had also become far less predictable. In the 1960s, fewer than 10 percent of Japan’s voters identified themselves as “independents.” By the 1993 election that figure was up to 38 percent; and in January 1995, it was 50 percent. Voters could be mobilized by different parties, depending on if and when a particular political party or candidate provided them with sufficient motivation.

Such shifts made it clear that conservative electoral hegemony could continue only by changing or expanding its traditional support base. The party sought to do this through various devices. Nevertheless, as a whole the party and many specific LDP parliamentarians continued to draw essential electoral support from traditional groups, and to pursue policies designed to ensure their ongoing support. Not surprisingly, considerable resistance arose among potential losers within the LDP to any inherent mathematical rationality that might have pushed the LDP as a party to “drop” one or another long-term support group in favor of another more numerous group, such as urban salaried workers.

Well after it was economically rational to do so, the LDP provided extensive protection to farmers and small shopkeepers through such measures as farm subsidies, import quotas on key agricultural goods (including a ban on rice imports), low or no interest loans to small shopkeepers, and an “anti-supermarket law” that effectively gave local chambers of commerce veto power over proposed new large stores. Even though the LDP made some electoral inroads into the country’s largest metropolitan areas, it resisted making too many policy changes aimed at attracting urban support for fear that doing would cost it at least as much support within the more traditional and rural sectors. Moreover, the incentives for the party as a whole to broaden its support frequently conflicted directly with the interests of powerful parliamentarians heavily dependent for their own continuous re-election on well-established, if shrinking constituencies. Clearly, few of them were anxious to embrace the opportunity to learn new lessons if it meant losing their offices.

Whereas the LDP had been capable of continually expanding its base without losing important support groups throughout the 1980s, by the 1990s, this became less easy. Economic policies that could keep all new add-ons happy without upsetting long-term supporters became ever less possible as economic growth stalled; trade-offs among potential constituencies became essential. The tensions between continued protection for agriculture and small business while seeking to ensure global competitiveness and simultaneously attracting urban voters created sharp internal tensions over economic policy by the mid-to-late-1980s. Tensions grew too with the US over Japan’s exports, in turn fueling rethinking of economic policy. The result was a slow but unmistakable shift in Japan’s macro-economic policies, the second of the major changes that have contributed to ongoing tensions within the LDP and the regime as a whole.

Throughout much of the 1980s and into the early 1990s, bilateral trade tensions with the United States, Japan’s largest export market, were acute. US pressures rose for Japan to open up its domestic market to foreign goods and foreign direct


investment, as manifested in the so-called MOSS talks (market-oriented, sector-specific) in January 1985, the Structural Impediments Initiative (SII) of 1989, the 1994 Framework Talks, and the Semiconductor Trade Agreement from 1986 to 1991. In almost all cases the negotiations challenged the protected interests of valuable LDP constituencies or supporting industries.

The US also applied pressure on Japan to revalue its national currency, most conspicuously with the 1985 Plaza Accord. The yen quickly doubled in value, spurring many of Japan’s larger firms to boost overseas investments. Many of Japan’s largest corporations became truly global producers setting up production and distribution networks across the globe. In 1989, only 5.7 percent of the manufacturing capacity of Japanese-owned companies took place outside of Japan; by 2000 that number had jumped to 14.5 percent. The figures were vastly higher in key sectors such as electronics (33 percent) and autos (25 percent) (Pacific Council 2002: 27). Yet, as some sectors and companies readily embraced global production models, others remained locked in their dependence on domestic markets, government protection, and public subsidization. Quickly, the number of quality manufacturing jobs within Japan dropped and supply contracts for many of the country’s smaller parts manufacturers disappeared.

Throughout the 1990s, the underlying duality of Japan’s economy became increasingly problematic. When many of Japan’s most successful companies moved abroad taking some of Japan’s best jobs with them, the second tier of the economy left behind became increasingly dependent on the domestic economy and domestic sales for their overall success. For these companies to stay in business, protection from any form of price competition—foreign or domestic—became increasingly critical. In addition, treasury support in the form of pork-barrel legislation became essential. But with the national economy growing so much more slowly, and with so many of Japan’s most productive companies increasingly operating overseas, the economic resources once easily available to the ruling LDP were stagnant.

These tensions came to the fore in policy decisions designed to liberalize agriculture and to end the protection for small and medium sized businesses by ending the restrictions against large stores. In response to the liberalization of agricultural imports, farmers swung strongly against the LDP in the 1989 Upper House election with farm support for the party falling from 56 percent in the 1986 election to 41 percent in 1989. This represented the LDP’s biggest loss from any socio-economic group, laying the groundwork for what was to be the party’s 1993 split.

The third major set of changes facing the LDP involved an overhaul of the electoral system, and the consequent reorganization of the party system. Demands for altering the electoral system arose principally from the LDP’s involvement in a series of corruption scandals. But electoral reform grew as well out of efforts to deal with the long-term mix of demographic changes and economic policy shifts as well. Unable to reach an intra-party consensus on these issues, the LDP split over various electoral reform proposals (Ōtake 1995: 17). The seven-party coalition of Hosokawa Morihiro that took power in 1993 achieved one major policy target:

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it passed an extensive series of changes in the nation’s electoral laws. Four new bills established new campaign regulations along with a complete overhaul in the electoral system for the House of Representatives. The latter was again modified before the 2000 election. Japan replaced its longstanding multi-member, single, non-transferable vote with one based on 300 single-member seats plus 180 chosen by proportional representation. The electoral system for the Upper House was further revised in 2000.

Massive changes in the party system followed in the wake of these electoral changes. New parties formed and party reorganizations cascaded with perplexing frequency. Over time, there was a consolidation in the number of what Reed (2002) has called “viable parties.” At least two of these—the New Frontier Party and the Democratic Party of Japan—presented highly credible challenges to the LDP in the mid to late 1990s. Rather suddenly, Japanese politics saw the presence of a credible, if untested, electoral alternative to LDP rule. The electoral challenge to the LDP was most quickly felt in the PR seats where voters cast ballots for a party list rather than for a specific individual. Thus, in the 1996 Lower House election, the two opposition parties combined to win over 44 percent of the proportional representation (PR) vote compared with 32.8 percent for the LDP. The 1998 Upper House election saw the LDP drop from 61 to 44 seats while the Democratic Party and the Japan Communist Party both doubled their seats, giving the combined opposition an absolute majority. In the 2003 Lower House election, the DPJ defeated the LDP in PR balloting and became the most successful opposition party in postwar history with 177 seats (37 percent) and the party system appeared to consolidate around two large parties, LDP and DPJ.

Still none of these changes, powerful as they were, actually toppled the LDP. Structural legacies from the past continued to impede rapid change. Thus, despite the opposition’s gaining larger proportions of the total vote in 1996, the LDP still outpolled them, gaining nearly 48 percent of the seats while the opposition won only 42 percent. The apparent opposition victory in the 1998 Upper House was short-lived, generating at best limited lasting electoral momentum, while in the 2000 House of Representatives election, the LDP managed to win 48.5 percent of the seats while the DPJ gained only 26.5 percent. As Scheiner (2002: 18) put it at the time: “Since the late 1980s, the Japanese public appeared to grow eager to latch on to new party alternatives, but while new party threats were quick to rise up, they did not find a way to maintain voter allegiance, and the LDP is yet to face a serious sustained challenger.” Indeed, in the 2001 Upper House election, the LDP, led by its new leader Koizumi Junichirō, scored a substantial victory, one Koizumi repeated in the 2003 Lower House election.

Robert Weiner (2002) points out that such weakness of the opposition party in Japan is not particularly unusual. Elections in most democracies favor incumbents, creating formidable hurdles for any opposition. And the longer a single party is in power, the more logically it becomes the career vehicle of choice for aspiring young politicians and the more difficult it becomes for opposition parties to develop the needed reservoir of talented potential national candidates. The tremendous advantages enjoyed by incumbents remained particularly valuable for


longstanding LDP parliamentarians (and often their offspring) in the rural areas, and the rural grip of the LDP remained exceptionally tough to break.

The newly reorganized parties that came into being during the 1990s struggled mightily to overcome the legacy of such formidable barriers. Only in the 2004 House of Councilors election did it begin to appear that perhaps a major opposition party, with an electoral constituency not wedded to the old regime, had developed the momentum that might propel it into governmental power. That trend continued with the massive Upper House victory by the DPJ in 2007, finally creating a situation in which the LDP might finally be forced to “learn to lose.”

A key element in the conservatives’ continued hold on power had been the fact that once back in office after their nine months in opposition (1993–4) the LDP turned to Keynesian fiscal stimulation to lard out publicly-funded pork to valued constituents in a clear case of electoral self-interest. The Economist (April 25, 1998: 107) showed that between 1994 and 1998 public spending as a percentage of GDP shrunk in almost all rich democracies. The biggest drop came in Sweden where it fell from 68 percent to 59 percent of GDP, an 11.9 percent drop. Britain saw a large 6.1 percent drop. In contrast, the only country where public spending increased during this period was Japan.

For most of the 1990s, doling out heavy government expenditures to large-scale construction projects in rural areas and other pork projects allowed the LDP to retain power. Clearly a few months in the oppositional wilderness during 1993–94 had been sufficient to convince most party members that they had little to learn from losing, particularly losing control over the national budget and the pork it provided. Until at least 1998, Japan’s ruling conservatives continued to pursue classical pork over productivity, with the result that the latter did indeed plummet. Little public money went into projects likely to generate enhanced labor or capital productivity such as public investments in potentially high payoff technologies, new firms or innovative manufacturing procedures. Government debt levels soared to approximately 170 percent of GDP, by far the highest levels in the industrial world. Public debt service in Japan chewed up nearly one-quarter of the annual national budget in 2004. Japan became the only major country running a bigger budget deficit than it had four years earlier.

Such boondoggles exacerbated Japan’s economic difficulties even as they provided unmistakable political life-support to the party in power. Constituent loyalty was bought at the expense of future generations of taxpayers. Moreover, conservative control of the budget also meant that the opposition, lacking the ability to tap into the national treasury, entered all electoral battles armed with a metaphoric slingshot against incumbents wielding howitzers.

It was in the midst of this tumultuous and politically precarious situation that Koizumi Junichirō became Prime Minister. The LDP’s popularity was weak, and the opposition parties were gaining strength. But Koizumi took the prime ministership, promising “reforms with no sanctuaries.” He laid down an explicit challenge to many structures and power holders whom he identified publicly as blocking political and economic change. With Koizumi in the prime ministership, rather than a bipolar policy confrontation between a unified LDP and a unified

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(and opposing) DPJ, the main line of debate over economic and political reform shifted squarely to within the LDP.

The intra-LDP struggle over reform

Koizumi’s critics would argue that he was quicker to generate slogans and promises than to deliver comprehensive reforms. Many suggest that Japan’s underlying structures remain largely unchallenged by his actions (Mulgan 2002). Yet he presided over numerous changes in structures and policies, most put in place by his administration, with some started before he took office (Vogel 2006). These provided Koizumi with a reconfigured policymaking process that enabled him and his supporters to push through changes in policy that weighed heavily against many traditional components of the party. Koizumi also forced substantial changes in the internal structures of the LDP, reducing seriously the previous powers of many politicians whose careers had rested more heavily on pork than on productivity.

Under Koizumi, bureaucratic and LDP party powers shrank while both the Cabinet and the Prime Minister’s Office gained enhanced powers to initiate policy measures. Many of these involved trampling on hitherto sacrosanct bureaucratic or LDP turf. In January 2001, Japan’s twenty-odd ministries were recombined into fourteen, with an important redistribution of functions and powers in many of the most important. Many of the previously tight links between agency and constituent interest group were broken and the longstanding system of vertical administration came under explicit challenge. Numerous powers of bureaucratic officials were checked and the number of political appointees in each ministry, which had previously been limited to only the top two posts, was more than tripled for most agencies, providing additional layers of political control over previous agency autonomy.

Perhaps most importantly, a new and well-staffed Cabinet Office, plus a bolstered Cabinet Secretariat, gained substantial strength to initiate and coordinate policies. At the end of 1999 the Prime Minister’s Office had a staff of only 582 and the Cabinet Secretariat had 184. By the end of 2001, the new Cabinet Office had nearly 2,200 staff and the Secretariat had more than tripled to 487 (www.kantei.go.jp/jp/tokino-ugoki/9909/pdf9_18.pdf). Under 1999 legislation, the prime minister was also given explicit authority to engage in policy planning and to initiate legislation. A new Council on Economic and Fiscal Policy (CEFP) was given considerable leeway to generate a mixture of policies aimed at addressing the country’s extensive economic and financial problems.

Collectively, these changes altered prior balances of power. Agency autonomy declined and the power of elected politicians, particularly politicians in the executive branch, rose (Muramatsu 2006: 12). The power of individual LDP leaders, including the once formidable faction leaders, was strikingly reduced. Part of this power loss came from the reduction in the relevance of factions and their leaders under the new electoral system. But in addition the prime minister and the cabinet took advantage of their new powers to carve out a sphere of


enhanced autonomy in policymaking and to marginalize the policymaking power of party institutions, especially the PARC. Koizumi was particularly flagrant in his refusal to follow longstanding customs of consulting with LDP faction leaders over cabinet appointments; instead he appointed many non-parliamentarians and back-benchers, further undercutting one of the previously vital powers of faction leaders.

Koizumi made it clear from the start of his administration that he was less concerned with ensuring the viability of the LDP as a party, at least in its traditional form, than in concentrating on economic and political reforms that, at least in the short run, could have had a seriously negative effect on the LDP. He was willing to threaten party members with the destruction of the party if they were too overt in their challenges to his direction. And because of his intense public popularity, party elders were reluctant to challenge him too overtly lest the party suffer in any electoral contest that did not have Koizumi at the head of the LDP.

Most notably on the economic front, Koizumi utilized the Council on Economic and Fiscal Policy to press various economic reforms. The Council carried out sweeping changes concerning the serious problem of non-performing loans, road construction, the privatization of various public sector corporations, and caps on the issuance of new bonds for public works (Amyx 2004). Koizumi and the CEFP also cut back significantly on the budgetary outflow for public works projects while enhancing Japanese spending for IT and broadband access.

His most striking success however came over the radical alterations to the postal savings system. Japan’s extensive network of nearly 25,000 post offices and their well-organized postmasters have been important as vote-mobilizing machines for LDP candidates, particularly in the rural areas (Maclachlan 2004). Moreover, the postal savings system has been Japan’s, indeed the world’s, largest single savings bank, as well as functioning as a huge insurance company. Premiums collected from thousands of Japanese customers flowed into Japan’s Fiscal Investment and Loan Program, providing essentially a “second budget” that was used, among other things, to support politically favored public works and construction projects. Koizumi’s proposed postal reform thus struck, even in its modified form, at the heart of both a vital LDP vote-getting organization and one of the party’s major slush funds. The impact of his proposed change would be felt most seriously by LDP members in the rural areas.

Koizumi’s postal reform proposals crystallized the intra-party opposition that had already been manifest in other areas. Koizumi had been opposed on many of his specific policy proposals—and often on his entire agenda—by well-entrenched party leaders most heavily though not exclusively tied to rural, construction and small business interests. Still, he remained in office much longer than his ten immediate predecessors, all the while bypassing faction leaders in his cabinet choices and in many of his policy proposals. Little-by-little Koizumi weakened their long-term power and strengthened his own.

Koizumi’s main sources of strength lay outside the party, largely with a public frustrated by the slow pace of political and economic reform. Koizumi’s media savvy allowed him to bypass traditional internal party channels and intra-party

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consensus building in favor of direct populist appeals. Consequently while the party’s old guard was often unhappy with his policy agenda, it resisted replacing him because to do so would almost certainly have risked electoral retribution entailing their own loss of power. Again, “not losing” became the driving logic that kept Koizumi in office despite his challenges to the party’s sacred cows. At the same time, it was long apparent to many in the party that allowing Koizumi’s reforms to go forward was eroding much of the party’s (and their own) traditional electoral base. How these forces would play out was unclear for the first four years (2001–5) that Koizumi and his allies jousted on a tightrope with anti-reformist party elders. The battle between reform and resistance (and pork versus productivity) was joined under Koizumi as it had not been in the previous decade or more of LDP uncertainty.

In one brilliant stroke, Koizumi’s victory in the September 2005 election resolved the intra-party debate—at least temporarily—in favor of “reform.” The electoral victory for Koizumi created an expanded and somewhat new constituency for the LDP plus economic policies designed to reinvigorate productivity and downplay pork. Until the remainder of his term in September 2006 few LDP parliamentarians were in a mood to challenge Koizumi and his reform agenda. Ironically, the intra-party reforms carried out by Koizumi were quickly reversed by his successor, Abe Shinzo. Abe welcomed the “postal rebels” back from expulsion. He also returned to the practices of close consultation with faction leaders and cronyism. The results were disastrous for the party and its popularity; it suffered massive electoral defeat in the Upper House election of 2007.

Over time, the LDP has shown itself a party reluctant to surrender office. In this regard, perhaps it is not very different from most parties in government. But its ability to reward its diverse constituencies of pork and productivity combined with its skills in marginalizing its opponents and co-opting the opposition’s best issues allowed it to continue reinventing itself for decades. In the most recent decade, however, previously successful tactics proved less effective, largely because the party’s control of economic resources had shrunk, thereby removing the oil that had heretofore smoothed its own internal disputes. The election of September 11, 2005 appeared to have resolved those issues in favor of productivity and against pork. But anti-reformists, though hobbled, were hardly eliminated from the party’s ranks. They showed their resilience during the short-term prime ministership of Abe, but with crushing electoral consequences.

As this chapter is being written, a newly-seated Prime Minister Fukuda is beset by a powerful opposition from the DPJ in the Upper House creating policymaking paralysis. Whether the current logjam will be broken by a compromise between government and opposition or by new Lower House elections is uncertain. But, in all likelihood, the next Lower House election will not see a repeat of the one-sided LDP romp of 2005. Koizumi carried out a series of moves that, if built upon, could have transformed the LDP into a party once again able to stimulate at least modest levels of productivity. Yet, his successor squandered that opportunity with disastrous electoral results. Throughout the period from 1993–2008, the LDP’s experience reinforced the sense that for most party members, the idea of learning


to lose was the provenance of losers. Given the party’s failure to capitalize on the opportunities presented by the Koizumi reforms, the party may well have no choice but to learn their lessons from outside the halls of power.

References

Amyx, J. (2004) Japan’s Financial Crisis: Institutional Rigidity and Reluctant Change, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

Curtis, G. (1988) The Japanese Way of Politics, New York: Columbia University Press.Curtis, G. (1999) The Logic of Japanese Politics: Leaders, Institutions and the Limits of

Change, New York: Columbia University Press.Hirschman, A. (1970) Exit, Voice and Loyalty: Responses to Decline in Firms, Cambridge,

MA: Harvard University Press.Ishikawa, M. and Hirose, M. (1989) Jimintō: Chōki Shiji no Kōzō [The Liberal Democratic

Party: Structure of its Long Term Support], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten.Kabashima, I. (2004) Sengo Seiji no Kiseki [The Tracks of Postwar Politics], Tokyo:

Iwanami Shoten.Kobayashi, Y. (1991) Sengo Nihon no Senkyō [Postwar Japanese Elections], Tokyo: Tokyo

Daigaku Shuppan.Maclachlan, P.L. (2004) “Post Office Politics in Modern Japan: The Postmasters, Iron

Triangles, and the Limits of Reform,” Journal of Japanese Studies, 30 (2): 281–314.Miyake, I. (1985) Seitō Shiji no Bunseki [An Analysis of Political Party Support], Tokyo:

Sobunsha.Mulgan, A.G. (2002) Japan’s Failed Revolution: Koizumi and the Politics of Economic

Reform, Canberra: Asia Pacific Press.Muramatsu, M. (2006) “Sengo Seiji Kōhō ni okeru Seisaku akutaa no Rittai Kōzō [The

Structures of Policy Actors in the Postwar Japanese System] in M. Muramatsu and I. Kume (eds.) Nihon Seiji Hendō no sanjûnen [Thirty Years of Japanese Political Change], Tokyo: Tōyō Keizai.

Nihon Kokusei Zue (ed.) (1991) Suji de miru Nihon no Hyakunen [One Hundred Years of Japanese Data], Tokyo: Nihon Kokusei Zue.

Ōtake, H. (1995) “Jimintō wakate kaikakuha to Ozawa guruupu” [The Young Reformers in the LDP and the Ozawa Group], Leviathan, 17.

Ōtake, H. (1996) Sengo Nihon no ideorogii tairitsu [Ideological Conflict in Postwar Japan], Tokyo: San’ichi Shobo.

Pacific Council on International Policy Task Force (2002) Can Japan Come Back? Los Angeles, CA: PCIP.

Pempel, T.J. (ed.) (1990) Uncommon Democracies: The One-Party Dominant Regimes, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

Pempel, T.J. (1998) Regime Shift: Comparative Dynamics of the Japanese Political Economy, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

Pempel, T.J. (1999) “Structural Gaiatsu: International Finance and Political Change in Japan,” Comparative Political Studies, 32: 907–32.

Reed, S. (2002) “Evaluating Political Reform in Japan: A Midterm Report,” Japanese Journal of Political Science, 3 (2): 243–63.

Samuels, R. (2003) Machiavelli’s Children: Leaders and Their Legacies in Italy and Japan, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.

Scheiner, E. (2005) Democracy without Competition in Japan: Opposition Failure in a One-Party Dominant State, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

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Schlesinger, J. (1997) Shadow Shoguns: The Rise and Fall of Japan’s Postwar Political Machine, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.

Vogel, S. (2006) Japan Re-Modeled, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.Weiner, R.J. (2002) “Opposition Disappearance in Japan: Post-Realignment Evidence

Supports Theoretical Pessimism,” paper delivered at the annual convention of the American Political Science Association, August 31.

Yamamoto, M. (ed.) (1972) Keizai kanryō no jittai: Seisaku kettei no mekanizumu [The Realities of the Economic Bureaucracy: The Mechanics of Policy Formation], Tokyo: Mainichi Shimbun.

In the year 2000, Taiwan’s Nationalist Party or Kuomintang (KMT) and Mexico’s Institutional Revolutionary Party (Partido Revolucionario Institucional or PRI; http://www.pri.org.mx) were defeated in their respective presidential elections for the first time in their 70-year party histories. Not only did these two age-old hegemonic parties lose executive power and the clout, protection, resources, and perks that came with it, but also their mere survival was called into question. The KMT presidential candidate ran a distant third place in the race and the party was dealt another blow in the December 2001 legislative election when it lost majority control in the Legislative Yuan. The PRI was also deprived of its majority in Congress, and headed for a string of defeats in subsequent gubernatorial races.1 Hegemonic parties can disintegrate, a political fate that beset most former communist parties in Eastern Europe at the turn of the 1990s. They can hang around for a while, but eventually vanish, as was the case of Turkey’s Republican People’s Party (RPP) (Cheng 2002).2 Or they can reinvent themselves and rebound to power as did a few social democratic (ex-communist) parties in Eastern Europe during the second half of the 1990s (Higley et al. 1996: 137). This chapter examines how the KMT and the PRI have managed their historic electoral defeats. Will they “bleed out” or become revitalized as competitive ordinary parties that may even regain power? A comparative study of the two parties’ organizational responses to their loss of political power helps shed light on the more general question of how former dominant parties cope with their first electoral defeat. The KMT relied on an adaptive strategy of organizational reform from the leadership on down to the rank-and-file, while the PRI leadership chose to craft several elite pacts, which in the end focused leadership energies on battling internal fights rather than reforming the former dominant party.

Examining the development of two defeated hegemonic parties also can help us to assess democratic consolidation in Taiwan and Mexico. First, with the first transfer of power, the KMT and the PRI were expected to assume the role of loyal opposition to the governing Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) and the National Action Party (Partido de Accion Nacional or PAN). The law of inertia seemed to reign, however. Instead of adapting to the new role, the two defeated parties initially denounced the new governing parties as inexperienced, vengeful and undeserved winners. The two new governing parties initially tended to overcorrect

8 Embracing defeat

The KMT and the PRI after 2000

Tun-jen Cheng

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the past and were even tempted to prosecute their predecessors. Instead of working out their historical differences, the two sides fell into the spiral of confrontation and stalemate, as if the rules of the democratic game no longer applied after the election. Observing how the two hegemonic parties have coped with their loss of power, and for that matter, the ways in which the DPP and PAN have been exercising their newly acquired authority, enables us to evaluate the maturity of the two new democracies. As Christopher Anderson et al. (2005: 2) put it, “How losers respond to their loss…affects the legitimacy and viability of democratic institutions.”

Second, electoral defeat might lead the two former ruling parties to democratize themselves. The internal democracy of a political party is arguably necessary for the consolidation of a democracy. History shows that demagogues can rise to power through the ballot box, especially under extraordinary circumstances, though intra-party democracy can constrain leaders from hijacking the democratic system more generally. To the extent that electoral setbacks have compelled the KMT and the PRI to pursue internal democracy, the prospect of democratic consolidation in Taiwan and Mexico should be encouraging.

Third, failing to cope with their historic electoral defeats might lead the two former dominant parties towards disintegration, thereby weakening the party system and threatening democratic consolidation. Political parties reportedly are in decline and have become less important political agents in mature democracies, yet they remain crucial foundations to new democracies. Indispensable to election and leadership selection, the political party is a useful label for political “consumers” and a vehicle for representation (Dalton 1988; Katz 1990: 143–61). Major parties in consolidating democracies, like corporations in the market, are institutionalized players in the political market (Cheng 2003). Mainwaring and Scully (1995: 5) suggest that if major parties are organized, rooted in a society, and where internal procedures are routinized, parties stabilize young democracies. With a stable political party system, the political marketplace is not volatile nor is it easily subject to collapse.

From hegemony to dominance to defeat

The KMT and the PRI gained institutional hegemony with their pivotal roles in two somewhat different revolutions that gave birth to Nationalist China (after 1949, territorially comprising Taiwan only) and modern Mexico. The KMT founded Republican China in 1911 out of a collapsing Manchu empire and consolidated political authority in the 1920s. The party laid the foundation for economic modernization during the 1930s and 1940s. The PRI’s predecessor was forged from regionally based revolutionary leaders, who displaced landed oligarchs in the 1910s, launched land reform in the 1920s, and nationalized foreign enterprises in the 1930s. While primarily conservative, the PRI was heir to a social-revolutionary legacy, making it a trustee of the nation from external intervention, especially from the United States.

The KMT and the PRI after 2000 129

In governing the two polities, the two hegemonic parties had built democracy into their political agendas from the onset, though delayed reform in order to pursue their self-imposed missions of nation-building. The perpetual control of political power fused party and state. Limited electoral competition was allowed, precluding any power transfer. Other parties existed but were proscribed from winning elections. As is the case with other hegemonic parties, the KMT and the PRI altered the rules of the game unilaterally, manipulated electoral outcomes, and constrained opposition parties if they were allowed to exist at all.

Both the KMT and the PRI defined “the people” as their social base. Both developed broadly encompassing corporatist structures and strove to be catch-all parties that cut across various social cleavages. This ideological underpinning excluded extreme ideologies from the political realm and limited the space for societal opposition. The two parties advanced some political doctrines that had a socialist hue, expressing a commitment to some social welfare and an aversion to classical liberalism.

Lacking a clearly defined ideology, the PRI and KMT employed “temporary projects” to legitimize their political hegemonies and to evade full democracy—a goal to which both were nominally committed. These projects included political tutelage and national emergency (the KMT), the protection of revolutionary legacies (the PRI), and economic development. In the name of national emergency against the communist threat (a real one), the KMT postponed national elections for three decades, imposed martial law, and permitted only independent candidates in electoral contests at local levels. Until the 1960s, the PRI outlawed extreme right and left parties (i.e. religious and communist), rigged elections, and effectively dominated public offices at national and provincial levels. For the KMT and the PRI to forgo their political hegemonies, their potential loss was substantial. In relinquishing authoritarian control, the two hegemonic parties would have to become “ordinary parties” competing in the political marketplace. The KMT and PRI authoritarian party-states simply had little incentive to launch democratic change.

Why then did the KMT and the PRI party states agree to undertake democratic transition, responding to opposition demands for reform? Knowing their motives is difficult, though the situational imperatives set against their decisions are suggestive. In the case of Mexico, electoral reform which began in the 1970s seemed to be a response to student uprisings and social unrest during the late 1960s. However, what really compelled the PRI regime to initiate reform was the opposition’s increasing unwillingness to participate in what they saw to be PRI-rigged elections. Their abstention discredited the electoral game and, hence, led the PRI regime to gradually reform political competition in an attempt to co-opt the opposition (Horcasitas 1991; Morris 1995). In the case of Taiwan, the growing strength of political dissidents, Taiwan’s diplomatic setbacks, and the growing international isolation of the KMT regime finally compelled the leadership to dismantle authoritarianism during the latter half of the 1980s. This enabled the KMT regime to incorporate (co-opt) new political forces and to improve its international image (Cheng 1989). Once committed to democratic reform, the two

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party-states were quick to control the course of political change. The idea was to sequence and pace reforms in such a way as to minimize the costs of forgoing political hegemony and to maximize the chance of creating a one-party dominant system under democracy, à la the Liberal Democratic Party of Japan, by flexibly situating near the ideological middle ground and attempting to keep the opposition parties ideologically extreme, rigid and unable to adapt (Pempel 1990).

The KMT and PRI did attempt a middle-of-the-road approach on the most salient issue in democratic politics (ethnic and national identity in Taiwan, neo-liberal economic reform in Mexico). Democratic transition unfolded by installment. Following the 1980s, the KMT government very gradually created more non-permanent legislative seats, thus maintaining a strong KMT presence in the legislature. Indirect election for executive offices was phased out sequentially and not simultaneously. The PRI gradually permitted more competition in congressional races, later moved on to “respect” the opposition’s victories in gubernatorial elections, and finally retracted its visible hand from the electoral commission. The incremental approach to democratic transition slowed the opposition’s rise at the polls, which permitted the KMT and the PRI to maintain power while they learned to adjust their policy positions to organize winning coalitions.

In the end, however, the KMT and PRI failed to create lasting one-party dominant systems, losing both executive power and majority control of the legislature in the early 2000s. Dissension within the ruling elite was identified as the major cause of their downfall; their defeats resulted from a three-way race in which the third party had splintered from the former hegemonic party. In Taiwan, the New Party, and later the People’s First Party (PFP), originated from the mainlander wing of the KMT. The Democratic Revolutionary Party (Partido Revolucionario Democratica, or PRD) was the left wing of the PRI. Had these splinter parties not formed, the DPP and the PAN would probably not have won their elections in 2000.

More fundamentally, the KMT and the PRI lost because they failed to attract the support of strategic voters (Cheng and Hsu 2002). Had the KMT and PRI been more acceptable to those strategic voters than the contending parties, the two former hegemonic parties could have actually benefited from a three-way race. In 2000, however, the KMT ceased to be the coordination point among voters, as the DPP moderated its position on the issue of Taiwan’s independence and highlighted past corruption involving the KMT (black-gold politics), which was cast by the DPP as an elitist and autocratic party. Both campaign positions by the DPP caused some KMT voters to defect. In Mexico, the unwavering pursuit of neo-liberal reform by the PRI presidents drove Cuauhtemoc Cardenas to form the PRD, thus making the PAN palatable to many former PRI supporters. Like the DPP, the PAN cast the PRI to be an ossified and corrupt electoral machine that indulged in patronage politics (Grayson 2001).

Electoral defeat relegated the two former hegemonic-turned-dominant parties to the status of ordinary parties and the loyal opposition. Having governed for seven decades, these two parties were not prepared for their new roles. While


gracefully conceding defeat, both parties nonetheless perceived the 2000 elections as an aberration and vowed to regain power in the next election. “Reform to regain power” was the explicit goal among the former dominant parties (Taipei Times, 2, 11 April 2000, and 30 January 2001; PRI, www.org.mx).3 The immediate task for the PRI and the KMT upon their electoral defeats in 2000 was to avert any massive defection from party ranks and a subsequent domino effect at the ballot box. The fundamental task at hand was to reform the party in order to rebuild its competitiveness and return to power. The KMT and the PRI shared a similar trajectory in the past, but they followed different strategies in meeting their post-2000 challenges.

The KMT under reconstruction

Preventing disintegration

The immediate danger for the KMT was the defection of its cadres and even its possible disintegration. The problem of defection from the KMT—a problem already evident during the 2000 presidential race—worsened as the new DPP government scouted the KMT’s administrative talents to form a “cabinet for the people,” and befriended KMT legislators in order to develop a working majority supportive of the government. The new premier, Tang Fei, and one-third of the cabinet under the DPP government were KMT members. Appointing Tang to the premiership further split the KMT in the legislature. Added to this pull factor was the push factor from inside the KMT which was hampered by leadership conflict. Moreover, the December 2001 legislative election was to be conducted through an electoral system that functioned similarly to proportional representation, and hence was conducive to party splitting (Lijphart 1999: 298).4

The KMT purged the alleged perpetrators of its defeat and raised the bar for readmission to deter further defection. It revoked the memberships of about 300 cadres at the national level, mostly legislators and high-level KMT bureaucrats who campaigned for James Soong (the rival presidential candidate expelled from the party after he challenged the KMT’s nominee, Lien Chan) and for the DPP candidate Chen Shui-bian. The party also purged 149 cadres at the grassroots level who sided with James Soong and 15 cadres who had endorsed Chen Shui-bian. The KMT also tightened the term of probation. Expelled members would have to wait four years instead of two years for readmission, while for members whose cards had been revoked (not expelled) a two-year probation (instead of one) would be required for readmission. Unless approved by the party, any card-carrying KMT member joining the DPP government was to be subject to discipline, and there was strong support within the KMT hierarchy to expel those who had consented to serve the DPP government. The KMT also re-registered its card-carrying members, forcing the potential fence-sitters to swear loyalty or exit. When 11 cadres joined the newly created Taiwan Solidarity Union (TSU), a party led by former president and KMT chairman Lee Teng-hui, they were expelled from the KMT right away. Soon thereafter, Lee was forced to retire from the KMT.

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The post-2000 purge was analogous to the 1926 party purification campaign when Communist elements were eliminated from the KMT rank-and-file and to the 1950 party reorganization during which dissident factions within the party were eliminated. The disciplinary measures that the KMT adopted after the 2000 elections prevented its members and its elite from exercising political arbitrage; few members continued to flirt with the KMT rebels and few elites accepted the DDP’s offers of recruitment. Purge and discipline allowed the KMT to retain its political assets, such as experienced administrators and the second largest voting group in the legislature.

As mentioned above, the March 2000 presidential election triggered a leadership battle within the KMT, a conflict that was short but intense, involving violent protests, finger-pointing, and a test of wills among leaders and their allies. James Soong supporters and some Lien Chan supporters took to the streets demanding that former President Lee Teng-hui be stripped of the KMT chairmanship. They held Lee accountable for the KMT’s electoral defeat. Soong’s supporters also demanded that the KMT readmit Soong to the party and elect him KMT chairman (Taipei Times 20, 21 March 2000, and 28 April 2000). Lee was driven out, Soong was not welcomed back to the KMT, and Lien Chan emerged as the new leader of the party. James Soong created his own party, the People’s First Party (PFP), and his supporters in the KMT were purged. Lee’s forced retirement led a few prominent KMT officials to step down and eventually leave the party. The KMT quickly solved the leadership crisis by promptly electing a new party leader, Lien, who was popular within the party though lacking charisma, entrepreneurship, and the ability to galvanize the general public. There were concerns as to whether or not Lien would be able to lead the party back to power in the next presidential election.

Engineering party reform

New leadership had some effect on party rebuilding, however. Upon assuming the interim chairmanship, Lien established a committee—composed mainly of elected representatives, academicians, and business leaders—to set the agenda for comprehensive party reform (Taipei Times 20, 21 March 2000, and 28 April 2000).5 An emergency party congress in June 2000 approved the reform proposal. A re-registration drive between September 2000 and January 2001 verified party memberships in advance of the direct election of party chairperson set for March 2001. The Sixteenth Party Congress was convened in July 2001 to reintroduce a reformed KMT to the public. The party sought to democratize the KMT, incorporate public opinion in its policy decisions, rejuvenate and forge a new image for the party, and finally deal with the issue of party assets.

Several measures were undertaken to democratize the KMT and its party organization. First, the party attempted to diversify its social base to make the organization more representative of society. Through the re-registration drive, the party trimmed its membership by half, from two million down to one million. To inject new blood into its ranks and to expand its social base, the


KMT began to target youth and women, as well as the disabled, labor, and other underrepresented categories, for recruitment. Regarding intra-party elections for its governing bodies, the KMT set a quota of 40 percent for underrepresented groups, along with a 25 percent quota for women (Taipei Times 8 June 2000).6 The KMT also attempted to place more females in public offices. In its membership drive, the KMT also made an effort to court young people. The age requirement for membership was reduced from 20 to 15, and annual membership dues were subsidized (Taipei Times 15 November 2000). About 40 percent of new members were youths. However, the post-reform KMT had 952,835 card-carrying members, of whom only 100,080 (approximately 10 percent) were new recruits. In this respect, the party had not entirely revamped its membership, as 70 percent were aged 40 or over versus 50 percent before the registration drive. Recruitment was more successful among women than youth.

Second, party candidate selection rules for public office also went through drastic change. Two equally weighted and quantifiable data, the results of a closed primary and opinion polls, were made the most important criteria determining the party ticket for any office, from the president to city officials. Performance in public or party office, as assessed by party colleagues, remained admissible reference material. The mechanism for selection varied. For the presidential election, the Central Committee (CC) would nominate, the Central Standing Committee (CSC) would endorse, and the Party Congress would approve the KMT candidate. For district seats in the legislature, a nomination committee would draft the list but the CSC had the authority to approve it. This nomination committee would include one or a few party vice-chairs, a few CSC members, and some party cadres, all appointed by the party chairperson. For the at-large seats in the legislature, nominations could come from any unit of the party, including the Central Advisory Committee (composed of retired KMT high officials), the CC, various divisions of the party headquarters, and local branches. A review committee—including party vice-chairs, some CSC members and some cadres, all appointed by party chairperson—would compose and rank the order of the party list. If approved by the party chairperson, the CC, by a majority vote, could remove any name from the approved list. For sub-national political offices, the nomination was to come from a party committee at the regional or local level, though the Central Review Committee would have the final say on the nomination.

These new rules made the KMT’s candidate selection more transparent, objective, and participatory. However, with the exception of at-large legislative seats, the selection process for legislative, city or county councilor elections remained highly centralized, in that the central nomination committee or the CSC continued to have the final say on how many candidates the KMT would field. The centralized nature of the candidate selection process was criticized, but was probably unavoidable so long as Taiwan continued to use the peculiar single nontransferable vote (SNTV), multiple-seat electoral system to elect 80 percent of legislators and all of Taiwan’s county councilors.7 Under the SNTV system, a voter can cast only one ballot and a candidate cannot transfer any votes to help fellow party candidates. Thus, nominating an optimal number of candidates (in order

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to evenly allocate votes among fellow party candidates) is essential to a party’s fate. Under-nominating, over-nominating, or fielding a candidate who takes an overwhelming number of votes from party supporters spells disaster. Given the SNTV logic, it is difficult for the party nomination committee to predetermine the number of candidates in a given district, even though such precision (and thus transparency) was requested by all those participating in the party primary (Taipei Times 12 May 2001).8

Third, the KMT introduced direct elections for the party leader and members of the highest governing body, the Central Standing Committee. The party chairperson would be popularly elected by party members and could serve no more than two terms. Members of the CSC would not be appointed or recommended by the chair. Rather, their membership would be based on open nominations and election by Central Committee members (see Table 8.1). A quarter had to be female. The party congress left intact the rules governing the election of CC members. Under this rule, party delegates picked all CC members from a list that offered twice as many candidates as seats; half of the list was prepared by the party, the other half was based on open nomination. Party delegates could reject all of the candidates

Table 8.1 Electoral rules for the KMT Central Committee (CC) and Central Standing Committee (CSC)

Congress CC CSC

7th (1952) 8th (1957) 9th (1963)10th (1969)11th (1976)12th (1981)

Double candidates for all nominated by the leader and elected by the bloc vote

Equal candidates for all seats nominated by the leader and passed unanimously

Or, double candidates for all seats nominated by the leader and elected by bloc vote

13th (1988) Equal candidates for all seats nominated by the leader and equal candidates for all seats provided by joint signature; elected by bloc vote

Same as above

14th (1993)15th (1997)

Equal candidates for all seats nominated by the leader and equal candidates for all seats provided by joint signature; elected by limited vote

All candidates for half the seats plus one nominated by the leader and passed unanimously; equal candidates for the rest nominated by the leader and equal candidates for those seats nominated from the floor elected by bloc vote

16th (2001) Same as above Open nomination, elected by limited vote

17th (2005) Elected party delegates who were directly elected by party members every four years

Elected by CC members annually

Sources: The rules governing the elections before 1988 are compiled in Huang (1996). The remaining data are from newspaper reports.


nominated by the party, a check that was inconceivable during the Chiang Kai-shek and Chiang Ching-kuo eras.

The legislature being the only arena that the KMT still controlled, the leadership began to advance many legislators to the CC, thereby making it possible for legislators to replace government officials as the core. Before 2000, only five legislators sat on the 31-member CSC; after the Sixteenth Party Congress, this number increased to 16. The KMT caucus in the legislature emerged as a center of KMT power, taking initiatives not only in policy but also in shaping the discourse of party reform (Taipei Times 28 January 2001). At the same time, the party chairperson retained influence over legislators because the KMT, as the wealthiest political organization globally, retained the resources to finance re-election campaigns, and, like any other party in Taiwan, used its at-large seats to reward or discipline its members. Still, with reform, legislators had become the arm of KMT governance, with enforced party discipline in the legislature.

To make the party’s policy decisions more in line with public opinion, the KMT streamlined its bureaucracy (retaining central and county organizations, while abolishing those at the provincial and township levels), revamped its headquarters (compressing ten divisions into three departments for policy, elections, and general affairs, respectively) and enhanced the function of its two think tanks, the Central Policy Research Commission (CPRC) and the National Policy Research Institute (NPRI). Staffed mainly by party bureaucrats and former legislators, the CPRC was tasked with conducting public opinion polls. Staffed by former KMT government officials, the NPRI—which grew out of the party cadre training school—was to examine public policies and to offer KMT alternatives.

Still, democratization of the KMT party was incomplete. Decision rules governing the CC remained undefined. As the CC was expected to meet only occasionally, as in the past, the CSC would continue to be the arena in which major party decisions would be reached. Formal rules governing the CSC’s decision-making power remained unspecified. In the past, the CSC rubber-stamped the decisions of the authoritarian rulers. As Taiwan democratized, discussion and even dissension shaped CSC meetings, though voting continued to be banned under Lee Tenghui’s chairmanship. The party chair made all major decisions, and this practice continued under Lien. Since the KMT party chair was no longer the president of the nation and as legislators formed the largest bloc (16 of 31 members) of the CSC, more and more, party decisions reflected the preferences of KMT legislators.

Recreating the party image

In addition, the KMT attempted to recast its image as a clean and responsible party. Many government officials, including those from the KMT, acknowledge black-gold elements in Taiwan’s electoral politics (Taipei Times 7 December 2002; China Times 23 October 2000).9 Given the political longevity of the KMT, its deeply entrenched ties to political bosses at the grassroots level, its association with big business, and its immense wealth (and the controversy about the acquisition

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of such wealth), the KMT’s image had long been tainted by the black-gold issue (Taipei Times 6 August 2001).10 To address this, the KMT revised its charter to exclude members with criminal investigation records from its nomination list. It also promised to put its assets in a trust fund. Money politics—the gold—remained sticky. The challenges of valuation, combined with resistance from the party bureaucracy and the need for campaign financing, slowed the transfer of KMT assets. The DPP was not keen on drafting a law enabling the judiciary to investigate and confiscate the KMT’s presumed “illicitly accumulated wealth,” a delay to keep this campaign issue alive. Under the threat of such “enabling legislation,”11 the KMT decided to return 152 plots of land and houses to their original owners or donate them to charity foundations (Taipei Times 7 February 2002; China Times 25 September 2002).12 Eventually KMT-owned or invested enterprises (KOEs or KIEs) were entrusted to a newly created fund, extricating the party’s assets from the economy, though still keeping the assets in its hands (China Times 23 January 2003).13

The challenge of re-polishing the party image was made more difficult by the perception that the post-2000 KMT was behaving more like a “sore loser” than the new government’s loyal opposition. This image came from some KMT legislators’ threats to lead a motion to impeach President Chen and their derogatory remarks about their fellow party members who had been offered cabinet positions in the DPP cabinet. They were combative and obstructionist when interacting with the DPP government (Taipei Times 7 December 2001, and 22 May 2000).14 Loyal opposition, however, is a role more readily prescribed than played. The KMT faced the opposition’s dilemma. If it actively challenged the government, it risked being accused of obstructionism. But if it were passive, it would disqualify itself from being a credible alternative to the government party. For the KMT leadership, activism seemed to be more appealing, a contrast with the equilibrium position of the successor’s dilemma in an authoritarian regime (Pempel 1975: 63–79).15 This came with a price, however: namely, the image of being a “sore loser.” This strategic choice notwithstanding, the KMT did make serious attempts to present itself as a clean and responsible political force. This image has yet to be widely recognized. Still, by making the party more transparent, participatory, democratic, and above all, more rule-oriented, the party sent a signal to voters that the KMT was seriously trying to reinvent itself.

Political entrepreneurship in the PRI

Dealing with intra-party anarchy

Unlike the KMT, and somewhat surprisingly, electoral defeat did not trigger significant defection from the PRI. The electoral system for Mexico’s congress has a PR component that accounts for 40 percent of the total seats, an institutional feature that facilitates and even encourages splinter groups to leave established parties. The PAN and the PRI would also have to court small parties or independents, given that neither had the majority of seats in Congress (Guillermoprieto 2000).16


Moreover, public campaign financing in Mexico induces political elites to form new parties, as any legally recognized party can receive election funds proportional to its vote share in an election.

Yet few PRI elites abandoned ship. Defining the PRI as a decadent and spent force, the PAN would not take in PRI defectors, while the PRD, trailing the other two parties in the 2000 election, was seen as a shrinking political force, and hence, not attractive to defectors. In addition, its presidential election defeat notwithstanding, the PRI had accumulated a sizeable pot of campaign funds. Given that Mexico has concurrent elections, any potential defectors would have to wait until midterm elections to show their electoral strength, restore their reputation, and only then receive their public funds. For these situational reasons, massive defection was not an immediate threat for the PRI.

The PAN candidate, Vicente Fox, ran on the theme of reform and change, equating the PRI with corruption and ossification (New York Times 6 August 2000: 10). In order to regain power, the PRI has had to transform itself. As the previous section shows, a new KMT leadership quickly emerged in the wake of electoral defeat in 2000, setting in motion party reform and rebuilding. Whereas leadership was quickly decided upon in the KMT, the PRI’s electoral defeat in 2000 created a leadership vacuum and caused a dispersion of power within the former dominant party. Consequently, the making of a new party leadership, rather than party reform, came to dominate the PRI’s political recovery process.

In the past, any Mexican president had loyalty from the PRI due to the immense state resources at his disposal. He would mastermind personnel change for the PRI elites to access state offices and adopt new policies that would portray a new ideological outlook for the PRI. The president would also decide, or at least orchestrate and adjudicate, candidate selection (Cornelius and Craig 1984: 428). Limited to one term, the president would engineer the selection of a successor. A newly elected president could appoint the head of the PRI, while allowing the outgoing president to pick the secretary-general of the party. The president was the enforcer of power-sharing arrangements for the ruling party, the PRI (Langston 2002).

The ability to orchestrate leadership succession epitomized the power of the president. To the extent that any rules existed for the PRI, they were simple and vague, crafted to give the president ample latitude to arrange sequential access to public offices for his PRI supporters. Most notably, the one-term limit for major public offices facilitated the president’s arrangement for the regional elites’ ascension to Congress or state governments.17 The one-term-limit rule also helped to keep party discipline, as office holders, exempt from re-election battles, were less concerned with their constituencies than with their rapport with the incumbent president for future positions or jobs (Weldon 1997: 252). Given that all PRI elite assumed the continuation of the PRI government (the long shadow of the future), the Mexican president could silence intra-party dissent and could obligate a party member to forsake their bid for public office with a compensation package. The system was centered on the will of the president, lacking any institutional device

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by which PRI elites could compete for nominations and thus register their policy preferences.

In the absence of a PRI occupant in Los Pinos after 2000, however, the patronage machinery of the PRI came to a halt. Power within the PRI became disorganized. The party lost its nerve center, its anchor, and its bearing. In a sense, the post-2000 situation was akin to the 1920s, when regional caudillos were competing but were also in need of coalescing to govern Mexico. In the wake of 2000 electoral debacle, PRI governors and PRI regional leaders with aspirations for national offices emerged as major players. They fought over the pecking order within the PRI, but they also were in need of mutual support if the PRI were to survive and regain the presidency (Langston 2002). Indeed, although the PRI lost both the presidency and majority control in Congress in 2000, it still governed 19 of 31 states or districts. Rules were needed to structure the competition and to facilitate coordination among the major players, especially the rules for candidate selection at the state level.

The National Political Council (CPN), a deliberative body of political notables (governors, deputies and senators, party section chiefs, and so on) emerged as a potential device for collective action. However, the size of the CPN had grown from 300 members to around a thousand. It was too large to be an effective executive council that could make rules and reach decisions, and yet too small to be representative of PRI supporters. Moreover, as a non-elective body, the CPN did not have the legitimacy and clout to be the vehicle by which PRI elites could coordinate their action for the party’s political recovery. The National Executive Council (CEN) thus became a more acceptable platform to enact a party recovery strategy. In the past the head of the CEN, the Mexican president’s most important agent, had balanced various interests within the party and carried out the president’s will. To empower the CEN, a party congress would have to be assembled.

Making pacts, ducking reform

Convened by the Mexican president in the past, the PRI assembly was periodically but not regularly held, and mainly met to restructure power relations within the party. Rules governing the party assembly were never codified. The composition and selection of delegates were never stipulated, and the tasks of the assembly were never defined. And factional strife delayed the meeting of the Eighteenth Assembly to the fall of 2001.

Two PRI factions engaged in a protracted conflict over the party’s post-defeat leadership. One faction revolved around Francisco Labastida, the defeated presidential candidate in 2000, the other around Roberto Madrazo, Labastida’s chief rival in the PRI primary. Both factions realized the imperatives of presenting a new image of the PRI, to show that the PRI was reformed and transformed. However, they differed in their conceptions of the role that the party assembly should play in achieving these objectives. Conceivably, a party assembly could be multi-functional: revamping the party’s ideological position and policy programs, deliberating and codifying the rules governing candidate selection, and choosing a


new party leader. The Madrazo faction preferred to maximize the role of the party assembly, while the Labastida group sought to curtail it.

Before the Eighteenth Assembly, the two main factions bargained (Langston 2002). First, the Madrazo faction wanted the assembly to be a device for party leadership elections, believing that Madrazo could plant enough grassroots activists (militantes) to dominate. The Labastida faction envisioned the assembly as a forum for deliberation on issues, preferring to have an election for the party presidency afterward by a small group of PRI elites, consisting of party bureaucrats and members of the National Political Council. Second, the Madrazo faction wanted to “federalize” the party so that the CEN would have ultimate power in candidate selection and in the allocation of party resources. A few governors opposed this, preferring the devolution of power. Third, the Madrazo faction sought to keep the “locks” in place for any future PRI leadership selection. The locks, introduced in the Seventeenth Party Congress, barred anyone from running on the PRI ticket for governorship or the presidency unless he had held an elected position at a lower level, had demonstrated party activism for 10 years, and had assumed some sort of leadership position. The two factions agreed that the assembly was not to hold an election of the party president. Instead, an election open to any registered Mexican voter would be held afterward. The two camps also had an understanding that the new secretary-general of the CEN should not come from the Madrazo group.

The Eighteenth Assembly was a success for Madrazo, but a failure for his party. The “locks” were not removed, party money was federalized, and the tenure of the party president was lengthened from three to four years. Madrazo used the assembly to introduce internal democracy to the PRI and he asserted that grassroots activists were to be integrated into the party’s decision-making body. Many saw this as a move to centralize power. In reopening an old wound, Madrazo identified the PRI’s flawed primary in 1999 as a cause of its defeat in July 2000. Capable of trucking in more supporters than his rivals to the ballot box, Madrazo won the party presidency in an open vote immediately after the Eighteenth Assembly adjourned.

The Eighteenth Assembly was a setback for the PRI, however. Madrazo’s rival candidate cried foul, and threatened to file a lawsuit. The pact of civility was broken, the monetary limit for elections was exceeded, and the fairness of the election was called into question. The assembly became a battleground for two political machines, rather than a forum for policy deliberation, ideological discourse, and rule making. There was no prior membership drive; indeed, the PRI never had a membership list. The organizational flow chart remained fluid.

To the extent that specific rules were introduced, they were meant to weaken Madrazo’s party leadership and his bid for the presidency in 2006. Most notably, the assembly clarified the line of succession within the party. Should a party president resign or assume another office, the party secretary-general would succeed. A gender balance between the two positions, party president and secretary-general, would be maintained. These succession rules meant that should Madrazo become the presidential candidate or Mexico’s president in 2006, he would not be able to restructure party leadership at will. Meanwhile, the Labastida

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faction and strong PRI governors remained formidable players in the forthcoming conference of the National Political Council (CPN). Although not an elected body, the CPN remained a forum for Madrazo’s rivals to block his continued efforts to centralize the PRI’s decision-making process. Madrazo’s allies dominated the PRI’s bureaucracy, though the Labastida faction was influential in the PRI caucus in Congress. Moreover, PRI governors who possessed financial resources were emerging as a powerful “swing force.” Factional strife also made it difficult for party President Madrazo to coordinate the PRI rank-and-file in the Congress.

Factional conflict undermined party reform, though paradoxically, it provided Madrazo the opportunity to be a political entrepreneur, acting on behalf of the PRI elite to organize a coalition to enhance the probability of winning the next presidential election (Moe 1980).18 Popularly elected, albeit via flawed procedures, Madrazo presented himself as the principal who was both capable and willing to solve the collective action problem for the defeated PRI. Madrazo created an 11-member commission—composed of leaders of various sectoral and territorial units of the party—under the supervision of the CEN, to design and direct the nomination of candidates for the PRI’s state and local leadership. The PRIistas in the south were more receptive to Madrazo's initiatives, but faced opposition from north and central Mexico. The nominations committee was not able to control nominations in states where there were strong PRI governors. Nevertheless, if the commission could establish a precedent to “coordinate” with strong PRI governors in the nomination process for state elections, it would gain the credentials to be the nomination mechanism for the 2003 midterm elections for the national assembly of deputies.

Madrazo’s political entrepreneurship might have spearheaded the PRI’s political recovery. Adroitly exercising his executive power to leverage at-large seats, shape the processes of candidate selection for governorship and district legislators, and to co-opt Labastida’s friends in the Congress into his shadow cabinet, Madrazo, as the party president, did attempt to organize a coalition for the party to regain power in 2006. Recruiting strong PRI governors and creating a bandwagon effect among presidential aspirants was difficult, but not impossible. In the long shadow of the future, strong PRI governors might have been persuaded to help Madrazo lead the party post-2000, not unlike their forbears did during the 1920s.

Fortuna and the fate of two former hegemonic parties

Political institutions permitted the KMT and the PRI to survive their first electoral defeat and to strategize their political recovery, an opportunity that eluded the RPP in Turkey. Once unseated by the Democratic Party in 1950, the RPP lost all its political power. In contrast, two institutional features allowed the KMT and the PRI to lose by installment and perhaps reclaim power sequentially. First, Turkey had (and still has) a parliamentary form of government with a bloc vote electoral system, but Taiwan functions under a semi-presidential system and Mexico under a presidential system, and both electoral systems tend toward proportional representation (PR) (Lijphart 1999: 289–99).19 The bloc vote is essentially a


Table 8.2 Post-2000 KMT electoral performance (TPE: Taipei; KHH: Kaohsiung)

Year Type of election Vote shares (%) Seats Seat shares (%)

2000.3 Presidential 23.1

2001.12 Legislative 28.6 68 30.2

2002.1 Township 45.4 195 61.1

2002.12 County 35.1 9 39.1

2002.12 TPE/KHH 57.9 1 50.0

2004.3 Presidential 49.8

2004.12 Legislative 32.8 79 35.1

2005.12 County 50.9 14 60.9

Source: Central Election Commission.

plurality system with multiple-member districts in which each voter has as many votes as there are seats to be filled, and the candidates with the highest vote totals win the seats. As a plurality system, the bloc vote rule can grossly distort electoral outcomes, thus a small drop in vote share can mean a significant drop in seat share. The parliamentary system, as in Turkey, is a form of government under which executive and legislative powers are fused, and losing parliamentary elections necessarily means losing executive power. Combining the effects of the parliamentary system and the bloc vote rule, the Democratic Party effectively dislodged the RPP from the parliament and the government in Turkey’s first multiparty election in 1950.

The presidential (or semi-presidential) system with a significant PR component in Mexico and Taiwan’s legislative elections prevented the PRI and KMT from suffering the RPP’s fate (see Tables 8.2 and 8.3). After losing the presidential race

Table 8.3 PRI’s control at various levels of government (number of seats and percentiles)

1994 2000 2003 2006

Federal level:

Chamber of Deputies 300 (60%) 207 (41%) 223 (45%) 104 (21%)

Senate 74 (95%) 46 (36%) n.a. 33 (26%)

State level:

Governorships 29 19 17 17

Number of State Congresses 30 3

Population under PRI Congress

95% 10%

Municipality level:

Mayors 2,120 (89%) 322 (16%)

Population PRI rule 85% 36%

Sources: Horcasitas (2002) and Grayson (2004).

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in 2000, the KMT—initially by itself and subsequently with the help of an allied party—retained majority control in the legislature. The PRI remained the second largest party in Congress after 2000, capable of overriding a presidential veto on important legislation. The PRI regained majority control following the 2003 midterm elections. The presidential form of government stipulates the separation and thus sharing of power between the executive and legislative branches. A hold on legislative power prevented the KMT and the PRI from a catastrophic free fall, unlike the RPP in Turkey. Therefore, their electoral defeats in 2000 were not total disasters for either the KMT or the PRI.

Second, nonconcurrent elections in Taiwan and the institutions of federalism in Mexico, two features not found in Turkey, were conducive to party survival and perhaps the recovery of the KMT and the PRI. Elections for the presidency, the legislature, mayors, county magistrates, and township governments in Taiwan follow different cycles. Nonconcurrent elections allowed the KMT to dissipate the snowballing effect that its defeat in the 2000 presidential election could have entailed, and provided the party with opportunities to experiment with different campaign issues and coalition strategies for electoral recovery.

Elections for presidency and the legislature are held concurrently in Mexico, and hence the campaign for the former may entail some coat-tail effects for the latter. However, Mexico is also a federal nation with 31 states plus a federal district, each with its own electoral cycle. This provided the PRI a strategic hinterland to trade space for time, losing and regaining its electoral fortunes by installment through Mexico’s seemingly never-ending gubernatorial elections. In addition, state elections groom presidential hopefuls, giving them a sequence of opportunities to coalesce and forge a possibly winning coalition.

Particular institutional frameworks allowed the KMT and the PRI to strategize their political recoveries: the KMT rebuilt its organizational capacity while the PRI relied on political entrepreneurship. To prevent rank-and-file defection, the KMT launched organizational reform. Its candidate selection rules were clarified and codified. Its membership rules were tightened and privileges expanded. The party’s governing structure was overhauled and internal democracy was introduced. Party-legislator ties became even stronger and party discipline was stricter than prior to the KMT’s 2000 election defeat.

If the KMT’s party reform centered on rule-making for the organization, the PRI was obsessed with pact-making among contending faction leaders. Mass defection was not a threat to the post-2000 PRI, but mutiny among regional strongmen was. Instead of systematically pursuing party reform, the PRI fell into a protracted leadership competition. Major factions went through many rounds of bargaining. Very little, in terms of party reform, was pre-programmed. The modus operandi for intra-party election and candidate selection was contested. Party–legislator relations were loose. Leadership could only introduce few internal party rules, orchestrate party activities and re-shape the PRI’s organization, one step at a time. Key political entrepreneurs were expected to act on behalf of the party organization, forging a pact among factions and leading the party out of political decline.


Which strategy worked better for the two hegemonic parties? If their performance in the subsequent presidential elections is used as the litmus test, the KMT’s party reform seems to have been a better adaptive strategy than the PRI’s political entrepreneurship strategy. The KMT came close to regaining power during the 2004 presidential elections, rebounded strongly in the December 2004 legislative elections, and registered a resounding victory in the 2005 local elections. In contrast, the post-2000 PRI quickly regained its hold in gubernatorial races and returned as the leading opposition party in the federal legislature after the 2003 midterm election. Since then, the party’s electoral fortunes have nosedived. The PRI was categorically defeated in the 2006 general elections. Its candidate came a distant third in the presidential race. Its legislative power was decimated, making the PRI the third party in the national legislature. The 2000 electoral defeat was historically unprecedented for the PRI, but its defeat in 2006 was fatal, reducing the PRI to a marginal political organization in the Mexican government.

Party reform transformed the KMT into a more democratic party that retained an elite corps, a sizeable membership, and a loyal contingent in the legislature. The party reform prevented the KMT from “bleeding to death,” maintained the party’s leading position within the opposition camp, and allowed the party to institute a more democratic process for leadership succession, thereby mitigating one potential impetus for party fracture. As political contestation within the party became more rule-based and less person-oriented, factional conflict was ameliorated. Legislators’ ascension within the party hierarchy and the tightening of party discipline enhanced the KMT’s efficacy and influence in the legislative arena, enabling the party to become a more coherent player in the legislature.20 But above all, rule-making, internal democracy, and other aspects of party reform were a signal to the public, especially its long-time supporters, that the KMT was “reinventing” itself towards a new and democratic party.

While party reform did not yield a strong party candidate for the presidential race, party reform did allow the KMT to re-establish its leading position within the opposition camp, thereby compelling the charismatic PFP leader, James Soong, to serve as the KMT’s running-mate in the March 2004 presidential election. The KMT-led ticket—Lien Chan and James Soong—lost by a razor-thin margin (Cheng and Liao 2006: 81–102). Thanks to its re-built organizational strength, a result of party reform, the KMT also rebounded strongly in the December 2004 legislative elections, preventing the DPP from seizing majority control of the legislature. The KMT rejuvenated its leadership in the summer of 2005. The new leadership galvanized the KMT's electoral base and led the party to victory in the December 2005 county magistrate elections, raising the KMT's hopes for the 2008 presidential race. The KMT’s recent electoral performances might be the result of retrospective voting—voters penalizing the incumbent party for corruption among the President’s entourage—rather than of prospective voting, with voters rewarding the KMT for its new leadership. Regardless of the KMT’s near-term electoral performance, the reformed KMT is likely to remain a formidable political force.

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In contrast to the KMT, the post-2000 PRI has declined. The federalist government in Mexico seemed to provide some electoral space for the PRI to quickly recover after its historic defeat in 2000 and allow a political entrepreneur to emerge from among the powerful PRI state governors. The more successful the PRI was in state elections, however, the more problematic its entrepreneurial approach to party recovery became. In retrospect, the political entrepreneurship strategy contained the seeds of its own destruction.

The essence of the PRI’s recovery strategy was for a strong leadership team to jump-start the campaign for the next presidential election. The emergent new leader and presidential aspirant was required to demonstrate his ability to set the agenda for change, manage party elections at the state level, coordinate with the PRI members in Congress, and above all, ally with state governors. Political entrepreneurs were to craft a winning electoral strategy and to alleviate collective action problems at both the state and federal levels.

The PRI’s strategy required a leader who could make credible commitments to keep the pact a worthwhile investment and hence keep a coalition together. Here, Madrazo failed. Controlling the midlevel PRI bureaucrats, Madrazo, upon becoming the party chairman, initially attempted to use the party machinery and financial resources to regularize the candidate nomination process. He set up a nomination committee for gubernatorial, state legislative and federal elections. It did not function. Madrazo and the governors had to bargain over candidate selections on an ad hoc basis.

This negotiation-based candidate selection gave the PRI an overall victory in the gubernatorial races and in the 2003 midterm elections. Madrazo claimed credit. He forecast that if the pact among PRI leaders continued, the PRI would return to power in the 2006 presidential election and every PRI member would be better off. Ironically, electoral recovery in the state-level and federal midterm elections greatly enhanced the influence and status of the PRI governors. This inspired a dozen of them to contend the party candidacy for the presidential elections. Consequently, after the 2003 midterm elections, strategic cooperation between the PRI governors and Madrazo became difficult to maintain. Instead of keeping other PRI aspirants within his own camp, Madrazo attempted to undermine them, turning the party primary for presidential candidate nominations—a device he had initially proposed the party use—into a farce. He discredited his own candidacy as well, and lost the support of much of his party base.21 Madrazo clenched his fists at rather than shook hands with other PRI leaders.

Not only had pact-making consumed PRI elites, it also diverted the party’s attention away from organizational reform. The PRI was defeated in 2000 in large part because it was seen as corrupt and the ancien regime. Party rebuilding, not pact-making, was called for. Yet, the party’s mass base and organizational structures remained antiquated. As neo-liberal economic reform deepened in Mexico and the urban middle class grew in size (especially in central Mexico), many of the party’s grassroots organizations—its institutional conduits to supporters—had become obsolescent. But the PRI simply “failed to renew its cadres, change its name,


modify its program, and otherwise reinvent itself as a responsible party capable of providing Mexico with clean, innovative leadership” (Grayson 2004: 81).

By comparing the post-2000 KMT and PRI, this chapter has examined two party recovery strategies: party reform (rule-making) versus political entrepreneurship (pact-making). The former was more conducive to a hegemonic party’s recovery. Reform and rule-making enhanced the KMT’s organizational capacity and signaled to its electoral base, old and new, that the party was reinventing itself. Pact-making—internal bargaining among elites—within the PRI gave rise to both a dominant coalition and also the power for a maverick entrepreneur to manipulate other leaders. The pact was based on negotiation and persuasion, rather than on enforceable rules. Voters found the PRI, long depicted as a political dinosaur, was also a spent political force.

Notes

1 The KMT seats in the 225-member legislature dropped from 118 to 78. During the 1997 midterm election, the PRI lost its majority in the Lower House. With its electoral defeat in the year 2000, the PRI no longer had a majority in the Senate, was relegated to the second largest party in the Lower House, and only managed to win one out of seven gubernatorial races within a year of the historical presidential election.

2 Like the KMT and the PRI, the RPP was also a hegemonic, nation-building party that came into being in the early 1900s. It governed Turkey for four decades until 1950 when it permitted the first multi-party electoral competition and was defeated.

3 For the KMT, reform was in preparation for the December 2001 legislative election and the January 2002 local elections, which were seen to be a prelude to the 2004 presidential election. For the PRI, demonstrating a strategy to regain Los Pinos was made an essential qualification for party leadership.

4 For more analysis on the PR nature of Taiwan’s single, non-transferable vote (SNTV) and multiple-seat electoral system, see Lijphart (1999).

5 Ten subgroups visited the countryside, colleges, and social organizations and held 66 forums. For composition and deliberations of the committee and its proposals, see Taipei Times, March 29, and April 2 and 11, 2000.

6 The initial proposal set aside 25 percent for youth and 25 percent for women; Lien ruled that 40 percent be reserved for currently underrepresented groups.

7 The election for at-large seats and overseas representatives is based on the party PR list. The SNTV system was used in pre-1995 Japan, and is still used in Jordan. Taiwan has decided to scrap this system beginning in the 2007 legislative election.

8 The nomination of KMT candidates for the December 2001 legislative election illustrates this problem. The KMT used a primary to produce the rank order of the party list for SNTV districts, but without stipulating the number of candidates it would nominate, hence, giving the party’s CSC the power to determine the size of the KMT ticket. This upset some party members and observers who accused the KMT of only paying lip service to democracy.

9 Data released by the Ministry of Justice in September 1999 show that a total of 35 legislators and 109 city and county councilors were under judicial investigation, and that they were predominantly KMT members. According to the Chairman of the Council on Agricultural Affairs, one-third of fishermen’s and farmers’ associations—the institutional bases for local political factions that are mostly associated with the KMT—are tainted by charges of black-gold politics.

10 According to its secretary general, the KMT has total assets of NT$ 78 billion or US$ 2.2 billion. Wealth Magazine’s appraisal was as high as NT$ 600 billion

146 Tun-jen Cheng

or US$ 17.1 billion. Many believe the actual figure stands at NT$ 200 billion or US$ 5.7 billion.

11 This bill would require the KMT to bear the burden of proof and would consider a small portion of the KMT’s assets as legally accumulated, the portion that was derived from membership dues, campaign donations, campaign subsidies, and bank interest.

12 The real estate part is said to be worth US$ 20 million, a fraction of the KMT’s total assets.

13 This was done in late January 2003, almost three years after the KMT lost the March 2000 presidential election and barely a year before the next presidential election.

14 For “frivolous impeachment,” see Taipei Times, December 7, 2001; for their remarks about fellow party members as “job beggars,” see Taipei Times, May 22, 2000.

15 The equilibrium position in the successor’s dilemma in an authoritarian regime is as follows: the designated successor in an authoritarian regime should perform to qualify him/herself to be the heir, but should not overly perform for fear of out-staging the leader and thus invite the incumbent leader to turn to alternatives, or even purge the designated successor. Simply put, the equilibrium is to stay put rather than to act. For the opposition’s dilemma, see Pempel (1975: 63–79).

16 The president-elect, Vicente Fox, reiterated, “No single party in Mexico can govern, represent, or lead the entire nation today…We need alliances,” quoted in A. Guillermoprieto, “Enter Harpo: How an Upstart Brought the Ruling Party Down,” New Yorker, July 24, 2000.

17 The president, governors, senators, and deputies of Congress can only serve one term for each office-holding.

18 For the role of political entrepreneurship in overcoming the collective action problem, see T. Moe (1980).

19 If the district magnitude of an SNTV system is large (more than 5, for example), SNTV is more akin to a PR system, but if this magnitude is small (2 or 3), an SNTV system is more akin to the single-member district, plurality system. The average district magnitude of Taiwan’s SNTV is more than 5. See A. Lijphart (1999: 289–99).

20 The power of Taiwan’s legislature is often underestimated: in addition to the typical congressional power, it can cast a no-confidence vote to remove a premier, interrogate the premier and cabinet ministers, and override the executive branch’s veto by a majority of votes rather than by a two-thirds vote.

21 Sonora’s PRI governor sided with the PAN candidate, and Madrazo ranked third in every state with a PRI governor and in states where PRI candidates, no matter how unpopular they were, historically received the majority of votes mobilized by PRI party machineries.

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Cheng, T.J. (1989) “Democratizing the Quasi-Leninist Regime in Taiwan,” World Politics, July: 471–99.

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Cheng, T.J. and Hsu, Y.M. (2002) “Strategic Voting, Duvergerian Outcome and the Third Party: The 2000 March Election in Comparative and Historical Perspectives,” in B. Dickson and C.M. Chao (eds) The Legacy of Lee Teng-hui, Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe.


Cheng, T.J. and Liao, D.C. (2006) “Testing the Immune System of a Newly Born Democracy: The 2004 Presidential Election in Taiwan,” Taiwan Journal of Democracy, July: 81–102.

Cornelius, W. and Craig, A. (1984) Politics in Mexico, La Jolla, CA: Center for U.S.-Mexican Studies.

Dalton, R.J. (1988) Citizen Politics in Western Democracies, Chatham: Chatham House.Grayson, G.S. (2001) Mexico: Changing of the Guard, New York: Foreign Policy

Association.Grayson, G.S. (2004) A Guide to the 2004 Mexican State Elections, Center for Strategic

and International Studies (CSIS).Guillermoprieto, A. (2000) “Enter Harpo: How an Upstart Brought the Ruling Party

Down,” New Yorker, July 24.Higley, J., Kullberg, J. and Pakulski, J. (1996) “The Persistance of Postcommunist Elites,”

Journal of Democracy, April.Horcasitas, J.M. (1991) El tiempo de la legitimidad: Elecciones, autoritarismo y democracia

en México, Mexico City: Cal y Arena.Horcasitas, J.M. (2002) “Mexico’s Democratic Transition,” mimeo, presented at the Wilson

Center.Huang, T.F. (1996) “Elections and the Evolution of the Kuomintang,” in H.M. Tien (ed.)

Taiwan’s Electoral Politics and Democratic Transition, Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe.Katz, R.S. (1990) “Party as Linkage: A Vestigial Function?” European Journal of Political

Research, 18: 143–61.Langston, J. (2002) “Lessons from the States: Collective Action Problems in Mexico’s

PRI,” paper presented at the East-West Center, March 7–8.Lijphart, A. (1999) “SNTV and STV Compared,” in G. Grofman et al. (eds.) Elections in

Japan, Korea and Taiwan under the Single, Non-Transferable Vote, Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press.

Mainwaring, S. and Scully, T. (1995) “Introduction: Party Systems in Latin America,” in S. Mainwaring and T. Scully (eds.) Building Democratic Institutions: Party Systems in Latin America, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.

Moe, T. (1980) The Organization of Interest, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.Morris, S. (1995) Political Reformism in Mexico, Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner.Pempel, T.J. (1975) “The Dilemma of Parliamentary Opposition in Japan,” Polity, Fall:

63–79.Pempel, T.J. (ed.) (1990) Uncommon Democracies, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University.Weldon, J. (1997) “The Political Sources of Presidentialismo in Mexico,” in S. Mainwaring

and M. Shugart (eds.) Presidentialism and Democracy in Latin America, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Unlike many other parties considered in this book, the neocommunist parties of the former Soviet Union—parties that retained the communist label after the transition—never really “lost” power through electoral defeat. Rather, communist rule simply collapsed in 1991. Thus, the process of adaptation in the face of “defeat” is likely to be different for the neocommunist parties of the Former Soviet Union (FSU) than other formerly dominant authoritarian parties, including the parties of Central and Eastern Europe. Although there are many studies on what became of the successors to the communist parties (particularly the social democratized parties) in Eastern and Central European politics, relatively little work has focused on the neocommunist parties (Racz and Bukowski 1999; Bozóki and Ishiyama 2002a). Generally the neocommunist parties are viewed as “notable failures of party transformation” (Grzymala-Busse 1999, 2002). While there are some studies of individual parties (Ishiyama 1996; Urban and Solovei 1997; Sakwa 1998a; March 2001; Curry and Urban 2003), and a few which have examined such parties more comparatively (Ishiyama 1999; March 2002), no work of which I am aware has systematically examined the fates of the “unreconstructed” successor parties across European and Central Asian former Soviet states.

This chapter seeks to integrate the study of neocommunist parties with the broader comparative literature and addresses three questions: What adaptive strategies did the neocommunist parties pursue when the Soviet Union collapsed and with the emergence of a new competitive electoral environment? What factors compelled these specific choices and to what extent was strategic adaptation a function of political agency? And third, how did these choices affect the neocommunists’ electoral success? This chapter examines the evolution of the Communist Party of the Russian Federation (Kommunisticheskaya Partiya Rossiyskoy Federatsii—KPRF), the Party of Communists of Moldova (Partidulul Comuniştilor din Republica Moldova—PCRM), and the Party of Communists of Kyrgyzstan (Partiya Kommunistov Kyrgyzstana—PKK).

I selected these parties for three reasons. First, all three faced the greatest of political traumas: the collapse of the Soviet Union and their subsequent banning following the abortive 1991 coup attempt in Moscow. Second, these parties faced different institutional and environmental conditions, and were led by different “agents” during the decade following the collapse of the Soviet Union. Third,

9 Learning to lose (and sometimes win)

The neocommunist parties in post-Soviet politics

John Ishiyama

The neocommunist parties in post-Soviet politics 149

these parties have enjoyed varying degrees of political success in the post-Soviet period, with the PCRM emerging as the governing party in Moldova, the KPRF as a long-time major opposition party, and the PKK, as a party that has less broad appeal, driven by personalist politics which has clung to some of the general leftist principles from the past. In this chapter, I examine the development of these three and explain why they evolved along very different lines.

Party adaptation

What adaptive strategies could formerly dominant parties pursue in the face of the Soviet collapse and a new competitive electoral environment? Much of the earlier literature on the communist successor parties focused on why these parties were able to make a political comeback during the 1990s (Zubek 1994; Evans and Whitefield 1995; Agh 1995; Waller 1995; Ishiyama 1997, 1995; Orenstein 1998; Grzymala-Busse 2002). Later, others examined how these parties adapted to new political circumstances (Waller 1995; Ziblatt 1998; Ishiyama 1999, 2000; Ishiyama and Shafqat 2001; Bozóki and Ishiyama 2002). These studies offered a very simple dichotomy regarding pathways of party adaptation: “pragmatic reform” or “leftist retreat.” The former is illustrated by the Hungarian and Polish successor parties where party leaders followed a strategy of pragmatic reform, attempting to distance themselves from “dogmatic Marxism” and redefining the party as a “European” social democratic party of “pragmatists.” Leftist retreat involved the successor party embracing its Marxist traditions (i.e. rejecting the free market), repudiating western influence, and adopting the status of an “anti-system” opposition party. This pattern was exemplified by both the Party of Democratic Socialism (PDS) in Germany and the Communist Party of Bohemia and Moravia (KSCM) in the Czech Republic, which, as Anna Grzymala-Busse (1999) points out, continued to attack what they saw to be “bourgeois democracy” and “capitalist exploitation.”

This binary approach does not describe the formerly dominant communist parties of the post-Soviet states very well. Indeed, many of these parties adopted strategies that centered on a “national patriotism.” This strategy, like the “leftist retreat” strategy, is characterized by the continued embrace of Marxist–Leninist traditions, notably anti-free market reforms. However, unlike the leftist retreat, this strategy does not wholly embrace the Marxist–Leninist legacy. For the Russian KPRF, for instance, a central part of the party’s program has been the critical re-evaluation of its past. In particular, the party’s program distinguishes between opportunists within the party who corrupted the “teachings” of Marxism–Leninism and the party of Soviet “patriots.” Further, the party claims that socialism is compatible with the primordial collectivist sentiments of the Russian people, and that the promotion of socialism necessarily involves the defence of Russian culture and traditions (Ishiyama 1998).

What factors affected the ways in which the neocommunist parties adapted? To address this question, I draw on a framework developed by Luke March to help explain party identity change and the emergence of the successor parties

150 John Ishiyama

(March 2006). According to March, three complementary explanations together account for the development and evolution of the communist successor parties: organizational–legacy approaches, environmental constraints, and political agency.

Organizational legacies

Internal factors affect the ability of the party to change its identity. Epstein (1966) and Panebianco (1988) note that certain kinds of parties are less likely to adapt to sudden change than others. This is because some parties, given their internal organizational constituencies, entail greater internal constraints on leaders in their ability to react to incentives generated by a changing political environment (Ishiyama and Velten 1998). Ishiyama (1995) argues, for instance, that communist successor parties that have significant numbers of hardliners have greater difficulty adapting and changing when confronted by external incentives to moderate the party’s political position.

These party organizational features are a product of the legacies of the past regime. This is particularly true for countries faced with a legacy of “patrimonial communism” (Kitschelt et al. 1999). In countries where there was a weak democratic tradition at the time the communists took power—as was the case in Moldova, Russia and Kyrgyzstan—the dominant party could adopt traditional hierarchical social structures and “entrench” itself far more than parties in countries with a more liberal and developed past, such as in Central Europe. Patrimonial communism left a regime legacy whereby the communist successor parties were able to effectively capitalize on existing networks of authority and were thus less likely to adapt. Anna Grzymala-Busse (2002) demonstrates how some legacies of the past were translated into post-communist political success. She argues that one such legacy is “portable skills,” including the ability to compromise and manage policies. Another is the existence of a “usable past,” a record of achievement credited to the previous communist regime and one that resonates with voters and can legitimate post-communist claims of governing competence (see also Bozóki and Ishiyama 2002b).

Related to this is the literature that focuses on the way in which internal factional struggles within the ruling communist parties were resolved in the last years of communist rule preceding democratic transition (1989–91). Ishiyama (1995) argues that whichever faction won the intra-party struggle during the transition process—pitting reformers against hardliners—was in the position to define the party’s post-communist programmatic orientation (see also Curry and Urban 2003). The communist successor parties of East-Central Europe, especially in Hungary and Poland, are ones in which the reformers emerged victorious during democratic transition. Their “portable skills” gave them the ability to redefine the successor parties, to lead organizational consolidation within, and to refashion the parties’ identities (Grzymala-Busse 2002).


Environmental factors

The political environment also shapes the adaptation processes of communist successor parties. These include the electoral system as well as the constituent structure (Grofman and Lijphart 1986; Shugart and Carey 1992). For instance, an electoral system that uses single-member districts introduces a degree of personalism into politics, which often results in candidates recruited into the party who are less ideologically loyal and more politically opportunistic (Smith and Remington 2000; Thames 2005). Also important is the structure of party competition. The presence of a strong leftist competitor might compel the successor party to change its ideological program and party identity. Finally, the constituencies to which a successor party might appeal are important; a strong ethnic or regional cleavage may facilitate a nationalist or regional electoral appeal, which could be incorporated into the party’s identity (Ishiyama 1997, 1998).

Agency

Finally, leadership is an important factor in shaping successor parties in post-communist politics (Fish, 2001). March (2006) argues that a united and cohesive party leadership will help galvanize the party and further its political institutionalization—a divided leadership fosters factionalism and policy drift within the party (Lewis 2000). Furthermore, the strategic orientation of the leadership determines the party’s response to a competitive environment, choosing between short-term tactics or a longer-term electoral strategy. The nature of the leadership and the leaders themselves are also important factors. Panebianco (1988) and Lewis (2000) have argued, for instance, that excessive dependence on charismatic leaders impedes the process of party institutionalization. It also constrains rather than facilitates the party’s efforts to adapt to its environment, both in terms of altering its identity and seeking out political allies and coalition partners.

Russia and the KPRF

The legacy of Russian communism was that of an extreme form of patrimonial communism. The communists created a highly centralized “totalitarian” system with a personalistic leadership cult (Sakwa 1998b; Kitschelt et al. 1999). The fact that the 1917 revolution was an indigenous revolution was crucial in forming the Soviet identity, fusing the defence of the revolution with the defence of the Soviet motherland (Deutscher 1966). Later, Stalin’s successors used Soviet patriotism and notions of imperial greatness to justify the continued existence of the Soviet state. In this respect, the legacy of patrimonial communism and the legitimacy of national patriotism were mutually reinforcing.

Another important legacy rested with the history of the Russian communist party itself. Indeed among the 15 Union Republics, Russia was unique in that it did not have its own republican party organization as a part of the Communist

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Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU). When a Russian party was actually formed in June 1990—the Communist Party of the Russian Soviet Federal Socialist Republic (CP-RSFSR)—it was initially dominated by conservatives who were decidedly opposed to perestroika, and who elected as the party’s first leader the outspoken Gorbachev critic, Ivan Polozkov. This in turn led to the exodus of party pragmatists, such as Boris Yeltsin, from the CPSU. Although Gorbachev tried to fundamentally change the Russian party by appointing the moderate Valentin Kuptsov to take Polozkov’s place just prior to the coup in August 1991, this failed to stem the rapid defection of reformists from the CPSU and CP-RSFSR.

President Boris Yeltsin banned the party by decree in August 1991 (the ban was reversed by the Russian Constitutional Court in November 1992). During the ban three important developments occurred. First, the ban on the communists effectively compelled the reformist elements within the party to defect, leaving a more coherent group to fight the Yeltsin regime (Urban and Solovei 1997; March 2002). Second, there emerged several radical communist parties which claimed to be legitimate successors to the CP-RSFSR (Salmin et al. 1994; Ishiyama 1996; Pashentsev 1998). Third, two former leaders of the Russian Communist Party, Valentin Kuptsov, the last First Secretary of the CP-RSFSR, and Gennady Zyuganov, the former CP-RSFSR Secretary for Ideology, emerged victorious over their rivals. They were bitterly resisted by several, mostly radical, “successor parties” led by Victor Anpilov, who represented the Russian Communist Workers Party, and by Nina Andreeva, who led the former CPSU apparat (the Union of Communists). Ultimately, however, Kuptsov and Zyuganov prevailed in this battle to claim neocommunist party leadership. They successfully exploited traditional communist discipline, a legacy of the party’s totalitarian past, and emerged victorious at the KPRF’s “re-founding” congress in February 1993. Though debated among the party leadership, the KPRF decided to participate in the December 1993 parliamentary elections and reaped political rewards. The KPRF was able to gain a significant share of seats in the State Duma, a position which put them at the center of the left opposition to the Yeltsin regime. Indeed, the other communist parties, which had boycotted the elections, lost their opportunity to gain a foothold in parliament and they quickly declined in significance.

It was Kuptsov and Zyuganov who set the tone of the newly revived Communist Party at the “Second Extraordinary Revival-Unification Congress” in February 1993.1 Under their leadership, the founding congress elected a central executive committee that was inclusive, bringing in as many political forces as possible, including the coup plotters Anatolii Lukyanov and Oleg Shenin, moderates such as Zhores Medvedev and Kuptsov, Russian parliamentary members, as well as two future leaders of the Agrarian Party, Mikhail Lapshin and Ivan Rybkin.2 Although the KPRF’s political program resembled the “same spirit of nostalgia and extreme conservatism” that had characterized the past,3 the party itself was in effect a broad coalition of diverse political constituencies, ranging from moderates who generally accepted the principles of private property and a mixed economy, to ultraconservatives who argued for the immediate re-socialization of the economy. The ideological purists within the party enjoyed the support


of the local party organizations which gravitated “toward an alliance with neo-Stalinists.”4

The KPRF leadership attempted to bridge these gaps by fashioning a party identity and program based on “national patriotism” that could unite all of the various factions of the party. The “national communist” identity, first developed at the party’s Second Congress and reiterated at its Third Congress in January 1995, emerged as the dominant ethos within the party leadership.5 This strategy gained the party political support, with considerable success in both the national and local elections 1993 and 1995. This party “line,” which was reiterated and re-affirmed at subsequent party congresses, rejected capitalism and reiterated the KPRF’s goals for a classless society and a commitment to a strong welfare state and a mixed economy. The essence of the KPRF’s appeal was to emphasize the achievements of the Soviet Union and the need to defend the motherland against encroachments from Western liberalism. The KPRF emphasized the connection between Russian collectivist traditions and modern socialism (KPRF 2002).

In addition, the emergence of the KPRF was facilitated by the fact that it faced few organized opponents. The non-communist, social democratic left was fragmented and dominated by individual personalities rather than by coherent party organizations. The absence of a viable social democratic alternative, according to Robert Orttung (1995), was a function of the legacies of totalitarian rule in Russia’s past. The rigid hierarchies inherent to the concept “democratic centralism” and to the workings of the patrimonial communist regime instilled in democratic reformers a fear that past patterns of centralism would pervade their own party organizations. As a result, reformers failed to build well-organized political parties that might have competed with the neocommunist party.

More recently, the KPRF has faced considerable political challenges, particularly after the ascendance of Vladimir Putin as President of the Russian Federation in 2000. The KPRF performed well in both the 1995 and 1999 elections, winning 22.3 percent of the votes in 1995 and 157 seats, and in 1999, 24.29 percent of the vote and 114 seats. However, in the most recent parliamentary election in 2003, the party won only 12.61 percent of the vote and 51 seats, a considerable decline. Gennady Zyuganov, the KPRF candidate, ran for President in 1996 and 2000, placing second both times. He only gained 20 percent of the vote against Putin in 2000. In 2004, the party nominated Nikolai Kharitonov for the 2004 presidential elections. He received only 13.69 percent of the vote, coming in an even further distant second behind Putin.

In addition to its declining electoral fortunes, internal party bickering has led to several factional splits within the party. Aleksei Podberezkin, who had led the Spiritual Heritage movement and had been an advisor to Zyuganov (and who had advocated constructive engagement with Yeltsin) split from the KPRF in 1999. In the summer of 2002, the KPRF expelled Gennady Seleznyov, the speaker of the Duma, from the party, along with other prominent members of the social democratic faction of the party, including Svetlana Goryacheva and Nikolai Gubenko, for their “collaborations” with Putin. The party was further weakened by a series of scandals leading up to the 2003 elections. Specifically, the KPRF’s

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long-standing strategy of courting “national capitalists,” including the now-jailed oil magnate Mikhail Khodorovsky, was used by its opponents to scandalize the party during the 2003 elections.

Subsequent to the 2003 elections, the KPRF fragmented along three factional lines: the Zyuganov group, which controlled the central apparatus of the party; a new generation of “pragmatists” headed by the “red” businessman Gennady Semigin, who is popular among regional party leaders and who is well funded though does not have much support among the party rank and file; and Ilya Ponomarev’s group,6 which is trying to recruit younger and more dynamic members into the KPRF. In the summer of 2004, the KPRF openly split into two factional groups. One was led by Semigin and supported by Kuptsov, who had resigned from the party that year, and which held its own party congress on July 3, 2004. That same day, Zyuganov, the leader of the other factional group, and his supporters held the 10th congress of the KPRF. Although, the KPRF, and surprisingly Zyuganov himself, survived politically, it was widely speculated that another national-patriotic movement called Rodina (or Motherland), which appeared in 2003, might ultimately replace the KPRF as Russia’s primary “national-patriotic” party.7 However, Rodina itself collapsed and the KPRF finished second in the parliamentary election of December 2007, albeit with a mere 13 percent of the vote.

Moldova and the PCRM

Unlike in Russia, the patrimonial communist and national-patriotic legacy in Moldova was of more recent origin. Prior to 1991, Moldova had never been an independent state and was less economically developed than the rest of the Soviet Union. Part of the country, the east bank of the Dnestr River, or Transnistria, had been an integral part of the Russian empire from 1812 to 1917. The west bank, also known as Bessarabia, was part of Romania from 1917 to 1940. In 1940 the Soviet Union annexed Bessarabia and fused it with Transnistria to form the Moldavian Soviet Socialist Republic (MSSR). In Bessarabia the predominant language was Romanian, while Russian was predominantly used in Transnistria.

In the late 1940s, the republic was Sovietized and mass purges of the Bessarabian elite occurred, many of whom were accused of collaborating with the Fascists during the Romanian occupation. Loyal indigenous cadres from Transnistria and “Sovietized” Romanian/Moldovans from the rest of the USSR were recruited to make up the republic’s new elite (King 2000). Over the years, Slavic immigrants settled in the cities and took most of the skilled jobs. Romanian speakers, in contrast, were concentrated in rural areas and relegated to less skilled positions. The Communist Party of Moldavia was imposed by military conquest rather than the result of a domestic revolution. The republican regime went to great lengths in Kishenev (Chişinău) to demonstrate the existence of a unique Moldovan identity apart from Romania despite “the quiet Romanization of Moldovan intellectuals” from the 1960s onwards (King 2000). In terms of politics, Moldova’s was the most personalistic of the republican party organizations, with Brezhnev protégés Ivan Bodyul (1961–80) and Semen Grossu (1980–9) dominating the party organization


(King 2000). Until the Bessarabian Petru Lucinschi, who became First Secretary in 1989, all of the Moldavian Communist Party’s first secretaries were either from Ukraine or Transnistria.

With the coming of glasnost and perestroika, however, opportunistic communist politicians, such as the Central Committee Secretary Mircea Snegur, began to echo calls by the Moldovan intelligentsia for an indigenous cultural renaissance (King 1995). The CP-MSSR was consequently split by rivalries among the reformists under Snegur and the loyalists who followed the deposed Semen Grossu. This split led to organizational paralysis within the CP-MSSR, which ultimately opened the door for the Pan-Romanian Moldovan Popular Front to press their claims for separation from the USSR.

In spring 1990, the CP-MSSR effectively lost power when the party was defeated in the Republican election of the Supreme Soviet in May 1990. Snegur subsequently left the party and made a deal with the Popular Front, allowing him to become chair of the Supreme Soviet and de facto republican President. The situation was further complicated by ethnic divisions. For instance, a split within the CP-MSSR developed between the “country-wide reformist wing and a regionally concentrated conservative (and Russian speaking) wing that consolidated its control over Transnistria and Comrat in Gagauzia” (Roper 2002). Initially, conservative party intellectuals, urban Russian-speakers and members of the Chişinău apparat formed the Unitate-Edinstvo (“Unity’) movement against the pro-Romanian Moldovan Popular Front (Dyer 1996). Another group to emerge was the Transnistrian United Council of Work Collectives, based on trade union and management apparatchiki in Transnistria, which later promoted Transnistrian separatism. As the tensions between the pro-Romanian Chişinău government and the pro-Soviet Transnistrians and Gagauz (Ethnic Turks) intensified, the latter groups moved to secede. This left only a rump CP-MSSR in Moldova, which, despite its opposition to the August coup and its support of Gorbachev, was banned.

Restoration of the Party of Communists of Moldova (PCRM) was different when compared with the restoration process in Russia. Unlike in Russia, there was not an immediate push for re-legalization. Much of this was due to the dominance of Pan-Romanian nationalists in parliament and the outbreak of violent conflict with Transnistrian separatists in 1991–2. Ultimately this conflict contributed to the decline of the Popular Front, and led to a new dominance of “reform” communists, such as the Chair of Parliament Petr Lucinschi, Prime Minister Andrei Sangheli, and President Miklos Snegur, all former officials in the Moldavian SSR. Together they formed the Agrarian Democratic Party of Moldova (ADPM) which dominated Moldovan politics in the early years of independence. The ADPM was based predominately on collective farm managers and apparatchiki of the old CP-MSSR and rural ethnic Moldovans. Urban Russian-speakers, in contrast, gravitated towards the more left-wing and Russocentric Unitate-Edinstvo or Unity movement and the Socialist Party.

Nonetheless there remained considerable interest in restoring a united Moldovan communist party. Eventually, Vladimir Voronin—an ethnic Russian, a former

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Bendery City Party Secretary, and head of the Republican Interior Ministry from 1989 to 1990—returned to Moldova from Moscow in 1992, where he had been serving in the Russian Ministry of Internal Affairs Reserve, to take charge of the unification effort. Voronin was able to rally many former communist activists, and was quite effective in attracting younger leaders to the movement. Further, unlike in the KPRF, the de facto secession of Transnistria drew away Moldova’s most radical and reactionary supporters, leaving a more moderate and pragmatic party core which helped to consolidate the party ranks (March 2004).

In late 1993, the ban on the neocommunist party was rescinded by parliament. The PCRM was legally registered in April 1994 and Voronin was formally confirmed as party leader at the December 1994 Congress. Although the party was not able to run candidates in the February election, Voronin nonetheless forged important ties with the ADPM, the Socialist Party and the Unitate-Edinstvo movement. The PCRM subsequently contested the local and presidential elections in 1995, and won 16.32 percent of the vote.

Unlike the KPRF, the PCRM did not have the luxury of appealing to nationalism, given its contested “Moldovan” character. Instead, the PCRM program connected the party with Soviet Moldova’s developmental successes, such as the spread of literacy, economic modernization and post-World War II recovery. The party did however declare a multinational “Moldovanist” stance and warned against the dangers of ethnic divisions within the party and Pan-Romanianism. In addition, the PCRM took a more positive view of “liberalism.” It rejected “dogmatism,” “totalitarianism,” “ideological monopoly,” the “cult of personality,” and instead emphasized its commitments to “reformed socialism,” political rights, and entrepreneurship (PCRM 2001). The party is rather specific, at least when compared with other neocommunist parties of the region, on several policy initiatives. It favors private enterprise and backs a quick accession of Moldova into the European Union. In its 2005 electoral manifesto, the PCRM sought to “encourage small and medium-sized businesses” and increase by 30 percent the private sector share of total GDP. The party also called for cutting taxes by 15 percent and cutting back on social welfare expenditures (PCRM 2005). Indeed, the Moldovan communists’ support of capitalism has been quite extensive. Voronin’s son Oleg, CEO of FinComBank, is currently one of Moldova’s richest businessmen.8

As a result of this sort of electoral pragmatism, the party dramatically improved its political fortunes. The PCRM is one of only two successor parties (the other being the Lithuanian Democratic Labor Party) and arguably the first neocommunist party to return to power via the ballot box. The PCRM backed Snegur as President until 1996, when he lost the election to the ADPM’s candidate Petru Lusinchi. The parties which backed Lusinchi formed an anti-PCRM coalition in the parliament, and in 1998 this three-party coalition led by the ADPM took control of the government with the PCRM as the principal opposition. In 1998 the ADPM disintegrated, leaving the government in the hands of a weak center-right coalition. In the parliamentary election of 2001, the PCRM, capitalizing on growing disenchantment with market reforms in the country and running on a pro-Russian platform, won a majority of the popular vote and 71 of 101 seats in the


unicameral parliament. The PCRM was very successful in attracting cross-national support from former Socialist, Unitate-Edinstvo and Agrarian voters, as well as Romanian-speaking service sector and industrial workers who had previously voted for the centre and moderate right, but who had become increasingly disgruntled with the declining standard of living (Neukirch 2001). Vasile Tarlev, who is ethnically Bulgarian, of the PCRM was named Prime Minister, and the parliament subsequently elected Voronin as President of the Republic.

The campaign for the 2005 election demonstrated the extent of the PCRM’s electoral pragmatism. Unlike its competitors, the party made a 180-degree turn on many issues that it had championed as recently as 2001, most notably Moldova’s relationship with Russia. For instance it ran on an explicitly pro-EU, anti-Russia platform, and the country’s Interior Ministry expelled Russians who were suspected of backing the PCRM’s opponents in the vote. Interestingly, the opposition Democratic Moldova movement, which openly sympathized with Russia, ran on an anti-Communist, Euroskeptic, platform. They claimed Voronin was too pro-Western and that he received financial support from the West. Nonetheless, under the slogan “With Us Moldova Will Win,” the PCRM won the 2005 parliamentary election rather easily with 46 percent of the vote, and 56 seats, a slightly reduced majority in the legislature, but a majority of seats nonetheless.9

Kyrgyzstan and the PKK

Like Moldova, Kyrgyzstan was added to the Russian Empire through military conquest, although much earlier in 1876. The Russian conquest led to decades of insurgency, culminating in a massive suppression in 1916. Soviet power was established in the region in 1918, and in 1924 the Kara-Kyrgyz Autonomous Oblast was created within the Russian Federal Socialist Republic. In 1926, it became the Kyrgyz Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic, and on December 5, 1936, the Kyrgyz Soviet Socialist Republic (SSR) was established as a full Union Republic of the USSR.

During the 1920s and 1930s, many cultural, educational, and social advances occurred in the Kyrgyz SSR. Large-scale industry was introduced, as well as a written Cyrillic script for the Kyrgyz language, which increased literacy. Heavy industries and uranium-mining operations were established in the Kyrgyz SSR, which was accompanied by an influx of Russians into the republic’s urban areas. Such immigration was so great that Russians came to be a majority of the population of the Republic’s capital Frunze (now Bishkek). Further, Russian became the primary language in education, business, and politics (Anderson 1999).

The early years of glasnost during the late 1980s had little effect on the political climate in the Kyrgyz Republic, at least in the formal political arena. It unleashed, however, ethnic and regional friction. In terms of ethnic tension, the most acute nationality problem was the existence of a large Uzbek population around the city of Osh in the southwest of the country (ethnic Uzbeks comprise about 13 percent of the population). In 1989, an Uzbek-rights group called Adalat began demanding that Moscow grant local Uzbek autonomy in Osh and consider

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its annexation by nearby Uzbekistan. In June 1990, violent ethnic confrontations erupted between Uzbeks and Kyrgyz in Osh Oblast, and a state of emergency and a curfew were introduced, which lasted until August 1990. Old regional rivalries pitting clans from the North and South re-emerged as well. In 1985, political power in Kyrgyzstan passed to Absamat Masaliyev, a representative of the southern elite; he replaced the northerner Turdakun Usubaliyev, who had ruled the then Soviet Kyrgyz Republic since the Khrushchev era. Askar Akayev, who became Kyrgyz president in 1990, was, like Usubaliyev, from the north. The southern clans have remained in the opposition since that time (Anderson 1999).

During the early 1990s, the opposition Kyrgyzstan Democratic Movement (KDM) developed into a significant political force. In an upset victory, Askar Akayev, the president of the Kyrgyz Academy of Sciences and leader of the KDM, was elected to the presidency in October 1990. In December of that year, the Kyrgyz Supreme Soviet voted to change the republic’s name to the Republic of Kyrgyzstan. Despite these moves toward establishing independence, there remained considerable pro-Soviet sentiment in the Republic. In March 1991, 88.7 percent of the voters approved a proposal to maintain the USSR as a “renewed federation.” A few months later, however, in August 1991 and following the abortive coup attempt in Moscow, the Kyrgyz Supreme Soviet declared independence from the USSR. The Communist Party of Kyrgyzstan was banned, as had been the case with the PCRM in Moldova and the KPRF in Russia.

Similar to the KPRF, but unlike the PCRM, the Party of Communists of Kyrgyzstan (Partii Kommunistov Kyrgyzstana or PKK) was re-established early on, in 1992. However, unlike the KPRF and PCRM, which were taken over by relatively junior leaders in the former communist parties and who provided some leadership stability, the PKK has had several turnovers in leadership. Most of its leaders during the early 1990s were former high ranking leaders in the old Kyrgyz Communist Party. At the constituent congress 1992, Barpys Ryspayev, a literary figure who was involved in the congress of writers during the Soviet era, was named the head of the provisional political council.10 In February 1993, however, at the first Congress of the PKK, the last First Secretary of the old Kyrgyz Communist Party, Jumagalbek Amanbayev, was named Party Chairman11 (Babak et al. 2004: 226). Amanbayev left this position and subsequently became Deputy Prime Minister in the Akayev regime. He was in turn replaced in 1994 by Absamat Masaliyev, also a former First Secretary of the old Kyrgyz Communist Party. Although Masaliyev was appointed by Gorbachev in 1985, he had earned Kyrgyzstan the reputation as the Central Asian republic least willing to adopt perestroika and glasnost. At Communist Party meetings in Moscow, the Kyrgyz leader sharply criticized Gorbachev’s reform efforts, warning that they endangered the stability of the Soviet system. Masaliyev ran for President in 1990, though Akayev of the democratic KDM was selected as the compromise candidate. President Akayev banned the Communist party after the abortive 1991 coup and declared Kyrgyz independence from the USSR.

However, unlike in Russia where initially there were a number of parties competing for the mantle of the neocommunist successor, in Kyrgyzstan there was


some degree of unity among the various communist factions, including the radicals led by the academic Klara Ajibekova who wanted an immediate restoration of the Soviet Union and uncompromising opposition to Akayev, and the conservatives who sought some accommodation with the Akayev KDM regime.12 The “unified” party registered in September 1992 as the Party of Communists of Kyrgyzstan (PKK). In 1995 Masaliyev again ran for president against Akayev, receiving 24 percent of the vote to Akayev’s 72 percent. The party elected two deputies, Masaliyev and Usubaliyev, to the lower house of parliament in 1995 (out of 75 single-member districts).

The PKK began to unravel between 1995 and 2000. There emerged tension among party leaders and their perspectives on the restoration of the USSR as well as on the privatization and market reforms introduced by the Akayev regime. Masaliyev adopted a more moderate approach (i.e. privatization of the land and firms through restrictions on sale) whereas the radicals favored a re-Sovietization of the means of production (Brown 2004). This led to Ajibekova splitting from the PKK and establishing the Communist Party of Kyrgyzstan (CPK) in 1999. Other prominent leaders left as well. Usabaliyev, for instance, defected from the communist faction of the PKK in the parliament to the Edinstvo (or Unity) faction of Russophone Northerners (Temirkoulov 2004).

This left a fairly cohesive bloc of Masaliyev supporters, however, who favored some restoration of formal ties with Russia, were more or less committed to participating in the election process, and who provided conditional support for the privatization of land (i.e. not in strategic sectors such as energy). Further, the Masaliyev group favored constructive engagement with the Akayev regime. Although Masaliyev had never given up his belief that the dissolution of the Soviet Union was a serious mistake and the root cause of Kyrgyzstan’s economic and social woes during the first years of its independence, he was willing to support many of the measures taken by the Akayev government. Further, the PKK was also able to retain its core of Russian-speaking voters, the elderly and voters from the south, particularly around the city of Osh which had been subsidized during Soviet times and was home to many state-run industries13 (Khamidov 2002).

Currently, the PKK emphasizes the “usable” legacy of Soviet accomplishments. For instance, the PKK proclaims that “the Great October Socialist Revolution…saved the Kyrgyz people from extinction.” The party points to specific achievements of the Soviet regime in Kyrgyzstan, such as land reform, the provision of health services, free education, housing and “transforming the patriarchal-feudal territory into an agrarian-industrial economy” (Babak et al. 2004: 227). Similar to the PCRM in Moldova, the PKK program is critical of divisive national and “tribalist forces” and condemns “chauvinist and nationalist extremism” (Babak et al. 2004: 221), and like the Russian KPRF, it points to the natural connection between Kyrgyz “age-old traditions of mutual assistance” and socialist ideals. What is absent from the PKK program, however, is any mention of a socialist future for the country or the inevitability of a classless society, which is unlike the KPRF. There is no reference to Lenin and only one reference to Marx in the PKK’s platform. Unlike the PCRM platform, which

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provides specific policy goals, the PKK program offers only vague notions of a mixed economy.

Like the other neocommunist parties, the PKK emerged as the largest and most well-organized opposition party in Kyrgyzstan. The PKK leadership, specifically Masaliyev, enjoyed fairly positive relations with the Akayev government. The PKK did not seek alliances with other political groups and ran as a separate party for the parliamentary elections of 2000. Unlike the 1995 election, which used single-member districts, a mixed electoral system was used in 2000 for the lower house. The Legislative Assembly comprised 60 members elected for a five-year term, of whom 45 were elected in single-seat constituencies and 15 by proportional representation.14 The PKK increased its representation to six seats (5 PR seats and 1 district seat), large enough for the PKK to form its own parliamentary faction.

Despite the relative electoral success of 2000, the PKK was much weaker locally than both the KPRF and the PCRM. The party was unable to nominate many candidates for single-member districts in 2000 because of the lack of financial resources.15 In the 2004 local elections, the PKK only won 0.13 percent of the vote for local district councils. To complicate things further, PKK leader Absamat Masaliyev died suddenly of a heart attack in July 2004. His successor was Baktybek Bekboyev, named during a special plenum of the Party held in September of that year. Masaliyev’s son, Ishkhak, took over his father’s parliamentary mandate.16

Under Bekboyev the party realigned with the more radical CPK under Ajibekova, and pursued alliances with other parties during the run-up to the 2005 parliamentary elections, forming the People’s Movement of Kyrgyzstan election bloc. Former Prime Minister Bakiyev was elected the movement’s chairman at the bloc’s November founding congress. Bekboyev was not selected as one of his deputies in the movement, which foreshadowed tensions in the bloc’s leadership, particularly over rapprochement with the Akayev government and accommodation with non-communist forces generally. A power struggle ensued, and in a special party plenum in December 2004 Bakiyev was removed as the bloc leader and replaced by Nikolai Bailo, the former deputy chair of the PKK under Asambat Massaliyev.17

In the spring of 2005, parliamentary elections were held that initially signalled the victory of the pro-Akayev party Alga, Kyrgyzstan (Forward, Kyrgyzstan) which had been founded by Akayev’s eldest daughter, Bermet.18 The elections were widely regarded as flawed and corrupt, which led to mass protests, a popular uprising (the so-called Tulip Revolution) and ultimately forced Akayev to flee the country and resign the presidency on April 4, 2005. In many ways the Tulip Revolution mirrored the flower revolutions in Georgia and Ukraine, which had displaced long-time post-communist presidential parties. Akayev’s party, however, remained alive at least in skeletal form in Kyrgyzstan, with Bermet in some control from exile in Russia.19

Following the ousting of Akayev, the PKK played a more visible role in the new government. In particular, Ishkhak Masaliyev (Absamat Masaliyev’s son) became a key figure in the parliament, and he supported Kurmanbek Bakiyev in his bid for President of the Republic in the summer of 2005. The younger


Masaliyev eventually replaced Nikolai Bailo as Chairman of the PKK in late 2005. In the meantime, despite Masaliyev’s support of Bakiyev’s presidential bid, their relationship soured. Masaliyev played a key role in resisting Bakiyev’s efforts to centralize power in the hands of the President, and he consequently sought new allies to challenge Bakiyev, including the latter’s own deputies. Under Masaliyev’s leadership and unlike his father’s, the PKK embarked on a strategy of collaborating with other parties with less attention to ideology. The future of the communist party in Kyrgyzstan has become threatened, as personal ambitions have continued to trump any coherent ideology or party program.

Discussion and conclusions

This chapter suggests that the KPRF, the PCRM and the PKK followed very different adaptive pathways. Generally the KPRF pursued a “national patriotic” approach which involved identifying the party with Russian nationalism and retaining an anti-capitalist and anti-Western identity. The PCRM, on the other hand, adopted a strategy much closer to the “pragmatic reform” strategy found elsewhere in Central Europe, whereby party leaders have attempted to distance the party from dogmatic Marxism and have redefined the party as a “European” party of “pragmatists.” The PKK, however, is more difficult to classify. Although it has tended to emphasize its ties with the past and adopted a generally anti-capitalist position, it has not done so with a great deal of rigor and consistency. Its leadership appears to be content to maintain personalist connections with powerful government officials at the expense of any form of ideological consistency.

Explaining divergence

What were the effects of the previous regime legacies, environments, and the role of agency in shaping the different restoration approaches of the KPRF, the PCRM and the PKK? In terms of regime legacies, the Russian past was different from that of the Moldovan or Kyrgyz experiences. The KPRF was able to capitalize on an imperial and great power past, making it relatively easy to adopt a National Bolshevik appeal to Russian voters. On the other hand, the fact that the communist republican authorities were imposed in Moldova and Kyrgyzstan severely limited the ability of either the PCRM or PKK to appeal to either Moldovan or Kyrgyz nationalism. Indeed for these parties, whose core leaderships were made up of ethnic Slavs, Russified Romanian speakers or Kyrgyz, the emphasis was much more on inter-ethnic harmony than on nationalism.

In addition, simple political geography mattered, specifically with respect to the relative size of the countries. Russia, as opposed to Moldova and Kyrgyzstan, is a very large country, which made the KPRF a much larger organization comprising diverse ideological constituencies. As such, there was (and continues to be) tension between the Moscow-centered leadership and the KPRF’s regional branches, which has been exacerbated by the mixed electoral system in Russia. This was not the case with the PCRM and the PKK, the former being less ideologically diverse,

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and the latter being much smaller and much more dominated by personal loyalties to Masaliyev. Geography also shaped what issues have been emphasized in the parties’ electoral appeals. For instance, Moldova’s proximity to Europe coupled with Romania’s drive for EU accession made promoting relations with the EU an important issue upon which the PCRM (like other Eastern and Central European successor parties) could capitalize. For the KPRF and PKK this was simply not an option, given their countries’ political and geographical distance from the EU.

The political environment shaped the adaptation processes in the three neocommunist parties. In Russia there existed what M. Steven Fish (2001) labels a “superpresidentialism” or an extreme concentration of authority in the hands of the President, resulting in relatively weak parliaments and an executive that is virtually immune from legislative oversight. This meant that the KPRF’s relative success in parliamentary elections in the 1990s did not translate into real political power, which might have legitimated and further bolstered the party’s restoration strategy (Huskey 1999). In Kyrgyzstan, the existence of a similar superpresidential system not only weakened the parliament but it also provided a strong incentive for ambitious PKK party leaders to defect to the “President’s team” or to cultivate personal ties through regional (i.e. northern and southern) clan associations.

This personalist dynamic in the Russian and Kyrgyz political systems was strengthened by their electoral schemes. In Russia the mixed member plurality system used in Duma elections (with separate PR and single-member district constituency ballots) helped the KPRF perform well in Duma elections (Moser 2001). The party was also able to take advantage of nationwide name recognition and the recruitment of local candidates who performed well in single-member districts. However, this introduced an intra-party cleavage surrounding electoral mandates within the KPRF, dividing those parliamentarians elected from the PR list and those MPs elected from the districts who were primarily interested in re-election and not ideological purity (Thames 2005; Ishiyama 2000). In Kyrgyzstan as well, the use of single-member districts exacerbated the regional factional cleavages within the PKK, resulting in similarly incoherent party programs.

On the other hand the Moldovan semi-presidential system provided for a directly elected president who possessed powers of decree but who had a limited ability to dissolve the legislature, thus strengthening the roles of the Prime Minister and parliament (Moldovan Constitution 1994). In 2000, the Moldovan Parliament passed a decree which declared Moldova a Parliamentary republic, with the Presidency now decided not by popular election but through a parliamentary vote. This system provided strong incentives for party consolidation, more than in the presidential systems of Russia and Kyrgyzstan. This incentive was reinforced by the use of a proportional representation (PR) list system for seats in the unicameral Moldovan parliament. As a result, the PCRM has had to campaign much more on a coherent party program.

Another environmental factor shaping each party’s adaptive strategies was the nature of the party system. In Russia, the KPRF faced no electoral competition on the left throughout much of the 1990s. The KPRF nearly monopolized the left wing of the party spectrum, with most other parties competing with one another


for the “liberal” or anti-communist nationalist mantle. However, the appearance in 2003 of the “Rodina” (Motherland) group, which also professed a “national-socialist” platform, marked the emergence of a credible alternative to the KPRF. Whether this will compel the KPRF to move in another direction remains to be seen, though it appears that the Zyuganov leadership intends to become even more leftist and nationalist than before as it rejected the remaining moderates from the KPRF’s ranks in 2004.

In Kyrgyzstan, the party system is weak, with individual parties winning only a small portion of the seats in parliament. To a large extent, according to Gregory Koldys (2005: 355), the weakness of the party system in Kyrgyzstan has been a function of the electoral system.

The focus on individual candidates that is characteristic of majority (and plurality) systems detracts from party development. This is especially true in Kyrgyzstan because of its extremely liberal ballot access rules that in many cases allowed ten or more candidates per seat. Because of the focus on individuals, charismatic party leaders were able to win seats; however, with eleven parties sharing about thirty of the 105 seats, only party leaders, and in a few cases one or two other party representatives, were elected.

The weakness of political parties in Kyrgyzstan, and rampant factional, regional, and personalist politics since the fall of Akayev has continued to challenge democracy in Kyrgyzstan. Weak party competition provided little incentive for the PKK to offer much more to voters than it already has in terms of plans or program. This was in direct contrast to the Moldovan case.

For the PCRM in Moldova the structure of party competition was quite different. From the beginning, there were several competitors on the left wing of the party spectrum, including the APDM, the Socialist Party and the Russocentric Unitate-Edinstvo. Because of this, when the PCRM was established in 1994, party leaders had to skilfully maneuver within the party system, forming alliances with each of its three competitors and ultimately absorbing their voters and their message. This also meant that the PCRM had to redefine its identity to appear both a champion of the downtrodden and the “losers” of the transition as well as the pro-reform and pro-EU party.

Although it is difficult to disentangle the independent effects of political agency on the choice of adaptive approaches for each of these parties, leadership did affect how post-Soviet party identities were formed. For instance, that party conservatives won the battle for power within the KPRF, and that Zyuganov, an ideologue from the Soviet era, was selected party leader certainly affected the party’s choice to emphasize a national patriotic identity. That top leaders in the PCRM were largely ethnic Slavs affected the party’s emphasis on its multi-ethnic character. Leadership styles mattered too. The willingness of Voronin to reform the PCRM reflected in part the sort of pragmatism cultivated during his service in the internal security services, as opposed to Zyuganov’s background as an academic and an ideologue. Indeed Zyuganov’s own leadership style did not reflect much

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tolerance for dissent, which led to frequent internal struggles, factional disputes and expulsions from the KPRF. Still, it was not insignificant that in both the KPRF and PCRM, the younger more junior communists led the way in reviving and re-inventing these parties. This contrasted with the PKK, where the old leaders reasserted themselves quickly and did little to alter the party’s identity.

Consequences

What does the future hold for these parties, and which strategy is likely to lead to greater political success? It is premature to speculate on the long-term survivability of these parties, though clearly the two most electorally “successful” neocommunist parties are in Lithuania and Moldova, both having conformed to the pragmatic reform pattern. The survivability of neocommunist parties depends on their ability to portray themselves as pragmatic alternatives that can effectively govern. The PCRM has been able to present itself as such an alternative.

On the other hand, the KPRF faces considerable challenges in maintaining itself even as a viable opposition. Faced with increasing competition (i.e. from Rodina) within its political niche and with growing internal discord, the party has increasingly been hard pressed to maintain its relevance in Russian politics. Its network of local and regional organizations, however, may sustain the KPRF as an organization for some time. To some extent, this line of speculation may also hold true for the PKK, though for different reasons. The Kyrgyz neocommunists have continued to contest relatively unorganized competitors in a weakly institutionalized party system. Still, the PKK has remained a relatively minor player in post-Soviet Kyrgyz politics, and continues to depend heavily on elite connections. Unlike the KPRF, the PKK lacks the network of local organizations with which to sustain the neocommunist party. Whether parties such as the KPRF and PKK can become viable political competitors in Russian and Kyrgyz politics remains very much an unresolved question.

Notes

1 The hard-line Russian Communist Workers Party (RCWP) and the All-Union Communist Party of Bolsheviks, refused to attend.

2 Pravda, 17 February 1993: 1. 3 The party’s program was printed in Pravda, 3 December 1992. 4 ITAR-TASS, 13 February 1993. (Foreign Broadcast Information Service-Soviet

Union) FBIS-SOV-93-030 17 February 1993: 18. 5 The KPRF Third Congress program was reported in Pravda, 31 January 1995: 1–2. 6 Ilya Ponomarev is a director of the Information-Technical Center of the Communist

Party of the Russian Federation (CPRF) and an organizer of the Youth Communist Front of the KPRF.

7 See Jamestown Foundation, Eurasia Daily Monitor, Volume 1, 48, July 9 2004. http://www.jamestown.org/publications_details.php?volume_id=401&issue_id=3012&article_id=2368222.

8 Moldavskie vedomosti, 2002. 9 “Moldova Communists stay in power,” BBC News, Monday, 7 March 2005, 13:29

GMT. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/4322617.stm.


10 “Interview with A. Jusupbekov,” Slovo Kyrgyzstana, Bishkek, 23 January 1993: 6, as reported in Foreign Broadcast Information Service [FBIS], Daily Report: Central Eurasia, 5 March 1993: 85.

11 Temirov, T., “J. Amanbayev—Leader of the Kyrgyzstan Communist Party,” Erkin Too, Bishkek, 17 March 1993: 2.

12 Nikolai Bailo was an ethnic Russian, a machinist by training, who had been a regional communist leader in the south of the country prior to Kyrgyz independence. Duisheyev had been a Director of a Mining Plant (Yuzhpolymetal) and was also from the south.

13 Jamestown Monitor, Volume 6, Issue 34, February 17, 2000: 1. 14 The upper house Assembly of People’s Representatives (El Okuldor Jyiyny) had 45

members, elected for a five-year term in single-seat constituencies, all candidates required to run as non-partisans.

15 See statement by Nikolai Bailo in Slovo Kyrgyzstana, February 22, 2000: 2. 16 “The Communist party of Kyrgyzstan elected its new leader” September 24,

2004 Times of Central Asia. http://www.timesca.com/news/AllNews/Kyrgyzstan/ 2004/09/24/0059336. Ishkhak Masaliyev ran for the Presidency in 2000, but failed to pass the Kyrgyz language test. Ishkhak had been local party boss for the city of Osh, and was willing to form coalitions with non-communist parties and organizations for political gain.

17 “Leadership of the ‘Communist Party’ was changed” December 30, 2004 Times of Central Asia. http://www.timesca.com/news/AllNewsKyrgyzstan/2004/12/30/ 0063313.

18 Alga, Kyrgyzstan was formed by the merger of five small pro-government parties: the Manas El, the New Time, the New Movement, the Party of Cooperators and the Birimdik Party.

19 More recently, the party’s supporters have increased their activities, staging several protests in support of Bermet. Despite these activities it is unlikely that Alga Kyrgyzstan will emerge as a viable opposition party in Kyrgyzstan in the near future.

References

Agh, A. (1995) “Partial Consolidation of the East-Central European Parties: The Case of the Hungarian Socialist Party,” Party Politics, 1: 491–514.

Anderson, J. (1999) Kyrgyzstan: Central Asia’s Island of Democracy, New York: Harwood Academic Press.

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June of 1987 ushered in a new era for Korea. People power triumphed, making elections the “only game in town.” A vision of responsive democracy and transparent economy took hold of society, making its political parties engage in a wholesale transformation. In addition to engaging in what Pempel (this volume) calls “productivity” and “pork barrel” politics, Korean parties had to prove to the electorate that they were ethical too, given the public’s disenchantment with corruption and past human rights violations. Ironically, until 1997, it was the conservatives in power since the 1960s that seized the initiative of democratic reform, confronting what Kim Young-sam once called the “Korean disease” of moral decay, political corruption, and economic inefficiency. The reform backfired as prosecutorial politics eventually traced the root of corruption to the conservative coalition. The New Korea Party (NKP) became the target of public outrage, forcing its leadership to change the party name to the Hannara after a merger with a splinter party in 1997. Then came the Asian Financial Crisis which destroyed what remained of the myth that the conservatives were “technocratic,” capable of delivering prosperity.

The power shift occurred in two stages. 1997 saw progressive Kim Dae-jung succeed in his fourth bid for presidential power. In 2002 Roh Moo-hyun won another upset victory. The two were dissimilar in political style, despite their common ties to radical segments of Korea’s dissident movements during the years of democratic struggle (1972–88). Kim Dae-jung was an insider, his career made within the political establishment, and knew how to combine change and continuity in order to pre-empt the emergence of a broad political opposition. Kim Dae-jung articulated an unorthodox “Sunshine Policy” toward the North while maintaining a robust alliance with the United States, and expanded social welfare expenditures while putting in place an IMF-designed program of corporate and bank restructuring. The mix of conservative and progressive policy tenets enabled him to deter the Hannara from winning the support of centrist and undecided voters. By contrast, Roh Moo-hyun was an outsider, ostracized even within his own party for his populist style before winning the presidential elections. Perceiving politics as a venue to vent what he called “rage” against injustice, Roh Moo-hyun claimed to seek nothing less than an overhaul of the establishment.

10 Defeat in victory, victory in defeat

The Korean conservatives in democratic consolidation

Byung-Kook Kim

170 Byung-Kook Kim

After a decade of progressive rule, Korea is on the verge of a third power shift—this time, back in the direction of the conservatives. An economic downturn, coupled with a worsening North Korean nuclear crisis and the accompanying drift of the US–Korea alliance, plummeted Roh Moo-hyun’s approval ratings to 20.6 percent by September 2005. The ruling Uri Party’s ratings went on an even sharper slide, hitting 13.9 percent in October of that same year. More critically, the Uri did not possess a credible presidential candidate, whereas the Hannara boasted two star players in 2007. The resurgence of the conservatives was not entirely unexpected. Much like Taiwan’s KMT, the authoritarian-turned-democratic conservatives had steered Korean politics even during its most tumultuous phase of democratic transition (1987–90). Moreover, with the launching of the Democratic Liberal Party (DLP) in 1990, the conservatives not only managed to put their house in order, but also seized a commanding height in the National Assembly to put in place a powerful reform drive throughout the mid-1990s. Likewise, in spite of their consecutive losses in the 1997 and 2002 elections, their Hannara Party survived, whereas the progressives continuously changed party names and organizations, from the National Congress for New Politics (NCNP) to the New Millennium Democratic Party (NMDP) to the Uri Party to the United New Democratic Party (UNDP), in order to reverse their declining electoral fortunes, much like the conservative coalition took the names of the Democratic Justice Party (DJP), DLP, NKP, and Hannara during its period of rule.

In this respect, democracy has been working in Korea. Rather than resisting democratization, the conservatives joined the progressives in competition for votes. This chapter focuses on the transformation of Korean conservatives from their Cold War authoritarian origin to their current democratic form, and identifies the continuous experimentation with new adaptive strategies of productivity, pork barrel, and ethics as the trigger of their political rebirth. The chapter starts with an analysis of the internally contradictory 1948 “guksi,” or postwar Korean identity, as the key to the conservatives’ political successes and failures after 1987. Then it looks into their formulation of a reformist adaptive strategy to counter the 1948 guksi-originating ideological weaknesses, and presents this adaptive strategy to be Janus-faced, not only providing the conservatives with an opportunity to win over the centrist and undecided voters with the image of that of a born-again reformer, but also inadvertently delegitimating their own political past. Ironically, the conservatives’ claim of legitimacy came to be weakened by the new reformist standards they themselves helped strengthen. This contradiction triggered a permanent crisis of presidential leadership and a cyclical purge of party bosses throughout the 1990s.

It is not surprising, then, that the conservatives turned to the old formulation of anticommunism, technocracy, and regionalism to re-strengthen their grip on power that the politics of reform weakened. We will later argue that the manifestation of conservative party adaptation along this old line of party politics was the creation of the DLP in 1990, through a three-way pact between Roh Tae-woo, Kim Young-sam, and Kim Jong-pil. The political party claimed to be a “grand conservative coalition” that upheld the 1948 anticommunist identity, combined regional support

The Korean conservatives in democratic consolidation 171

of the Kyongsang area with Chungcheong voters, and championed the technocratic spirit of the developmental state. After 1990, electoral politics centered on whether the DLP still could make this a winning strategy when the progressives, too, strove to lure Chungcheong voters into a new regionalist alliance with Kim Dae-jung’s Cholla Provinces under the broad ideological umbrella of “clean politics,” social welfare, Sunshine Policy, and human rights.

The 1948 guksi proved to be both a liability and an asset for the conservatives in electoral competition. Certainly, the repressive legacy of anticommunism made them an easy target for the progressives’ ethical politics. But it is also true that the 1948 guksi made the conservatives the “owner” of the idea of liberal democracy, making the progressives move further away from the center to come up with an alternative vision for Korea. To explain the risks and dilemmas arising from this ideological move, this chapter goes back to the 1948 conceptions of liberal democracy and anticommunism and how they became the target of the progressives’ strategy for historical revisionism, a strategy that ultimately went too far to the left to sustain public support for the progressives. The progressives calculated that by exposing the conservatives’ white terror and “separatism” during the 1945–53 period, they could delegitimate the post-1997 conservatives as an unethical force. However, their crusade backfired, reunifying fractionalized conservative forces and stigmatizing the progressives as sympathizers of the Stalinist North. The mismanagement of economic policy and security issues by Kim Dae-jung and Roh Moo-hyun also helped to open the way for the conservatives’ electoral comeback in 2007.

“Liberal” conservatives

From the days of Korea’s establishment as a Republic in 1948, the conservative ruling bloc found itself to be in an ideologically vulnerable position. For the Republic to survive as a sovereign state, they had to explain why separating it from the North was legitimate. Given the violence and suffering caused by national division, they were never fully able to give a persuasive rationale for building a separatist state. Rather, they formulated Korea’s, and by extension their own, raison d’être in an essentially negative way, justifying the Republic in opposition to the Stalinist regime emerging in the North under Soviet patronage. The act of national division was politically sold as an effort of self-defense. The real villain was Kim Il Sung. He broke up Chosun into the two Koreas. He started the Korean War.

At the same time, the conservatives knew that the Republic could not survive solely on the negatively formulated raison d’être of anticommunism. To have its people recognize the Republic as the sole legitimate organizer of political life in the Korean peninsula, the conservative founders needed to identify not only what they were against, but also what they stood for. A child of the Cold War conflict, Korea bought into American liberalism. The Republic declared itself a liberal democracy and a market economy when it was anything but liberal. These two were a future to strive for, not a present to be conserved, nurtured,

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and perfected. Nonetheless, the ruling elite took these progressive liberal ideas as its “conservative” project of modernization, with the result of undermining the legitimacy of its own actions. Repression sold as a defense of democracy violated liberal values. The unequal alliance with the United States, which underwrote Korea’s survival, severely constrained its sovereignty. The developmental state eventually caught up with and surpassed the North Korean command economy, but its way of catching up breached market rules and democratic norms.

What saved the conservative ruling elite from disintegrating under the weight of its ideological contradictions was Korea’s other guksi of negatively defined anticommunism. After experiencing mass violence during the Korean War (Chang 1990: 170–203), society acquired a “McCarthyism” of its own and became entrapped in a culture of hatred against any form of socialism (H. Kim 1983: 307). After an armistice was signed in 1953 with the North, the conservatives made the war experience into myths, symbols, and rituals, thus keeping alive the society’s memory of red terror. The resulting red scare became a political safety net for the conservatives. Civil society put up with the conservatives’ ideological contradictions because the North constituted a far worse alternative. Many even considered the conservatives’ persistent deviation from liberal ideals to be a necessary part of living under the threats of Kim Il Sung.

These internal contradictions of Korea’s national identity and, by extension, its ruling conservative elite’s party identity began to implode with the end of the Cold War. Less fearful of military threats from the economically faltering North, many Koreans saw anticommunism as either unfit or illegitimate for an economically prosperous, militarily secure and democratically resilient Korea. Consequently, they looked to the other “liberal” component of Korea’s postwar ethos—the promise of democracy—to direct political change. The project of political liberalization did not, however, occur in a historical vacuum. The anticommunist legacy of the Cold War had become deeply embedded in Korea’s political institutions, from the National Security Law (NSL) to the US–Korea alliance, making ideological conflict part of post-Cold War Korean politics. The conservatives defended the NSL as a pillar of deterrence, whereas the progressives saw it as providing the conservatives with the pretext to repress human rights. The alliance with the US was a politically contested issue too, with the conservatives embracing the superpower as the guarantor of Korean security and democracy, while the progressives viewed the alliance as an instrument for the conservatives to arrest the spread of progressive ideas in society. The US–Korea alliance was seen to keep alive the threatening image of the North, though this time not as a potential invader with superior military capabilities but as a nuclearizing rogue state with a failing economy.

This struggle over Korea’s internal and external order also developed into an ideological confrontation over the past, as both conservatives and progressives viewed their present legitimacy as being shaped by how the public evaluated the past. The builders of a new democratic Korea were actors with historically constituted values, identities, and reputations that were entwined with debates over national security, the developmental state and the promise of liberal


democracy. Today’s conservatives and progressives had opposed each other in myriad ways in the past—as human right activists and economic modernizers, internationalists and nationalists, pro-Americans and anti-Americans, and separatists and unificationists. Consequently, the past became an integral part of their present struggle to shape Korea’s future, thus frequently making the forward-looking project to recover the positively defined liberal vision of the 1948 guksi degenerate into a negative, backward-looking campaign aimed at exposing each side’s questionable political past. The issue of how to deal with the past became an issue of the first-order importance for all political forces, which in turn influenced the making and remaking of party identities, constituencies, and election strategies.

In the politicization of Korea’s founding national identity, demographic change also played a crucial role. By 2002, the progressively oriented “386 Generation,”1 which constituted the single largest age-cohort in the electorate, had matured, making up the strategic mid-layers of the state ministries, political parties, business companies, and NGOs to become the agents of cultural change from within their respective organizations. Moreover, the demographic-societal change translated into a political change when the 1997 financial crisis brought the Korean economy to its knees. The crisis gave birth to the myth of “crony capitalism” that depicted the Korean economy as a deformed system driven by rent-seekers, predatory capitalists, and collusion-prone state bureaucrats. The progressives used this new myth of crony capitalism to challenge the old myth of the “developmental state” (Amsden 1989; Woo 1991; Evans 1995) that portrayed the conservatives as part of Korea’s technocratic establishment responsible for economic modernization. The severity of the financial crisis made the progressives’ diagnosis compelling to many voters. By July 1999, only 11 of the original 30 merchant banks survived, while an extensive program of closures and mergers consolidated 26 commercial banks into 12, and eight investment trust companies into four. The bill for financial restructuring ran to $60 billion.

To be sure, the older “5060 Generation”2 boasted an equally impressive, though different, source of political power. They constituted the establishment, sitting atop of the nation’s socioeconomic organizations and in control of ideological resources, including their generational ownership of the damaged but still formidable anticommunist legacy and the myth of technocratic economic management. With these resources, the 5060 generation compensated for its numerical disadvantage, making elections in Korea’s young democracy a contested and uncertain game. The key issue was what adaptive strategy the conservatives could craft to deter the progressives from winning the support of centrist and undecided voters, while at the same time maintaining their core 5060 generational base. The conservatives knew that they had to move leftward to become the banner bearer of democratic reform in order to hold onto power. However, they also understood that this attempt to retrieve and live up to the liberal promises of the 1948 guksi should neither alienate their conservative electoral base nor play into the progressives’ campaign to delegitimate the conservatives’ ideological past. Moving to the center-right was unavoidable. The question was how.

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Politics of reform

Unfortunately for the conservatives, the more they sided with political-economic reform, the more acute their crisis of identity became. The problem was that the liberal ideology that they claimed to be conservative was hardly conservative in the Korean historical context. The idea of liberal democracy was fundamentally “progressive” in the sense that it entailed Korea’s transformation into a society of citizens with inalienable basic rights. For the illiberal conservatives self-anointed by liberal norms, the first step towards democratic legitimation was to become what they claimed to be. Consequently, since the 1987 democratic breakthrough, the conservatives championed transparency, advocated clean politics, and envisioned participatory democracy, much like the progressives, but these new standards of politics undermined the conservatives’ own political base. Sooner or later their illiberal pasts were bound to catch up to them, leading many Koreans to condemn the conservatives of hypocrisy. Yet, reform could only be slowed down, not stopped because rejecting reform meant electoral defeat.

The conservatives’ dilemmas in the politics of reform were visible even before the 1997 financial crisis gave birth to the myth of crony capitalism. The leaders of the conservative bloc—whether Kim Young-sam’s “Minjugye” (Democratic Faction) or Roh Tae-woo’s “Minjong’gye” (Democratic Justice Faction)3—were born out of the faction-ridden political parties, established from the top-down through either personal charisma or state power. As such, they lacked a distinctive party identity that transcended the ideology of anticommunism. Nor did they possess a network of organizational linkages with which to penetrate deep into society for support, to aggregate interests into a clear hierarchy of priorities, and to regularly negotiate mutually binding policy commitments with societal actors (B. Kim 2000a: 53–85). In other words, the conservatives were extremely low in institutional capacity for governance.4 The economic growth that Roh Tae-woo boasted as the Fifth Republic’s achievement (1980–8) was really a product of the “strong” state, not the ruling DJP per se (Haggard 1990). Similarly the democratic protest movements of the 1980s, which Kim Young-Sam claimed to be his Minjugye’s work, were more a product of resilient grassroots activists than the result of top-down or bottom-up party mobilization (S. Kim 2000).

This is not to argue that party politics did not matter during the 1980s. On the contrary, it mattered, but the way party politics mattered during the authoritarian era was to get both the Minjong’gye and Minjugye into trouble after Korea’s democratic breakthrough. As one of the pillars supporting authoritarian rule, the DJP had linked state bureaucrats with business leaders through asymmetric political exchange. In return for providing business leaders with the access to state-controlled loans and licensing privileges, or for simply insuring business leaders against arbitrary decisions by military leaders and state bureaucrats, the DJP secured a stable supply of campaign funds from the chaebols. These resources were used to finance networks of local intermediaries for top-down vote mobilization, making elections a game of “geumkwon jeongchi” (money politics) and “gwanchi” (bureaucratic rule).


Given this legacy of money politics and bureaucratic patronage, much of which survived into the mid-1990s, any attempts at democratic reform were bound to degenerate into the politics of purge, with conservative politicians, chaebol managers, and state bureaucrats prosecuted for illicit activities. Even the president was not safe from political backlash. To redefine his image from that of a military coup leader in 1980 to a democrat ushering in the “era of common people,” Roh Tae-woo pledged in 1988 to strengthen basic rights and bring clean politics. That required him to clean up the legacies of former President Chun Doo-hwan, Roh Tae-woo’s own patron and the majority shareholder of the DJP. Forced by the opposition’s call for justice but also sensing an opportunity to transform the DJP into his own personal political machine, Roh Tae-woo agreed in 1988 to hold National Assembly hearings on corruption and human rights violations during Chun Doo-hwan’s Fifth Republic (Lee 2003: 43–73), the outcome of which was the confinement of the dictator to a remote Buddhist temple in Solak Mountain. However, the purge inadvertently made Roh Tae-woo’s already weak power base even weaker. An accomplice to Chun Doo-hwan’s 1979 “military mutiny” and 1980 “national subversion,” Roh Tae-woo won few allies while making many more enemies, including those who were faithful to Chun Doo-hwan within the DJP, by his act of political reform.

By contrast, having been a leader of the moderate wing of the democratic opposition that had allied with dissidents to bring down the Fifth Republic, Kim Young-sam was confident of his democratic credentials, despite his much criticized 1990 party merger with Roh Tae-woo and Kim Jong-pil. The confidence led to an even more ambitious round of reform upon his 1993 presidential inauguration, including the public disclosure of wealth and income among the political elite. By doing so, Kim Young-sam inadvertently re-opened the issue of “historical rectification,” which the conservatives thought Roh Tae-woo had resolved by the banishment of Chun Doo-hwan to Solak Mountain in 1988. When the public became enraged at the wealth of some of the political elite, Kim Young-sam responded by setting the standards high, dismissing cabinet ministers charged with a shady past5 and purging DLP legislators implicated in corruption allegations. Public expectations escalated, as did public scrutiny. Soon the media began pointing its fingers at Kim Young-sam as one of the root causes, charging him with the use of Roh Tae-woo’s “slush funds” to finance his 1992 election campaign.6 It was at this point that Kim Young-sam put the brakes on the politics of reform only 200 days after its launching. With DLP legislators prosecuted for corruption, Hanahoi7 generals weeded out, and chaebol executives arrested for bribery (Suh and Kim 1999: 28–33), Kim Young-sam called for a reconciliation with the past because, in his eyes, any further reform would bring not only a crisis of governance to his administration but also irreparable damage to the conservative bloc. In addition, having purged the loyalists of Chun Doo-hwan and Roh Tae-woo, Kim Young-sam believed that he was now in a position to transform the faction-ridden DLP into a party loyal only to him.

It is also true that the Korean society became increasingly concerned over the impact of the purges on political stability and economic growth, thus enabling Kim

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Young-sam to gracefully retreat from reform in September 1993. In a nationally televised Message of State Affairs, he urged Korea “not to be tied down by its past.” He added that “[w]e shall reconcile with our past and move forward.”8 However, the rhetoric of reconciliation lasted only until October 1996. When an opposition National Assembly Member made public Roh Tae-woo’s slush fund stashed in secret bank accounts, thus raising suspicion that Kim Young-sam’s 1992 election campaign had in fact been funded by the illicit money, Kim Young-sam was forced to run for cover. In his typical style of “defend-by-attack,” Kim Young-sam arrested Roh Tae-woo and moved to prosecute Chun Doo-hwan on charges of military mutiny and national subversion. The imprisonment of the two former military-turned-presidents saved Kim Young-sam personally, though it did not solve the underlying legitimacy issues of the conservatives as a political force. On the contrary, the arrests only strengthened the progressives’ criticism that the DLP was the heir to the era of corruption and repression.

It was, then, natural that both Roh Tae-woo and Kim Young-sam were to make a U-turn to rely more on the old formulations of anticommunism and technocracy, lest the conservatives as a political force face an implosion. The two realized that their reform was too radical for the conservatives, but not radical enough to satisfy the public dissatisfied with Korea’s money politics. Moreover, it proved to be the progressives that were always ahead of the conservatives in owning the issue of reform by going further than the conservatives in the designing of reform measures. Realizing that the conservatives were fighting a war they could not win, both Roh Tae-woo and Kim Young-sam eventually came to exploit two Cold War issues to win back voters. The first issue was whether to maintain a security alliance with the United States or to pursue reconciliation with the North. The second focused on how to balance between economic growth and redistribution. In these issues, the founders of the DLP took the orthodox position of supporting a robust alliance with the United States and a trickle-down strategy of economic growth. Their ideological rival, Kim Dae-jung, took the opposite stand of reconciliation with the North and distributive justice to ally with more radical segments of the grassroots chaeya movements.

To Kim Dae-jung’s disappointment, despite the forces of democratization, the old formula of anticommunism and growth-first technocracy worked surprisingly well into the mid-1990s. The two issues, owned by the conservatives since Park Chung Hee’s modernization drive of the 1960s, assured the conservatives the support of a third of the electorate. These voters supported the conservatives in the fear of security threats and economic stagnation, in spite of their disappointment about the lack of reform. Aware of the existence of this loyal electoral constituency, both Roh Tae-woo and Kim Young-sam opted for a crackdown on dissidents, labor leaders, and student activists, accusing the progressives of inadvertently, if not intentionally, aiding the North with their destabilizing acts of political protest, when they were political challenged. Paradoxically, the North strengthened the hand of the conservatives when it accelerated nuclear development programs and


engaged in military brinkmanship to seek “security guarantees” for its failing state.9 Moreover, the myth of the conservatives’ technocratic capabilities lingered into the 1990s. Indeed, by ushering in an era of détente through normalizing relations with Moscow and Beijing10 and by reforming the developmental state through a program of “segyehwa” (globalization) during the 1990–6 period (Gills and Gills 2000: 81–100), the conservatives were able to project a renewed sense of technocratic competence—until the 1997 financial crisis drove the economy into the brink of default.

The regional politics of pact making

As voters’ skepticism about the appeal of Cold War ideology and technocratic myths increased, regionalism came to occupy an even more central place in the conservatives’ adaptive strategy, too. Initially, the conservatives thought they had an upper-hand in combining their ideological platform with regionalist appeals, because since the days of Park Chung Hee, ideological and regional cleavages coincided, with the Kyongsang–Chungcheong regional axis serving as the home to the then-ruling Democratic Republican Party (DRP). A decade after the collapse of the authoritarian DRP in 1980, Roh Tae-woo, Kim Young-sam, and Kim Jong-pil revived the regionally-based conservative coalition by merging their political parties into the DLP (Choi 2001: 149–65). The three pact-makers of the DLP were all staunch anticommunists of Kyongsang and Chungcheong origin, seemingly reducing progressive Kim Dae-jung’s Cholla voters to the status of a permanent minority.

Having revived the conservative Kyongsang–Chungcheong coalition through the launching of the DLP, the main challenge facing the conservatives during the 1990s had less to do with how to defeat the electoral appeal of the progressives than with how to prevent the faction-ridden DLP from fragmenting into splinter parties. Initially, the three pact-makers were bounded by an agreement to share power by moving to a parliamentary democracy and abandoning the winner-take-all presidential system. However, once Kim Young-sam became the DLP Chairman, he refused to carry out his end of the bargain and went directly to the public to mobilize support for Korea’s extant presidential system. The establishment of a parliamentary system did not materialize, but the DLP survived because its legislators knew that the DLP’s mix of ideological and regional identity, combined with Kim Young-sam’s surviving democratic credentials, would assure an easy victory in the 1992 presidential election. They were right. Kim Young-sam as the DLP candidate pursued a two-track electoral strategy, competing with Kim Dae-jung to become the champion of reform to win over the centrist and undecided voters, on the one hand, and playing on the old formula of anticommunist agitation, technocratic myths, and regionalist rivalries to represent the traditional conservative base, on the other.

The seed for the conservatives’ electoral decline was sowed when Kim Young-sam sought to orchestrate a generational change in party leadership after the

178 Byung-Kook Kim

election. He looked to handpick his successor. When Kim Young-sam tried to force Kim Jong-pil to retire from the DLP by placing his own Minjugye in key party posts in 1995, Kim Jong-pil rebelled and organized the splinter United Liberal Democrats (ULD) with his native Chungcheong region as the main base. During the 1996 legislative elections, Kim Jong-pil succeeded in re-establishing himself as a “swing factor,” capable of tipping the balance of regional power, by carrying the Chungcheong area. Then, in 1997, Kim Jong-pil formed an elite pact again—this time, with progressive Kim Dae-jung. Having been betrayed once by his fellow conservatives, Kim Jong-pil opted for a loose electoral alliance rather than a party merger with Kim Dae-jung. In return for his support, Kim Dae-jung pledged to give the ULD an equal share of cabinet posts, as well as the right to name the first Prime Minister, in the event of Kim Dae-jung’s victory in 1997. The prospect of power-sharing triggered a shift of Chungcheong voters away from the DLP, now renamed the Hannara Party to cleanse itself of all the traces of unpopular Kim Young-sam. The shift became an exodus when Rhee In-jae, another native of the Chungcheong region, deserted the Hannara to enter the race as a third candidate, when he lost to Lee Hoi-chang in the Hannara primaries. The three-way split of Chungcheong voters contributed to Kim Dae-jung’s 1997 victory.

The progressives stunned the conservatives even more in 2002. With a freefall in public support ratings, then-President Kim Dae-jung’s coalition—renamed the NCNP in 1995 and then the NMDP in 2000—instituted “open primaries” with half of the delegates recruited from outside the NMDP, with the goal of recovering public support.11 Envisaged as an effort to revitalize the NMDP through the infusion of a stream of “new blood” activists into the ranks-and-files and by strengthening grassroots organization,12 the political gamble paid off handsomely. Party revitalization enabled the NMDP to outmaneuver Lee Hoi-chang’s conservative forces in the contest to formulate a winning strategy based on the triple ingredients of regionalist rivalry, left–right conflict, and clean politics, when Roh Moo-hyun won the open primaries.

The candidacy of Roh Moo-hyun embodied the winning strategy. He was a native of South Kyongsang Province and an NMDP politician, thus capable of taking away a sizeable share of Kyongsang votes from the Hannara Party while still carrying Cholla voters. Many of the Chungcheong voters joined Roh Moo-hyun’s electoral coalition as the third regional pillar when he pledged to relocate the capital to their region.13 Moreover, Roh Moo-hyun’s record as a human rights lawyer during the period of authoritarian rule and as a soldier in Kim Dae-jung’s “war” against the conservative media in 200114 allowed him to claim his firm commitment to progressivism. Also, as a born rebel shunned by even NMDP party bosses and excluded from the centers of power, Roh Moo-hyun was untarnished by the shady money-based and regionalism-driven politics of coalition building, which enabled him to project the image of a man of the principles as well. In other words, the conservatives were beaten by the progressives at their own game of combining regionalism, left–right cleavage, and political ethics into an electoral strategy in 1997 and 2002.


This is not to underestimate the role of personalities. The NMDP victory owed much to Roh Moo-hyun’s ability to go beyond Kim Dae-jung’s core constituency of Cholla regionalists and progressive voters in building an ideologically and regionally heterogeneous coalition. Roh Moo-hyun was a man with many faces, a progressive politician at heart, but also a genius in populist campaigning. He knew how to engage in ways that were at once colorful and ambiguous, strong and elusive, which appealed to the undecided or centrist swing voters. When anti-American protestors demanded the Korean trial of two American soldiers for “negligent homicide” in the death of two schoolgirls during a military exercise, Roh Moo-hyun expressed his discomfort with the conservative newspapers with a powerfully rhetorical question: “Why so much fuss about anti-Americanism?”15 He backed the progressive NGOs’ effort to revise the Status of Forces Agreement (SOFA) with the US Forces in Korea (USFK),16 but contrary to his opponents’ criticisms that he was an anti-American, Roh Moo-hyun argued that his demand for SOFA revision was perfectly in line with the existing alliance because “demanding a SOFA revision, by definition, assume(d) continuous U.S. military presence.”17 When Kwangju sided with him in the NMDP primaries in March of 2002 (allegedly with the help of Kim Dae-jung’s “invisible hand”18), Roh Moo-hyun was instantly transformed from an outcast into a political Cinderella. The image of a Kyongsang native supported by Cholla voters galvanized many young voters, who were by then thoroughly alienated from regionalist elections and money politics.

The ability to reach out to the undecided from the core base of progressive supporters is illustrated in Figure 10.1, which contrasts between Roh Moo-hyun’s constituencies and those of conservative Lee Hoi-chang in June 2003. The horizontal axis indicates attitudes on the National Teachers Union (NTU), with the right end representing a negative opinion and the left a positive view. The vertical

AttitudestowardUnitedStatesforces in Korea

Attitudes toward National Teachers Union

Favor strongly or favor on balance

Oppose strongly or op-pose on balance

Should stay or should remain for a consider-able period

Q1Roh supporters 26.9%† Lee supporters 21.0%‡ All 24.0%*

Q2Roh supporters 29.9% Lee supporters 49.7%All 35.9%

Should im-mediately or incrementallywithdraw in stages

Q3Roh supporters 23.0% Lee supporters 13.8% All 21.6%

Q4 Roh supporters 20.3% Lee supporters 15.5% All 18.5%

Source: A public survey with a random sample of 1,005 conducted by East Asia Institute in collaboration with Joongang Ilbo in June 2003. †Share of Q1–Q4 viewers among the Roh supporters ‡Share of Q1–Q4 viewers among the Lee supporters *Share of Q1–Q4 viewers in the electorate

Figure 10.1 Heterogeneity of political support for Roh Moo-hyun, June 2003

180 Byung-Kook Kim

axis charts attitudes on US military presence, another issue-area where the public was deeply polarized. Q2 fits with Korea’s “traditional right” and Q3 its “orthodox left.” Figure 10.1 demonstrates that the combination of political democratization, economic prosperity, military modernization, and generational change had made a large portion of Korean voters drift away from this Q2–Q3 axis into either Q1 or Q4, both of which represent a rather unorthodox mix of attitudes. For the Q1 voters, estimated to number a quarter of Korean voters in 2003, support for US military presence was entirely compatible with the show of support for the NTU, known for not only a strongly ethical stand on school issues, but also a staunch anti-American ideology. There was another sizeable electorate (Q4) that distrusted the NTU while advocating an immediate or incremental US military withdrawal. Roh Moo-hyun’s populist appeal and ambiguous pronouncements allowed him to secure supporters evenly, more or less, across all four quadrants. By contrast, Lee Hoi-chang, who exhibited an unambiguously conservative image, drew 49.7 percent of his supporters from Q2 alone. This failure to go beyond Q2 had cost Lee Hoi-chang the presidential election in 2002.

Reversals of political fortune

The 1997 and 2002 presidential elections showed both strengths and weaknesses of the conservatives. To be sure, the Hannara lost both elections, but the two elections were very tight races, with Lee Hoi-chang losing by a margin of only 1.5 percent in 1997 and 2.3 percent in 2002. At the same time, it was also true that the Hannara Party lost because it was outmaneuvered by the conservatives in adding a sizable segment of centrist and undecided voters to its core supporters of conservative orientation. The victory went to the candidate who won over these swing voters by projecting an image of “Mr. Clean” and, if that failed, by engineering the entry of a third candidate whose constituency overlapped more with that of his foe than with his own. The defeat in these two games ultimately cost the Hannara Party the 1997 and 2002 elections, but the way it was defeated was different in the two elections.

In the 1997 presidential election, the conservatives initially had an upper hand in cultivating the support of undecided voters. That Kim Dae-jung had forged a regional coalition with conservative Kim Jong-pil on the basis of a political deal to establish a parliamentary system constituted a double-edged sword, hurting as much as aiding Kim Dae-Jung. By the alliance, Kim Dae-jung made an inroad in the previously hostile Chungcheong region with Kim Jong-pil’s endorsement, but at the same time, by merging forces with one of the 1961 coup leaders that toppled democratically elected Chang Myon, Kim Dae-jung was also seen as playing the “unethical” game of power politics that he had so aggressively criticized the conservatives of doing when the DLP was launched in 1990.

By contrast, during the early stage of the election, Lee Hoi-chang combined conservatism with reformism. In the minds of the undecided, he was a voice of conscience in the Supreme Court during authoritarian rule, issuing minority opinions to protect human rights, as well as a moral crusader that led an activist


Audit and Inspection Board in anticorruption struggles in 1993, and a champion of the rule of law dismissed in 1994 from his prime ministerial role for challenging Kim Young-sam’s “unconstitutional usurpation of power.” These credentials gave Lee Hoi-chang an image of a conservative reformer that could end the old ways of doing politics. The claim to be a new right that could overcome the old conservatives’ ideological contradictions and live up to the liberal component of the 1948 guksi, however, was destroyed when the press reported his son’s evasion of military draft in July 1997. His public rating fell to 18 percent between July and August, and further spiraled down to 14 percent by early September.

The immediate beneficiary was not progressive Kim Dae-jung, but Rhee In-jae, who had finished second in the NKP presidential convention with a vote of 42 percent to Lee Hoi-chang’s 58 percent. Cho Soon, with an image of “Mr. Clean,” saw an upsurge of support too. Encouraged by an exodus of swing voters from Lee Hoi-chang’s coalition, Cho Soon accepted the conservative Democratic Party’s (DP) presidential nomination in September 1997. Rhee In-jae followed by withdrawing from the NKP and launched the New Party for the People (NPP) in November. These two third-party candidates combined conservative ideals with a reformist image. Of the two, it was Rhee In-jae that was unlikely to drop from the race, topping Lee Hoi-chang in every poll between August and November to become convinced that the conservative voters would eventually rally around him in the fear of Kim Dae-jung’s victory or, if that did not happen, he would become a major contender for the 2002 election by finishing third in the 1997 race. At the same time, Lee Hoi-chang lacked the leverage to lure Rhee In-jae back to the conservative coalition, given the imperial presidential system that concentrated power in the hands of the president. Simply, the constitutional order prevented Lee Hoi-chang from building a coalition with a major candidate like Rhee In-jae on the basis of power sharing, because even the prime minister was appointed and dismissed at the whim of the president. In the end, the conservatives came back to rally around Lee Hoi-chang, not Rhee In-jae, in November, persuading Cho Soon to back Lee Hoi-chang through the merger of his DP with the Hannara (B. Kim 2000b: 179–92), but Rhee In-jae stuck out as a third candidate and took 18.9 percent of the votes. That opened the way to Kim Dae-jung’s victory.

The 2002 presidential election, too, centered on the conservative–progressive struggle to win over undecided voters, but the way this game played out diverged significantly from the 1997 election. Having led the Hannara Party against Kim Dae-jung’s presidency during the 1997–2002 period, and still accused by the NCNP–ULD coalition of having evaded his son’s military draft, in 2002 Lee Hoi-chang was a thoroughly transformed man. Gone was the image of a reformer that he had crafted through the years of service at the Supreme Court, Audit and Inspection Board, and the Office of Prime Minister. Instead, in 2002, he looked like an old Cold War guard. The transformation of his identity was partly of his making and partly a product of Kim Dae-jung’s prosecutorial politics. Beginning in 1998, Kim Dae-jung set into motion a series of legal investigations that condemned the entire conservative bloc as having been a “reactionary force”

182 Byung-Kook Kim

during the Kim Young-sam years.19 The attack undermined Lee Hoi-chang’s image as the champion of the rule of law.

To recover from his setback, Lee Hoi-chang made a strategic choice to focus on Kim Dae-jung’s Sunshine Policy towards the North, criticizing it as a betrayal of Korea’s postwar guksi. The goal was to prevent conservative voters from defecting to the progressive side by ideologically polarizing society around the issue of the North. When Kim Dae-jung held a historic summit with Kim Jong Il in June 2000, with the hope of making the Sunshine Policy a lasting legacy of his rule, Lee Hoi-chang accused him of pursuing a radical—if not heretical—reunification policy that fomented anti-American and pro-North sentiments.20 Then, in February 2001, Lee Hoi-chang portrayed the Hannara as representing the “mainstream” of the Korean society and Kim Dae-jung’s NMDP as the force of the “antimainstream,”21 which undercut Lee Hoi-chang’s earlier reformist image.

Consequently, unlike in 1997, much of the volatility in public opinion occurred not in the conservative but in the progressive camp in the political spectrum. Having positioned himself as the champion of conservatism, though this time without a reformist image, Lee Hoi-chang saw his 2002 support ratings remain relatively stable, fluctuating between 30.2 percent and 39.6 percent between March and December. By contrast, the support ratings of Roh Moo-hyun were extremely volatile. Whereas in 1997 the conservatives struggled to control the damage of a party split caused by Rhee In-jae’s establishment of the NPP, 2002 witnessed a tug of war between two rising stars in the progressive camp. Through a complex mix of progressive, reformist, and regionalist political images, Roh Moo-hyun of the NMDP and Chung Mong-jun of the National Integration 21 (NI21) strove to become the favorite son of the progressive bloc and to engineer a party merger around their respective candidacy.

For Lee Hoi-chang, the winning strategy in 2002 was the opposite of his 1997 strategy. Whereas his hope for victory in 1997 rested on forcing Rhee In-jae’s withdrawal from the race to bring unity back to the conservative bloc, Lee Hoi-chang’s strategy for victory in 2002 was to keep both Roh Moo-hyun and Chung Mong-jun in a three-way race to split the undecided voters, whose support he was less likely to secure.22 All looked good until Chung Mong-jun proposed to unify the anti-Hannara forces by holding a public poll that asked for the preferred candidate of the anti-Hannara forces. Chung Mong-jun and Roh Moo-hyun were in a tight race then, with Chung Mong-jun leading by a margin of 3.4 percent. To the surprise of all, Roh Moo-hyun accepted and polled 46.8 percent of support against Chung Mong-jun’s 42.2 percent three weeks before election day.23 Chung Mong-jun withdrew from the race in support of Roh Moo-hyun, making the election a two-way race between Roh Moo-hyun and Lee Hoi-chang. Undecided and centrist voters rallied behind Roh Moo-hyun, doubling the NMDP candidate’s rating to 42.2 percent against Lee Hoi-chang’s 35.2 percent by the end of November. The conservatives fought back hard, but lost by 2.3 percent on election day.


The conservatives’ comeback

Once the progressives were in control of the presidency, the powerful state bureaucracy that had served the conservatives during the developmental era turned against them. In the aftermath of the 1997 financial crisis, Kim Dae-jung gave the politics of reform a decisively progressive color by identifying the institutions of “gwanchi geumyung” (bureaucratically governed finance), “chongsu chaejae” (imperial corporate governance structure centered on a single owner-family),24 and “hoisa nojojuui” (company unionism) as the sources of Korea’s economic plight. Restructuring these institutions of the developmental state on the basis of IMF-backed and Washington consensus-based neoliberal ideals was to ensure transparent business governance structures, with checks and balances on major shareholding families (B. Kim 2003: 53–78). This vision of systemic restructuring had the effect of delegitimating not only the chaebol ways of doing business, but also the conservatives’ way of modernization.

The progressives’ assault was even stronger in cultural and ideological realms. Established by Kim Dae-jung, but becoming more “revisionist” under Roh Moo-hyun, the Presidential Truth Commission strove to recover the honor of democratic activists that had been persecuted during authoritarian rule. By then, the other campaign of historical rectification to delegitimate the conservatives by exposing their alleged historical roots in Japanese colonial rule was also reaching a climax, with the newly established ruling Uri Party joining forces with the Democratic Labor Party to legislate an NGO-prepared “Truth Law on Collaborators and Traitors during Japanese Colonial Rule-by-Force.”25 The Uri Party argued that by exposing the conservatives’ “betrayal” of nationalist ideals during the colonial era (1910–45), Korea would finally free itself from not only the “shameful” past but also the “perverse” present dominated by the conservatives. They contended that the “collaborators” and “traitors” had become part of the establishment by serving Syng Man Rhee in war against the leftists during the immediate post-liberation period (1945–8),26 and that their survival as the ruling elite was preventing today’s Korea from constructing a genuinely democratic state.27

A born rebel, Roh Moo-hyun proposed to replace the NSL with new criminal laws, to dismantle the “monopoly power” of conservative newspapers through legal regulation of media market shares, to reform the “opaquely” governed private schools through the legal empowerment of teachers and parents to elect 30 percent of board members, and to investigate human rights abuses committed by state authorities since 1945. The conservatives attacked his proposal to abrogate the NSL as irresponsible. The media bill drew an equally negative verdict, portrayed as an attempt to silence conservative voices while keeping public TV networks under the progressives’ control. The Hannara Party opposed the school bill as well, because with the NTU dominating school politics, the bill would clear a way for the progressives to heavy handedly influence school boards and curricula. The issue of investigating white terror brought a conservative counter-proposal to investigate red terror.

184 Byung-Kook Kim

These four campaigns of historical rectification enabled Roh Moo-hyun to consolidate his grip over the progressive bloc, though they also unified the conservatives under the banner of national identity and alienated many of the centrist and swing voters. In a poll of October 2004, the public opposed the replacement of the NSL with new criminal laws by a margin of 58.6 percent to 35.9 percent, and the legal restriction on media market shares by 52 percent to 38.2 percent. The school bill split society more evenly (44.5 percent to 44.9 percent), just as the investigation of white terror won Roh Moo-hyun as many enemies as friends (47.9 percent to 46.4 percent).28 The polarization of public opinion offered both the Uri and the Hannara Party an opportunity to consolidate their separate bases of support within society. The two political parties were in a hostile yet symbiotic relationship, benefiting from the ideological polarization around the issues of national identity.

The balance of power began to tip against Roh Moo-hyun when two of the Uri’s key members, Sin Gi-nam and Kim Hee-seon, saw conservative newspapers and NGO activists dig up records of their fathers’ collaboration with Japan before 1945.29 It was also revealed that the National Intelligence Service (NIS) put in place political surveillance measures during Kim Dae-jung’s presidency, thus damaging the progressives’ claim of moral superiority. When prosecutors indicated in October 2005 that they might have to investigate Kim Dae-jung’s role in political surveillance,30 the progressive bloc experienced an internal division as well, with many of the voters from Kim Dae-jung’s Cholla region deserting the Uri Party. The progressives discovered that they too had a past that could deal a blow to their purported “clean” ethical standing.

However, the most damaging blow came less from ideological backlashes than from the gap between the priorities of the Uri Party and the public. In a September 2004 poll, 88.1 percent of respondents chose economic recovery and only 8 percent chose historical rectification as Korea’s most urgent task.31 With a stagnating economy and a political war over national identity, 65.7 percent thought that society was facing a crisis.32 Such a shift in public moods made both presidential and Uri ratings nosedive. After July 2004, the Hannara saw its public rating hit a plateau for fifteen months (23.5–31.5 percent), whereas ratings for the Uri began a downward slide immediately after its victory in the April 2004 national assembly election, hitting a low of 13.9 percent six months later. At that time, support for the Hannara had gone past the 30 percent ceiling, even exceeding 40 percent four times in the next year, suggesting that many disappointed Uri supporters did not just withdraw their support from the Uri but had changed sides to the Hannara. Public support for the Uri rose and fell with Roh Moo-hyun’s approval ratings, implying that the Uri had failed to craft an independent party identity. Many voters conflated the Uri Party’s support of historical rectification with Roh Moo-hyun’s strategy of ideological polarization.

The erosion of its support base brought a series of electoral disasters to the Uri Party. In the local elections of May 2006, it won only one of the nine gubernatorial contests and none of the seven mayoral contests in the large cities, whereas the Hannara elected six governors and six mayors. At the level of city, district, and


county governments, the Uri won 543 assembly seats against the Hannara’s 1,400 and 19 magistrate positions against the Hannara’s 157. The three national assembly by-elections held in 2005 and 2006 confirmed the decreasing size of the Uri Party’s support base. Among the six National Assembly seats contested in April 2005, the Uri failed to win any, even though five of the contested seats were previously held by Uri members. In the October 2005 by-election, the Hannara won all four seats contested, two of which were previously held by the Uri and the Democratic Labor Party.

There was also a visible erosion of support in the Uri Party’s regional base, namely Cholla voters, who had backed Roh Moo-hyun as the heir to Kim Dae-jung in 2002. In the national assembly district of Incheon Namdong-gu Eul, with a heavy concentration of Cholla migrants, the Uri saw its share of votes decline from 46 percent to 12.3 percent in only two and a half years. In the district of Haenam Jindo in South Cholla Province, the Uri support declined from 38.8 percent to 29.3 percent. To rejuvenate the party, the Uri changed its chairman ten times between October 2003 and August 2007, only to be merged into a newly launched UNDP. The main beneficiary of Roh Moo-hyun’s ideological limitations and policy failures was the Hannara, just as it was the progressives that benefited from the conservatives’ ethical and policy failures in 1997 and 2002. In the run-up to the 2007 presidential elections, the Hannara Party (44.6 percent) boasted a support rating 3.7 times higher than the UNDP (12.1 percent), and its candidate Lee Myung-bak (38.7 percent) topped Chung Dong-young (13.1 percent) of the UNDP by 25.6 percent in public support. The conservative bloc once again split with Lee Hoi-chang’s entry into the 2007 race as an independent candidate, but unlike in 1997 even this split did not aid the progressives because its candidate’s rating fell below even the public support for the second conservative candidate (18.4 percent).33 The issue was not how the UNDP could put up a good fight in the presidential election, but whether it would survive the defeat in the 2007 election to contest for power in the April 2008 national assembly election. In sum, the conservatives were able to make a strong comeback not only because progressive Roh Moo-hyun and Kim Dae-jung failed to deliver high economic growth and political stability, but also because their ideological campaign of historical rectification and Sunshine Policy strengthened the conservatives’ bonds by threatening their historically rooted identity.

Notes

1 The name “386 Generation” came from their age (30–39 years old), their decade of college entrance (1980s), and their decade of birth (1960s), as of December 2002 when Roh Moo-hyun won the presidential election with a massive support of young voters.

2 This generation came to be called the “5060 Generation” because they were in their 50s and 60s at the time of the presidential election in December 2002. The name has a pejorative meaning as Chun Doo-hwan’s Fifth Republic and Roh Tae-woo’s Sixth Republic are called “ogong” and “yukgong,” sharing the same pronunciation as “50” and “60” in Korean.

186 Byung-Kook Kim

3 The minority Minjugye was made up of Kim Young-sam’s former Unification Democratic Party. The majority Minjong’gye had been a pillar of Chun Doo-hwan’s Fifth Republic. These two factions survived into the years of Kim Young-sam’s political rule, struggling against each other to nominate the presidential candidate of the conservative bloc from their respective factions.

4 This chapter takes Philippe C. Schmitter’s definition of governance: “a method/mechanism for dealing with a broad range of problems/conflicts in which actors regularly arrive at mutually satisfactory and binding decisions by negotiating and deliberating with each other and cooperating in the implementation of these decisions” (Schmitter 2001: 8).

5 Joongang Ilbo, March 8–24, 1993. For an analysis of corruption in Korea, consult Park Byung Suk (1994) and Choi Byung Seon (1994).

6 Chosun Ilbo, April 3 and May 9, 1993, and April 17, 1994. 7 An elite faction within the armed forces that seized power through a “military mutiny”

in 1979, the Hanahoi (Society of One) became Korea’s power elite of the 1979–93 period, monopolizing strategic military posts and producing major political leaders, including two presidents: Chun Doo-hwan and Roh Tae-woo.

8 Joongangilbo, September 21, 1993. 9 See Han’gyorae Sinmun, February 11, 2005, and News Plus Number 127 (April 2,

1998). 10 Consult a memoir of one of the architects of the Nordpolitik, Park Cheol-eon (2005). 11 Chosun Ilbo, January 9, 2002. 12 Chosun Ilbo, March 23, 1999. 13 Chosun Ilbo, September 30 and December 20, 2002. 14 Chosun Ilbo, January 25 and February 7 and 9, 2001. 15 Chosun Ilbo, September 12, 2002. 16 The Status of Forces Agreement enumerates United States military troops’ legal rights

and responsibilities over a diverse range of issues, including facility and land grant, tax and custom duties, and criminal jurisdiction. See http://www.korea.army.mil/sofa/sofa1966_ui1991.pdf and http://www.korea.army.mil/sofa/2001sofa_english%20text.pdf for “Basic Agreement,” “Agreed Minutes,” and other related documents of Korea’s 2001 revised Status of Forces Agreement. Consult Joongang Ilbo, June 26, July 24, August 5, October 1, and December 13, 2002, for reports on Korea’s demand for a revision of its Status of Forces Agreement.

17 Chosun Ilbo, January 14, 2003. 18 Chosun Ilbo, March 27, 2002. 19 See Joongang Ilbo, March 23, May 19, June 9, August 4, September 1 and 25, 1998. 20 Chosun Ilbo, August 11, 2000, and March 12, 2001. 21 Chosun Ilbo, February 8 and 16, 2001. 22 Chosun Ilbo, November 24, 2002. 23 Chosun Ilbo, November 24–26, 2002. 24 Consult Dong-hoon Kim (1999: 65 104). 25 Chosun Ilbo, July 14, 2004. 26 See Kim Hee-seon’s interview, Han’gyorae Simmun, January 15, 2004. 27 Chosun Ilbo, July 22, 2004. 28 Results of a survey jointly conducted by Moonhwa Ilbo and Taylor Nelson Sofres on

October 27, 2004. 29 Chosun Ilbo, August 16–19 and September 16, 2004, and July 20, 2005. 30 Chosun Ilbo, July 26, August 5, and October 9, 2005. 31 Donga Ilbo, September 13, 2004. 32 Donga Ilbo, September 13, 2004. 33 See a public survey jointly conducted by Chosun Ilbo and the Gallup Korea on

November 18, 2007, in http://image.chosun.com/news/2007/pdf/poll_071118.pdf.


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Kim, H. (1983) “Haebangkwa bundanui jeongchi munhwa (Political Culture of Liberation and National Division),” in Hankuk sahwaeui jeontongkwa byonhwa (Tradition and Change in the Korean Society), Seoul: Beommunsa.

Kim, S. (2000) The Politics of Democratization in Korea: The Role of Civil Society, Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press.

Lee, N. (2003) “The ‘Legacy Problem’ and Democratic Consolidation in South Korea and the Philippines,” Journal of East Asian Studies, 3(1): 43–73.

Park, B. (1994). “Jongchi biri (Political Corruption),” in Im Jong Chol et al., Han’guk sahwaeui biri (Corruption in the Korean Society), Seoul: Seoul National University Press.

Park, C. (2005) Bareun yeoksareul wihan jeungeon: ogong yukgong samgim sidaeui bias (A Testimony for Historical Truth: An Undisclosed History of the Fifth Republic, the Sixth Republic, and the Era of the Three Kims), Seoul: Daeum.

Schmitter, P.C. (2001) “What is there to legitimize in the European Union … and how might this be accomplished?” Reihe Politikwissenschaft/Political Science Series, 75, Vienna: Institute for Advanced Studies.

Suh, J. and Kim, B. (1999) “The Politics of Reform in Korea: Dilemma, Choice and Crisis,” in J. Suh and C. Soh (ed.) The World After the Cold War: Issues and Dilemmas, Seoul: Graduate School of International Studies, Korea University.

Woo, J. (1991) Race to the Swift: State and Finance in Korean Industrialization, New York: Columbia University Press.

Part III

Resisting losing

The chapters in this volume clearly demonstrate that “learning to lose”—peacefully accepting the transfer of power and agreeing to participate according to the new democratic rules of the game—is critical to the success of democratic transitions. It is equally critical for consolidating democracy that newly empowered forces “learn to win,” that they do not exclude the losers from the political process, and that they accept the legitimacy of democratic opposition. In our exploration of the South African case, we examine both sides of the coin. We argue that learning to lose and learning to win are complementary and reinforcing phenomena.

Learning to lose for the white minority and learning to win for the majority in South Africa have been two stages in a lengthy process of democratization. The first stage covers the period from the acceptance by the National Party (NP) and the apartheid regime that change was inevitable, to the subsequent lengthy negotiations that led to the “pacted” constitutional settlement of 1993, to the first democratic elections in 1994, and to the passage of the “final” constitution in 1996. These events brought about a fundamental shift in power to the black majority and established South Africa as a constitutional democracy. The second stage—still underway and often unpredictable—involves making the new arrangements work.

In this chapter, we deal more briefly with the first stage of the transition to democracy, concentrating on the second stage. Our central question is: What are the prospects for effective opposition in a racially and economically polarized South Africa, with a party system in which one party, the African National Congress (ANC), is dominant, and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future? Answering this question requires us to define what we mean by the term “effective opposition.” In Westminster systems, the usual expectation is that this role is fulfilled by the minority parties in parliament. The “Official Opposition” is to be an alternative government, a government in waiting. Opposition parties use the parliamentary forum to discredit the government in power, and to mobilize support in order, hopefully, to win the next election. This makes demands on both sides. The government is expected to accept that opposition is legitimate and that members of the opposition are not out to subvert the regime. It must contend with criticism, and accept the possibility of its defeat and replacement. The opposition for its part must accept the legitimacy of the government, understanding that it has

11 Learning to lose, learning to win

Government and opposition in South Africa’s transition to democracy

Antoinette Handley, Christina Murray and Richard Simeon

192 Antoinette Handley, Christina Murray and Richard Simeon

a right to rule and to use its majority to govern by virtue of its democratic election. Learning to accept these relationships is what we mean by learning to win and learning to lose.

Mutual respect and trust are not easy to maintain even in well-established democracies. But in the aftermath of protracted struggle and fundamental regime change, with their legacies of hostility and distrust, these are especially difficult lessons. The opposition will struggle to find a constructively critical role. It is likely to have a deep-seated fear of unfettered majority rule. The government, in turn, is likely to see criticism as an illegitimate threat to the new order. When both government and opposition support is based upon distinct groups, each side is tempted to accuse the other of racially motivated opinions and actions.

In competitive systems the tolerance that government and opposition show for each other is rooted in the fact that the opposition may come to replace the government. In coalition government, tolerance is needed because you can never know with which opposing party you might need to cooperate in the next coalition. But neither incentive exists in the South African case because of the ANC’s electoral dominance. It won close to 70 percent of the vote in the most recent national elections and the same percentage of seats in the National Assembly. All nine provincial governments are now also governed by the ANC.1

The situation is unlikely to change soon. The ANC has the overwhelming support of black South Africans.2 Opposition parties—today primarily the Democratic Alliance (DA)—have made only very limited in-roads into the black community. This is not surprising. It reflects the fact that poverty and economic marginalization continue, overwhelmingly, to have a black face, and that the ANC has successfully positioned itself to address those issues (Simkins 2004; Leibbrandt et al. 2005). The ANC also benefits enormously from its historic role in the struggle against apartheid.

Under these conditions, the classic role of opposition does not exist in a meaningful way.3 If winning power is not an immediate possibility, what roles might parliamentary opposition play? Can it hold the government accountable for its actions? Can it provide a check on the possible misuse and abuse of power, a temptation for any government that faces little prospect of defeat? Is it able to foster debate about new ideas and policies? Or are these roles fatally undermined by the absence of any hope of winning an election in the near future?

The weakness of the parliamentary opposition in South Africa requires us also to ask whether there is a broader set of institutions that can act as a source of opposition and provide genuine checks and balances. We consider the role of internal opposition within the ANC; the role of the courts and the agencies established in the constitution to “protect democracy;” the potential of the elected provincial governments in South Africa’s quasi-federal system; the media; civil society; and protest at the grassroots level. One-party dominance of the government and legislature is less worrisome if these other sources of opposition are vigorous and effective. A powerful demonstration of internal opposition was provided in December 2007 when elements in the ANC engineered the ousting of party leader

South Africa’s transition to democracy 193

and national president, Thabo Mbeki, and his replacement by arch-rival Jacob Zuma.

Learning to lose: the pacted constitutional settlement

White governments dominated South African politics throughout modern times. In 1948, the system became even more oppressive as the NP extended apartheid into all areas of South African life (Thompson 1995; Ross 1999). In the 1970s and 1980s the struggle for liberation intensified, with increasing violence on all sides. By the late 1980s a combination of events led to cracks in the edifice of apartheid.4 With the end of the Cold War the South African regime was no longer a bulwark against Communism. International pressure for political reform rapidly increased, as did the economic costs of South Africa’s isolation.5

The domestic conflict in South Africa increasingly looked like a stalemate. The NP government gradually came to realize that despite its military and police apparatus, it could no longer suppress escalating dissent. The ANC leadership also began to realize that despite its numbers and mass support, it was unlikely to prevail against the NP regime’s overwhelming military strength. In this context, and after secret talks with the ANC, President De Klerk announced that a number of political organizations including the ANC would be unbanned, and ANC leader Nelson Mandela and other political prisoners would be released. Tentative talks between the government and the liberation movements began.

The negotiations between the government and the liberation forces were difficult and complex (Friedman and Atkinson 1994; Sparks 1994; Waldmeir 1997). The NP government knew that it had to learn to lose. In any new order that could make a plausible claim to be a democracy, power would inevitably flow to the black majority—but there was one crucial caveat. Part of what lay behind the willingness of white South Africans, and Afrikaners in particular, to contemplate political reform was that their economic position was secure (Adam et al. 1997). They dominated the economy by almost any measure: household income, level of skills and education, home and asset ownership, and labor market position. In the post-Cold War context, with its neo-liberal economic orthodoxy, any attempt by the state to intervene in the economy in a way that damaged white interests would be met with hostility and alarm by both local and international investors (Herbst 1994; Michie and Padayachee 1997; Handley 2005).

For the NP, the representative of the white minority, the primary challenge at the time was to design a constitution that would constrain majority rule as much as possible and provide the strongest possible protections for the soon-to-be minority. A number of alternatives were considered, including protection of group rights and the possibility of an Afrikaner Volkstaat.6 But these ideas quickly faded. The central goal became the establishment of a classic liberal democratic regime, with checks and balances, separation of powers, federalism to disperse power and constrain the centre, protections for minorities through a strongly worded Bill of Rights, and an independent constitutional court.


True to the vision of its 1955 Freedom Charter,7 the ANC also asserted the importance of protecting rights.8 The ANC was committed to a unitary state with a strong central government, able to manage the task of economic and social development in post-apartheid South Africa. Reaching compromise was difficult and violence continued in the background. Constitutional talks broke down several times. The white government was loath to lose its control while the liberation movements were impatient to complete the transition.9 Eventually, compromise was reached: elections were to be held in 1994 and the country would then be governed under an Interim Constitution, which captured the essence of the deal. The bargain that made this agreement possible ensured that the minority would have a substantial voice in negotiating the final constitution.

The status of the Interim Constitution was anomalous, since it had been negotiated by a discredited government and by liberation forces that did not yet have an electoral mandate. Accordingly, it was agreed that immediately after the 1994 elections the newly elected parliament would constitute itself as a Constitutional Assembly and develop a “final” constitution within two years. To protect its interests, the out-going regime secured agreement that this constitution would adhere to a set of 34 Constitutional Principles. They spelled out the basic tenets of liberal democracy while seeking to secure the interests of the outgoing NP government and its electorate. The constitution was to be adopted by a two-thirds majority in parliament and could not come into effect until it had been certified to comply with the Constitutional Principles by the new Constitutional Court. In these ways, the out-going regime, while recognizing the inevitable, sought to minimize its loss by building in as many protections as possible. If it had to learn to lose, the NP wanted to do so on its own terms. To a great extent it succeeded in this.10

The bargain was made possible by the ANC’s desire for a peaceful settlement and by the commitment of its leadership to democracy, reconciliation, and an inclusive definition of the nation. Progress towards a democratic constitution was also facilitated by the international spate of constitution-writing that accompanied the third wave of democracy. By now a kind of international constitutional standard was emerging, one which emphasized Bills of Rights, the rule of law, and an independent judiciary, along with free and fair elections.11 Commonwealth countries and international observers and advisers strongly urged this model. Whatever concerns the ANC might have had about some of the recommendations, it also desired international acceptance of its new dispensation: hence the “pacted” constitution (Murray and Simeon 2005).

The final constitution negotiated in the Constitutional Assembly remained true to the Interim Constitution and to the 34 Principles.12 Many provisions reflected a shared desire among all parties that in a democratic South Africa, multi-party democracy would be protected and the opposition would continue to have a voice. Strikingly, in the negotiations it was often the ANC that had a deeper and more expansive view of democracy. The NP, as its history had demonstrated so well, was a party of reluctant democrats, who were concerned mainly with protecting their interests by limiting government power.


Six elements of the constitution are particularly worth noting. First, its opening words eschew a sense of majority triumphalism by articulating an inclusive concept of citizenship, in which “South Africa belongs to all who live in it, united in our diversity.” Inter alia, the founding provisions proclaim the promotion of human rights, the supremacy of the constitution and the rule of law, and a multi-party system. Elsewhere the Constitution protects independent courts with the power of judicial review, and requires super-majorities for constitutional amendment.

Second, detailed provisions on the national parliament and provincial legislatures protect minority parties, secure financial assistance for them, and establish the position of the Leader of the Opposition. In municipal councils too, parties and interests must be fairly represented. Third, a transitional Government of National Unity (GNU) gave any party with more than 5 percent of the national vote representation in the cabinet. Any party with 20 percent was to be given a post as Deputy President.13 Although this was to last for only one electoral term, it reassured the minority parties that they would have some voice in the early days of the new democracy. The NP soon withdrew from the GNU, preferring a more Westminster style of opposition. The other major opposition party, the Zulu-based Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP), continued to be represented in the cabinet until 2004.14

Fourth is a Bill of Rights, incorporating social and economic rights as well as political and civil rights. Afrikaners, as well as the IFP, sought strong guarantees of the rights of cultural and linguistic minorities. The result is the constitutional recognition of 11 official languages, the protection of “language and culture” and “cultural and religious communities” in the Bill of Rights, and the establishment of a Commission for the Promotion and Protection of the Rights of Cultural, Religious and Linguistic Communities. Fifth, the Constitution establishes a number of institutions designed to police the quality of democracy, including a Human Rights Commission, Commission for Gender Equality, Electoral Commission, a board to determine municipal boundaries, an ombudsman (called a Public Protector) and an Auditor-General. All are to be independent of the government.

Sixth, the Constitution establishes a system of multi-level (or multi-sphere) government. This was a central goal of both the NP and IFP, intended to limit the power of the central government and disperse political authority. South Africa is thus federal in form, with independently elected national, provincial, and local governments. Each has specified powers and the provinces are represented in the national government through the National Council of Provinces (NCOP). However, the system is only semi-federal, since the most important powers, including control of finances, rest with the central government. The centre also enjoys extensive levers to monitor and control the lower levels of government (Simeon and Murray 2001: 65–92).

All these elements of the pacted constitution point to the legitimacy of opposition in the new South Africa. They provide protections against the unfettered imposition of majority rule and provide the political space for opposition activities (a multi-party system, provincial and local governments as potential sources of countervailing power), as well as freedom of the press, speech and association.


These provisions sweetened the bitter pill of defeat for the NP, and substantially reconciled the losers to their diminished status and power.

This story of political transition in South Africa shows how the outgoing minority government was forced to learn to lose, and how, by participating in the transition, rather than resisting it, the NP was able to secure arrangements that they believed would ensure them an important role in a democratic South Africa. But now in the new dispensation, the NP would be the opposition, rather than the government. Moreover both the GNU and the federalist system offered the opposition parties hope that they could preserve some political space of their own. Indeed, in the first elections, the IFP gained power in KwaZulu-Natal and the NP gained control of the government of the Western Cape. While this was not to last, it was another indication of the success of South Africa’s transition as political outsiders moved into government, and vice versa.

Opposition in South Africa today

Eleven years after the adoption of the final Constitution, South Africa has many features of a sustainable democracy.15 It has held three free and fair national elections. It has had a peaceful transition of power from one President to another. It has a vociferous though small opposition in the National Assembly, a vibrant civil society, and a lively, critical press. The Constitutional Court has established a reputation for independence and its judgments are respected. The white minority does not challenge the fundamental legitimacy of the elected ANC government nor does it threaten to undermine the government.16 By these measures, the politics of learning to lose in South Africa has been a remarkable success.

Nonetheless, there are some disturbing trends. There has been no turnover of the ruling party in power since 1994. Voter turnout has plummeted (Piombo 2005: 255–7). The ANC has instead further entrenched its majority in the National Assembly. The parliamentary opposition has failed to develop into a lively, multi-racial, liberal opposition with broad national appeal (Southall 2003: 68–74; Southall and Daniel 2005: 34; Calland 2006: 163–85). Instead, opposition has fragmented. The largest opposition party, the DA, has struggled to shake off the image that it is the voice of a discontented and still relatively privileged white minority (Herbst 2005: 93). The former ruling party, the NP, failed in opposition. Having walked out of the GNU, its fortunes plummeted and it dissolved itself into the ANC in 2005. Institutionalized uncertainty about the outcome of electoral competition is absent (Przeworski 1991). Without the prospect of electoral defeat, dominant parties will come to feel that they “own” the political system and will seek to control and limit alternative centres of power. Criticism comes to be seen as irresponsible and divisive. Tendencies toward corruption become more difficult to restrain. The ANC is not immune from such tendencies (Sole 2005; Feinstein 2007).

In what follows, we show that traditional parliamentary opposition is indeed weak and ineffective in South Africa today. Are there then other institutions within the political system which can substitute for this lack? Factional divisions


within the ANC and between it and its alliance partners, pressures arising from a dynamic civil society, grassroots popular politics, and the checks provided by the courts could all go a long way to ensure that ANC hegemony does not go unchallenged.

Parliamentary opposition

The size and solidity of the ANC’s majority is not surprising. Since taking office, the ANC government has overseen an impressive expansion in the provision of basic services, such as housing, basic health care, water and electricity to the poor. There has been a massive expansion in the country’s social grant system, providing a small but vital injection of cash into some of the poorest households in the country (Case and Deaton 1996). While unemployment remains high, ANC policy has seen a modest but important recovery in economic growth. Beyond material outputs, the ANC still derives enormous legitimacy from its role in the liberation struggle and its prominence in the transition to democracy.

The job of the opposition has therefore been tricky (Lanegran 2001). In the first democratic elections of 1994, 19 different parties competed of which seven won seats. With 62.6 percent of the vote, the ANC won 252 of the 400 National Assembly seats. The NP was far behind, winning just 20.4 percent of the vote and 82 seats. Third was the IFP, with 10.5 percent of the votes and 43 seats. Under the terms of the Interim Constitution, both of these parties were represented in the GNU, with former President De Klerk as a Deputy President. Smaller numbers of seats were won by the extremist Afrikaner Freedom Front (nine), the largely English-speaking Democratic Party17 (seven), and the Pan-Africanist Congress of Azania, a radical black party (five), among others.

By the third elections of 2004, the ANC had consolidated its position even further, winning 69.7 percent of the vote and 279 seats, enabling it to amend the Constitution by itself (Southall and Daniel 2005). The minority parties also underwent considerable change. The former dominant party, the NP, now re-named the New National Party (NNP), saw its support shrink to less than 2 percent of the vote. Opposition support was concentrated in the DA, but it won only 12.4 percent of the vote and 50 seats. The IFP was reduced to 28 seats and remains a regional party. The United Democratic Movement, an attempt to build a cross-racial party, won only nine seats.18

Most significantly, the NP has collapsed; in a certain sense it had failed to learn to lose (Maloka 2001). Deprived of its raison d’être, apartheid, it was unable to construct a coherent alternative to the ANC. Its electoral base in the white community dwindled and it failed to attract black voters. The cross-over of most of its remaining politicians to the ANC in 2005 may have been a last-ditch effort to hold on to some fragments of power but nonetheless provides an extraordinary example of the oppressor joining the revolution. The IFP’s fortunes have been better, but it too has lost voter support. Only the DA has grown, but within a diminishing space for opposition, and, as we have seen, it has failed to broaden its support beyond the white community.19


Opposition parties have nonetheless been active (and vocal) in Parliament. They are assertive at question time and have proposed some private members’ bills. When they are able to coordinate their National Assembly activities, they compensate for their small numbers by dividing responsibility for committee work. Initially, parliamentary committees provided some space for relatively non-partisan engagement by MPs, giving the opposition parties opportunities to make real contributions to legislation. However, this has not been sustained.20 As Nijzink and Piombo (2005: 70) comment, a “clear trend in the past ten years of parliamentary politics is that parties and partisan considerations increasingly dominate National Assembly parliamentary proceedings, even in areas where one would expect individual MPs to be able to deal with certain aspects of their work in an atmosphere of relaxed party discipline.”

Time allocated to speakers in parliamentary question time is based on party strength, thus favoring the ruling party (Nijzink and Piombo 2005: 70) and committees may not issue separate minority reports in which opposition parties can express their views. In 2005, in a move that particularly irked the DA, the position of chair of the public accounts committee, which had traditionally been occupied by the opposition in the National Assembly, was allocated to a member of the minuscule Pan Africanist Congress party.21 These factors are reinforced by the fragmentation of the small opposition parties that often speak only for special interests, and by the fact that the current President, Thabo Mbeki, has been able to subdue the IFP and AZAPO (Azanian People’s Organisation) by including them in his cabinet, and to reward the erstwhile leader of the NNP in the same manner. Parliamentary opposition is thus weak, fragmented, and vulnerable, unable to mount a serious challenge to the ANC, or to contemplate any alteration in power. Despite its efforts, it has been unable to make meaningful contributions to policy development, or to exercise effective oversight and scrutiny.

Nijzink and Piombo (2005: 70) conclude that “the ANC has become more reluctant to engage in open and robust deliberations.”22 It does not respond kindly to criticism from the official opposition party.23 Overall, its extreme defensiveness and introduction of parliamentary procedures to shield it from criticism are not attributes of a winner in a fully democratic system. Most of the opposition, on the other hand, seems to adopt a rhetorical and confrontational style rather than to engage in constructive criticism. This, Nijzink and Piombo suggest, may be a sign of the normalization of politics. It may also be a sign that “[p]arliament is losing its central role and is not the main forum to debate issues of public concern” (2005: 71). It is certainly not the primary site of opposition today.

Extra-parliamentary opposition

The country’s electoral dynamics mean that the most significant opposition in South Africa comes from outside parliament. We begin with divisions within the governing party itself. The ANC frequently claims that vigorous debate within the party is more than adequate compensation for the weakness of institutionalized opposition from outside. But, perhaps as a legacy of its history as an underground


movement, the ANC emphasizes the importance of party discipline and solidarity (Lodge 2006).24 This hostility to intra-party dissent undermines the claim that internal democracy is a sufficient substitute for inter-party competition. Of course, the party, like South African society as a whole, is no monolith.25 There are many internal divisions: between those whose struggle heritage is focused on Robben Island, those who were in exile abroad, and those who fought in the streets of Soweto; between those who support the centrist policies of the government and those seeking more radical solutions; and between diverse regional and personal factions, and so on.

Tensions within the ANC erupted publicly in 2005 over corruption allegations against then Deputy President, Jacob Zuma, and criticism of Mbeki’s detached leadership style and market-orientated economic policy. Zuma’s down-to-earth manner, his political credentials (which include 10 years as a political prisoner on Robben Island), and the perception that he remains in touch with the concerns of ordinary South Africans has made him enormously popular within the ranks of the ANC (and the youth wing in particular), and with the ANC’s political partners (especially with COSATU, the trade union movement). Open rebellion within the party culminated in the succession battle which challenged the powerful norm, namely that the ANC should deal with internal disputes privately and thus always present a unified public face.26 Most surprising was that the challenger, Zuma, won a decisive victory at the ANC party conference in 2007.27

It might be argued that, given the dominance of the ANC, such a shift in party leadership was equivalent to a change in government in a more competitive party system. But this analogy must not be taken too far. First, it is by no means clear that change in party leadership will automatically lead to a change in the national presidency in advance of scheduled national elections. Second, the electorate within the party is much smaller than the national electorate, or even the electoral base of the ANC.28

The limitations of internal debate as a substitute for opposition are starkly portrayed by the mystery, attempts at secrecy, and confusion that surrounded the 2007 leadership battle in the ANC. On occasion the party leadership encouraged open debate, and at other times it chastised groupings within the ANC which seek to air the issues in public. The failure to develop consistent, open procedures for a transfer of power has contributed to the very division that the party leadership tried to avoid. Nevertheless, the overall outcome was to give the public access to crucial debates from which they might otherwise be barred (Lodge 2006). In this context, the party conference may be seen as a victory for democracy in South Africa as it may have shifted the culture of the ANC from its traditional struggle-oriented internal discipline and secrecy to a more participatory, open forum for political debate.

There are also deepening tensions between the ANC and its alliance partners.29 The tripartite alliance that makes up the ANC alliance was formalized during the early 1990s to contest South Africa’s first democratic elections, consolidating a long-standing set of more informal alliances. COSATU, formed in 1985, united unions which aligned themselves with the ANC. For its part, the SACP (South


African Communist Party) had, since at least the 1940s and 1950s, been closely associated with the ANC.

The current disagreement between the SACP, COSATU and the ANC centers on the economic policies adopted by the ANC since the late 1990s. Both allies have been sharply critical of the government’s conservative macroeconomic policy, the Growth, Employment and Redistribution strategy, dubbed GEAR. The number of new black millionaires in South Africa has risen sharply. Their swift accession to wealth has been facilitated by the model of Black Economic Empowerment adopted by the government.30 However, these policies have not produced dramatic improvements in the livelihoods of the majority of black South Africans and levels of inequality in South Africa continue to be among the highest in the world.31

Dissent within the ANC and between it and its alliance partners is real and growing, ensuring that competing policies are sharply debated within the ruling party (Mde and Brown 2006). Like factionalism within the ANC, however, until recently intra-alliance conflict has not been an effective substitute for true inter-party competition. This is because much of the debate has taken place behind closed doors, and because much of it has involved personal rivalries and competition for spoils that have little direct connection to the concerns of citizens.32

More recently, however, disagreement has taken on a more public face. Competing policy choices and alternatives have, for the first time, triggered vigorous public debate and the SACP and COSATU may be learning the lesson that the NP learned earlier—that a subordinate position in the governing alliance is no substitute for a truly independent status. Both the SACP and COSATU have threatened to leave the alliance (IDASA 2005; SACP 2005). Many believe that the potential break up of the alliance is the most likely way that South Africa will move from one-party dominance to a multi-party system. The outlines of such a party realignment can be imagined: a centrist ANC competing with a more socialist opposition. However, that would require the SACP and COSATU to break their links to the ANC and to compete for votes on their own. Thus, while the possibility of a movement to a multi-party system through the break up of the dominant alliance is no longer completely unthinkable, it remains unlikely. For the time being, the success of the SACP and COSATU campaign to oust Mbeki as leader of the ANC will deter them from striking out on their own.

Federalism and regionalism

In federal systems, sub-national governments often provide alternative bases of power and authority, limiting central power and the authority of the party that controls it. South Africa has adopted a quasi-federal regime, with three constitutional spheres of government. However, for a number of reasons, provincial and local level governments have not emerged as effective challengers of the national government (Murray and Simeon 2001). First, jurisdiction and fiscal powers are heavily concentrated in the central government. The center also has wide powers to monitor and regulate provincial and local governments. Second, with few exceptions, provincial and local governments and their leaders


have little independent standing from which to mount a challenge to the ANC-dominated centre. Third and most important, all provincial governments are in ANC hands. While local and regional branches of the ANC have considerable influence on such matters as preparing party electoral lists, the ANC itself remains highly centralized (Lodge 1999; Gumede 2005). Provincial Premiers are formally selected by their legislatures, but, in fact, they (and other local politicians) are “deployed” by the national executive leadership of the party. They are thus at least as responsible to the center as they are to their own electorates. Provinces in South Africa have undertaken few independent legislative initiatives, and they seldom challenge the government in the NCOP, which was designed originally to ensure a provincial voice in national policy and administration.

There is some potential for regional bases of opposition. As we have noted, the IFP formed the government of KwaZulu-Natal after the 1994 elections, as did the NP in the Western Cape. It is possible that alternative parties might win an election in at least one or two provinces in the future.33 Moreover, there are strong regional differences that the central ANC government must balance, between, for example, the wealthier industrialized Western Cape and the much poorer, more rural regions, such as the Eastern Cape or Limpopo. Provincial (and metropolitan) governments in the stronger provinces have developed some political autonomy, while the weaker ones have become increasingly dependent on the centre. In provinces such as Gauteng and KwaZulu-Natal there are several examples of determined opposition from local leadership to central dictates (Tabane and Gcukumana 2006).

Some provinces have used their limited jurisdiction to pursue independent policies, for instance, in the critical area of treatment for AIDS (Steytler 2003).34 Regional government and party leaders in some cases have increasingly chafed at central domination. The central leadership of the ANC has paid attention to these recent developments. Dissatisfied with poor provincial performance, perhaps worried about potential provincial assertiveness, and, some say, determined to retain control of all provinces, prominent voices in the ANC have recently advocated abolishing provinces or radically redrawing the provincial map (Pressly 2007; ANC 2007: 6–10; Department of Provincial and Local Government 2007).

Courts and agencies

The courts and other institutions designed to safeguard democracy may place limits on the unfettered majoritarianism of one-party rule. Their obligation, after all, is to the Constitution rather than to any party. The courts have played an important role in providing a balance to the government. They have challenged its performance in a number of important areas, including housing, health care, freedom of speech and access to information.35 They are widely regarded as independent. Recently the Constitutional Court has also underlined the importance of public participation in decision-making in Parliament and the provincial legislatures by declaring a number of laws and a constitutional amendment invalid because of the failure to


comply with the constitutional provisions requiring public involvement in law making.36

The independence of the judiciary may be under some threat, however. In 2005, Cabinet approved a constitutional amendment that, among other things, would increase the power of the Ministry of Justice vis-à-vis the judiciary and would allow the President to appoint regional judge presidents (Moya 2006). The proposed constitutional amendments provoked unprecedented judicial resistance, prompting the President to intervene. Judges and the legal establishment in South Africa have insisted that the proposals would destroy judicial independence. Moreover, more recently, political interference in the prosecuting authority has threatened the justice system yet further. While the outcome of these actions remains unclear, the judicial record so far provides a noteworthy example of creative support for open democratic processes and extra-parliamentary opposition in a context in which formal opposition is ineffective.

The record of the independent agencies established by the Constitution is considerably weaker. Although the Public Protector deals with increasing numbers of complaints relatively effectively, the office has frequently been accused of being partisan in more high-profile matters.37 The Human Rights Commission has built a reputation for useful work, but the Commissioners were unable to agree to investigate the AIDS pandemic and related health care concerns. Its work is seldom visible to the public. The Auditor-General lost some credibility in an investigation relating to an arms deal in which he was accused of changing a report after it was reviewed by the executive (Feinstein 2007: 213). The ability of these agencies to check government power is thus in some question.

Civil society and media

One of the remarkable aspects of the anti-apartheid struggle in South Africa was the way it drew on and in turn engendered the growth of a diverse and vocal civil society. This was facilitated, in part, by support, including funding, from international sources sympathetic to that struggle. Many hoped that civil society would continue to provide an importance source of opposition to the dominant party after 1994. Two factors limited this potential. First, most civil society organizations were sympathetic to the ANC-led anti-apartheid struggle, and thus are not inclined to criticize the party. Second, when the ANC government took the reins of power in 1994, it often looked to civil society leaders to fill senior governmental positions; this weakened the groups themselves. Still, certain sectors of civil society continue to provide a source of opposition in contemporary South Africa (Friedman 2005: 10–14).

The private press, overwhelmingly liberal in orientation and for the most part still white-owned, is widely regarded as independent and prepared to debate the issues of the day. The same is not necessarily true, however, of the state-owned media, which tends to hew more closely to the ANC’s version of events. Independent think-tanks and NGOs continue to flourish. For their part, churches


have shifted from “a position of alignment and co-optation towards a more independent and critical voice” (Bompani 2006: 1138).

One of the most striking characteristics of the transition period has been the patience of South Africans, as they wait for the increased employment, better schools, clinics, housing and other services. Progress has indeed been made, but the gaps remain daunting. A striking development in the last two years, however, is the increasing number of local protests against delivery failures and other aspects of ANC rule. Local protests have occurred in many parts of the country. In the recent local elections, citizens in one community successfully boycotted the vote in protest against their assignment from one province to another. Such dissent remains relatively localized and un-organized. No parties have yet emerged to focus and mobilize it (Desai 2006).

The Treatment Action Campaign (TAC) is an exception. One of the most active NGOs in South Africa, and led by a former anti-apartheid activist, the TAC employs high-profile tactics, including marches and rallies, laying of charges of murder against the Minster of Health, and challenges in the Constitutional Court for breach of the right of access to health care. The TAC has been enormously successful in winning international support and media attention for its struggle to compel the government to tackle more systematically the HIV/AIDS epidemic. It has won several crucial legal battles. The example of the TAC raises questions about appropriate opposition tactics in a society in which one party enjoys hegemonic status. The TAC has adopted a very different tack to the head-on opposition strategy of the DA, and to great effect. Taking at face value the ANC’s claim to support vigorous debate on all issues of public importance, the TAC has asserted its support for the party while at the same time challenging government policy both through public protests and in the courts.

Conclusion

South Africa’s political transition has been a major success. In the critical earlier period, the old regime did, in the end, give up power, peacefully, and agree to participate in the new system. The new regime took power and negotiated a new constitution. Each could have acted differently with disastrous consequences. That this was avoided was the result of a combination of factors: the favorable economic climate, the military stalemate, the strategic calculations of the contending forces, and the role of particular leaders who established the minimum level of trust necessary for a successful resolution. The ANC embraced political victory without exacting retribution and imposing repression. The white minority learned to lose, accepting that political (if not economic) power could not remain in their hands.

The second stage of South Africa’s transition presents a mixed and perhaps somewhat less optimistic picture. This is the period of consolidation and the fundamental fact that underpins it is the unassailable dominance of a single party, the ANC, and the virtual impossibility of any alternation in power into the foreseeable future. Such a political dynamic fosters worrying behaviors on


both sides. The ANC maintains the idea that the government is “ours,” and that opposition is illegitimate, especially if it comes from minority white groups. On the side of the opposition, the realization of permanent minority status provides few incentives to reach out for a broader electoral support base or to form political coalitions. To put it bluntly, it is by no means clear that the current ruling party, the ANC, has learned to be a gracious and generous winner, able to contemplate even the smallest losses. There is also little to show that the parliamentary opposition has any capacity to grow beyond a small, embattled opposition, destined always to lose in any larger battle for voter confidence.

The specific South African context—a new democracy with an overwhelmingly dominant majority party—imposes exceptional demands on democratic consolidation. The responsibility for establishing a political culture of tolerance of opposition that is essential to constitutionalism and democracy rests almost entirely with the ANC government. But this places a huge burden on the new party: the ANC must at one and the same time transform itself from a liberation movement into a political party that defends its platform and challenges its competitors, and build a nation with a culture of open democratic competition. And this must be done in the most demanding of social and economic circumstances. Thus, the low marks that the ANC earns on our score card for tolerating the parliamentary opposition and other institutions that could build a culture of accountability are no surprise.

What then can we conclude about the state of opposition in South Africa? Parliamentary opposition in the classic model is very weak. There are disturbing signs that the behavior of the ANC has begun to reflect the lack of accountability that comes with its electoral dominance. Equally disturbing is the tone adopted by some ANC leaders, implying that the current opposition is illegitimate and racist and an increasing insistence on a kind of national unity that forecloses public dissent. The opposition parties similarly display some of the pathologies of voice without the prospect of responsibility for actually governing.

We think that democracy is best protected when there is a competitive party system, when the incumbent party is constrained by its need to maintain electoral support and when opposition parties are motivated by their need to win that support. This is not the case in South Africa today, with worrying implications for the quality of its democracy. Nonetheless, even a quick scan of South African politics reveals a range of sources of opposition: some within the ANC itself, and within its broader coalition; more in civil society, the press, and in messages from local communities protesting the lack of service delivery and yet another in the restraining force of the judiciary. In addition, both the level and scope of opposition to the ANC government seem to be increasing. The government, to be sure, seeks more control over important political institutions and to suppress the emergence of opposition or alternative sources of authority. But this is increasingly contested. In this respect, South African democracy displays considerable vitality.

It is early days for South Africa’s democracy. An optimist might argue that so long as opposition takes root in civil society, political learning can and will occur. As suggested by events in India after that country’s independence, it may be that


as South Africa moves further from the transition moment, a healthier and more robust system of parliamentary opposition will develop (Reddy 2005). Whether the emergent opposition forces can constrain the ANC government and whether or not they lead to new political formations remains to be seen, however. Opposition in the classic parliamentary sense is weak. Yet, alternative arenas of opposition are alive and well, meaning that the ANC may yet have to learn to be the kind of tolerant winner that South African democracy deserves.

Notes

1 It is important to underline that this dominance is not the result of coercion, manipulation, or abuse, but rather of the operation of democratic electoral politics. The purely proportional electoral system, indeed, is designed to ensure representation of even small minorities in Parliament.

2 Some have argued that elections in South Africa continue to have many of the characteristics of an “ethnic census.” Steven Friedman (2004: 3) convincingly refutes this argument: “To say that South Africans vote their identities is not to say that elections are ethnic censuses…It is to insist that preferences are shaped by voters’ assessment of which party can best provide a vehicle for who they are…Many black voters will support the ANC even if they lack a job because they believe it expresses their demand for dignity and freedom…many white voters will support the DA even though they know it will not be able to influence government decisions because they believe it says what they feel.” See also Friedman (2005: 5 and 1999).

3 The ANC has been characterized as a “dominant party” and, for many observers, this does not bode well for South African democracy. See Giliomee et al. (2001), Giliomee and Simkins (1999), Lanegran (2001). Others disagree: cf. Reddy (2005), Suttner (2004).

4 For instance, in 1986 a number of laws central to apartheid were repealed or amended. See, for example, the Black Communities Development Amendment Act No 74 of 1986; the Identification Act No 72 of 1986; the Abolition of Influx Control Act No 68 of 1986; and the Restoration of South African Citizenship Act No 73 of 1986.

5 In particular, the decision by US-based Citibank not to roll over South Africa’s loans, a move replicated by a number of other international banks, critically reduced the regime’s access to credit on international markets, a clear sign that global capital markets were no longer prepared to bet on the viability of the status quo.

6 For the larger debate on managing conflict in divided societies like South Africa, see Horowitz (1991), Lijphart (1985).

7 For a copy see: http://www.anc.org.za/ancdocs/history/charter.html (accessed March 2006).

8 Constitutional Guidelines 1988. 9 Excellent accounts of this period are found in Friedman (1993), Friedman and

Atkinson (1994), Sparks (1994). 10 At least, in the short term. For a discussion of the ANC’s success in outmaneuvering

the NP after the 1994 elections, see Giliomee et al. (2001). 11 The ANC contributed to the internationalization of this standard through its promotion

of the Harare Declaration of 1989 which set out the principles on which a future South African constitution should be based and which were adopted by the UN General Assembly (http://www.anc.org.za/ancdocs/history/oau/harare.html) as the Declaration on Apartheid and its Destructive Consequences in Southern Africa, A/RES/S-16/1.

12 For accounts of this process, see Andrews and Ellmann (2001). 13 See Constitution of South Africa Schedule 6 item 2.


14 The last leader of the NNP, Marthinus von Schalkwyk, remains in the cabinet at the time of writing, but as a member of the ANC.

15 The usual term is “consolidated democracy.” As it is commonly used in political science, this implies both a judgment about the broad and deep quality of democracy, and some measure of confidence that that democracy will endure. In terms of this relatively demanding definition, there are grounds for questioning whether South Africa is a fully consolidated democracy. We would be happier to describe South Africa as a “durable democracy,” a definition which implies two qualifications. First, we mean by this a limited definition of democracy as a political system in which key leaders are chosen through competitive elections with universal suffrage; and second, we are making a judgment which is not so much about the quality of the democracy as about its durability over time. In terms of this more limited definition, South Africa unquestionably is a democracy, has been one for the last twelve years, and is likely to continue to be one for the foreseeable future. Many thanks to Nancy Bermeo for this helpful distinction. See also Diamond and Morlino (2005), O’Donnell et al. (2004).

16 Note that the white community has lost little of its economic power. 17 This would become the DA. 18 Voter participation in South Africa remains high by international standards. Of the

registered electorate, 89.3 percent voted in the national and provincial elections in 1999 and 76.7 percent in 2000. The turnout of registered voters for local government elections on 1 March 2006 was around 48 percent.

19 The DA is, of course, an experienced loser with roots in the famous Progressive Federal Party for which Helen Suzman was the lone parliamentarian for many apartheid years.

20 Nor, of course, does it often occur in other Westminster parliamentary systems, which are characterized by strict party discipline and executive dominance.

21 About two-thirds of the parliaments in the Commonwealth follow the practice of giving the chair of the public accounts committee to a member of the opposition. The ANC has never embraced this tradition fully. The first post-1994 public accounts committee was chaired by a member of the IFP, which was then represented in cabinet.

22 Feinstein’s (2007) description of the way in which the ANC blocked a parliamentary enquiry into a 1999 arms deal is a devastating example. A more recent example concerns the suspension of National Director of Public Prosecutions, Vusi Pikoli. The DA demanded that Parliament reconvene urgently to discuss the suspension but this request was refused (SAPA 2007).

23 For example, in 2006 the Minister of Education, Naledi Pandor, characterized the opposition as “whiners” and “whingers,” “reborn purists” who had caused “much of the awful legacy we deal with today” and who “had had the power to effect change at many points in their privileged lives” but “when push came to shove, …did not fight for freedom” (Department of Education 2006). See also a letter by ANC Caucus spokesperson to The Star expressing high indignation that the DA thought it could chair the Public Accounts Committee: “The DA is not the only opposition—in fact there are better and more credible opposition parties…This campaign [by DA for PAC chair] has nothing to do with good public representation but everything to do with advancement of party interest. Again, this is in the DNA of such parties” (Lekgoro 2005).

24 Cf. also Lodge (2002: chapter 8). 25 See generally Friedman (1999: 97). 26 For an authoritative account of policymaking within the ANC, see Lodge (1999). 27 Jacob Zuma was elected to the presidency of the ANC with 2,329 votes to Thabo

Mbeki’s 1,505 votes. Zuma’s victory was consolidated by the fact that his slate won all other top leadership positions in the party, ousting some of Mbeki’s most senior Cabinet ministers.


28 About 4,000 delegates had voting rights at the ANC party conference (IDASA 2007). An ANC audit of its membership concluded that on 30 June 2007 it had 621,237 members (IDASA 2007). There are 21,054,957 registered voters in the country (Independent Electoral Commission 2006).

29 For a discussion of this issue, see McKinley (2001). 30 Broad Based Black Economic Empowerment Act no. 53 of 2003 http://www.dti.gov.

za/bee/BEEAct-2003–2004.pdf (accessed March 2006). See also Iheduru (2002). 31 Cf. the Gini index of inequality, published by the UN as part of its Human Development

Report: http://hdr.undp.org/en/reports/global/hdr2003/ (accessed March 2006). 32 Proposals to amend South Africa’s labor legislation have put a sharp focus on these

issues. The Minister of Labour has reassured the electorate that “the labor laws will not be changed,” in the same breath saying that the Cabinet is working on “reform” of the law. The changes are rightly viewed by COSATU as a response to the concern of business and the ministry of finance that the current labor regime is too protective and inhibits the development of small business and international investment. But the current labor regime was a hard-won victory for COSATU just a few years ago.

33 The DA re-captured control of Cape Town in the 2006 local elections, but without a clear majority, and complex negotiations among the parties ensued.

34 See also responses to provincial boundary changes brought about in 2006. 35 For example, Government of the RSA v Grootboom 2000 (11) BCLR 1169 (CC) (on

access to housing), Minister of Health v Treatment Action Campaign (1) 2002 (10) BCLR 1033 (CC) (on treatment for HIV/Aids); Midi Television (Pty) Ltd t/a E-TV v Director of Public Prosecutions (Western Cape) 2007 (5) SA 540 (SCA); [2007] 3 All SA 318 (on free speech and the media); Van Huyssteen v Minister of Environmental Affairs and Tourism 1996 (1) SA 283 (C) (on access to information).

36 Doctors for Life International v Speaker of the National Assembly and others 2006 (12) BCLR (CC) and Matatiele Municipality and Others v President of the RSA and Others 2007 (1) BCLR 47 (CC).

37 The 1999 arms deal is one such example; a diamond tiara acquired by the Minister of Energy Affairs—now Deputy President—another.

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Elections, ideally free, fair, and competitive, are an important component of democracy. Recently, a number of dominant parties which had seemed so indomitable not long ago have since peacefully surrendered power and turned their attentions to competing against other parties in order to regain electoral power. The central question of this collection, why some governing parties “learn to lose” by accepting democratic alternations of power and others do not, is an enticing and important one.

In Malaysia, the United Malays National Organization (UMNO) has never had its dominance seriously challenged and so has never had to “learn to lose”; indeed it remains unassailable. This chapter focuses on four interrelated questions. First, how did UMNO emerge as a dominant party? Second, how has UMNO successfully defied the trend that has seen the decline of many dominant parties? Third, how has UMNO reacted to major crises, allowing it to preserve its dominance? And fourth, are there any grounds to suggest that UMNO’s dominance might be challenged in the near future? Although UMNO’s dominance seems secure today, it is possible that one day this outlier, facing a major electoral or intra-party crisis, will have to decide whether to become more authoritarian to retain power or more democratic by surrendering it.

How did UMNO become a dominant party?

Politics in Malaya and subsequently Malaysia have always been closely linked to ethnic considerations. There are three main territorially-interspersed ethnic groups—the Malays, Chinese, and Indians—although this configuration has been complicated by the addition of the indigenous peoples of the Borneo states since 1963. The first Malaysian census in 1970 gave the Malays 53.2 percent of the population of Peninsular Malaysia and 46.8 percent for all of Malaysia. Later census data are not compatible, since the categories of Malays and those of other indigenous peoples have been merged as “Bumiputera” and separate ethnic figures for Peninsular Malaysia are no longer published.1 The 2000 Census shows the Bumiputera at 65.1 percent, an increase of nearly 5 percent over the previous census. The total Muslim population is 60.4 percent (Department of Statistics 2000).2 All Malays are Muslim by constitutional definition, but there are some

12 Learning to lose?

Not if UMNO can help it

Diane K. Mauzy and Shane J. Barter

212 Diane K. Mauzy and Shane J. Barter

non-Malay Muslims as well. Thus, Malays in Peninsular Malaysia should total slightly less than 60 percent.

Beginning in the early nineteenth century, the British established colonial rule over the Malayan peninsula. The British worked in cooperation with the feudal Malay aristocracy to preserve the traditional lifestyle of Malay subsistence farmers and fishermen. For the modern economic sector, the British encouraged the recruitment of immigrant labour from China and India. Over time, the growing wealth and domination of the urban areas by the immigrants led to increasing Malay alarm that they were being overwhelmed in their own land. They began seeing parallels with the indigenous peoples of North America. At the end of World War II, in the absence of authority, there were many violent clashes between Malays and non-Malays (Nagata 1974: 331–50).3

After World War II, the British established a Malayan Union with a single centralized government. Among other things, this meant ending Malay special rights and integrating non-Malays through common citizenship laws. In response, UMNO was formed in 1946 “to ward off the ignominy of racial extinction” (Ishak 1960: 61). From the beginning, UMNO was predicated on the idea that it was the Malay “protector”. Indeed, UMNO succeeded in pressuring the British to rescind the Malayan Union and instituted in its place a centralized federation that restored many powers and “rights” that had been removed (Allen 1967: ch. 1). These actions left UMNO positioned to rule as the country progressed towards self-government. At independence, the Malays, the least educated and poorest of the main ethnic groups, believed that the preservation of their land, culture, and indeed their race was attributable to UMNO.

Under British colonial tutelage, parliamentary democracy was slowly introduced to Malaya. Troubled by the violent partition of India, the British were more interested in promoting a stable political system than a competitive democracy. The British ideal was a strong party with multi-ethnic appeal that could lead the country to independence and maintain ethnic peace. To this end, the British supported the multi-ethnic Independence of Malaya Party (IMP), formed in 1951. However, communities within Malaya were already mobilized on the basis of ethnic political organizations. UMNO was the national Malay organization, while the Chinese and Indians had their own ethnic parties: the Malayan/Malaysian Chinese Association (MCA) and the Malayan/Malaysian Indian Congress (MIC). When the IMP failed to attract much support away from the ethnic parties, the British let it be known that they would not hand power over to any single group. For this reason, and to oppose the IMP, the three ethnic parties joined in an umbrella Alliance in 1954—a permanent coalition under the domination of UMNO.4 The first federal elections were won overwhelmingly by the UMNO-led Alliance (51 of 52 seats with 82 percent of the popular vote), and UMNO became the dominant party immediately (unlike the People’s Action Party in Singapore). The British shifted their support to UMNO and the Alliance, and independence was granted in 1957. In 1963, Malaya was joined by Sabah and Sarawak and, temporarily, Singapore, to form Malaysia.5

Learning to lose? Not if UMNO can help it 213

Out of this demographic and historical setting, a dominant party system in a quasi-democratic state emerged. Elections are held regularly. Other parties legally exist and compete, but they have little chance of capturing power. Only UMNO has the capacity to govern, although it does not completely control the political process, unlike explicitly one-party systems (Sartori 1976: 193). As a dominant party, UMNO “must, in some measure, be responsible to other groups of political actors,” and to the public, to ensure its legitimacy and continuing dominance (Huntington 1968: 419).6 Although UMNO has endured some crises, it has remained in power, uninterrupted, since the first federal election in 1955.

How has UMNO retained its dominance?

There are numerous reasons why UMNO has remained so dominant, though none of these factors alone would likely have been sufficient for it to sustain its dominance. Most important among the reasons are the demographics. Until recently Malay numbers have hovered around 50 percent of the population, and ethnicity has been the most salient feature of Malaysian politics. UMNO’s dominance arose out of its role as the “protector” of Malay interests (Muzaffar 1979). In uncertain times, the Malays have traditionally closed ranks behind UMNO. This tendency seemed to be breaking down in 1999 when at least half of the Malay vote went to the Partai Islam Se-Malaysia, known by its Arabic acronym, PAS. However, the March 2004 general election was notable for the return of the Malay vote to UMNO. This was partly because of the personal popularity of the new Prime Minister, and also because of PAS’ strident tone after 9/11 and its controversial hard-line Islamic State Document, both of which contributed to the break-up of the opposition coalition (Barisan Alternatif) and re-confirmed UMNO as the party of choice for moderate Malay Muslims.

Fortuitously for UMNO, its position as the moderate Islamic party has also enabled it to emerge as the “protector” of non-Malays against the threat PAS poses to them with its calls for the primacy of Islamic law.7 In electoral contests between UMNO and PAS, non-Malays generally support UMNO, especially in ethnically-mixed constituencies where UMNO is highly successful. Further, when UMNO seems threatened, non-Malays tend to support the coalition’s non-Malay party candidates instead of opposition non-Malay party candidates. When the Chinese-dominated but multi-ethnic Democratic Action Party (DAP) joined with PAS in the Barisan Alternatif, it was punished by the non-Malay voters in 1999.

Second, UMNO is identified with two significant epochs in Malaysia’s modern development. It is the party that successfully campaigned against the Malayan Union and also the party that succeeded in gaining Malaysia’s Independence in 1957. To Maurice Duverger, a party must be “identified with an epoch” to be classified as a dominant party, when its doctrines, ideas, methods, and style coincide with those of a particular developmental moment” (Duverger 1957: 275–80).8 These epochs have crystallized the “common project” for the state: Malay hegemony with multi-ethnic participation with the goal of modernization.


This legacy has been an important factor explaining the durability of a dominant party.

Third, UMNO has been willing since the beginning to share some power and some of the spoils of ruling with its partners in a permanent governing coalition, first called the Alliance and now the Barisan Nasional (BN), in return for political stability. It has been widely accepted that if UMNO wanted to govern alone, it could. That knowledge has made UMNO primus inter pares in the coalition. Indeed, UMNO has provided every Prime Minister and Deputy Prime Minister and its members occupy all important Cabinet posts. Over the years, its dominance in the coalition has increased. After the breakdown of the Alliance in 1969, a new, larger coalition was forged which now includes fourteen parties. The rationale for the BN has been to reduce “politicking” and to enhance national unity so that all energies could be devoted to economic modernization, coupled with extensive socio-economic preferences to the Malays with the aim of redistributing wealth in an expanding economy.9

Fourth, to handicap the opposition, UMNO uses tactics of intimidation and fear when necessary and occasionally even repression, as will be discussed below. William Case has analyzed UMNO/BN through a “menu of manipulation” (Schedler 2002: 36–50)10 and suggests that the longevity of a hybrid regime rests largely with whether it is “artful” or “unskillful” at manipulation (Case 2005: 226; Diamond 2002: 21–35).11 UMNO has usually been quite artful at manipulation, and so its legitimacy has not been undermined. With its control of government revenues, UMNO/BN spends extravagantly during election years, like many governing parties. Further, it makes use of restrictions governing the rules of electoral conduct to disadvantage the opposition. In the 2004 election, for instance, the campaign period was restricted to eight days, the shortest in history, and the prohibition on outdoor campaign rallies remained in place. Also, the Election Act was amended so that it was no longer possible to legally challenge the accuracy of the electoral rolls, used previously to combat the phenomena of “phantom voters” and eligible voters left off the rolls (Milne and Mauzy 1999: 115–16).

Fifth, the single-member, first-past-the-post (FPTP) or plurality electoral system encourages strong majorities, magnifying the victory of the winning party by yielding a higher number of seats than the percentage of votes won would seem to warrant—the winner’s or seat bonus (Norris 2004; Bouceh 1998). The FPTP system thus disadvantages minority parties unless they are geographically concentrated and discourages the formation of new political parties. In the delineation of electoral constituency boundaries, UMNO also enjoys the advantages of incumbency. The FPTP system, unlike proportional representation electoral systems, makes gerrymandering worthwhile since in every constituency the candidate with the most votes wins, and thus boundary manipulation can lead to many wasted opposition votes. The 2004 electoral realignment added 26 new seats, though none of the additions were in areas where the opposition had any substantial strength. Peninsular Malaysia now has 75 percent of the electoral constituencies (Loh 2004).12 Previous constituency changes had been directed at reducing the electoral importance of the non-Malay votes. However, because of the


1999 election, when PAS won at least half of the Malay vote, rural weighting has been viewed as a mixed blessing, and the 2004 electoral realignment was designed to limit the influence of PAS as much as the non-Malay opposition. In 2004, no new seats were created in PAS strongholds. The realignment provided for more ethnically-mixed seats, where UMNO and the BN have traditionally performed best, and highly selective rural weighting with considerable gerrymandering, especially in Kedah, to give UMNO further advantages.13 Incumbency offers a further advantage, as noted by T.J. Pempel, by facilitating a “virtuous cycle of dominance” (Pempel 1990: 16). The longer a party is in power, the less credible the opposition seems to the public as being capable of governing. Further, aspiring politicians naturally gravitate to the party that seems likely to be in power, and so the dominant party is able to capture the best talent available (Pempel 2008, p. 122 this volume). UMNO has benefited from such advantages.

Sixth, UMNO is a well-institutionalized governing party. The party is organized from the ground up through to the central party executive, and it increasingly uses patronage to ensure loyalty. Recruitment and renewal can be a problem in dominant party systems, in Singapore for example, because political life can become mundane. However, this is not the case in UMNO, where party membership is widely perceived as a key avenue for upward mobility and wealth generation, either by moving up the party ranks or by being first in line for government contracts. UMNO party elections, for instance, are a monument to vote-buying and patronage, termed “money politics” (Malaysia Today August 21, 2004).14 Since patron–client relations flourish, this has been an effective way for UMNO to spread the wealth within select circles. Case writes that “UMNO has acquired enough patronage resources that it can absorb whole parties into its coalition, revealing a capacity for cooptation and rapid adaptation…” (Case 2005: 221). Corruption per se does not seem to carry much electoral liability; perceptions of being left out or by-passed, especially among Malays who feel entitled, have had some electoral impact, however.

Perhaps the most important test of party institutionalization comes with leadership succession. Because dominant parties often have long-serving party heads, who naturally repress internal challengers, it is not unusual for succession mechanisms to be deficient, a point raised by Wong and Cheng in their analyses of Taiwan’s KMT (this volume). In such cases, a crisis might erupt with succession, and because the party is often equated with the state, the crisis is not just internal to the party but can affect the state itself. UMNO, on the contrary, is well institutionalized in terms of leadership succession, structured along an elaborate hierarchy.15 There is considerable precedent for orderly succession: UMNO now has its sixth president.

Seventh, UMNO is a party that goes beyond facilitating business. Since the 1970s the party has been active in business and has in fact attained extensive holdings. It is doubtful that there are many parties in the world so deeply involved with owning and controlling corporations and properties (Gomez 1990, 1991; Milne and Mauzy 1999: 59–62).16 Cabinet, dominated by UMNO ministers (sometimes acting as UMNO proxies), regularly awards no-bid contracts to


these UMNO-linked companies. UMNO businesses include most of the major newspapers, and the government controls radio and television.17 Further, UMNO bureaucrats have been heavily involved in running, and have a stake in retaining, government-linked corporations (GLCs) (Bakri 2005). The UMNO-led government’s economic policies have been quite successful in combining high growth and modernization strategies with redistribution efforts to help the Malays, particularly UMNO Malays,18 while being careful to not squeeze too tightly the economic opportunities of non-Malays. The New Economic Policy (NEP), launched in 1971, was extensive without sanctioning expropriations or expulsion and its implementation did not lead to bloodshed. The non-Malays, traumatized by the 1969 riots and ensuing emergency rule, by-and-large accepted the redistributive justice rationale of the NEP, and were relieved that an “expanding pie” was included in the equation (Jesudason 1989). In fact, redistribution did not noticeably stifle growth, and the GDP grew at an average of 6.7 percent for two decades (Faaland et al. 1990; Gomez and Jomo 1997).19

Eighth, a party’s enduring dominance is often aided by the poor quality and ineptitude of its opposition. Some of this is a result of factors out of the opposition’s control. The opposition is often handicapped by a public “credibility gap,” as it fails to impact the state agenda and it is often deprived of new political talent. Some of its older talent often consists of politicians who have left or been ejected from the dominant party, or what Cédric Jourde, in his chapter (this volume) on West African neo-patrimonial states, calls “recycled elites.” Further, the opposition usually faces considerable disadvantage in terms of resources, the electoral system, constituency boundary delineation, and media access. Yet, the opposition’s performance is sometimes compounded by inexplicable tactical errors on its part. PAS provides a good example. Having decided to moderate its Islamic platform and campaign on themes emphasizing universal goals and anti-corruption inside a multi-religious opposition coalition, PAS in 1999 was rewarded with the most federal seats it had ever won and control of two state governments. However, in 2004, PAS took a much more militant stance on Islamic matters, and with the opposition coalition in tatters, consequently lost most of its seats.

Finally, UMNO and its leaders have been flexible, adaptive, and basically pragmatic in policy terms, allowing the party to occupy most of the available political space. For sure, the party’s flexibility has been facilitated by strong parliamentary majorities that basically rubber-stamp government initiatives. Still, UMNO’s policies are moderate, which appeals in a multi-ethnic state. The UMNO-led government has made concessions to Islam and Islamization when pressured by PAS, just as it has made concessions to non-Malays when it has needed more of their electoral support. This flexibility has led to Malaysia being termed a “syncretic state” (Jesudason 1996: 128–60). Coercion is mixed with democracy; mobilization along ethnic lines is promoted while national unity is stressed; Islam is propagated while secular goals are pursued; and neo-liberal economic policies compete with state intervention and rentier or patronage arrangements (Jesudason 1996: 129–35). In UMNO’s Malaysia, these seemingly incompatible policies exist without colliding or imperiling electoral support.


Challenges to UMNO’s dominance

Given UMNO’s continued dominance, it might seem moot to consider how it might react if it lost power. But UMNO does suffer from some weaknesses, and other dominant party systems with some similar attributes have fallen. Although Malaysia holds quasi-competitive, reasonably honest (although not particularly fair) elections, the prospect of even minor gains by the opposition has caused the UMNO-led government to react with threats about national security, to adapt some policies, and to consider changes to the political system. As BBC correspondent Jonathan Kent is quoted as saying: “The first rule of Malaysian politics and the only one that you need remember is that the government gets to win” (Kuppuswamy 2004). This is UMNO’s mantra. Winning does not preclude challenges, however.

The most serious threats to UMNO’s dominance have come from (i) Singapore’s challenge to the Alliance concept in 1965, (ii) the May 1969 election and riots, (iii) the 1987 party split, and (iv) the 1999 election following the detention of former Deputy Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim. These crises shed some light on how UMNO reacts to threats, and may suggest how it might react to the prospect of actually losing power. The first two threats were direct challenges to UMNO’s dominance. The last two threats have been intra-UMNO factional crises, something to which established dominant parties are susceptible. Interestingly, both of these factional crises occurred during global economic recessions, which would seem to indicate that economic shocks could be a potential Achilles heel for dominant parties.

Singapore’s challenge and its consequences

While Singapore remained in Malaysia (1963–5), many contentious issues developed between UMNO and Singapore’s PAP (Milne and Mauzy 1999: 19–21; Milne 1966: 175–84). The end of the relationship came shortly after the PAP surprisingly contested the 1964 federal elections in the Peninsula and its attempt to forge an opposition coalition. The PAP ultimately challenged the Alliance concept and UMNO’s dominance, calling for a “Malaysian Malaysia” instead of a “Malay Malaysia.”20 In the months following the 1964 election, there were two violent race riots in Singapore. UMNO’s top leaders, under pressure by the party’s “ultras,” felt they could no longer ignore the PAP’s challenge. The Prime Minister expelled prosperous Singapore from Malaysia, practically overnight, in August 1965, marking the UMNO-led government’s response to its first major crisis. The decision to expel Singapore had the immediate effect of protecting the Alliance system and UMNO’s dominance. While the strategy defused the crisis, it simultaneously weakened the UMNO moderates, and factional tensions within the party remained. Still, UMNO acted decisively to retain its nascent dominance.

May 1969 and its aftermath

The second major crisis occurred after the May 1969 elections, when the Alliance suffered a sharp decline in its popular vote (48.5 percent) and in the number


of seats it won. Although UMNO retained a majority in Parliament (66 of 103 seats), the coalition failed to win two-thirds of the federal seats for the first time (symbolically important since a two-thirds vote in Parliament is required to amend the constitution), lost control of two states, and did not have majorities in two others.21 An UMNO-led counter-demonstration of Malays protesting the earlier triumphal procession of opposition non-Malays led to widespread race riots and many deaths (Slimming 1969). The government immediately declared a state of emergency, suspended Parliament and the Constitution, and set up a Malay-dominated joint military–civilian National Operations Council (NOC) to run the country. All political activity was banned. The riots also led to the retirement of Prime Minister Tunku Abdul Rahman, blamed by many Malays for accepting too many Chinese demands and not doing enough to reduce Malay poverty.

The new Prime Minister said that emergency rule would not continue indefinitely, but that the country needed to face “new realities,” which meant passing constitutional amendments to “entrench” sensitive issues22 and the Sedition Act to curtail “politicking” so that the government could get on with the major task of alleviating Malay economic grievances. The NOC leaders agreed that Malay unity would be a major goal, and that “any changes enacted” would not “undermine the dominance of UMNO” (Mauzy 1983: 46–7). It also meant that democratic practices would be restricted to fit better with Malaysia’s socio-political environment.

This was UMNO’s response to its biggest crisis. There had been riots before, albeit with less violence, that did not lead the government to declare a state of emergency or refashion the political system. Draconian action was taken in 1969 because many UMNO leaders believed, first, that internal feuding between the “ultras” and the moderates was threatening to split the party, and second, that the Malays were angry and this threatened the party’s support base. These interpretations on the part of the UMNO elite led to major changes in the conduct of politics and the economic system.

Repercussions from the 1987 party split

Factions have been commonplace within UMNO and the BN parties (Means 1991: 351). Most commonly these are groups coalescing around patron-politicians perceived to be rising stars within the party. Factionalism does not necessarily threaten the unity of the party, even though it is commonly credited with being the key source contributing to the decline of dominant parties.23 Still, at first glance it might seem puzzling that dominant parties are so prone to factional splits when there is so much to lose—control of the state agenda and the perquisites of office. These benefits do provide some glue. However, individual expectations of reward in dominant parties are so great that disappointed aspirants are sometimes willing to bring down the house if their goals and ambitions are thwarted.

UMNO experienced a serious factional crisis in 1987, resulting in a struggle for control of the party which culminated in a split. A legal battle for control of UMNO’s assets ensued, which compromised the independence of the judiciary


and undermined democracy even further. UMNO’s factional crisis came about because of a power struggle and disagreements over the distribution of government assistance and patronage, intensified by a decline in the supply of rewards due to the economic recession of 1985–86.24 What was different about this factional crisis was that it was not just a small segment of the party against the centre. Most UMNO members aligned themselves with one side or the other, creating balanced rival groups. Consequently, during the April 1987 party elections, the Mahathir group narrowly won re-election by coaxing over a twelfth-hour defector and his followers (Kamarudin 2006).

Mahathir, who claimed that UMNO’s tradition did not permit its leader to be challenged, purged from the party many from the losing faction. Some of the ousted members then filed a lawsuit seeking to nullify the elections on the grounds of irregularities. The High Court shocked the nation by declaring that by law, since there were party election irregularities, UMNO was an illegal organization.25 Subsequently, both sides rushed to register new parties and lay claim to UMNO’s vast assets. Mahathir, in his capacity of Minister of Home Affairs, controlled the Registrar of Societies, which accepted his application for “UMNO Baru” (New UMNO—the “new” was very quickly dropped) and rejected the application of his opponents. This seemed to give Mahathir’s “new” party claim to UMNO’s assets.

The ousted group, however, filed an appeal to re-legalize the old UMNO, which, if successful, would have allowed the old UMNO to retain party assets. Mahathir swiftly moved against the judiciary through a constitutional amendment that stripped it of much of its power and independence, including its power of judicial review (Milne and Mauzy 1999: 47).26 When the Lord President of the Supreme Court decided to hear the UMNO appeal, he was quickly suspended and then dismissed. Five more justices were suspended for protesting this action. Soon after, the reconstituted Supreme Court rejected the old UMNO appeal (Mauzy 1988: 213–16; 1992: 9–11). Mahathir had won.

The losers formed a new Malay party to contest UMNO, but did not perform well in the 1990 elections. Between 1987 and 1990, UMNO’s “superior financial resources enabled it to win back grass-roots supporters…and fortify its patronage networks,” while the new opposition party’s network withered from lack of resources (Milne and Mauzy 1999: 45). Many members of the losing side, some who were not purged, were later forgiven and a few began rising through the party ranks. UMNO could not afford to have all of the losing faction remain outside the party. In the meantime, UMNO party rules were changed to make it very difficult to challenge the top leadership, ensuring that a similar factional crisis would not occur again.

UMNO’s factional crisis also spilled over into the public arena, inciting ethnic tensions. During the UMNO struggle, in October 1987, the UMNO-led govern ment ordered the detention of over one hundred critics of Mahathir under the Internal Security Act (ISA) to defuse ethnic tensions that had been largely manufactured by UMNO militants.27 Although the detentions do not seem at first glance to be directly linked to the UMNO struggle, the emotional reactions of


UMNO Youth seemed out of proportion to rather tame protests by some Chinese teachers and students over a Chinese education issue. That particular episode had the appearance of being a crisis that Mahathir hoped to capitalize on to bolster his support in UMNO and among Malays (Means 1991: 214).

The UMNO factional crisis demonstrated the power of party patronage networks and the importance of money and position to the dominant party. The contest was over control of UMNO’s assets, as it was clear that most of the membership seemed to be following the money trail. In order to control party assets, Mahathir subordinated the judiciary and allowed ethnic tensions to escalate, necessitating mass detentions. Malaysia became even less democratic in the process. UMNO, meanwhile, although still factionalized, remained intact. Far from learning to lose, UMNO’s leaders were willing to do whatever was needed to retain its dominance.

Seeking non-Malay support—the 1999 general election

Another serious rift within UMNO arose during the late 1990s amidst the Asian financial crisis and the fall of Suharto and Reformasi in Indonesia. Because of tightened party rules, UMNO Deputy President Anwar Ibrahim could not challenge Mahathir directly. Urged on by his supporters and impatient for the 73-year-old Mahathir to retire, Anwar began a campaign against “corruption, cronyism, and nepotism” (known as “KKN” in Malay). Mahathir viewed this as a not-so-veiled attack on his leadership. In September 1998, Anwar was dismissed from his government positions and expelled from UMNO. Anwar then launched a Malaysian “Reformasi” movement, attracting 50,000 people outside the national mosque at a rally three weeks later. That night he was arrested under the ISA, held incommunicado, and beaten by the police. When charges were brought against Anwar, they were for corruption and sodomy (a criminal offense in Malaysia)—charges designed to undermine his reputation in the eyes of Muslims. Even though it was obvious to most people that the charges were politically motivated, he was convicted (by a judge; there is no jury system) and incarcerated. Anwar’s wife launched a new Malay-based party, Keadilan (National Justice Party).

Although this was a bitter personal feud, UMNO was not divided to the same extent as it had been in 1987. Only Anwar’s faction left the party after his expulsion. Many were not unhappy to see Anwar ousted. He was viewed by some as an interloper who had risen rapidly on the backs of many old timers and their cliques. However, Anwar had an extensive following among young Malays, professionals, NGO activists of all ethnicities, and various Islamic organizations. Keadilan fashioned a four-party opposition coalition, which included PAS, the DAP, and a small Malay socialist party. They called themselves the “Barisan Alternatif ” (BA).

This represented a serious threat to UMNO’s Malay support base, so much so that Mahathir postponed holding the general election twice in 1999, before finally calling it in November. It was clear that the Malays were seriously divided, perhaps 50:50, or even worse for UMNO. Mahathir was now forced to rely on


the support of the non-Malays and from Sabah and Sarawak to win the election. To gain the non-Malay vote, the government constantly reminded Malaysians of the violence in Indonesia, particularly the anti-Chinese attacks in 1998, and the financial losses individuals incurred as a result. The government also stirred up memories of the May 1969 riots, and Mahathir publicly predicted that there would be riots and violence if the UMNO-led BN was denied a two-thirds majority. Finally, if this was not enough for the non-Malays, the government maintained that the BA was really controlled by PAS, and that if it won, PAS would impose Islamic law federally.28

In the federal election, despite a decline in voter support, the Barisan Nasional won comfortably with nearly 77 percent of the parliamentary seats (down 7 percent) and 55 percent of the popular vote (down 10 percent). UMNO itself suffered significant losses. It secured only 48.5 percent of the popular vote in large Malay-majority constituencies, winning only 22 of the 52 seats contested (Loh 2004: 2).29 For the first time, UMNO directly controlled less than a majority of parliamentary seats. The Malay vote seemed to be split down the middle. As usual, UMNO and the BN performed best in the ethnically mixed, semi-urban constituencies, winning 76 of 82 seats contested (Loh 2004: 2). In the election, PAS increased its votes and seats (27, up 18 seats). Keadilan, with Anwar in prison, won only five seats. Non-Malay voters deserted the DAP, unhappy about its alliance with PAS and worried about a weakened UMNO. In this respect, the non-Malay vote was crucial to the BN’s win.

The 1999 election demonstrated UMNO’s enviable position. Despite serious decline in Malay support resulting from the Anwar affair and the general unpopularity of Mahathir at that point, UMNO and the BN were able to secure a solid increase in support from non-Malays because of their fear of PAS, along with concerns about instability, violence,30 and economic decline if UMNO were to become too weak.

An end to UMNO dominance?

In October 2003, after more than 22 years as Prime Minister, 78-year-old Mahathir stepped down and was succeeded by his deputy, Abdullah Badawi, known as Pak Lah.31 A general election was called in March 2004 to provide Badawi with a mandate and to strengthen his hand in the UMNO party elections. Badawi hoped he could capitalize on his popularity by holding early elections and by projecting himself as being different in substance and style from Mahathir. His main policy pronouncements were a pledge to fight corruption and a call for “Islam Hadhari,” a progressive brand of Islam. UMNO and the BN won conclusively in an election that heralded the return of the Malay vote, to the consternation of those hoping that UMNO’s dominance was waning. The Barisan Nasional won 198 of 219 parliamentary seats with nearly 64 percent of the popular vote (an increase of 9 percent).32 UMNO itself won 109 seats and 59.1 percent of the votes in large Malay-majority constituencies, an increase of 10.6 percent from 1999. It also regained control of the oil-rich state of Trengganu.


One explanation for UMNO’s strong performance in the election rests on the popularity of Badawi himself. However, Francis Loh points out a number of additional factors accounting for UMNO’s electoral rebound. First was the ever-present UMNO/BN advantage, which Loh calls the “3-Ms”: Money, Media control, and party Machinery. Second, Loh astutely notes that the repression by Mahathir between elections helped cripple the opposition while not tainting Badawi. A handful of top leaders of Keadilan, for instance, were detained under the ISA during that interim period. Suffering also from internal disorganization, Keadilan won only one seat. Third, the militancy that PAS displayed after September 2001 and its Islamic State Document hastened the breakdown of the BA and scared away moderate Islamic support. PAS won only seven seats. Finally, Loh asserts that the government had successfully cultivated a political culture of “developmentalism” wherein the affluent and middle classes of all ethnic groups had bought into the neo-liberal policies of promoting rapid economic growth, deregulation, and privatization (Loh 2004: 4–7).

There is in Malaysia a strong middle class demand for the fulfillment of economic and consumption expectations. Such a culture tends to value political stability above all else. Indeed, this is one reason why the growth of a large, educated middle class in Malaysia has not led to widespread demand for more democratic practices. This contradicts the predictions of modernization theory that socio-economic development and the growth of a substantial middle class will lead to demands for more political participation and democratization. Adam Przeworski’s work also shows that the inference that development will make a country more likely to become democratic is problematic (Przeworski 2003). This is similar to what Edward Friedman (this volume) has observed in China: full democracy is viewed as “too risky” to the “haves,” who want to keep economic reform policies going smoothly. This is also similar to the expressed views of the middle class in Singapore (Chee 1998 et al.; Emmerson 1995: 96–100; Hitchcock 1994).

Given the strong performance of UMNO and its coalition in the 2004 general election, are there grounds for believing that UMNO’s dominance could end in the foreseeable future? Looking at Malaysia’s changing demographic profile and examining UMNO’s factional politics may provide some clues.

Demographics

Demographic shifts pose major challenges for dominant parties and their ability to adapt, in part because they can affect the nature of parties’ electoral support.33 Indeed, ongoing demographic changes in Malaysia are likely to have a political impact. The Malays are winning the “numbers game.” Their percentage of the population, nearing 60 percent, represents a growing majority. The Malays have also become better educated and more prosperous than in previous eras. All of this has led to Malay ethnic confidence. As a result, non-Malays are no longer perceived as capable of challenging the Malays for political power, and thus seem less threatening. One Malay economist confidently stated that there was


no need for long-term ethnic solutions because soon there would be no ethnic problems.34

The ironic consequence of this demographic shift from UMNO’s perspective is that Malays are now less likely to rally behind UMNO when it raises alarms about the threats posed to “race, land, or religion.” This may explain why during the late 1990s, when UMNO wanted to raise the specter of threat, it shifted the focus away from the non-Malays towards the West. But as UMNO’s electoral woes at that time suggest, the West is a less visible threat and harder to sell to voters in an election. UMNO had always thrived as the “Malay protector,” but as the Malays feel less need for such protection, it is not inconceivable that UMNO could lose its key mobilizing weapon.

Factionalism

Factionalism and party splits are primary causes of the fall of dominant parties, although not all splits create the same degree of havoc (see Estevez, Diaz-Cayeros, and Magaloni, this volume). UMNO and the BN are severely factionalized. Factional leaders engage in patronage to develop their power base in UMNO and to move up the party hierarchy. To fund their political activities, many party members venture into business, using the opportunities created by the NEP and UMNO to serve their own interests (Gomez 2005: 37). This has fueled conflicts of interest and corruption within the party. Competition for business opportunities and resources—rent—has led to major divisions within UMNO. The perception of official corruption also threatens to erode public trust. Prime Minister Badawi has pledged to crack down on corruption and “money politics,” but has been constrained from doing so (Pereira 2003). While this was a popular campaign theme for UMNO in the general election, it enjoys little party support. When Badawi cancelled some of Mahathir’s expensive mega-projects, there was considerable grumbling inside UMNO and in the business community over lost money-making opportunities (Vatikiotis and Jayasankaran 2004: 20–3).

Badawi was Mahathir’s fourth Deputy Prime Minister. He was chosen precisely because he posed no threat to Mahathir. Also he had good Islamic credentials and was popular with the public, being widely viewed as “Mr. Clean.” As Prime Minister, he has not been able to consolidate his power as undisputed leader. His age, 70, has made the leadership succession seem transitional, although the party is insulated from succession turmoil by having a deputy prime minister, who is simultaneously deputy UMNO president. Badawi’s apparent political weakness has encouraged more factional fighting among up-and-comers within the party. He has had little party backing for his proposed reforms, since many of the reforms would make illicit funding of political activities more difficult. In the UMNO elections of October 2004, on the heels of his overwhelming general election endorsement, Badawi was not able to get many of his people elected to important party posts or to oust most of Mahathir’s old guard (Jayasankaran October 7, 2004: 18). Consequently, Badawi was not able to clean house with a serious Cabinet reshuffle. To make matters worse, Mahathir started a mean-spirited campaign to discredit


Badawi until he was sidelined by heart problems and was unable to instigate unrest at the November 2006 UMNO General Assembly (Kent 2006; Pesek 2006).

Nepotism within UMNO compounds factional problems. Some prominent examples of politicians with close relatives in high places, past and present, include Deputy Prime Minister Najib Tun Razak (son of the second Prime Minister), Minister of Education and UMNO Youth leader Hishamuddin Hussein (son of the third Prime Minister), UMNO Youth executive council member Mukhriz Mahathir (son of the fourth Prime Minister), and UMNO Youth Deputy Head Khairy Jamaluddin (son-in-law of the fifth Prime Minister). The latter two rivals have been said to be heading for a clash (Hong 2005; Khoo 2004). Not coincidently, these four party elites are considered to be the leading figures in the party’s next generation. Quite simply, they have the right pedigree.

The situation inside UMNO is not new, though the rivalry between the “rising sons,” the intensity and rancor between the factions, and the escalating financial costs of being a successful factional leader are qualitatively different from the old days. The potential explosiveness of the situation seemed ominous enough that 62 high-powered UMNO veterans met in 2005 to discuss what could be done to save UMNO. They passed a resolution calling for an end to “money politics” and a restoration of democracy inside UMNO.35 They predicted that unless something was done, UMNO might soon disintegrate due to internal factional infighting. They also expressed concerns about the economic situation of the Malays and thus called for renewed efforts to “bring UMNO back to the rural Malays” (Kamarudin 2005; Ramakrishnan 2005). While the NEP has helped Malay businesspeople gain wealth, the policies have not fared well in achieving overall equity, giving Malaysia one of the worst disparity ratios in the region in terms of wealth and income (Galsiounis 2005). This has led to charges that the NEP’s policies have not adequately benefited poor rural Malays. As the 1999 election demonstrated, the equity issue has the potential to generate Malay anger towards the dominant party, highlighting the inconsistencies of UMNO’s supposed historical “protection” of Malays.

Although UMNO has been an adaptive and flexible party, “artful” at manipu lation and in employing “dirty tricks” to create an un-level playing field, the internal situation in UMNO coupled with the changing demographics and growing socio-economic inequity might make UMNO’s dominance vulnerable. This might be especially so if, as Case suggests, these threatening conditions were to become amplified during an economic downturn, accompanied by “unskillful manipulations” that alienates rather than assuages the public (Case 2005: 217). A party must especially avoid mishandling highly sensitive and potentially explosive issues, such as Islamization in Malaysia, for fear that this might cause the ruling party to lose its ability to control and manipulate the presentation and dimensions of political debate.

Learning to lose: could UMNO learn?

While there will no doubt be crises in future which will prompt UMNO to continue to adapt and reform, it is difficult at this stage to imagine the party losing, let


alone willingly learning to lose. As has been shown by the four periods when UMNO felt threatened, it has been willing to take very decisive action to ensure its continued dominance. In 1965, it took a rather extreme measure by expelling Singapore from the federation. In response to the 1969 riots, the Constitution and Parliament were suspended, and important changes were made to the political system to reduce politicking and limit political debate. The latest crises occurred under the premiership of Mahathir. Both episodes involved party challenges to Mahathir’s leadership in periods of economic recession and both led to party splits, with neither playing out entirely according to the rule of law. The reality, however, was that neither crippled the party for long, and in both periods the economy recovered strongly.

Various endogenous challenges that have contributed to the demise of dominant party rule elsewhere have been insufficient to end UMNO’s rule. UMNO’s dominance inside the BN coalition, in terms of controlling top government positions and setting the policy agenda, has rarely been challenged.36 UMNO has also survived a variety of external shocks: the Asian financial crisis, democratization in Indonesia, the shock of 9/11 and the subsequent “war on terror.” Amidst speculation that UMNO was showing signs of decline after the 1999 elections, the Malay vote flocked back to UMNO in 2004. UMNO has demonstrated a remarkable capacity to maintain its dominance.

In the near future at least, the political opposition is unlikely to provide the catalyst for an end to UMNO control. It is also unlikely that any “People Power” or Reformasi movement could precipitate meaningful change. Nor is it likely that civil society could undermine UMNO’s dominance. It seems problematic that an economic downturn in Malaysia by itself would be enough to strip UMNO of its “performance legitimacy” and hence it’s electoral support.37 As James Jesudason has noted, if there is any possibility that UMNO will fall, it will most likely be driven by factors internal to the party (Jesudason 1996: 155). In the end, one is left with the feeling that so long as UMNO continues to be identified with an epoch that is relevant for Malays and is perceived as being able to “deliver the goods” for ordinary people as well as Malay business, while at the same time protecting non-Malays from theocratic rule, its political dominance will likely continue in the foreseeable future. If and when UMNO is no longer relevant to these key groups and when it can no longer meet performance expectations, only then would it lack the legitimacy to remain in power in the face of a lost election or a political crisis. Only then would UMNO be forced to learn to lose.

Notes

1 The government has Unpublished Tables. In fact it has very detailed, household-to-household, demographic maps that it uses for electoral and other purposes.

2 In Sabah and Sarawak, Muslim indigenous groups are now classified as “Malay” instead of their traditional tribal names.

3 “Non-Malay” is an accepted category which is widely used in Malaysia, referring to all those who are not Malays, but more specifically meaning Chinese and Indians. Who one is not, is often as important as who one is, in ethnically divided states.


4 UMNO and the MCA initiated the coalition in 1952–53. UMNO was able to use the financial resources of the MCA to help defeat the IMP in various municipal elections. The smaller MIC was added in 1954.

5 Sabah and Sarawak were British colonies in Borneo. Until the war, Sabah was under the control of the North Borneo Chartered Company, and Sarawak under the Rajah Brooke family. The devastation of the war made it impossible for the old systems to be re-established, so the British government reluctantly took over. Britain was eager to escape this responsibility, however, and so when the Malayan Prime Minister expressed an interest in the concept of Malaysia, Britain agreed to incorporate Sabah and Sarawak into the new federation. Initially Brunei was considered, but it dropped out when it learned it would have to share its oil wealth.

6 On dominant parties, also see Pempel (1990), Jesudason (1999), Mauzy (2002). 7 Malaysia is sometimes contrasted with Sri Lanka as cases of successful versus

unsuccessful ethnic conflict management, respectively. Being the dominant party in a ruling coalition has enabled UMNO to make some concessions to the non-Malays without endangering its dominance, thus helping to reduce ethnic tensions. In Sri Lanka, there has always been more than one major Sinhala party, with regular changes in the party in power, thus inhibiting the governing party from making concessions to the minority Tamils.

8 Duverger also believed that in the long term, a dominant party would inevitably self- destruct.

9 This was called the New Economic Policy (NEP), 1970–90. Preferential policies continue to this day.

10 Schedler is concerned with new forms of authoritarianism that do not fit classic categories; regimes that hold elections and tolerate some competition, but which could not be classified as democratic, “however qualified” (36). He focuses on the contested boundary between electoral democracies and electoral authoritarianism. Schedler insists (41) that elections may be considered democratic “if and only if ” they fulfill each item on his checklist of democratic choice. Electoral violations comprise the “menu of manipulation.” Under Schedler’s criteria, Malaysia would be considered an electoral authoritarian regime. Despite useful efforts to overcome ambiguity and imprecision, there are no precise measurements for assessing all the items on the checklist.

11 The term “hybrid regimes” is sometimes used as a more neutral term to describe semi- democratic (illiberal democracies) or soft authoritarian regimes.

12 In 2004, Peninsular Malaysia had 165 of the 219 parliamentary constituencies; Sabah, including Labuan, and Sarawak had 54 constituencies. Sabah gained five of 26 new constituency seats in 2004, partially, no doubt, to reward its ability to deliver seats to UMNO.

13 For example, mixed seats in the Peninsula increased from 82 in 1999 to 93 in 2004 (mixed seats are those with fewer than 70 percent Malay or Chinese eligible voters). Sabah and Sarawak tend to have mostly mixed seats. Sabah and Sarawak are also solidly in the BN camp (the government coalition won 52 of the 54 seats there in 2004, and 46 of 49 seats in the difficult 1999 election).

14 Being elected the chair of an UMNO branch or division can be lucrative, and being a state official or holding a national office can be worth many millions. The going rate for a single delegate’s vote in the UMNO elections of 2004 was alleged to have been between 300 and 1,000 Malaysian Ringgat [US$ 1 = MR3.80]. Each UMNO delegate expected to make MR20,000–30,000 during the run-up to the elections. To contest a high national office, a candidate needs to spend something in the range of MR3 million.

15 The real competition for office-holders takes place below the levels of president and deputy president, for the positions of vice-president (three of them) and supreme


council members. This process insulates the top officials during a succession and eliminates surprise and palace intrigue.

16 As of 1995, there were about 16,000 companies set up by UMNO divisions, branches, and individuals (proxies and links). UMNO also has numerous joint ventures with non- Malay and foreign business people.

17 UMNO owns not just the major Malay and English newspapers, but also the largest circulation Chinese newspaper.

18 However, The Economist (August 25, 2005) argues that the “world’s most notorious system of positive discrimination has had only limited success, and hardly any recently.” The article notes that distribution among the Malays has been uneven; instead of imbuing entrepreneurialism, it has bred rent-seeking behavior. Still, the article concludes that Malaysia has prospered, there have been no more race riots, and the Malay professional class has grown rapidly.

19 On the transition from the NEP to NDP, see Mauzy (1995: 77–92). 20 The five-party coalition was called the Malaysia Solidarity Convention. See Lee

(1965a, 1965b, 1965c). 21 PAS retained control of Kelantan. It was not particularly important to Malays to control

Penang, which was heavily non-Malay populated, was not considered a “Malay state” and did not have a Malay ruler at the apex. The same could not be said for Perak and Selangor, where the Alliance failed to attain a majority, and the prospects of non-Malays controlling these states generated considerable tension and anxiety. The seat bonus from the FPTP electoral system and gerrymandering could be seen in the difference between the popular vote (48.5 percent) and seats won (64 percent).

22 With the constitutional amendments of 1971, it was forbidden to question any matter, right, status, position, privilege, sovereignty, or prerogative of Part III of the Constitution, concerned with the national language, special position of the Malays and legitimate interests of other communities, and the position of the Rulers.

23 Factional divisions leading to party splits are largely responsible, as immediate reasons, for ending the dominance of the LDP in Japan, the KMT in Taiwan, the Congress Party in India, and the PRI in Mexico, among others. See the chapters in this volume analyzing parties in these states.

24 Although Malaysia fared better than most states in Southeast Asia, it suffered a serious decline in prices of key commodity exports, other than oil, that cost the economy more than USD$3 billion a year in lost earnings, resulting in reduced GDp (3 percent), lower government revenues, and less consumer spending and investment.

25 This ruling came from a strict interpretation of the Societies Act, which had a number of clauses designed to allow the government to declare communist front organizations illegal.

26 Parliament passed the Federal Constitution (Amendment) Act 1988. Among its most important changes: the powers of the judiciary would no longer be embedded in the Constitution but rather conferred by Parliament; the High Courts were stripped of the power of judicial review; and the Attorney General assumed the sole power to instruct the courts on what cases to hear and which courts to use. In 1994, the Supreme Court was further downgraded. Its name was changed to the Federal Court, and the Lord President became simply the Chief Justice of Malaysia.

27 Under the ISA, detentions may be ordered without any charges being preferred. There is no right of habeas corpus.

28 While many non-Malays were convinced of the folly of supporting the opposition, a number of Chinese organizations saw this as an opportunity to press for changes in return for their support. They published a 17-point declaration of grievances and 83 demands for reform. At first, Mahathir said he would not be pressured by any threats. Soon after, he endorsed the Chinese demands. A year later he disavowed any agreement.

29 Large Malay constituencies meant they comprised at least 70 percent Malays.


30 This is similar to the “us or chaos” argument used by the neo-patrimonial regimes of West Africa, as noted by Jourde in this volume.

31 “Pak Lah” is Badawi’s nickname. “Abdullah” is often shortened to “Dollah” or, in this case, “Lah,” and “Pak” means uncle.

32 For election results, see http://thestar.com.my/election2004/results/results.html and the Election Commission Malaysia (in Malay) www.spr.gov.my.

33 The LDP in Japan, for example, which had relied heavily on rural voters, found itself facing an electorate that was increasingly urban, middle class, and older. This fact played a part in the LDP’s slip from dominant party status, and in the adaptations it has made to return to office (see Pempel, this volume).

34 Interview with a Malay economist and UMNO politician, in Kuala Lumpur, October 1990.

35 It used to be widely stated that while democracy in Malaysia had its limitations, “real” democracy could be found in UMNO elections. This sentiment died down after the contested 1987 UMNO elections and subsequent rule changes.

36 The other parties in the coalition are normally very reluctant to challenge or resist UMNO on so-called “Malay issues,” particularly anything concerning Islam. In January 2006, there was an inter-religious issue wherein the civil courts were found to have no jurisdiction over the Islamic Sharia Courts (a change Mahathir initiated in 1988 through a constitutional amendment). This led to a rare challenge by 10 non-Muslim ministers who issued a memo calling for a review of religious laws to protect the rights of minorities. Almost immediately, the ministers backed down and retracted the memo “in the national interest” (Giam 2006).

37 For some time it has been believed that hybrid parties need to maintain their state’s economic performance in order to sustain voter support, as this constitutes the basis of their legitimacy. This may be basically true, and is certainly true if there is a catastrophic economic meltdown as in Indonesia. But, based on the experiences of UMNO and the PAP in Singapore during and after the Asian financial crisis, an economic downturn does not seem decisive on its own so long as it is perceived as being managed. These are political systems where the opposition often lacks credibility and are not viewed as being capable of governing.

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In sharp contrast with many accounts in this collection, the case of the People’s Action Party (PAP) in Singapore is one where a ruling party employed adaptive strategies in the face of political crises to usher in political authoritarianism, not to accommodate itself to democracy. This is all the more remarkable given the PAP’s origins in the emerging political pluralism and competitive party politics of Singapore in the 1950s and its rhetorical championing of democratic values during that period. So effective have the PAP’s adaptive strategies proved that it has not only ruled Singapore continuously since 1959, but it also appears in no foreseeable danger of losing its stranglehold over power.

In any reflection on the PAP’s adaptive strategies, responses to two political crises that confronted the party during the early 1960s must be singled out as decisive. The first was in 1961, when an internal split resulted in the formation of a new party. This stripped the PAP of much of its social base and organizational capacity, both so crucial to electoral politics. The second, shortly after, was the sudden collapse of the merger with the Federation of Malaysia that translated by 1965 into the city-state becoming an independent country. Merger and access to a prospective common Malaysian market had been a central plank of the PAP economic strategy.

In the context of these political crises, the incumbent political elites consolidated their hold on power by dismantling established party structures and methods of electoral mobilization in favor of a mutual transformation of state and party. This availed the PAP of new instruments and bases of power that would have long-term consequences for both the political regime and the underlying political economy supportive of that regime. Moreover, the pervasive social and economic roles assumed by the PAP state have undermined the basis for independent, oppositional political coalitions to emerge, in spite of the dramatic socio-economic transformations that have occurred. The Singapore experience under the PAP does not sit comfortably with modernization and transitions theory associating social and economic transformations with increasing difficulties for the reproduction of authoritarian rule; nor does Edward Friedman’s chapter in this collection, which not only describes expectations of the rapidly industrializing China evolving into a democracy as “wishful thinking,” but also argues it is “moving in an anti-democratic direction.” How

13 Singapore “exceptionalism”?

Authoritarian rule and state transformation

Garry Rodan

232 Garry Rodan

then have theorists sought to explain the regime in Singapore and what general theoretical lessons might it contain?

In The Third Wave, Samuel Huntington looked to leadership as the missing ingredient to explain the absence of democracy in Singapore. So favorable were the preconditions, according to Huntington (1991: 108), that “a political leader far less skilled than Lee Kuan Yew could have produced democracy in Singapore.” Since that observation, attempts to theorize the consolidation of democratic transformations have dominated the literature. Here the importance of institutions and their effects on political actors have received considerable attention (Diamond et al. 1997; Diamond 1999), with increasing focus now on the quality of democratic institutions in emerging democracies (Altman and Pérez-Liñán 2002; Schmitter 2004). Meanwhile, the political regime in Singapore has been consigned to the “hybrid regime” category, described as a “stable semi-democracy” (Case 2002). However, this residual category does not so much explain the regime in Singapore, as accord it, and other apparently exceptional cases, greater respect for demonstrated durability and for not having to learn to lose. Yet if the case of Singapore continues to confound theorists, this may have less to do with its exceptionalism and more to do with the limits of prevailing institutional analysis and the questions driving it thus far. In particular, preoccupation with identifying the pressure points that will ultimately deliver the transition to democracy, and its consolidation thereafter, has diverted analysis from identifying and evaluating the form and significance of political change within authoritarian regimes.

Political institutions in Singapore and elsewhere are the products of dynamic social and political conflicts and coalitions. Attempts to relate political institutions to broader state–society relations involving dynamic coalitions of interest take us a significant way towards a framework for capturing change or continuity (Pempel 1990, 1998). However, the Singapore case highlights that it is no less important to analyze the ways in which various interests and coalitions are embodied in the state, or selectively excluded from it (Robison and Hadiz 2004). In this approach, processes of state transformation are integral to the analysis of political regimes and their associated institutions. This includes, but goes beyond, examination of the social bases of political parties and how the exercise of state power influences their electoral fortunes; it invites broader consideration of how the state is constituted in order to protect and advance certain interests, and locating the role of parties and political institutions within this broader analysis. Why, then, has the PAP been able to respond to pressures and challenges accompanying capitalist development so successfully, whereas its counterparts in Taiwan and South Korea were found wanting? The answer resides in significant part in the very nature of the transformation of the state and the dominant party.

In Taiwan and South Korea, from the 1980s, private capitalists became assertive in trying to break the economic dominance of the state (Koo 1993; Chu 1994). This did not, of itself, generate pressure for democracy, but it represented an arena for conflict over state power that could be exploited by various democratic forces, sometimes in coalition with independent private business interests (Bellin 2000). However, in Singapore the PAP contained and circumscribed the domestic

Authoritarian rule and state transformation in Singapore 233

bourgeoisie’s development as a matter of political strategy, since it suspected links in the early 1960s between elements of this class and oppositionists (Rodan 1989: 98). The statutory boards and government-linked companies (GLCs) supplanting much of the domestic bourgeoisie’s role have fundamentally defined Singapore’s political economy. Through them various forms of social and economic dependence on the state have been cultivated, translating into the political vulnerability and political weakness of domestic business and citizens alike. Moreover, the institutionalization of official ideology championing state political paternalism and the role of technocratic policy elites, at the expense of ideas of representation and citizenship rights, is another factor in the PAP’s strategy for effective regime reproduction. The persuasiveness of such ideology has also been enhanced by material improvements experienced by Singaporeans under PAP rule, rising inequalities of late notwithstanding.

In elaborating on the above points, the following discussion identifies and analyzes different phases in the transformation of the state and associated coalitions, and the implications of this transformation for political institutions. These phases do not involve neat, mutually exclusive periods of political change, but they do represent significant qualitative shifts and tendencies characterizing the dynamics of the authoritarian regime in Singapore. In a sense, these phases give expression to the periodic refinements involved in the initial adaptive strategies of the PAP in response to earlier political crises. They were (and are) intended to pre-empt further crises.

The first involves the emergence of a state party, which superseded the party’s previous organizational importance in mobilizing political support and acting as a conduit between social groups and the state. This transformation entailed a middle class PAP elite that not only deployed crude means of political repression through the state apparatus, but also cultivated broad electoral appeal through social and economic policies which harnessed state powers. In the second phase, beginning from the early to mid-1980s, more technocratic, administrative and legalistic techniques and ideologies of state political repression and co-option emerged. These new instruments of control reflected a change in the class character of the PAP itself as state capitalism took firm root and the party’s structures were refined to service the reproduction of a technocratic elite. The final section examines emerging tensions between state capitalism and neoliberal globalization since the late 1990s. Whether these tensions presage a third phase in transformation in the way the PAP is organized within the state to pre-empt a political crisis is too early to ascertain. However, there are new challenges that will at least further test the capacity of existing institutions and ideologies that ensure the PAP state will remain a de facto one-party state.

From party to state party

The PAP was a marriage in 1954 of temporary political convenience, born out of the struggle for independence. On the one hand it comprised the well-organized leftist and nationalist grassroots organizations, whose socialist rhetoric and

234 Garry Rodan

inclusion of communists alarmed colonial authorities and other elements of the Singapore establishment. On the other hand, the PAP involved English-educated middle class nationalists such as Lee Kuan Yew and a number of others who shared membership in a 1949 discussion club of Malayan students in London known as the Malayan Forum. Lee’s faction recognized that leftist and radical leaders had an indispensable capacity for mobilizing mass electoral support through their organizations. The leftists, by contrast, reasoned that with Lee and his comparatively moderate cohorts providing the public face of the party, the risk of proscription of their organizations and personal intimidation would be lessened. The problem in this strategy for the leftists was that the executive of the PAP was for the time being largely controlled by Lee’s faction. The incumbents exploited this advantage to reform the party structure to further centralize power in their hands before the 1959 election for self-government. This included the requirement that cadre members—the only category of members who could elect the Central Executive Committee (CEC)—had to be approved by the CEC (Turnbull 1982: 266).

From the outset, there were internal tensions within the PAP government. Ultimately, though, the issue of incorporation within the Federation of Malaysia brought factional differences to a head. Given the right-wing political complexion of the Federal government in Kuala Lumpur, the left feared the prospect of security swoops that could obliterate their organizational bases, especially among the trade unions. After the Malaysian Prime Minister, Tunku Abdul Rahman, publicly mooted a merger in May 1961, the two factions of the PAP were on a collision path that finally resolved itself in July 1961 with the breakaway faction forming a new party, the Barisan Sosialis (BS), or Socialist Front. Along with this new party went the vast grassroots organizational structures and community leadership that had been so important to the PAP’s electoral success in 1959. Lee and his English-educated middle class faction may have suddenly enjoyed uncontested supremacy within the PAP, but it remained to be seen whether and how the PAP could achieve its electoral survival without the leftist faction.

The response by the PAP to the prospects of a concerted challenge to its power contrasted with that of another Leninist party, the Kuomintang (KMT) in Taiwan, when it was faced with a rising opposition movement during the 1980s. As Joseph Wong explains in this collection, the KMT adapted by incrementally opening up space for opposition. Meanwhile, the ruling party was preparing itself to cope with a more substantively competitive political system. For the PAP, though, such gradualism was not an option. Overnight it had been reduced to a shell of a party and it had to come up quickly with a new strategy for effectively contesting elections.

Building the state party

The essence of the PAP’s short-term response to this political crisis was to simply harass and intimidate its opponents and to dismantle their social and organizational bases within civil society. The trade union movement was a prime target, though


journalists, student leaders and others felt the heat. The most dramatic instance of this was through the use of the security forces in what was code-named “Operation Cold Store.” In this particular swoop in 1963, 111 people were arrested by Special Branch under the Internal Security Act (ISA), legislation inherited from the British which gave the authorities the power of detention without trial. This decimated the BS leadership.

Sustained pressure was applied thereafter to further whittle away the viability of the Singapore Association of Trade Unions (SATU) and militant independent trade unions (Deyo 1981). Measures were also taken to neutralize universities as institutions through which academics and students could challenge the PAP (Puccetti 1972). The political logic behind these and other forms of intimidation was crystallized in refinements in 1967 to another piece of legislation inherited from the British, the Societies Act. This now barred “political” engagement by organizations not registered with the Registrar of Societies for that specific purpose. In effect, this deemed pressure groups illegal and enforced a channeling of all political challenges through electoral politics. But the suppression of an independent civil society also robbed opposition parties of their social foundations and ability to develop policy programs by drawing on them. The PAP was blatantly trying to limit its risks in electoral contest. However, the PAP was by no means hostile to the concept of social organization. On the contrary, the PAP sought to replace independent grassroots organizations and structures with those that it controlled. This was part of a broader project of corporatist institution building, facilitated by a fusion of party and state instrumentalities.

As soon as the split occurred, the PAP also rapidly transformed the relationship between the party and the state bureaucracy. Policy formation was now completely removed from any wider party organization, and instead became the total preserve of the PAP executive in consultation with senior civil servants (Bellows 1973: 28–9). Lee’s faction had already endeared itself to these people by dissolving the City Council, which resulted in the transfer of power to the civil service. The political conservatism of relatively privileged English-educated civil servants also meant that they were sympathetic to Lee’s faction in the ensuing political struggle. The PAP exploited new appointments to entrench political control over the state apparatus. Indeed, over time and as the state-party nexus deepened, the upper echelons of the civil service became the predominant route to political leadership (Worthington 2003).

With a politicized public bureaucracy in place, grassroots para-political state institutions—such as the People’s Associations, Community Centres and Citizens’ Consultative Committees (CCCs), all linked to the Prime Minister’s Office—became avenues through which support for the PAP could be fostered and party ideology disseminated (Pang 1971; Seah 1973). State-owned media also became critical arms of party propaganda during the turbulent 1960s. The single most important achievement in state-sponsored forms of social organization, however, involved the National Trades Union Congress (NTUC) that was affiliated with the PAP. The NTUC became a pivotal institution in the implementation of the PAP’s policies and for the mobilization of party support. In effect, the PAP fostered a

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political “coalition,” of a sort, with strategic constituencies in the working class through this structure. Yet it had to be serviced by way of material benefits to the workers, something the PAP did not feel comfortable leaving entirely to market forces. Thus it introduced the tripartite National Wages Council (NWC) in 1972, which not only afforded the government a significant degree of influence over wages but also brought capital into corporatist arrangements with the state-party. Additionally, the government significantly increased the compulsory contributions to the national superannuation scheme, the Central Provident Fund (CPF), inherited from the British. This involved no contributions from government, yet it gave the government the capacity to shape production costs and consumption patterns as well as providing a ready source of capital for state infrastructure development.

The internal split was not the only sudden crisis the PAP had to contend with during the 1960s. Singapore’s experience of merger with Malaysia, starting in 1961, was acrimonious and short-lived. When the relationship collapsed in 1963, so too did much of the rationale behind past PAP economic policy. Moreover, PAP leaders now had to explain how a small, independent city-state could be a viable political entity. Yet the PAP deftly harnessed this new political crisis to its authoritarian project of building a one-party state. In particular, party leaders now espoused the “ideology of survival” emphasizing the need for disciplined, cohesive and self-sacrificial behavior for the national interest. Acceptance of the PAP’s sole right to determine national interest and the conflation of the PAP’s survival with that of the nation were central to this ideology, which was comprehensively propagated through government-controlled media and state institutions. In effect, the adaptation to this political crisis was a deepening of the strategy that had already been put in place to deal with the earlier party split.

Developmental state, welfare and political paternalism

The PAP recognized early on that without substantial improvements in the social and economic conditions of Singaporeans no amount of repression or ideological rhetoric could guarantee its power. After all, the state-party had promoted the idea of a trade-off between political liberty and economic and social development, a social contract, in effect. Consequently, expansive social and economic roles taken on by the state included major public investments in education and public housing, even before the export-oriented industrialization (EOI) program took off during the late 1960s, in order to shore up electoral support.

Significantly, though, from their inception, many public investments were administered in a paternalistic fashion that also happened to avail the PAP of a capacity for extensive social control and engineering, especially as this involved housing (Chua 1991; Tremewan 1994). The percentage of the population housed by the state rose dramatically. This not only brought with it a host of conditions and limits on how property could be used (Chan 2005), it also enabled the PAP to harness estate development and resettlement programs during the 1960s and 1970s as a way of diluting the electoral impact of political opposition. The paternalistic state’s role in public housing politically fragmented the opposition as an independent


force, especially as it involved ethnic Malays (Rahim 2001: 74–5). The state’s economic role was bolstered by the bureaucracy and other state instrumentalities through their provision of infrastructure supporting the EOI program and through their roles in direct investment. The latter was initially justified as necessary in view of the under-developed nature of the domestic bourgeoisie in manufacturing and the urgency of economic development in Singapore.

One of the greatest political achievements of the PAP was to translate the heavy dependence on the delivery of services through bureaucracies and state instrumentalities into electoral advantage: improvements in social and economic conditions were more easily identified as outcomes of PAP rule, and party and state were effectively indistinguishable. Importantly, the new set of power relations that blurred the distinction between the ruling party and the machinery of the state was accompanied by a variety of ideological rationales. Arguments about the security vulnerability of city-states, the special circumstances of Singapore’s multiculturalism, economic uncertainty and other rationales which bolstered or supplemented the ideology of Singapore’s survival were submitted in defense of a powerful, organic state and in opposition to political pluralism (Leifer 2000).

Elections and the party

Yet in contrast with many authoritarian regimes elsewhere, elections in Singapore were retained and viewed as functional for the purposes of political legitimacy. Their retention also reflected the specific historical circumstances out of which the party came to power, a process in which the PAP, at least in its original incarnation, championed the case for free elections. The PAP’s leaders may have emasculated political pluralism, but they also continually sought to rationalize such a condition and insisted, especially to international audiences, that electoral competition in Singapore was free and fair. Such defensiveness about the regime persists among present day leaders, who are no less anxious than their predecessors about keeping the myth of political competition alive. This serves as a reminder that the abandoning of democracy was not only a challenging exercise for the PAP that necessitated repressive means, but also one that has generated a considerable degree of ideological creativity and ambiguity.

In phase one, then, the PAP was radically transformed. It would be misleading and simplistic to depict this as the replacement of a mass party by a state party. After all, from the outset, the PAP’s cadre system placed limits on the influence of ordinary members (whose membership was not automatic either) over the election of office bearers and policy formation. Even before the 1959 elections, Lee’s faction was effective in reforming the party to further undermine democratic principles of internal party accountability. Nevertheless, party membership, branches within the party and affiliated grassroots networks were at that time still fundamental to the PAP’s strategies of electoral mobilization and for this reason they had to be nurtured.

After the split, however, state-based institutions largely supplanted party structures, leaving branches with minimal functions, resources or status within the

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PAP. With no say in the choice of candidates or government policy, the role of party branches was reduced to primarily assisting candidates in local campaigns during elections. Indeed, one of the PAP’s senior figures, S. Rajaratnam, declared as early as 1969 that the party no longer played a significant role in Singapore’s political system (Mauzy and Milne 2002: 49). In place of the party and parliament, ideas and policies were now principally exchanged between political and bureaucratic elites within the state. As we have seen, this included strategies and structures to manage and mobilize social groups for political purposes. Significantly, this ruling coalition excluded the domestic bourgeoisie; indeed, it was founded on the notion of supplanting it. This contrasts significantly with neighboring Malaysia, as outlined in Diane Mauzy and Shane Barter’s chapter. There, the ruling political coalition, the United Malays National Organization (UMNO), incorporated ethnic Malay business interests through systems of patronage as an integral strategy to constrain political opposition and thus limit the prospects of electoral defeat.

Technocratic class, technocratic controls

During the 1980s, the so-called “Old Guard” PAP leaders were progressively replaced by new leaders who lacked political skills and experience of oratory, organization and mobilization, but who were imbued with technical or managerial skills functional to the economic interests of the state-party. This was not simply the triumph of political elitism for its own sake, nor was it simply the luxury of a de facto one-party state that had obliterated its opposition. Rather, it was symptomatic of the heightened structural importance of statutory bodies and GLCs to Singapore’s political economy. Instead of abating once Singapore’s industrialization strategy took off largely under the aegis of international capital, GLCs and statutory bodies came to dominate the commanding heights of the economy (Low 1998). Moreover, state control over vast amounts of capital became heavily concentrated through interlocking directorships and other arrangements that gave the political executive considerable direct or indirect power over investments affecting the domestic economy (Hamilton-Hart 2000; Worthington 2003). A virtual class of state capitalists had been created, and now its consolidation and reproduction was the priority for the PAP; to that end, party structures were modified to assist with the identification and co-option of technocrats.

It was in this context that a new emphasis on legal and administrative means of curbing political opponents emerged. This adaptive strategy gathered momentum after negative international reactions to the ISA arrest in 1987 of 22 social activists. Meanwhile, Singapore’s leaders were anxious about the possible political implications of the accelerating social pluralism accompanying the city-state’s rapid economic transformation. They were keen to head off any translation of this dynamic into pressures for a genuinely independent civil society. Accordingly, the PAP embarked on a series of creative, pre-emptive institutional and ideological initiatives meant to steer change in Singapore down a path of political co-optation rather than political contestation. The idea was to avert the very political crises that had brought down authoritarian regimes in South Korea and elsewhere.


Class and party

The conscious phasing out of Old Guard leaders may have been apparent in 1976 when the first wave of “second generation” leaders was recruited and boasted a strong emphasis on technocrats. However, during the 1980s this phasing-out process gathered rapid momentum, starting with the PAP’s decision in 1980 to retire some 11 MPs. In 1984, 24 more second generation recruits soon translated into their overall numerical dominance in parliament, cabinet and the CEC. By 1988, Lee Kuan Yew was the sole remaining Old Guard member of cabinet (Mauzy and Milne 2002: 45).

In the process, the criteria for selecting candidates and the social strata represented in the party significantly narrowed. Credentials that were once valued—such as an ethnic Chinese education and/or an ability to communicate with and mobilize grassroots organizations—were no longer important. Instead, a university degree and a track record of professional excellence was a minimal prerequisite. Thus, whereas the 1976 cabinet included three journalists and a party professional, by the end of the 1980s the PAP leadership at all levels had strikingly similar socio-economic characteristics and a lack of previous involvement in political activity. From the mid-1980s, the PAP also began incorporating military elites into the party, the civil service and GLCs (Mauzy and Milne 2002: 44–8). In effect, while the coalition between political and bureaucratic elites remained the basis of the political regime, the internal complexion of that coalition underwent some refinement during this phase.

The comprehensive takeover of the party by technocrats did not occur without a measure of internal resistance and resentment. Part of the deeper institutionalization of technocratic dominance over the state-party included the so-called “cross fertilization” between the NTUC and the PAP beginning in the late 1970s. This involved both increased representation of the PAP within the NTUC as well as the appointment of Lim Chee Onn as NTUC secretary-general in 1979. However, in April 1983, Lim was dismissed by Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew, who acknowledged the depth of discontent within the NTUC and declared that, “the process of meshing in scholars and professionals with rank-and-file union leaders was not progressing well” (quoted in Leung 1983). This was something of a last hoorah for the Old Guard and their ilk in resisting the tide of change. Another technocrat, former architect and second generation leader, Ong Teng Cheong, was quickly appointed to replace Lim. Meanwhile, the pace of integrating technocrats within the NTUC and the state accelerated, with some 18 NTUC appointments to statutory boards and other state economic enterprises by 1980 (Mauzy and Milne 2002: 31).

Predictably, the hollowing out of party organization and its diminished importance more generally drove membership down. Yet in the attempt to enhance the capacity to identify and socialize suitable technocrats, party organization within the regime was adapted. This was not a revival of old party structures and influences, so much as their further subordination to centrally determined goals. Goh Chok Tong, as First Secretary-General of the PAP, instigated the

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first significant steps in this direction during the mid-1980s by establishing the PAP Youth Wing, which included all party members between the ages of 17 and 35 years. By 1993, membership was actually declining, resulting in a further membership drive. Re-named Young PAP (YP), membership was opened to those up to 40 years of age and the target sharpened on professionals and recent university graduates. A Policy Studies Group was established to enable members to engage in policy discussion. None of these changes, however, compromised the highly centralized control of the party. They were instead designed to enhance the party’s capacity to expose prospective MPs and ministers to grassroots experience and socialization (Henson 1993; Worthington 2003: 29–30). By 1999, 20 percent of the PAP’s 81 MPs had been members of YP (Mauzy and Milne 2002: 41–2), a development that helped shore up—not threaten—the stranglehold of the technocrats on the PAP. Meanwhile, new candidates continued to be parachuted in at pre-selection time from outside the party, though predominantly from within the state or the broader PAP establishment.

Legal and administrative controls

As the character of the PAP changed, so too did the techniques of political control. From the mid-1980s, the legal system became pivotal to the political persecution of the PAP’s most formidable opponents and for the intimidation of the international and independent media. This was accompanied by the increasing use of administrative law and associated legislation to indirectly narrow the grounds and avenues for political contestation, and to empower bureaucrats to constrain and thus limit lawful political competition. In effect, rule by law replaced rule of law during this period (Tremewan 1994; Jayasuriya 1999).

Worthington (2002: 498) observes that “the structure and nature of the Singaporean judiciary is such that it is clearly under what is effectively a sovereign executive which, exercising power through the Attorney-General, the Legal Services Commission, the legislature, the presidency or the Chief Justice, can control appointments to and dismissals from the courts.” His comprehensive study of appointments to the Supreme Court since 1987 documents the frequent use of temporary appointments, the appointment of career civil servants with close ties to the government, and even the appointment of PAP cadre members and other close affiliates of the PAP (Worthington 2002: 498–500).

Although Lee Kuan Yew had begun taking legal actions against opponents and critics during the 1970s, from the mid-1980s the damages awarded by the courts started to dramatically escalate. By the 1990s, other members of the PAP had begun to follow Lee’s example. Prominent casualties of this process included the Workers’ Party’s J.B. Jeyaretnam and Tang Liang Hong, as well as the Singapore Democratic Party’s Chee Soon Juan. Both Jeyaretnam and Chee were rendered bankrupt and thus ineligible to contest elections, while Tang fled to avoid Singapore’s courts (Lydgate 2003; Seow 2006). Since the mid-1980s, the international media have also been the target of a string of punitive court actions and have therefore operated under stricter legal limits. These methods


have supplanted the outright expulsion of journalists as a means of discouraging critical reporting. Amendments made to the Newspaper and Printing Presses Act in 1986 were central to this change. They gave the Minister for Communications and Information the capacity to restrict the circulation of foreign publications deemed by the Minister to be engaging in domestic politics (Seow 1998; Rodan 2004a).

Meanwhile, existing and new laws covering the administrative processes of political engagement were applied to further impair the activities of the PAP’s political opponents. These varied, but have included a wide range of laws and regulations covering the licenses and permits required for public rallies, the dissemination of political materials and other matters. So effective were these regulations, since 1999 a frustrated Chee Soon Juan and his Singapore Democratic Party (SDP) colleagues have deliberately breached the Public Entertainment Licensing Act to highlight the virtual banning of free speech and assembly on the PAP’s opponents. This strategy has resulted in Chee serving several prison sentences.

Importantly, the new emphasis on legal and administrative controls from the mid-1980s was possible because the state-party fusion embodied a vast network of informal political connections and appointments (see Worthington 2003). Indeed, this was part of the reason why Lee Kuan Yew could stand down as Prime Minister in 1989 and still exert considerable political influence within the state. In any case, through informal networks, political repression could then take more indirect and sophisticated forms, with the hand of the political leadership less conspicuous in the process.

Increasing political participation

Meanwhile, there were other initiatives to more overtly extend the political reach of the state through new political institutions and supportive rhetoric about consultation meant to obviate the need for more elected opposition MPs or an independent civil society. This new strategy was informed by an understanding that Singapore’s dramatic economic and social development had the potential to translate into pressures for political change, a PAP view that crystallized following a 13 percent swing against the ruling party in the 1984 general election. This view was subsequently reinforced by democratic transitions in Taiwan and South Korea and, to some extent, the landslide electoral victory of the National League for Democracy in Burma and the 1989 Tiananmen Square protests in China (Rodan 1993). From the PAP’s perspective, a potential crisis was looming. Certainly there were strains on the existing strategies meant to avert such challenges. The party needed to adapt again.

In the context of rapid capitalist development, two different tensions symptomatic of the existing authoritarian regime became increasingly visible. One involved the contradiction between the official elitist technocratic ideology that heralded meritocracy, and the dearth of opportunities for so many middle class professionals to play a political role. The other, and much more significant

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force behind the electoral shift during the mid-1980s, concerned the inability of corporatist labor unions—or any other organizations under state sponsorship—to adequately represent the concerns of the less privileged to the government, especially as these related to rising material inequalities.

One of the first measures taken by the PAP to increase this sort of non-competitive political space was the establishment in 1985 of the Feedback Unit.1 This extra-parliamentary body within the Ministry of Community Development receives input from the public on policy issues, both through open forums and direct correspondence. The introduction of Government Parliamentary Committees (GPCs) in 1987 was more specifically designed to incorporate professionals with specific policy expertise into the political process. The following year, the creation of a think tank, the Institute of Policy Studies (IPS), was similarly meant to serve as a non-partisan avenue for work on public policy issues. In addition to these institutional innovations, individuals were co-opted onto various public sector committees of inquiry. The most significant initiative was the amendment to the Constitution in 1990 to create a new category of parliamentarians: nominated MPs (NMPs). This was intended not just to absorb professionals and other middle class elements, but to incorporate a wider range of interests. Appointments included individuals from domestic business, labor, environmental, women’s and ethnic organizations. This functional representation not only implicitly recognized the inadequacy of existing political processes, but encouraged non-governmental organizations (NGOs)—such as the Association of Women for Action and Research (AWARE), the Association of Muslim Professions (AMP) and the Nature Society of Singapore (NSS)—to take their politics down a non-partisan path though within a PAP-controlled institution.

A cultural rationale for authoritarian rule also emerged with the “Asian values” debate, the timing of which coincided with the rising economic status of China. A central theme of Asian values was the idea that liberalism was characterized by institutionalized friction and conflict, which was supposedly alien to Asians, whose cultural traditions predisposed them to consensus politics (Zakaria 1994; Mahbubani 1995). Political institutions for ascertaining consensus, though, were conspicuously absent in authoritarian Singapore (Chua 1995). In response, Goh Chok Tong, as Prime Minister, fuelled anticipation that under his leadership there would be more opportunities for consultation and involvement in the political process.

Over time, the ideological utility of linking these political structures and practices to ideas about Asian values diminished, not least because with the onset of the Asian financial crisis of 1997 the “Asian way” became too closely associated with corruption and economic mismanagement. In this context, the ideological emphasis in Singapore shifted again, though now towards particular notions of civic engagement that favored non-competitive politics, which manifested itself in detailed form in the government’s Singapore 21 vision statement, released in April 1999. The central theme to the parliamentary committee report was the need to complete the process of nation-building and the creation of a social and political model that more effectively incorporated citizens into public life.


The loosely defined model articulated in the report emphasized the partnership between government, the private sector and the people. The encouragement of “active citizenship,” however, had little to do with any rights of involvement in public decision-making on the part of Singaporeans; rather, it had much more to do with the purported technical benefits of wider expertise helping the government develop its policy, and the political benefits to the regime’s stability of giving people a sense of involvement in the policy process.

Importantly, Prime Minister Goh (quoted in Chua 1999) explained that “[w]hile Singaporeans will have more space for political debate, it does not mean that the government is vacating the arena.” He added that those without a “hidden agenda” need not fear rebuttals from the government, but those out to undermine the government or wrest political control from the ruling party could expect “an extremely robust” response. Attempts by organizations and individuals to try and test and exploit the PAP’s rhetoric about the need for a more consultative and inclusive politics, such as by the Association of Muslim Professionals (see Ahmad 2000; Siti 2000), were either easily snuffed out or posed little threat to the PAP’s political hegemony. Therefore, refinements to the authoritarian regime during this phase of the PAP’s evolution did not just involve the attempt to restrict political competition to a narrow sphere, and one that was severed from civil society, these strategic adaptations by the PAP also involved the creation of new avenues for political participation though with an ideology that championed the avoidance of political competition altogether. For the PAP, this was a system of political participation without the threat of it losing power.

State capitalism and neoliberal globalization

Although the second phase in the transformation of the Singaporean state is arguably still in train, since the 1997 Asian crisis, economic restructuring has been promoted through a fuller PAP embrace of neoliberal globalization. This has generated new tensions, while compounding others. First, there has been unprecedented critical scrutiny from international capital of Singapore’s GLCs, its economic governance regimes and state capitalism more generally. The diverse and internationalizing interests of state capital have posed new challenges for centralized control over the state-party. Second, greater exposure to global market forces for the domestic workforce has accentuated strains on the existing social contract and has broadened the arenas of potential social conflict.

In succeeding Goh Chok Tong as prime minister in 2004, Lee Hsien Loong recognized that refinements to political structures and ideologies were required to reproduce the PAP state in a rapidly changing economic and social environment. In his swearing-in speech, Lee declared that, “[o]ur people should feel free to express diverse views, pursue unconventional ideas, or simply be different. We should have the confidence to engage in robust debate, so as to understand our problems, conceive fresh solutions, and open up new spaces” (Lee 2004a). However, he has been clear on the conditional nature of the spaces he intends to open up. Reviving a concept PAP colleague George Yeo adopted in the 1990s,

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Lee projected that, “[t]he government will therefore continue to do its utmost to build a civic society.” Unlike “civil society,” this particular conceptualization does not accommodate independent organizations engaging in political acts, but rather the building up of functional social organizations for the fine-tuning of, and cooperation with, the government’s policy agenda. Moreover, where there is “criticism that scores political points and undermines the government’s standing,” he warned oppositionists that “the government has to rebut or even demolish them, or lose its moral authority” (Lee 2004b).

In effect, the PAP is trying to develop multifaceted forms of political co-optation in order to pre-empt the emergence of independent political spaces and actors. The key question for the medium to longer term is whether this proves an adequate response to the tensions discussed here, or whether those tensions will create the need or opportunity for new coalitions, within or beyond the PAP state, to lay the basis for quite different political institutions.

GLCs, globalization and governance

By the early 1990s the PAP government was emphasizing the strategic importance of the “external economy” to the city-state’s future. This direction was impossible to disentangle from the interests of the PAP state, since the state holding company Temasek and the Government of Singapore Investment Corporation (GIC) were principally leading the offshore investment drive.2 The advent of the Asian economic crisis only bolstered the government’s view that Singapore’s continued success in a rapidly globalizing economy necessitated a lead role for GLCs. In 1999, Prime Minister Goh emphasized the importance of developing “world-class Singapore companies” to transform Singapore “from a regional economy to a first-world economy” (Goh 1999). He also acknowledged that the successful globalization of the Singapore economy would necessitate “strategic alliances or mergers with other players” (Goh 1999). The PAP thus committed itself to reforms to both attract external investments in high-technology processes and knowledge-based industries and to enhance the capacity of GLCs to compete in the global market-place.

With the simultaneous pursuit of these two goals, a new chapter in the political economy of contemporary Singapore was opened, especially in the relations between the state and international capital. One dimension of this has been the increasingly institutionalized and specialized nature of state-business consultative mechanisms (see Rodan 2004a: 62). Another dimension, however, has been emerging criticism of state capitalism and GLC dominance from within the international business community, something that was conspicuously absent in previous decades. Calls to prise open more of the domestic market, to avail the private sector of increased access to national savings controlled by the state, and to remove impediments for a level playing field in the domestic market have gathered momentum. International fund managers, business executives, financial and business journalists and the International Monetary Fund have been among the reform advocates (Rodan 2004a).


Significantly, critical attention has also extended to the intermeshing of political and bureaucratic elites and the implications of this for governance and regulatory regimes in Singapore. The appointment of Ho Ching—wife of the then Deputy Prime Minister and head of the Monetary Authority of Singapore (MAS), Lee Hsien Loong—to the executive directorship of Temasek in 2001 was a major controversy. Negotiations over the US–Singapore Free Trade Agreement (USSFTA) during 2001–02 drew critical attention to regulatory and governance regimes in Singapore, as well as issues surrounding market access. The final version of USSFTA incorporated a range of commitments to improve the transparency and independence of decisions by regulatory authorities and a commitment to establish a Competition Commission. However, under Singapore’s Competition Act, which came into effect in 2005, key sectors dominated by GLCs and statutory bodies (such as telecommunications, media, postal services, transport, power generation, water and waste management) are exempted and thus transparency and regulatory issues have continued to arouse controversy.

Another significant by-product of the expansion and internationalization of state capital has been the threat that this poses for the capacity of the political executive to exert control through its formal institutions of power. Worthington’s (2003) path-breaking study of state enterprises empirically details what is now a diverse and complex set of interests within the state. Yet when he identifies five discernible PAP factions, Worthington overstates internal PAP differences and misses a more profound structural development in Singapore’s political economy: that the national and international accumulation strategies of the different factions of state capital have the potential to generate competing commercial interests and thus more diverse centers of power within the state. The contentiousness of the Monetary Authority of Singapore’s exchange rate policies, on which interests in the manufacturing and non-tradable sectors have seriously disagreed (Teo 2004), is one expression of how difficult it has become to simultaneously satisfy all of the different commercial interests internal to Singapore’s state capitalism.

The risk for the PAP presently could be that the dynamics of state capitalism will fragment political power within the state, such that different, if not competing, centers of power will emerge. If that is to be avoided, the party will require a concerted strategy of shoring up the political mechanisms for concentrating or at least coordinating power. The position of the CEO of Temasek, currently occupied by the wife of the Prime Minister, has therefore become pivotal in reconciling the potentially cross-cutting political and commercial impulses of state capitalism. A similar pressure has arguably confronted the chairman of the Monetary Authority of Singapore, who happens to be a former Prime Minister and current Senior Minister, Goh Chok Tong. Moreover, given the functional relationship between Singapore’s brand of state capitalism and the PAP’s capacity for social and political control, sustained critical attention to the developmental state “model” and associated governance systems is potentially serious for the authoritarian regime. What matters is whether international capital is primarily seeking a greater share of the domestic market, and adjusting regulatory regimes to facilitate this, or whether there will emerge a concerted attempt on the part of international capital to

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challenge the control of GLCs and statutory bodies over the domestic economy. If the former proves the case, selective reforms towards greater economic liberalism at home might accompany an intensified international accumulation strategy by GLCs, neither of which necessarily enhances the prospects of new coalitions forming in opposition to authoritarian rule. However, if the latter were to transpire, the room for maneuver without injury to political paternalism would be severely limited: neither the creation of proxy state capitalists (similar to the Malaysian model), nor the privatization of state companies would deliver anything like the current levels of social and political control that the PAP state affords.

Economic restructuring, social contract and political consensus

Since the early 1990s, there has been an increasingly unequal distribution of material rewards associated with Singapore’s economic development. Between 1990 and 1997, for instance, Singapore’s bottom 10 percent of households suffered an average income decline of 1.8 percent while all other households, to differing degrees, experienced increases (Straits Times 2000). The Asian crisis and the fuller embrace of globalization have bolstered this trend. Cuts and restraints in 1998–99, for example, meant wage costs were reduced by 5.8 percent and the relative unit labor costs fell a dramatic 19 percent, taking Singapore back to 1990–91 levels (Ng 2000). For the period 2000 to 2005, income inequality in Singapore increased significantly, with the Gini co-efficient rising from 0.490 to 0.522 during that time. The bottom 10 percent of households reported no or negative income growth, while household incomes for the 11–20 percentile group fell as much as 19.7 percent (Department of Statistics, Singapore 2006). Meanwhile, rising structural unemployment has been accompanied by reforms to link wages more directly to market forces and productivity. GLC retrenchment in employment has also generated consternation among employees and officials within the NTUC (Tan and Chia 2003). It is in this context that NTUC Secretary-General Lim Boon Heng has called for a “new compact” whereby employers accept greater responsibility for boosting employee skill levels to cope with a changing economy, in return for which workers would cooperate in terms of wage flexibility and productivity-based measures (Straits Times 2004).

This does not mean that the technocratic leadership of the PAP has been indifferent to the plight of the needy. Indeed, in the 2007 budget, the government announced its commitment to Workfare as a continuing income support program of cash and superannuation benefits to low-wage earners. However, the emphasis remains very much on promoting “self-help” and the preservation of a paternalistic political relationship, and certainly not an acknowledgement of any rights that the disadvantaged have to a claim on the state. The embrace of neoliberalism and its attendant ideology has also been functional for extending the PAP’s promotion of the CPF system for increased private provision for education and health services (Asher 2004). Yet the rationalization of the state’s welfare role has to be balanced against the need to also preserve state dependence. Threats at the last three general elections by the PAP to discriminate in public housing services and infrastructure


provision against electoral districts that supported opposition candidates underscore how the flip-side of state paternalism remains state intimidation (Chin 1997; Restall 2001; Rodan 2006).

Thus far, the dominant theme to the political initiatives of the PAP to manage conflict from the heightened, selective embrace of neoliberal globalization has been the refinement and extension of previous techniques of control and co-optation, rather than radically new measures. Updating the controls over media ensures that the capacity for mobilization of critical opinion and opposition to the PAP does not benefit from new technologies. Amendments to the Parliamentary Elections Act in 2001 effectively superimposed on the Internet the spirit of the Societies Act; they bar websites that are not registered as political organizations from political promotion or campaigning during elections. In 2001 the Singapore Broadcasting (Amendment) Bill brought foreign broadcasters into line with regulations for printed media, barring them from “interference in domestic politics.” The most recent updating of media controls was the banning on the eve of the 2006 general election of podcasting containing political messages.

At the ideological level, the new PAP “consensus politics” has become increasingly central to the party’s attempts to try and pre-empt and thus manage the conflict emanating from neoliberal globalization. This was especially evident during the deliberations and eventual report of the Remaking Singapore Committee, a broad “review of social, political and cultural policies, programs and practices” premised on the notion that Singaporeans need to “meet the challenges arising from our economic restructuring and the stresses on our various social faultlines” (Remaking Singapore Committee 2003). The Committee consulted a wide range of Singaporean individuals and organizations inside and outside the city-state. The final report contained 74 recommendations, of which the government accepted 60. The most profound statement of the PAP’s intended direction for continued political reform was found in the document’s appendix, which identified proposals that were not incorporated into the Committee’s recommendations. These included: changes to defamation laws to enhance free speech; liberalization of the media to improve the range and accessibility of information; and changes to the political playing field, including the recommendation that electoral boundaries be announced a reasonable time in advance of elections and that a transparent process of redrawing electoral boundaries be introduced by an independent electoral commission.

Conclusion

The analysis above emphasizes that the merging of state and party was paramount in defining and sustaining the authoritarian regime in Singapore. Yet this did not come about by mere political will. It was the product of complex historical forces and conjunctures conditioning the options open to Lee Kuan Yew and his factional cohorts. Amongst other factors, when the PAP split, mutual suspicion and different interests between the English-educated, middle class PAP leadership and the embryonic Chinese-educated domestic bourgeoisie helped to steer the

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ruling party’s search for a new power base towards the state. At this time, global production systems also provided an alternative industrial route to reliance on import substitution under the aegis of local capitalists. PAP strategies of political intimidation and co-optation have also been facilitated through direct and indirect structural dependence on the state by Singaporeans, to varying degrees, for housing, employment, business contracts and access to savings. State control over increasingly vast sums of capital generated by GLCs adds to the capacity of the PAP for certain forms of co-optation.

The analysis also emphasizes that, in response to changing economic and social dynamics, the PAP state has been constantly refined, enabling the regime to effectively anticipate, accommodate and even shape pressures for political reform. This has involved not only increasingly sophisticated measures to block political opponents and critics, but also creative measures to expand the political space of the state through new forms of political co-optation. Thus far, these adaptive strategies have enabled a high degree of political autonomy for the state to be effectively reproduced, and without the need to cultivate new political coalitions with emerging social forces. Part of the reason for that is that the structural evolution of the economy has largely consolidated the pre-eminence of international and state capital rather than opened up significant new bases for independent domestic social and political forces among the middle class or domestic bourgeoisie. The nature of the state and the related functioning of political institutions were and continue to be rooted in a specific political economy that is hostile to coalitions of independent political forces in opposition to the PAP.

Viewed in this way, there is nothing theoretically exceptional about Singapore’s political journey under the PAP, even if the regime trajectory departs significantly from patterns elsewhere in the region and beyond. Analysis of the dynamic conflicts and coalitions shaping state–society relations, and how states are constituted as a result of these dynamics, is as relevant to understanding why some authoritarian regimes collapse as it is to understanding why others endure. We have seen how the adaptive strategies of the PAP have thus far proved remarkably effective in blocking the sorts of coalitions that could pose a threat to the authoritarian regime. Still, pre-empting a potential conjuncture of forces with both the material interest and political will to transform the state (and party) is a continuing political project. Any expectation that this project is likely to cease or assume diminished importance in a post-Lee Kuan Yew Singapore might be disappointed, since without the intimidating and authoritative father figure of the PAP on the scene, PAP leaders may feel more insecure in the face of challenges to their own authority.

Note

1 Renamed in 2006 REACH, or Reaching Everyone for Active Citizenry @ Home. 2 The net portfolio value of Temasek had risen to S$164 billion (US$112 billion)

by 2007, 62 percent of it invested offshore (Temasek Holdings 2007). The GIC, specifically established in 1981 to manage Singapore’s vast foreign reserves invested


abroad, reveals only that it manages “over US$108 billion [S$146 billion] in assets involving more than 40 countries” (http://www.gic.com.sg/).

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China’s uniqueness?

The ruling Chinese Communist Party (CCP) was unwilling in spring 1989 to compromise with a nation-wide democracy movement. The CCP leadership would not agree to accountability through free elections. It refused to allow its monopoly of political power to be made uncertain. The CCP would not even legalize an autonomous student organization, the bottom-line demand of the movement. The ruling party elite rejected any democratic opening. Instead China has become a world leader in numbers of political prisoners, incarcerated netzians, and jailed journalists.

Actually, the CCP split in 1989. While authoritarian leader Deng Xiaoping had the clout to impose his will, even the charismatic Deng had to expend much political capital to get the military to crush the popular democratic movement. Had Deng chosen instead to heed CCP leader Zhao Ziyang who preferred to meet the wishes of the people part way, China could have gradually begun to democratize. Chinese have been struggling for constitutional freedoms since at least 1898. Democracy is not impossible for China.

Historical conjunctures matter. If the first post-Mao leader were more in the conservative camp of Deng Liqun, someone who opposed needed economic reforms, the party might have soon split, as reformers led by Deng Xiaoping insisted on economic openness and marketization as the only path to China’s return to greatness. After the split, even democracy might have been possible. Such a splitist conservative re-emergence remains possible because vested interests protect themselves and the dominant political discourse scapegoats external forces for Chinese problems. In contrast, paramount leader Deng insisted that China’s inability to benefit from European best practices from 1500 forward resulted from its own closed-door policies. The CCP, however, prefers the Mao era discourse in which China’s long decline was the consequence of victimization by imperialism. Conservative interests and ideologically-legitimating illusions could yet lead the dominant party onto a self-wounding path, something Chinese call Latin Americanization.

Opposing CCP explanations of the loss of power by the CP of the Soviet Union (CPSU) divide similarly. In contrast to Deng, who pinpointed the defeat

14 Why the dominant party in China won’t lose

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Why the dominant party in China won’t lose 253

of reformer Khrushchev in 1964 as the source of the stagnation that eventually delegitimated the CPSU, China’s conservative chauvinists scapegoat reformer Gorbachev’s attempts to end the power of the corrupt, self-serving party to block needed openness. The self-interested illusions of vested interests in China could yet block the flexibility and continuous adaptation required for a prolonged economic rise in a post-modern age where the speed of technological innovation is ever faster. Latin Americanization, an alienating polarization which prevents continuing reforms, could incite a crisis, split the CCP, and create an opening to democracy.

But even with Latin Americanization, democracy is not China’s most likely future. As John Ishiyama shows in his chapter on post-Soviet politics, because of the need for new legitimation by post-command economy CP rulers, nativistic chauvinistic tendencies are strong. This makes more likely a red-brown politics in which nostalgia for the nation’s glorious past can lead to a rejection of global best practices in order to preserve the pure soul of the nation from alien ways. This tendency, to do things such as to denounce Christmas and Valentine’s Day and to try to make the lunar New Year celebration of the Han an international holiday, is almost inevitable. In this nativistic discourse, economic polarization, political corruption and personal indignities are the consequence of importing western bourgeois selfish practices. Should such a reactionary agenda based on narrowly self-serving illusions win out, further reform and continuing growth could be threatened. But would this produce a transition to democracy?

Permanent predominance by a CCP capable of a continuous rise is not a given. All depends on political struggles. Should a conjuncture occur where an internal factional crisis joins an international trauma, the forces of growth through openness could be defeated. In that case, a somewhat fascist-military ascendancy seems a far more likely outcome than does democracy. In the dominant CCP discourse, democracy—damned as an alien western import—is in no way a solution for the pains and injustices which outrage the Chinese people. Anti-western purifiers have risen time and again in nations and parties once part of the internal and external USSR Empire. Similar anti-democratic forces dynamize Chinese politics.

In contrast to these political tendencies, Confucian cultural attitudes and values are not insuperable barriers to the forces of freedom. After all, supporters of the pro-democracy side in 1989 also were shaped by a Confucian familial and Buddhist religious culture. A yet stronger Confucian–Buddhist culture informed identities in China’s neighbors, Japan, South Korea and Taiwan, which have already successfully crafted a democratic polity. Whether the civilization is Buddhist or Confucian or Muslim or Christian, democratic forces can defeat cultural forces dominated by inherited authoritarian values, beliefs, and attitudes. Authoritarian culture has never proven a permanent and insuperable obstacle to democratization.

What then made Deng and his backers, during the 1989 window of opportunity, reject an opening to democracy? Perhaps his side found democracy to be little more than a bourgeois dictatorship that protected the interests of imperialism and was, therefore, the enemy of an independent Chinese nation, an obstacle to

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its return to international greatness. That is, a particular national identity of one historical era demonized democratization as a surrender to imperialism. In any case, the People’s Republic of China (PRC) seemed the odd nation out between 1989 and 1991 when so many Leninist dictatorships attempted a transition to democracy. But is the notion that the CCP was an outlier accurate? Might one look at factors other than Chinese culture or an idiosyncratic national identity to comprehend why China is not democratizing? In fact, it was the history of the Soviet Union and of its empires, internal and external, which was unique. Because of its internal and external empires of non-Russian nationalities and satellite dependencies, developments in the USSR had a decisive impact on many nations, from East Germany to Mongolia. It was the imperial power of Gorbachev’s ruling group in the USSR that was peculiar.

Gorbachev was not a democrat. He was a reformer trying to revive the CPSU. But deeply entrenched forces opposed even that. Their failed coup in August 1991 allowed Gorbachev’s Russian adversary, Yeltsin, to make Gorbachev irrelevant by declaring the independence of the Russian republic that Yeltsin headed while allowing other Soviet Republics similarly to declare independence. Having decided by 1988 that the empire was a burden, Russia’s CP leadership did not resist. The USSR disintegrated. However, only the new republics of the former Soviet Union in Europe democratized.

In Asian parts of the former USSR, no democratic extrication occurred. Among Leninist dictatorships in Asia, that is, in North Korea, Vietnam, and Laos, authoritarianism prevailed. To expect an evolution of democracy in China that supposedly transpired in the Asian reaches of the former Soviet Union and its Asian allies would be to project on to China something which in fact never happened. China was not a special case. There was no USSR cum Asian Soviet bloc example of democratization. Opting for democracy were only the countries geographically close to or economically oriented to democratic Europe that saw a better future in plugging into EU prosperity. In contrast, the prosperous democracy near China, the country of Japan, held no attraction as a model for patriotic Chinese whose nationalism could be virulently anti-Japanese.

During the Cold War, successful conquests of power by armed CPs usually were premised on capturing nationalist passions. Deng’s China, as Castro’s Cuba, Kim Il Song’s North Korea, and the Vietnam of Ho Chi Minh’s heirs, saw their governments as creators and defenders of a precious independence. The ruling group imagined itself as the embodiment of a national will for independence against murderous foreign forces. While a particular imperial Russian history combined with the economic prosperity of democracies in West Europe to allow for democratization in East Europe,1 China, far from being a unique outlier, was part of a large class of CP dictatorships that did not democratize. The failure of democracy in China was in no way exceptional.

Yet China was special. It successfully carried out in the post-Mao era a triple transition of institutions, reforming the political system, the economic system and national identity. China became a stable, proud and flourishing country. Its leaders were not hesitant to use force against non-Han people so as to hold the Han


imperial project together. What also distinguishes China from other post-Soviet authoritarianisms—such as Cuba, North Korea and Vietnam, let alone Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan, states where a dominant party continued to monopolize power—was that only in China was there a broad, nationwide democracy movement. There was no democratic surge from below in Pyongyang, Hanoi or Havana. The popular thrust for political freedom in China was even stronger than in many Leninist states that did democratize. Democracy failed in 1989 in China for contingent geographical, historical and political reasons. But those factors are real, large and decisive.

Beijing looks very different when compared with Pyongyang, Hanoi and Havana instead of with states such as Latvia or Hungary, which are oriented to a rich, democratic and attractive Europe. Regional location has weighty significance. Given its distance from a democratic European magnetism of an economically flourishing European community, the popularity of democracy in China is actually amazingly strong. It is therefore a serious question whether China will democratize in some medium-term future.

China’s democratic history

Wondering if China will democratize does not impose an external schema on an intrinsic authoritarian essence. The Chinese have been struggling for democracy since the end of the nineteenth century. Almost a century before China’s 1989 democracy movement, there was, in 1898, an attempted breakthrough to constitutional monarchy that was defeated by the Empress Dowager in the Manchu Court. Windows of opportunity for breakthroughs to democracy tend to be few and far apart. Yet that has not been the case with China. The quest for democracy has been deep and broad.

With the conquering Manchus increasingly experienced by newly Han-identified nationalist revolutionaries as alien, the 1898 defeat of a movement for liberties cost democrats the hope for a multi-ethnic, conservative democratization backed by an enlightened monarch. Constitutional monarchies are the most stable of democracies. After 1898, Han Chinese increasingly concluded that national independence required mobilizing a racialized Han nationalism. The 1911 republican revolution, whose titular leader was Sun Yat-sen’s Chinese Revolutionary Alliance, promoted the rise of the Han race to topple the Manchu race. Racist pogroms ensued in 1911–12. Chinese nationalism rose in an atmosphere of racialist Social Darwinism which fostered a feeling that if tough patriots do not win, then the Han race could be endangered or extinguished. Opium addiction was imagined as a foreign plot to eliminate the vitality of the Han race.2 The new democratic republic which overthrew the Manchu monarchy in 1911 held nationwide parliamentary elections in 1912, reflective of strong popular support for democracy in China.

In 1913, however, the military leadership of the old, conservative, northern elites had the premier-designate, a southerner, assassinated and then carried out a military coup. China’s democratic leaders fled into exile, as occurred in Chile

256 Edward Friedman

in the 1970s, in Greece in the 1960s, and in Poland in the 1940s. In all of these other countries, nations closely oriented to the democratic USA and Europe, the democratic forces eventually triumphed. Despite the isolation of Chinese democrats from democrats in major powers, the May Fourth movement at the end of the second decade of the twentieth century opposed the warlords and supported democracy. But the war atmosphere, starting in 1931, legitimated an armed response to the invasion and occupation of China by Hirohito’s Imperial military of two authoritarian groups, Chiang’s National Army and Mao’s Red Army. They vied for power. Unarmed democrats lost out.

Nonetheless, when an American-led coalition defeated Hirohito’s military in 1945, democracy again became the master legitimator in China. Chiang’s Nationalists promised a democratic constitution and nationwide elections. Mao’s Communists claimed to offer a New Democracy based on a multi-party coalition government, insisting that the CCP commitment to democracy was manifest in village elections. Many young people rallied to the CCP, seeing it as a democratic and progressive alternative to Chiang’s corrupt and cruel secret police, single-party dictatorship.

The American Secretary of State, in a 1948 White Paper on policy to China, hoped that “ultimately the profound civilization and democratic individualism of China will reassert themselves and she [China] will throw off the foreign [Mao’s emulation of Russian Bolsheviks] yoke” (Acheson 1949). In response, Mao agreed that Chinese intellectuals “are the supporters of ‘democratic individualism.’” To discredit that quest for democratic freedoms and instead legitimate the importing of authoritarian Czarist Leninist institutions, the CCP portrayed America as a land where democratic individualism brought empty lives (seen in Hollywood films), racism, the exploitation of labor, and the oppression of progressives (McCarthyism).3

Mao promised constitutional freedoms the same way Lenin promised land to the Russian peasantry. It was a tactic to mobilize support in a quest to conquer state power. Once in power, the agenda was explained away. Chinese who criticized the CCP for betraying its promise of democracy were crushed in a 1957–58 Anti-Rightist Movement.4 Hundreds of thousands of democrats were forced to publicly debase themselves and then sent to slave labor camps. Yet, Chinese kept the democratic hope alive. Many who joined dictator Mao’s Cultural Revolution in 1966 imagined themselves as opposing a corrupt party which acted with impunity. They found that their cruel suffering was the result of China not being a democracy. There was no way to hold rulers accountable. Word of democratic critiques, such as the Li Yizhe poster, spread like wildfire and was welcome (Chan et al. 1985; The 70s n.d.).

Soon after Mao died, a November 1978 Democracy Wall Movement originated in Beijing and spread to the rest of the nation. Mao’s successor as paramount leader, Deng Xiaoping, acted as if he supported the democrats so he could discredit his inner party opponents who did not even see the need for economic reform. But as a leading Democracy Wall movement spokesperson, Wei Jingsheng, explained,


Deng actually was a despot who rejected democratization (Seymour 1980; Garside 1981). Deng had Wei imprisoned.

The democracy project, once again, seemed dead. In order to get the entrenched conservative forces in the CCP to not block economic reforms, Deng, who was certainly not a democrat, agreed to oppose any challenge to the CCP dictatorship. This was codified in making party leadership (i.e., a monopoly of power) presuppositional to all else. A strong attempt to re-assess Mao so as to legitimate a political opening was gutted by 1981. Indeed, after China invaded Vietnam in 1979, Deng agreed to the hard-liners’ call for a crackdown on forces of political liberalization (Ruan 1992). Yet, although another stake was pounded into the heart of freedom, it kept on beating.

Soon a nationwide democracy movement surged forth. The 1989 struggle targeted corruption and nepotism, attacking a system that resembled the feudal monarchy that quashed the 1898 movement for constitutional government. Deng was equated with the Manchu Empress Dowager who crushed the 1898 effort. “Political corruption is the key problem. The only weapon for … ending all types of corruption … is democracy … When the Communist Party was fighting Chiang Kai-shek and the Nationalist Party, the Party was eager to demand democracy … Democracy will check the hereditary system [that breeds corruption]” (Han 1990: 34–5).

Parents tended to tell their children who were heading to the democracy movement’s headquarters in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square that the effort was premature and would be counter-productive. It was best to wait for the old guard to die off. There was no way, as these mature people saw it, that the octogenarian senior leaders were going to allow themselves to suffer the fate of the ultra-leftists arrested upon Mao’s death. Deng and his senior allies ordered the crushing of the democracy movement, disregarding resistant voices in the military and the wishes of a pro-democracy society (Scobell 1993).

Economic reform and political contradictions

The CCP elite is obsessed with crushing democratic challenges. In 1999 it cracked down on patriotic spiritual physical discipline practitioners and on a burgeoning Chinese Democratic Party (Friedman 2006a). In 2005 it treated Color Revolutions to China’s west as a US-led threat to democratize Asian authoritarian regimes, and especially to subvert CCP rule using NGOs and INGOs. The Hu Jintao leadership, in response, tightened restrictions on society. Still, numerous Chinese continue to struggle for humane freedoms.

Some analysts, focused on the strength and will of authoritarian state leaders, conclude that China cannot democratize. Others find that an unreformed Chinese political system will eventually foster forces that will stop China’s economic rise and compel a political transition (Lam 2006). Given the clash between a popular patriotic project and selfish, unreformed political interests, the likelihood, in this latter perspective, is that the forces of political reform will win out. In this scenario China will, in some mid-range future, democratize.

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For many, democratic evolution is inherent in the reform project of wealth and strength. It is an inevitable consequence of marketization, decollectivization, privatization, mobility, and the rise of a middle class, that is the natural result of economic reforms. These transitions, it is claimed, weaken the ruling authoritarian party, strengthen civil society, and foster experiences that will eventually make for an irresistible demand for a breakthrough to democracy by an ever-larger middle class (Guthrie 2006). It does not much matter, in this perspective, that the senior CCP elite is adamantly anti-democratic. The objective forces unleashed by reform are undefeatable. American analyst Michael Oksenberg, writing for the Trilateral Commission in 1994, predicted that economic and other forms of engagement with China by America and other democracies would surely lead to an opening to a free society. Rather than successfully transiting from an economically irrational authoritarianism to an economically successful one, for Oksenberg “Deng Xiaoping and his reformers … are establishing the basis for a more open society. They are creating a strong middle class … that will demand the opportunity to influence public policy” (Lynn 2005: 66). Commerce brought freedom as well as prosperity.

In contrast, this chapter finds that the PRC has already transited into a stable political system capable of winning nationalist support and providing dignity, wealth and stability for the Chinese people. Mauzy and Barter show in their chapter on Malaysia that middle class consumers privilege stability. They establish that the dominant party can legitimate its predominance as a maintainer of that stability by manipulating a specter of destabilizing alien intrusion. The ruling party acts according to this logic in both China and Malaysia. Mauzy and Barter conclude, in line with the statistical analysis of Przeworski, that rising middle classes do not inevitably demand or bring about democracy, as Singapore shows. There is no pattern of East Asian developmentism in which market-regarding economics inevitably lead to democratization. The notion that marketization initiates a virtuous cycle bringing freedom forgets that it was very particular political crises which delegitimated authoritarianism in South Korea, Taiwan and Chile. Comparative social history does not prove that a China rising economically will inevitably democratize.

That “liberal trade was a force able to subvert state power” was actually a self-serving argument re-invented by American business in the 1980s to oppose sanctions against Apartheid South Africa and Pinochet’s Chile, that is, to oppose the promotion of democracy.5 The theory of how a market inevitably produces a democracy, although sincerely believed by many, is also an alibi for not promoting democracy, an excuse for not fostering democratization. Supposedly, the market does everything. An Oxford specialist on democratic transitions concludes, however, that “The rise of [an authoritarian] communist China in tandem with these [globalization] trends suggests the inadequacy of any naive identification of the two processes,” market globalization and political democratization (Whitehead 2005: 13). A strategic analyst likewise finds that economic engagement in the hopes that “economic growth will foster democratic change” gets the real world all wrong. Actually, a co-opted middle class and complicit foreign businesses


allow China’s “leaders to ignore pressure for political change by emphasizing the country’s economic development” (Pollack 2005). From economic performance and a newly resurgent patriotism, the authoritarians seek legitimacy, not democracy.

Strong democratic forces continue to emerge in China because of poisons spreading in the Chinese body politic: unaccountability, polarization, cruelty and corruption. Democracy is presented as the cure. This supposedly will become obvious to the Chinese as time goes on. While democratic forces may not have won in 1898 or 1989, one day, progressive democrats among ruling groups must win. Political reformers from within the CCP will then extricate the PRC from authoritarianism and make a breakthrough to democracy (Gilley 2004). In this view, despite a strong state deploying all means to defeat it, democracy will come from above and not from a politicized middle class society.

While it might be a blessing if one of these happy prognoses turns out to be true, democracy is not needed in post-Mao China to bring a pro-growth coalition to power. While theories about China’s inevitable democratization do have the virtue of abjuring the idea that Sinic civilization lacks what it takes to allow the Chinese people an institutional basis for pursuing their happiness and goodness, China’s economic rise and popular nationalism in a region such as Asia do not make democracy likely in the mid-term future. Post-Mao leaders have succeeded in moving China from an economically irrational dominant party system to an economically rational one.

The dictatorship mobilized against democracy

The view that China is on its way to democracy does not take the CCP and the achievements of its leaders seriously. It ignores the interests and fears of key groups within the power institutions of PRC politics. Regime repression of civil society is so suffocating that there are no representative personages who can popularly reflect non-elite interests in negotiating an opening with ruling groups. In addition, the Chinese have been taught to fear that attempting to democratize from below could well make things go from bad to worse. The Chinese have been socialized to see democracy as a harbinger of chaos, civil war and national decline. They fear that if they struggle for democracy, they will get Rwanda, Bosnia, and Chechnya. It is hard to imagine how a popular movement can grow to challenge the monopoly power of the CCP given the ideas, values and anxieties of elites and masses.

At the end of the twentieth century and the start of the twenty-first century, viewers were shown a series of evening soap operas touting the patriotic virtues of strong emperors such as the Manchu ruler Kang Xi who added Taiwan to the empire. Living under arbitrary local despots who ripped off the powerless, the allure of a strong man grew in popularity. An emperor-type ruler could restore order and dignity, ever more people came to believe. Democracy, experienced as immoral, alien and American, seemed no solution to China’s pains. In addition, political reformers have been continually purged from the CCP leadership, while

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veto institutions controlling security and information have been put in the hands of hard-line authoritarians. It is therefore difficult to imagine a natural evolutionary rise of democratic winners. In any foreseeable future, democracy is not on a visible horizon for the people of China.

Evolutionary scenarios of inevitable yet gradual democratization, however, are proffered by businessmen, government officials, journalists and academics. It serves the interests of the CCP and of the major democracies which deal with China to embrace that notion that China is liberalizing and humanizing. The CCP, as a result, can brush off complaints about its pervasive abuses of human rights. As with Mao’s phony boasts in 1945, the CCP again points to village elections. If China sped the pace of democratization, however, it is claimed, chaos would ensue. Only the enemies of China therefore promote democracy. Those trouble-makers consequently are imagined as not being real democrats. They are thought to have a hidden anti-China agenda. They are enemies of the Chinese nation. They wish China no good. Their goal, it is said, is not to democratize China but to weaken it so that America can rule the world. Instead, a Chinese patriot wishes to see the authoritarian state return China to global glory.

Since the Chinese state rewards “friends,” businesses do not wish to give their competitors (e.g., Motorola, not Nokia; Boeing, not Airbus; Toyota, not VW; SONY, not Phillips) an edge in China. They will not make a fuss about crimes against humanity. Given the weight of the economic factor, it is in the democratic nation’s economic interests to do close to nothing on abuses of human rights by the CCP and to insist that, gradually, very gradually, China is in fact already democratizing. In reality, some international publishers even reject books critical of China’s authoritarian inhumanities. Their governments turn away Chinese asylum seekers. The CCP’s anti-democratic project, which is actually eroding liberties even among democracies, is misleadingly called gradual democratization. Actually, an anti-democratic China has ever more global clout on behalf of blocking democratization, from Burma to Uzbekistan.

Ruling groups in the CCP have built a huge force of suppression and work to make certain that democratic forces are crushed. Organizers of a democratic party, popular netzians, and potential minority leaders are imprisoned. Repression helps the CCP hold on to power. No democratic force is allowed to emerge from below in China. After threats to the Party’s monopoly of power in 1989, the Deng Xiaoping ruling group made opposition to the spread of democracy and of human rights its core interest. This policy intensified when the Hu Jintao ruling group concluded that the 2004–5 “color revolutions” to China’s west, from Lebanon to Tajikistan, threatened China’s ruling party. President Hu began to restrict international NGOs and their foreign funders. “Asked why Beijing had halted plans to let foreign newspapers print in China … the country’s top press regulator did not mince his words. When I think of the ‘color revolutions,’ I feel afraid” (Mure and McGregor 2005). Party leaders in Russia (Buckley 2005), as in China, worried that INGOs could create a foothold for freedom that might lead to a democratic breakthrough. Praising ideological campaigns in Cuba and North Korea, China’s President Hu copied their example. Moving in the direction of a Confucianized patriotism, as


had the DPRK, the CCP is dedicated to not allowing the seeds of democracy to sprout. Top analysts of Chinese politics conclude that “China’s authoritarian ruling elite is determined to hold on to power and has been smart enough to take steps countering the liberalizing effects of economic development” (Pei 2006). So far the CCP has been “effective in adapting” to diverse challenges and most likely “will continue a process of adaptation” (Fewsmith 2005).

Leaders in China experienced the implosion of the USSR and the disintegration of the Soviet bloc as a decline into weakness by a superpower once equal to America. The fall was caused, in their view, by attempting to democratize. National greatness was lost. An identification of democracy with a set of state-debilitating negatives is popular among politically-conscious Chinese patriots who find dignity in a starring role on the stage of world power. Democratization is imagined as a negation of an agenda that Chinese patriots treasure.6

Continuous attacks in the PRC demean democracy with America taken as the key instance. As it had done for decades with other American events, the CCP presented the flawed Bush Administration response to Hurricane Katrina in 2005 as revealing the truth of democracy: “carnage,” “looting, gunfire, rape and baby-stealing,” “despair and disorder,” a “backward” and fragile society (People’s Daily September 6, 2005). Discrediting democracy had been a prime goal for the CCP dictatorship long before Gorbachev promoted glasnost, indeed, even before the CCP conquered national power. The propaganda message persuades many in the ruling nomenclature and its patronage networks. Nationalism and the rise of China trump democratic reform.

Still, most Chinese outside of the CCP see the system as grossly unfair. Powerful networks of officials and their commercial cronies rip off the citizenry. People demand fairness. They rage against injustices which deprive them of land and livelihood. But these protests are containable. To be sure, newly commercialized household farming could provide a societal base for a democratic political system (Moore 1966). But what poor rural sufferers mainly demand is a strong, centralized state that will stop privileging the corruptly rich and instead redistribute wealth to marginalized and unjustly suffering families. They seek checks on corrupt local satraps and funding for decent jobs, retirement pensions, healthcare, and free and universal quality public education (Friedman 2006b). Democracy is not a top demand of the worst-off victims of the system.

Democracy as enemy of the nation

In contrast to marginalized villagers, urban middle classes are beneficiaries of economic reform. They want to keep the good times rolling. They do not want representatives of the rural poor, the economic losers, in power. China is so unequal, ever more unequal, that democracy—people in power decided by numbers in a fair electoral contest—seems risky to the “haves.” Democracy might empower those who the economically rising urban middle classes find irrational and vengeful. Democracy would thereby undermine the sources of growth and the

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forces restoring China’s greatness. The “haves” do not want CCP ruling groups to lose (Unger 2006).

Similarly, from the CCP’s perspective (Li 2001), choosing leaders in free and fair elections hurts “the people.” Rule in ancient Athens was “rule by the slave-owners.” Modern democracy is “rule by the bourgeoisie.” Election campaigns are “empty freedom of speech” because “wealthy people” control “newspapers, radio, television and the Internet.” Democracy was the “class dictatorship” of capitalists, an exploiting minority. In contrast, CP rule, as constituted by Lenin and Stalin, was people’s democracy, “socialist democracy,” government led by “the political party of the working class.” Bourgeois democracy, in contrast is an alien cultural project. It is “Western,” replete with individualism, an amoral, egotistic system. When China copied “the Western model,” the “result was … civil conflicts” (Zhu 2002). A strong authoritarian state, a borrowed political system, Czarist Leninism, is presented to the Chinese people as authentically democratic.

The emotional edge of the discourse discrediting constitutional liberty, as in demonizing the spiritual sect known as Falungong, was damning it as anti-China.7 Democracy was imagined as a tool of “a certain superpower” trying to make “developing countries” such as China “its dependencies.” The Americans’ goal in promoting democracy was “to put the country [China] … under their control.” The political priority for patriotic Chinese therefore had to be “to frustrate the hegemonic attempts to encircle and contain China.” Democracy was treason, an enemy of the Chinese nation (Li 2001). The real friends of authoritarian China were imagined as other anti-American, authoritarian regimes.8

The Korean War, with Chinese mourning family who had been killed in combat by US GIs, made anti-Americanism credible. The big lie was that America practiced germ warfare on the Chinese. American democracy was “a Grim Reaper riding the back of a housefly, or … releasing diseased rats upon the Chinese population” (Rugoski 2002). Enemies were portrayed as vermin threatening the nation. Ever since the late 1940s, The Chinese have been taught to frame opposition to democracy as a rejection of immoral America. When participating in the 2001 United Nations Dialogue Among Civilizations, the Chinese bottom line was, “In the final analysis, rights politics means fighting against hegemony.” This was because American hegemonists “throw their weight about…ruthlessly [to] oppress weak ones [China and its friends in foreign governments] …” (Renmin ribao 2005).

Nativistic tendencies rose, one Chinese theorist finds, because, since the 1989 crushing of the democracy movement, the CCP has not loosened its iron grip on “ideological control.” Given “1990s social control,” the Chinese channeled their energies into permissible forms, especially those which supported and promoted “traditional Chinese culture.” A Confucianized patriotism is winning legitimacy. National studies (guo xue) and new left post-modernist fundamentalism rejected the notion of a liberating rupture to modern Enlightenment. That was presented as the project of an anti-family Christian culture. The CCP, in contrast, promoted a “return to tradition.” The regime strengthened nativism and negated the May Fourth critical apprehension of tradition (Liu 2001). The CCP supported “traditional Confucianism” to legitimate a patriotic claim to Taiwan, to legitimate


authoritarian politics combined with state-guided market economics (“the Asian model”), and to counter the appeal of “Western” democracy (Tang 2001).

This conservative authoritarian chauvinism held the hope that “in the twenty-first century, it will be the turn of Eastern or Oriental culture to assume dominance once more.” That is, “just as the October Revolution of 1917 ‘delivered Marxism to China with one cannon blast,’ the end of the 1980s brought neo-conservatism to China with the sound of one gunshot (… June Fourth)” (Liu, 2001: 60–1). Cultural fevers of the 1990s spread a nationalistic virus in which the twenty-first century would witness the rise again of the East (meaning China, definitely not Japan or India). Therefore, it was necessary that a Confucian essence structure the moral being of the gloriously rising nation. A shared feeling that nothing should be allowed to block China’s ascent weighs against privileging democracy and human rights. People tend to believe that their nation’s rise is still fragile and that anything which might cause China to fail, as did the USSR, cannot be tolerated (Shirk 2007). The power of the discourse de-legitimating potential challengers is embedded in a hegemonic nationalistic symbolization.

The chauvinistic pride the regime stoked to stabilize the nation has had unintended consequences. The CCP has created unattainable patriotic expectations vis-à-vis Taiwan, America and Japan. Embracing impossible hopes, people mock those in power for selling out, for caring only about enriching their own families and support networks. China therefore could yet look elsewhere for “real” patriots. But with people persuaded that democracy is a foreign plot to block China’s rise, part of an attempt by a hegemonic America to constrain and weaken China, to derail its return to global glory, even haters of the corrupt and brutal CCP tend to distrust democratizers. An alternative to the present system is unlikely to be a democracy.

Alternatives to the CCP dictatorship

While democracy is not impossible, in any foreseeable future, anti-democratic forces will rule. If anything challenges the present ruling groups, it is likely to be a populist chauvinism. It will blame inequality, unfairness and corruption on a leadership which is insufficiently Chinese, one that sells out to foreigners, that won’t stand up against revanchist Japanese, separatist Taiwanese, or arrogant Americans. A new power group could imagine itself as “truly red.” It would identify with a moral Confucian people who fought and died in struggles against the armies of Japanese Emperor Hirohito and Chiang Kai-shek. It would imagine itself as purifying the system of selfish corrupters of the original revolutionary promise of equality and justice. A militaristic, populist nativism is far more likely to be the alternative to today’s traditionalistic, relatively open, rightist authoritarianism than is democracy.

Perhaps the even greater pains caused by a purifying populist chauvinism could in a future beyond the horizon lead to a popular movement for a transition to democracy. But that is too far ahead to see. Meanwhile, the direction of China today is clearly anti-democratic. This is true both for society and the state. Why,

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after all, should a ruling group that is leading the nation to the fastest sustained growth in human history, a system which has restored China as a great power, a regime which has transited out of Leninist trammels, surrender power to be like India or Taiwan or the Philippines or Mongolia or Bangladesh or Japan? None of these democratic Asian neighbors is attractive to CCP rulers or to Chinese patriots as, in contrast, was West Europe to East Europeans. Instead the CCP offers its authoritarian success story as a model to be emulated by ruling groups in North Korea, Vietnam, Burma, Uzbekistan, the Sudan, Iran, Zimbabwe, and so on. With American-backed democratization seen as leading to chaos in Iraq and to Hamas in Palestine, the Chinese path can seem positively attractive. Unpalatable global alternatives make the successful authoritarian Chinese polity very attractive.9

Even democratic Europe, moving right in response to perceived threats from Islamists and immigrants, could lose its attractiveness (Ash 2006). Conservatives concerned about culture and order have begun to lose faith in promoting democracy. As one put it, “The larger lesson, as we think about future efforts to reform the Middle East and combat extremism, is that the Chinese model probably works best. That is, it’s best to champion economic reform before political reform” (Brooks 2006). Actually, the Chinese model does not mean building wealth and power to prepare for democracy but to defeat democracy.

Some predict a democratic breakthrough in China because the system is unsustainable. Market Leninism, these analysts claim, is an unstable amalgam. The choice for China is democracy or chaos. Political reform therefore is imperative. It seems inconceivable to these prognosticators that China could have moved from one kind of authoritarianism to another. After the CCP massacre of democracy supporters in Beijing on June 4, 1989, the consensus was that China, plagued by “instability,” would not be a good investment opportunity. After the fall of the Berlin Wall less than half a year later, the CCP regime was seen as being on its last legs, with June 4 “a last spasm of a dying tyranny” (Lynn 2005: 44, 50). The prophets of doom have time and again been proven wrong. In actuality, “China is a thriving economic powerhouse with nuclear weapons and its own space program, destined to become one of the most powerful nations the world has ever seen” (McGregor 2005: 50). The CCP, for good reason, imagines itself as a success story. It is not a fragile system about to implode.

Wishful thinking about democratization was exposed as just that with the 2002 ascension of Hu Jintao. Chinese and international analysts agreed that Hu would move in a politically liberal direction. Instead, President Hu “praised the Castro and Kim regime in Cuba and North Korea for effectively preserving the ‘purity’ of Communist ideals,” for standing up to pressure by American democracy (Lam 2005). He initiated ideological campaigns. Repression and constriction intensified. The actual political tendencies in China are anti-democratic.

What does democracy have to offer the rulers of China’s very successful authoritarian system? Democracy, a set of political institutions, does not guarantee that any particular problem will be solved, certainly not corruption or inequity or national chauvinism. From managing its currency to courting foreign investment, what government is doing better than the CCP? China’s leaders can find themselves


a model to others. The CCP is doing extraordinarily well in economic growth. Rulers and ruled tend to agree that an opening to democracy would be a disaster for the party and the nation. Why change a winning game? If the rulers refrain from military adventurism, then a loss of power for the dominant party system is not likely. However, nationalism could derail the engine of success. The post-Mao nationalist narrative demands that the CCP stand up against Taiwan, Japan and America. CCP prudential wisdom could be defeated in a power struggle by militant chauvinists. Ever since the June 4 massacre of proponents of an opening to democracy, the ruling party has stepped up patriotic education. It funded a military build-up across from Taiwan. It unleashed anti-Japanese passions. In 1993 it scapegoated the United States for China’s failure to win the bid to host the year 2000 Olympics. Intensified chauvinist passions could yet threaten economic reforms and even stability as economic reformers are presented with a Hobson’s choice, an impossible dilemma in which they lose however they act. For the CCP, according to Chinese financier Ying Fang, “pragmatic socialism” is about making China “strong enough to take on the world. It is about patriotism” (Tucker 2006).

The CCP may yet face a choice between either destabilizing the system by proving its patriotic bonafides by ending alleged softness toward Taiwan, Japan and America and thereby losing the markets and monies needed for China’s continuing economic rise and the millions of new jobs which maintain social stability, or surrendering power to supposedly “real” Chinese patriots who will push China into a war which will end China’s extraordinary rise. Once such a Pandora’s Box is opened, projections based on trend lines would make no sense. But, looking at the trends, the CCP is playing a winning game. It is not going to opt for military adventurism where it might lose when it can persuade itself that China’s rise to greatness depends on good economic relations with America and on non-hawk economic reformers continually holding a monopoly of power. Today’s ruling groups have no intention of learning to lose by adventurism or democratization. Indeed, the regime has moved in a more anti-democratic direction.

Yet politics is a contingent arena. Less likely scenarios can become more likely because of unforeseen events. But neither war nor democracy seems the most probable outcome in any immediately foreseeable future, although chauvinist passions could change everything. Still, entrenching a successful authoritarianism and moving further toward Latin Americanization seems a far more likely negative prospect. However, should a transformative contingency occur, say a financial bubble burst, then a democracy promising to expose corrupt powerholders and to make transparent how the people’s taxes are spent could become attractive as a way to prove that rulers are not selling out the nation. Suddenly democracy might seem patriotic. Citizens would welcome a world where one is not silenced, denounced, imprisoned, or tortured for living in accord with one’s ultimate notions of right and wrong. But such a switch from today’s stable regime would require a massive disruption.

The Chinese state system is a right populist authoritarianism. Such regimes have been stable and successful (Mazower 1998). China’s version has increasingly

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become a model to authoritarian ruling groups all around the world precisely because it precludes democratization. According to a high party intellectual, the CCP goal is to see “that the capitalist globalization led by the United States … be replaced by a socialist [i.e., party dictatorship] globalization led by China” (Hu 2006). A great power authoritarian China rising rapidly can seem morally preferable given the damage done to the democratic project by the decisions, events, attitudes and policies of the George W. Bush administration.10 A successful, authoritarian China could make authoritarianism seem a better future. Increasingly, CCP China is a model, at home and abroad, of learning not to lose.

Notes

1 For historical reasons, Mongolians shared the world view of East European Leninists.

2 Actually, long before the British forced opium imports on the Manchu’s Qing dynasty through a war, the Chinese themselves had introduced and popularized opium. It had become part of literati culture, as it also was in Great Britain. The official CCP narrative of a century-plus of humiliations beginning around 1840 obscures that the Manchu empire actually was the world’s most successful gunpowder empire in terms of territorial expansion.

3 For the politics of Mao’s anti-Americanism starting in the late 1940s, see Chen (2001).

4 In a Leninist state, a rightist is someone who supports human rights, constitutional democracy, and autonomous arenas, such as a market or religion, realms in which the state cannot command.

5 Mann (2007) makes the same point with regard to China. 6 Consequently, CCP leaders have fought attempts to secure strong property rights.

They contend “that legalization of property rights is the first step toward political rights” (Sisci 2006). The property debate reflects how strongly opposed the CCP leadership is to any road to democracy.

7 Treating democracy as bad because it is bourgeois (rather than alien) is more difficult for the CCP entering the twenty-first century, because the socialist command economy has been discredited and the CCP embraces the market and invites businessmen to join the CCP. This delegitimating discourse is not uniquely Chinese. Surveying former Soviet bloc nations, a Georgian academic finds that “a country where the West is seen as alien will be a country that is less likely for that reason to choose democracy” (Nodia 2001).

8 Considering how votes can empower Islamists, “benign dictatorship will generally be necessary … There is clearly such a thing as benevolent despotism …” (Harris 2005).

9 The political stagnation, a lack of political development, and an opposition to institutional reform of the corrupt, chauvinist, thug system is seen as the Achilles heel of China’s rise by a number of the authors in Friedman and Gilley (2005).

10 Fukuyama finds that the Bush administration has given the democratic project a bad name. “The Supreme Court’s highly partisan resolution of the 2000 [US presidential] election [in favor of Bush] was a severe blow to American democracy …” (Fukuyama 2006). The power of money in the Bush administration makes the people seem powerless and recalls an age when Americans “were ruled by ‘a business state’” such that “all questions of government in a democracy were questions of money” (Frank 2006). A leading conservative columnist finds that the age of expanding liberties “is over” (Caldwell 2006).


References

Acheson, D. (1949) Letter of Transmittal, Acheson to Truman, July 30, The China White Paper.

Ash, T.G. (2006) “Islam in Europe,” New York Review, October 5: 32.Brooks, D. (2006) The New York Times, September 24.Buckley, N. (2005) “Russian nationalists take aim at foreign ‘plotters’,” Financial Times,

November 26–27.Caldwell, C. (2006) “The Post 8/10 World,” New York Times Sunday Magazine, August

20: 18.Chan, A. et al. (eds.) (1985) On Socialist Democracy and the Legal System, Armonk, NY:

M.E. Sharpe.Chen, J. (2001) Mao’s China and the Cold War, Chapel Hill, NC: University of North

Carolina Press.Fewsmith, J. (2005) “Hu Jintao’s Outbox,” China and the World Economy Workshop, The

Atlantic Council, December: 6.Frank, T. (2006) “A Distant Mirror,” The New York Times, August 15.Friedman, E. (2006a) “The Most Popular Social Movement in China During the 1990s,” in

C. Derichs and T. Heberer (eds.) The Power of Ideas, Copenhagen: NIAS Press.Friedman, E. (2006b) “Jiang Zemin’s Successors and China’s Growing Rich–Poor Gap,”

in T.J. Cheng et al. (eds.) China Under Hu Jintao, Hackensack, NJ: World Scientific Publishing.

Friedman, E. and Gilley, B. (eds.) (2005) Asia’s Giants: Comparing China and India, London: Palgrave.

Fukuyama, F. (2006) Talk, American Political Science Association, September.Garside, R. (1981) Coming Alive, New York: McGraw-Hill.Gilley, B. (2004) China’s Democratic Future, New York: Columbia University Press.Guthrie, D. (2006) China and Globalization, New York: Routledge.Han, Minzhu (1990) Cries for Democracy, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.Harris, S. (2005) The End of Faith, New York: Norton.Hu, P. (2006) “First Tiananmen, Then the World,” Human Rights in China, 2: 75.Lam, W. (2005) “China’s Sixth Five-Year Plan,” China Brief, 6, 22.Lam, W. (2006) China in the Era of Hu Jintao, Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe.Li, T. (2001) “Questions in the Theory of Democracy,” Social Sciences in China, Summer:

6–7.Liu, Q. (2001) “The Topography of Intellectual Culture in 1990s Mainland China,” in G.

Davis (ed.) Voicing Concerns, Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield.Lynn, B. (2005) End of the Line, New York: Doubleday.Mann, J. (2007) The China Fantasy, New York: Viking.Mazower, M. (1998) Dark Continent: Europe’s Twentieth Century, New York: Vintage.McGregor, R. (2005) One Billion Customers, New York: Free Press.Moore, B. (1966) Social Origins of Dictatorship and Democracy, Boston, MA: Beacon

Press.Mure, D. and McGregor, R. (2005) “Beijing concerned about ‘color revolution’,” Financial

Times, February 28.Nodia, G. (2001) “The Impact of Nationalism,” Journal of Democracy, 12, 4.Pei, M. (2006) “China Just Delaying the Inevitable,” Taipei Times, June 23.Pollack, K. (2005) cited in Reza Aslan, “Misunderstanding Iran,” The Nation, February

28: 30.

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Renmin ribao (2002) “Know Who (sic) to Love, Who (sic) to Hate,” April 25.Ruan, M. (1992) Deng Xiaoping, Boulder, CO: Westview Press.Rugoski, R. (2002) “Nature, Annihilation and Modernity,” Journal of Asian Studies, 61,

2.Scobell, A. (1993) “Why the People’s Army Fired on the People,” in R. Des Forges et al.

(eds.) Chinese Democracy and the Crisis of 1989, Albany, NY: State University of New York Press.

Seymour, J. (1980) (ed.) The Fifth Modernization, Stanfordville, NY: Human Rights Publishing Group.

Shirk, S. (2007) China Fragile Superpower, New York: Oxford University Press.Sisci, F. (2006) “Hu Jintao’s reform tightrope,” Asia Times.Tang, Y. (2001) “Some Reflections on New Confucianism in Mainland Chinese Culture of

the 1990s,” G. Davis (ed.) Voicing Concerns, Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield.The 70s (n.d.) (eds.) The Revolution is Dead, Long Live the Revolution, Hong Kong: Cactus

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July.Zhu, M. (2002) “Deliberations on Democracy,” Beijing Review, May 2: 20.

“Learning to lose” is a vital—and under-theorized—component of the broader topic of the development of competitive party politics. As noted in the introduction to this volume, scholarly interest in this topic was, until recently, excessively concentrated on a single somewhat idealized outcome: alternation in office between a small number of political parties—possibly only two—through periodic fair elections governed by stable, neutral, and widely accepted “rules of the game” or “a level playing field.” Although the comparative literature has belatedly moved in the direction of recognizing that there may be a wider range of stable possibilities emerging under the broad umbrella of competitive party politics (“competitive authoritarianism” (Levitsky and Way 2002), and “electoral authoritarianism” (Schedler 2006), for instance), more attention needs to be paid to the various alternative trajectories through which party systems may pass, and to the factors that can help explain why they may stabilize in one form rather than another. In place of binary classifications such as “authoritarian regime versus consolidated democracy,” comparative experience indicates that a much wider variety of options are possible. We need to focus attention on open-ended processes of democratization rather than postulated end-states. Accordingly, this volume selects “dominant parties” as the focus for comparative analysis, and enquires into the adaptive strategies they pursue when the demands of electoral competition challenge their ascendancy. Under what circumstances do dominant parties manage to perpetuate themselves in office, despite the constraints of an institutional electoral calendar, and under what conditions may they “learn to lose”?

Dominant parties in comparative perspective: defeat-adaptive strategies

The country studies that make up the bulk of this volume provide a broad, open-ended, and relatively non-prescriptive survey of the most significant real-world experiments underway in the post-Cold War world. They demonstrate the wide range of possible trajectories and consequences, and take us well away from the standard schema of “approved democracies versus illegitimate alternatives.” The factors motivating and constraining the strategies of these dominant parties

15 Dominant parties and democratization

Theory and comparative experience

Laurence Whitehead

270 Laurence Whitehead

under pressure are laid out in a dispassionate and analytically helpful way in the introduction, and do not require repetition here.

From a theoretical perspective, the theme of learning to lose can hardly be isolated from a broader specification of the relevant political structures and processes. What is the nature of the game in which the possibility of losing is embedded? How severe are the likely consequences of accepting such a loss? Above all, learning to lose cannot be understood as an end in itself, but needs to be theorized as an incidental consequence of pursuing some longer-term strategy of political construction. Parties are organizations set up to compete for power. Their raison d’être is to try to win, to learn how to prevail, and if they learn to lose they seek to lose provisionally, for example, leaving in place the conditions for winning at a later date.

The introductory chapter focuses mainly on how dominant parties mobilize resources and adapt their strategies so that they can continue to win. This conclusion complements that analysis by shifting the focus to the dynamics of learning to lose. An initial clarification is in order here. The introduction and the case studies focus attention on dominant parties. From that perspective, the question is how the Kuomintang (KMT), the Revolutionary Institutional Party (PRI), the Indian Congress Party, the Japanese LDP, and others, learn to accept electoral defeat. But it is not only dominant parties that may learn to lose. Dominant leaders may also select adaptive strategies, seek to perpetuate themselves in power, and face the tricky question of whether or not to accept an electoral defeat. The strategic choices facing both leaders and parties that are unsuccessful in elections can be portrayed in the same terms, and yet distinctions matter, as can be seen in one recent election where the loser was not a dominant party.

When Al Gore accepted defeat in the US presidential election of 2000 he lost his position as leader of the Democratic Party, and he relinquished all prospect of subsequent elevation to highest office. His party, on the other hand, acquired some political capital and grievances that may mobilize its rank-and-file and be turned into electoral advantage at a subsequent round. This gap between the fate of the leader and of his party can be still more striking in dominant party regimes. President Gorbachev may have been Secretary General of the CPSU and they may both have ended up equally defeated, but the consequences of defeat and the lessons they learnt from electoral adversity were quite divergent. President Alfredo Stroessner was the dictatorial leader of the Paraguayan Colorado Party for 40 years, yet when he was exiled in 1989 his defeat enabled his party to perpetuate itself in office for a further generation. By contrast, in the same year, President Pinochet had to choose whether or not to accept a personal defeat, not having a single dominant party whose interests he should also consider. The awkward relationship between the Gandhi dynasty and the Indian Congress Party is well portrayed in Chapter 2 of this volume. At the time of writing, it seems that South Africa’s ANC may inflict an electoral defeat on its current leader (Thabo Mbeki) as part of an “adaptive” strategy aimed at maintaining its electoral ascendancy. In addition to dominant parties, a full survey of the possibilities needs to include jointly dominant parties such as the Colombian Conservatives and Liberals, who

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aimed to maintain their duopoly through prearranged office sharing. The 1970 presidential election seems to have been a case where they preferred to practice a joint fraud, rather than learn to lose at the hands of the previous military dictator. The consequences of accepting a defeat can clearly be very different for a party leader and for his party. It is even possible that a leader may benefit from the defeat of his party, if he is able to reposition himself as a national savior who is “above parties.” President Álvaro Uribe of Colombia provides a contemporary illustration of this possibility.

But let us now focus on the consequences of defeat for dominant parties. If, contrary to its best efforts, a dominant party does lose a contested election (or referendum), what are its options? The defeat could be partial (just one house in a bicameral Congress, for example), or it could be across the board. The victorious opposition could be a fissiparous and unviable coalition. Learning to lose (gracefully) is only one option, and its consequences for the party will depend heavily on the nature of the defeat. Consequences could range from the threat of exile or physical persecution to the prospect of enhanced prestige and a secure position in the new administration. Some losers may have to weigh the extent to which they can count on protection from foreign backers. Others may be more fearful of accusations of “sell out” from radicals within their ranks. Still others may be able to count on a broad base of approval from a public opinion enamored of the idea of alternation. There is no one “right path” here, but rather a range of different incentives, constraints, and eventual trajectories.

The decision by outgoing leaders and parties to accept an electoral defeat is therefore contingent on the circumstances, and may well seem counter-intuitive to those who have dedicated their careers to winning and holding on to political power. Since extended periods in power tend to distort the judgments of many political actors, evaluations of the likely consequences of accepting a defeat often are characterized by self-deception or, more generally, by miscalculation. What shapes the decisions of incumbents is, of course, not so much the actual consequences that in fact follow from their choices as the ex ante results they anticipate, or indeed, imagine. The study of comparative experience may help to improve such estimates, but in any case, these processes are inherently risky and uncertain, and it is often hard to determine which are the correct lessons to draw from apparent parallels. Nevertheless, as our case studies show, such decisions are not uncommon. The introductory chapter surveyed reasons why dominant parties might be reluctant to learn to lose. The conclusion will focus on the opposite case: how acceptance of electoral defeat might come about, not just once but as a matter of regular practice, as a socialized expectation.

The games people play: the limits of modeling

The topic can be formalized or modeled in terms of a democratic electoral “game.” The players in this game are required to internalize its logic, to conform to its rules, and to relinquish behavior patterns that reflect the logic of alternative (authoritarian or at least non-democratic) political games. They are expected


to enter each electoral contest with the goal of winning, but winning according to predetermined and neutral rules (an agreed calendar and system of dispute resolution, a “level playing field”). A competitive election requires more than one serious contender, but the desired outcome will normally be to produce only one winner. It therefore requires at least one serious contending party that devotes its energy to winning in accordance with the rules, that has some ex ante possibility of success, but that in the event—and at least on this occasion—must both lose and accept the fact of its defeat. If that is an indispensable requirement for a stable and legitimate democratic electoral system, defeated contestant parties are required to learn a complex pattern of behavior and therefore to embrace a normative ethic consistent with that behavior.

But the protocol for this game is far from natural or self-evident. So under what circumstances does this counter-intuitive conduct come to be taken for granted and required by consensus? How do democratic regimes generate specialized organizations that are dedicated to the pursuit of electoral success (i.e. parties) but that are also disciplined in the acceptance of appropriately demonstrated defeat? Under what circumstances are alternative styles of power contention—for instance, zero sum—eliminated or at least pushed to the margins of the electoral process? To pose this issue more positively, how do democratic regimes contain or fend off the perpetual temptation to gerrymander and manipulate the electoral game in order to benefit incumbents and deprive challengers of their legitimate fruits of victory?

Formal modeling highlights and clarifies the internal logic of certain social processes. It abstracts the rules of the game from the historical and socio-cultural contingencies that complicate any particular instantiation of this underlying logic. It therefore displays the virtues and limitations that Max Weber attributed to “ideal type” reasoning. It does not encompass the whole of social reality, but rather one-sidedly emphasizes key recurring features while de-emphasizing other relevant considerations. Treating democratic elections as if they were iterative games highlights their structural characterizations, making them appear as timeless, when in fact they must be the product of a historical evolution or learning process, and can always be “unlearned.” It also stylizes the motives for action of the players: the assumption is that they are solely and one-dimensionally committed to maximizing their chances of success in the game. And, for the sake of clarity or elegance, it also privileges a formalized version of what we should count as a rigorous game. But in practice, social life is replete with improvised, partial, and hastily revisable patterns of gaming behavior. Thus, modeling portrays what may be called the “platonic essence” of a game, but it does not readily acknowledge the contingencies of accident, mortality, disinformation, and goal ambivalence, which characterize every specific instantiation of this abstract ideal.

Even at the formal level, human ingenuity to invent games ranges so broadly that modelers are left trailing behind. After all, not all games are competitive. Think of patience and other one-person games. Not all multi-player games need be competitive in the sense of having unique winners (charades). Not all competitive games are about producing a single winner; for instance, elimination games can


be about not losing, with several contestants left in the game at the end. There are team games as well as individual games, and so there can be sub-games (within each team) that are in tension with the main game (between the teams). Iterative games can generate cumulatively growing gaps rather than reversion to the mean, socializing some players into acceptance of permanent inferiority/superiority, rather than socializing all players into universalistic ethic of “fair play.” Is reincarnation not an imagined formalization of the game of merit accumulation (see Obeyesekere 2002)? There are generative games, whereby the winners of round one are authorized to modify the rules of the game for round two, and so on successively. There are tightly prescribed games, but also “no holds barred” games. There are games of chance and games of skill.

Out of this vast array of already-existing or waiting-to-be-invented games, the formal modelers tend to privilege a limited subset that is stable, elegant, and mathematically tractable. But imaginative humans, motivated by their fantasies and their desires as much as by the requirements of logic and discipline, are often drawn to games of a different and more symbolically meaningful kind, games that dramatize the eternal battle behind human reason, will, and contingency or fate. There are also other possible distinctions, for example between games of fun, games of ritual, and life games. Ritual involves reaffirming a particular social order, or making sense of the world. In many countries, the ritual of the electoral process may be as important as the outcome of the politicians’ game, and that ritual includes publicly recognizing and approving the loser status of the unsuccessful contestant’s life. Electoral games mobilize participants by tapping into these collective psychic resources and thereby stray outside the confines of the more elegant models. Life games introduce a still broader set of considerations. The concept of “losing a game” is essentially concerned with how others appraise or reward one’s activities. But a stoic, or a martyr, may not live by the rules set from without. By losing in a conventional sense, I may win—my system of values may be vindicated, for instance—on a different scale. This is not just a matter of personal morality. It can be of critical importance for political contestation and for the advancement of democratic values, as when Nelson Mandela overturned the “prisoner’s dilemma” imposed on him by the apartheid regime, or when Mahatma Gandhi courted punishment by the Raj. Another theoretical point is that one can always see games as “games within games,” all ultimately subsumed to the “greatest game” (a receding one). So one plays cards and it is only about cards, but as Heidegger would say, that only acquires its meaning because it is embedded in a broader framework, so the meaning of that game will depend on the players. It can be a life and death struggle, or children learning rule-based games, or just fun among friends; then that game is encompassed in a “bigger game,” the meaning of which also depends on the players. It can be about a broad struggle for power, a form of social bonding, or a ritual, or something else.

In order adequately to encompass the diverse and historically grounded country studies presented in this volume, we need to generalize about the learning processes associated with the stabilization of a democratic electoral game. But the games in


question are untidy and perhaps unstable. Hence, it is best to approach the idea of learning to lose a game as a metaphor, rather than as a categorical imperative.

Consider some familiar situations encountered in “really existing” democratic electoral competitions. At the outset, the opposition party still hopes (against the evidence) that the campaign might tilt the outcome in its favor. But if the polls remain adverse and its campaign themes fail to inspire, realistic analysis points increasingly towards defeat. In that event, the nature of the game may begin to shift. At one level supporters must still be mobilized by a message of hope; despite appearances the leadership is still confident of victory. At a second level and behind the scenes different conceptions of the game come to the fore. If we are going to lose, how can we at any rate limit the scale of the debacle? If we are going to lose, which of us will be eliminated and who will be left to take over the direction of the party after defeat? If we are going to lose, how will we explain this to our followers? How can each leader deflect blame for the failure onto others, possibly to rival leaders of the ruling party? If we are going to lose, which of us might gain from casting doubt on the integrity of the process, or what could be the benefit of taking the defeat as a proof of the need to reform ourselves? As the campaign unfolds, all these alternative games may compete with the ostensible unified goal of winning the election. Then, perhaps as results are declared, it could turn out that the opposition has won after all, despite the adverse indicators (or even because of them the incumbents became too complacent since they were so sure of victory). Now the game changes once more. Those who had been tempted to query the integrity of the process must cover their tracks. Those who had hoped to use defeat to precipitate leadership change and reform must now parade their unity and commitment to the winning party platform.

Episodes such as these will be familiar to all mildly attentive observers of “really existing” democratic electoral competitions. But they are hardly amenable to formal modeling. The stylized logic and ritualized sequential steps of, say, a chess game, are far removed from the feedback, reflexivity, and malleability of motives that characterize even the most stable and well-ordered of electoral contests.1 Game theorists have adjusted the simplicity of their initial models to allow for iterative games, for winners who can fine tune the rules of the next game, and for “two-level” games. But although such approximations can take the analysis a little closer to the lived reality of electoral contestation, they remain no more than heuristic devices, metaphors, never attaining the level of encompassing descriptions of the interactive logics at play. For that reason, they are no substitute for comparative historical analysis of the type contained in this volume. Stylized models should never crowd out the more complex and fully contextualized re-constructiveness of political learning and interpretation that only such theoretically informed case studies can provide.

The genealogy of the game

If the idea of periodic electoral competitions for public office, with a level playing field and consensual respect for the rules of the game, is a counter-intuitive social


construction, the question naturally arises, how and when did it emerge, and under what conditions can it be expected to persist? In short, instead of viewing this system as either natural or timeless we need to investigate its genealogy.2 This requires tracing its emergence both as a practice and as an ideal. As a practice, there were evident precursor elements in antiquity (i.e. periodic elections for a variety of public offices in the Roman republic) and again in late medieval Europe with the emergence of parliaments. But the modern electoral ideal seems to have emerged mainly in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Before that it seems probable that such collective exercises in public choice were understood in a somewhat different way, for example as procedures aimed at uncovering what course was favored by the Gods or by fate (like reading the entrails), or a ratification of leadership claims based on other considerations (divine right, birthright, military prowess, or public virtue). So long as elections were conceived in such terms, a loser could be normatively justified in rejecting an adverse outcome. To accept defeat would be to accept that you were not favored by the Gods, not qualified to rule, or not virtuous, for instance.

There were also severe practical consequences that made losing unattractive. Guicciardini’s maxims (written in Florence around 1530) contain the following distillation of much political experience: “Pray God that you are always on the winning side, for you will be praised even for things in which you have played no part. In the same way, the loser, on the contrary, will be blamed for an infinite number of things of which he is totally innocent” (Guicciardini 1994: 174). The “modern” development that demands our attention is the shift to a collective understanding that separated outcome from entitlement, and therefore made it possible to accept a (time limited) defeat without necessary loss of dignity or future prospects. It is important to stress that what is involved here is not just a strategic calculation by one or two elite actors. This needs to be accompanied by a shift in collective understanding, such that the wider community comes to apply such concepts as “good loser” and “sore loser,” and to disvalue those political contenders who violate the emerging normative consensus on respect for neutral procedures. This signifies (i) that there need be no prosecution of a compliant loser as a threat to the winner, and (ii) community support will shelter the loser and penalize the winner in the event that the victorious party uses its victory to violate the emerging norm. Instead of viewing the loser as a potential threat to the winner, he (almost invariably male, even in the twenty-first century) could even become an indirect source of support to the authority of the victorious candidate. By “learning to lose,” he would induce his followers to demobilize and become unthreatening to the established order. In return, as shown by the Rudolphs in their chapter, he might expect not only to be left unharmed, but actively enlisted as a participant in the business of government under the rubric “leader of the loyal opposition.” This is historically quite a recent development and is by no means a universally recognized ideal, even among the states currently classified as electoral democracies.


“Good sports” and electoral competition

In order to trace its emergence and diffusion as a societal norm, it may be productive to look briefly outside the political realm. Competitive team sports such as cricket and football generated a similar normative structure at roughly the same time. Norbert Elias sought to show a relationship between the emergence of sport in England in the eighteenth century and a simultaneous spurt in the process of “parliamentization,” both tendencies representing what he viewed as a general “calming down” of “cycles of violence” (Elias and Dunning 1986: 26). Elias applied this to sport as follows: “The framework for ‘fairness,’ for equal chances to win for all contestants, became stricter. The rules became more precise, more explicit, and more differentiated. Supervision of observance of the rules became more efficient; hence, penalties for offences against the rules became less escapable. In the form of “sports,” moreover, game-contests came to embody a rule-set that ensures a balance between the possible attainment of a high combat-tension and a reasonable protection against physical injury. The changes that one can observe in the development of sports such as cricket and football as well as fox-hunting and horse-racing, have both a pattern and a direction of their own. I have used, provisionally and in quotes, the expression “mature” or “ultimate” form of the game. It was one of the discoveries made in the course of enquiries of this kind that a game may, in the course of its development, reach a peculiar equilibrium stage. And when this stage has been reached, the whole structure of its further development changes (Goudsblom and Mennell 1998: 98–102).3 Elias did not consider that either mature cricket or mature parliamentarianism ceased to develop, only that different questions arose for empirical investigation at this new stage, when all players had internalized the rules of the game or had learned to lose.

The first recorded inter-county cricket match was in 1709 and the earliest known version of rules of the game dates to 1744. The Marylebone Cricket Club (founded in 1787) operates from Lord’s Cricket Ground and has since become the headquarters of world cricket. As for football, this was played at public schools such as Winchester and Eton, but each school had its own rules. In order for students from such schools to play against each other, when at university, it was necessary to codify these rules and remove the differences between them. In 1846, most public schools therefore adopted what were known as the “Cambridge rules,” which went on to become the rules of the Football Association. Thus, just at the time when candidates for British elections were learning to be good sports about episodic defeats, the same ethos was being propagated in England’s leading team games. Neutral rules, enforced by independent umpires and referees with predictable timetables and iterative contests, characterized the development of sport and electoral politics alike. There was at least an elective affinity between the two processes.

Indeed, on a broader analysis, it may well be that these normative developments can also be associated with parallel developments in other normative realms such as the shift in Christian doctrine from a focus of eternal damnation to purgatory,


of the shift in punishment for destitution from deportation and debtors prison to more humane bankruptcy laws; in other words, the dissemination of an ethos according to which the consequences of failure need no longer be so absolute. The rise of this ethic very probably is connected to broader conceptual shifts toward the notion of man as maker of his own destiny. With the rise of commercial society and its displacing effects on the authority of the Church and the hereditary principle and other related developments came the need to establish secular arbiters of success and failure, impartial observers of correct procedure and neutral “scientific methods” of selecting political leaders. Obviously competitive sports had existed long before the eighteenth century, but embedded in a framework of religious or military significations (perhaps the most fascinating example is the Mayan ball game, an enactment of cosmic forces, in which the price of losing was ritualized death). The novelty here was that success or failure at cricket or football carried no broader message; the game was played simply for its own sake, as a form of entertainment or a commercial proposition. As the passage quoted from Elias indicates, the “level playing field” was exalted as a normative principle that standardized and generalized the sport, that “institutionalized the uncertainty” of its outcomes, thereby channeling the passions of the fans, and broadening the market of spectators. There is an evident analogy here with competitive electoral contests that motivated a wider electorate to participate and to form allegiances with rival parties, without breaching the civil peace.

What this sketch genealogy indicates is that the normative assumptions underlying competitive electoral democracy were disseminated progressively—as part of a broader historical process of secularization, individualization, and of the development of restraining norms, among others—over a relatively recent period and within a fairly restricted socio-cultural context. Mass democracy (and commercialized sport) were not generally available as fully-fledged, influential social practices prior to the twentieth century, and only reached a majority of humanity after mid-century, in particular thanks to the spread of visual mass communications. While the practices of competitive communal sport and democratic electoral contestation are now disseminated worldwide, the precise normative codes structuring these various rule-governed games are not necessarily so universally embraced. Americans excel at baseball and often disdain soccer. Outside the British Commonwealth, cricket can seem incomprehensible and tedious rather than enthralling. Elections in India are pretty inaccessible to Brazilians, and vice versa. Almost everyone has reason to care about the outcome of major US elections, but the normative assumptions upon which they operate are surprisingly specific and relatively opaque to outsiders, as demonstrated, in particular, by the presidential election of November 2000.

Although in some respects this may just be a question of attending to the specific provisions of individual sports or national electoral codes, there are also more basic collective assumptions that vary from one context to another. If this is true of electoral systems in general (presidential versus parliamentary; federal versus unitary; majority-based versus proportional or centrally regulated versus locally managed) it is all the more likely to apply to collective beliefs about the


appropriate behavior of winners and losers, particularly when electoral outcomes are close fought. This volume provides an ample spread of illuminating country studies to demonstrate the range of currently existing variations and to highlight the significance of these differences for the comparative evaluation of democracy and democratization.

The Rudolphs (see Chapter 2) focus on Jefferson’s 1801 Inaugural and the 1806 crystallization of a two-party system in the British parliament as pivotal events in the emergence of a “loyal opposition,” and this is illuminating (see also Whitehead 2007: 14–28, especially p. 25). At the same time, they acknowledge, and it needs to be stressed, that these events only acquired their eventual significance in the course of much larger processes, both of preparation and of follow through (Hofstadter 1969; O’Gorman 1982). In addition, we need to reflect on how unique they were at the time, and what precise contextual conditions may have given them salience. On the second point, I would be inclined to highlight the shocking impact of the Terror that followed the French Revolution. Without that as an object lesson in where popular sovereignty without legitimate opposition could lead, the Americans and British might not have found it possible to restrain their partisanship even with the neutrality of the US Constitution and the British constitutional monarchy as the reassuring institutional backdrops for their innovations.

What about the developments of similar practices outside the English-speaking world? Countries with land borders presented different problems, in that the losers of any internal competition for office were always liable to be taken up as the protégés of neighboring powers, seeking some pretext to intervene or invade. Britain and the US were both relatively insulated from this possibility, in part by geography, and after 1815 by naval power and treaty. The problem for states without clear-cut natural boundaries is that the outside backers to whom losers may easily turn for assistance are unlikely to have any permanent interest in building up the neutral institutions or trustworthy rules of the game needed for the entrenchment of a system of loyal opposition. For unusual reasons, in island Britain and continental US, opposition that might elsewhere be feared as a potential bearer of disloyalty could in these two countries more plausibly voice its criticisms and pose its alternatives without suspicion of treachery.

Learning to lose was also possible in countries with land boundaries, such as Holland and Switzerland, but there the mixture of elements was necessarily distinct. Here the fall-back position for an unsuccessful political contender at the national level is the security of recognition and protection in the province/canton/city of origin. This (loosely consociational) system committed losers to limited forms of collective action in defense of the larger polity, while sheltering them from retaliation and imposing constitutional constraints on the freedom of action of the winners. In the seven united provinces this included a unanimity requirement for decisions about peace and war and was mirrored, at the lower level, by the regular election of municipal officers chosen from the leading families with rivalries often tempered by “contracts” between factions, or even agreed “rotas” for tenure of office that might be worked out as much as decades in advance (Stoye 1969: 136).


The details and limitations of these constitutional arrangements can be set aside here. What matters for our purposes is that outside the English-speaking world alternative systems of electoral competition were devised to enable losers to remain in the system and loyal to it.

Whatever precursors to competitive democracy we can identify in the pre-Napoleonic west, it was the aftermath of the French Revolution and the First Empire that crystallized and generalized the demand for liberal constitutional solutions to political conflict, and that thus systematized the emergence of rules of the game involving periodic competitive elections, neutral counts, alternation of parties in office and therefore the functional necessity for a genuine contending but still loyal opposition. Although Britain and the US may have led the way in this respect, and although their (somewhat contrasting) models have exerted great international influence over the past two centuries, this is not just a patrimony of the English-speaking world, as most contributors to this volume make clear. Prior to the relatively contemporary cross-section of country studies contained herein, it is worth recalling the tortuous routes through which continental Europeans set about “learning to lose” after 1815. For the sake of simplicity, we can select the crucial case of France as an illustration. The purpose of this detour is to remind us of the long history, diverse trajectories, and the common patrimony of liberal constitutional experimentation that precedes and informs our contemporary fan of democratic experiences.

In France it took a whole century after the Revolution before electoral pluralism, and the alternation in office of rival parties, each respectful of the others, displaced the politics of zero sum conflict over the nature of the sovereign order. Even then, the debate over the rules of the game took a very different form from that of the Anglophones. The central issue for these “modern” parties was the question of proportional representation. It was within these terms that the process of learning to lose was debated between 1890 and the First World War (Rosenvallon 1998: 179–82).

Proportional representation was adopted in France in 1919, and in a variety of other West European democracies as well. Instead of producing a sharp dichotomy between the winners and losers in a democratic election, it tends to generate a permanent cartel of parties, none of which can be definitively included or excluded from office based on their individual electoral performance. Governments are therefore shifting coalitions, and their composition is determined more by post-electoral horse-trading between the same eternal players than by any loss or gain of support among the electorate. Parties have an incentive to stay clear of the various sectoral communities they claim to represent, rather than to bid for free-floating support. In the Third and Fourth republics this allowed rival parties to nurture incompatible ideological constituencies rather than to endorse the principle of loyal opposition. Even under the Fifth Republic, where the key electoral choice is a win–lose dichotomous vote over the presidency on the second round, the problems of learning to lose are still quite distinct from those in the Anglophone world. When the same party controls both the presidency and the premiership, its dominance tends to overwhelm the multiple challengers. And if the opposition


captures one or other of these positions, the result is cohabitation, not so much loyal opposition as disloyal shared government. In summary, therefore, almost two hundred years after the first political party was formed in France (by Guizot in 1828) the rules of the democratic electoral game are still far removed from the elegant simplicities of the formal modelers, and the processes of political learning from an electoral defeat are more complex and open-ended than can be derived from the mantra of democracy as the “only game in town.”

Conclusions

The two main ideas I wish to highlight in this conclusion are (i) that learning to lose a competitive election is part of a longer-term process of social construction, with a genealogy specific to each society, that can be studied comparatively within the general framework of the development of such norms as civility and self-restraint; and (ii) that all such developments are historically contingent, contextually situated, non-linear, and even potentially reversible. If so, there can be no “end of history,” still less an assured and happy ending of universal democracy. But both theory and experience do indicate that there can be the progressive development of norms of conduct such as respect for the dignity of a worthy loser, patience in adversity, lengthened time horizons, and tolerance for persisting and deep differences in belief and understanding, all of which could make learning to lose more socially respectable, both in the political sphere and more generally. How this may relate to the development of practices in other spheres, such as the market or the rule of law, requires careful theoretical and comparative attention, not possible here, but in any case, the connections are unlikely to be very simple or direct. Such norms are not immediately self-evident, nor are they necessarily the only possible basis for successful coexistence in large-scale modern societies. But, clearly, they can be disseminated, learnt, made workable, and erected into principles that are widely considered attractive and that can therefore be socially valued and even collectively embedded.

At the same time, there are also rival norms and practices that can compete for public allegiance, even in prosperous modern democracies. To take a recent example, crusading variants of democracy and of democratization also have their appeal, even when they involve devaluing some core norms of conduct (demonizing discordant minorities, depriving losers of their means of expression or hopes of peaceful redress, and even condoning torture), which may provoke an escalation of counter-violence that in turn reinforces Manichean worldviews. By definition, Manicheans—who see the world divided into forces of absolute good and evil, and are therefore engaged in perpetual conflict—can never learn to lose without abandoning their basic assumptions. Those who are defeated may be unwilling to accept adverse democratic outcomes if they have good reason to believe that the self-styled democrats would never allow them to win. This alternative take on democracy may reflect an inability to understand, or a failure to appreciate, the contested historical processes—the genealogies—through which all really existing democracies have been constructed. Such crusading can put


at risk the values of civility and self-restraint that can do so much to make the possibility of accepting an electoral defeat bearable.

As Edward Friedman’s chapter makes clear, there are good reasons for doubting whether the Chinese Communist Party, even in its latest and most reassuring mode, could ever bear to accept an adverse electoral verdict within its core jurisdiction, or indeed in Tibet. In fact, it evidently finds this hard to accept even in secondary elections in Hong Kong, not to mention in Taiwan. But a dispassionate assessment of such resistance to unwelcome electoral verdicts needs to cast the net wider. Contemporary crusaders for democracy may behave like very sore losers or even refuse to learn to lose when the parties they support abroad are defeated in democratic elections, and other groups that they dislike win instead. The reaction of the European Union and the US to the electoral victory of Hamas is a good example, as is the reaction of the west to the prospect of an FIS victory in Algeria. The west would also likely behave like a sore loser in the face of adverse outcomes in Afghanistan, Egypt, Iraq or Pakistan. Of course, when it comes to learning to lose abroad, as for the Chinese in Taiwan or for the US in the Israeli–Palestinian context, another broader issue comes into play. This is not the place to discuss this at length, but realpolitik cuts across considerations of learning to lose: a different game is at stake in realpolitik than the one played with democratic electoral politics. The point remains that learning to lose is easy when there is little at stake or when one can be reasonably confident that it is the enemy who will receive the education. But once the binary division between approved democracies and disapproved undemocratic regimes is questioned—for example, by dispassionately comparing dominant party regimes, as in this volume—then the Manichean framework of interpretation loses its underpinnings. A more complex and nuanced understanding is required.

Processes of democratic transition are inherently risky. There can be no ex ante guarantee that they will necessarily produce inclusive stable democracies. This is the paradox of democracies: that freedom to elect can also be freedom to elect loss of freedom. A Manichean approach relies on imposition and control because it cannot tolerate the risks of a genuinely open process of transition. But the consequence of this outlook is to block off the opportunities required for democratic learning. For example, in Algeria in 1989 there was an opportunity for the electorally successful Islamists to learn how to operate in a democracy. This was far from being an unrealistic project, as parallel developments in Turkey have since demonstrated. But it could not be guaranteed in advance. In these circumstances, neither the Algerian ruling party nor its Western backers were willing to take the risks of a democratic transition; they preferred to adopt a Manichean posture, according to which acceptance of the Islamist electoral victory would signify acquiescence to a victory for the forces of evil. Instead of recognizing the outcome of the vote and thus learn to lose, they denied moderate Islamists the incentive to embrace democratic procedures and blocked all scope for the challengers to learn democracy. With hindsight, we know that this approach set Algeria on the path of civil war, with the result that the barriers on both sides to learning to lose are now far higher. At the time, it was possible for genuine democrats to argue for a more


controlled and gradual path to democratization, but once the moment of hope had passed, that alternative was quickly put out of reach by the vested interests on both sides. In a similar vein, covert CIA action in Guatemala in 1954 helped to create the conditions not for a free world democracy but for an enduring climate of fear and polarization that continues to thwart democracy-building half a century later.

These hard cases indicate that learning to lose is neither the standard case to be expected, regardless of context, nor a risk-free easy option. There are enough examples to demonstrate that it is a major historical pathway, but also enough counter-examples to caution us against taking it for granted. In some cases, the opportunity has been lost, and vicious circles of intolerance have been unleashed, simply because of a Manichean mindset on the part of those best placed to support democratization. In other cases, the public rhetoric of good versus evil may cloak more complex political calculations. Even genuinely pro-democracy campaigners may find the risks of a particular transition too daunting.

That difficulty can indeed be genuine. A decision to allow undemocratic winners to take power can mean learning to lose and complying with the rules of the game until the bitter end. But, as in Germany in 1933, the price may be loss of democracy: no more game, no more losing. An alternative option could be, at least in principle, to cut short the process (refuse to lose, violate the rules) but in this way ensure there is a game to be played in the future. Both decisions are simultaneously pro-democratic and anti-democratic in nature. The first decision could be that of a good loser who is also a fool and has ensured there will be no further game to play. Meanwhile the second decision has all too often proved to be that of a bad loser who is also crafty and gets to play the game again and again.

Throughout this chapter, I have argued that learning to lose a democratic election is far from a given. It is one key aspect of larger processes of democratization that needs to be studied over the long run, from a non-judgmental comparative perspective, with full consideration of the theoretical complexities, and with historically grounded self-awareness. This volume, focusing on the specific theme of dominant parties, charts an agenda for research that merits considerable further development.

Notes

1 Not least because chess is only a “life” issue for professional chess players, but not for ordinary people, while “real life” games are about vital issues, and so there are no closed rules covering all contingencies, and players are playing with their “whole selves.”

2 The notion of genealogy comes from Nietzche and Michel Foucault (2005: 525). My argument parallels Bernard Williams’ project of “pulling philosophy, particularly moral philosophy, down from the stratosphere” (Williams 2005; Nagel 2006), which led him to make the point that moral precepts are manufactured out of real life, and only then made to look “eternal” by the philosophers who hang them up in the ether.

3 Individual games of skill, such as chess, or of luck, such as dice, obviously dated back long before the eighteenth century and also required neutral rules. But these were face-to-face small group games, equivalent to direct democracy. The new team games reached mass audiences.


References

Elias, N. and Dunning, E. (1986) Quest for Excitement: Sport and Leisure in the Civilising Process, Oxford: Basil Blackwell.

Foucault, M. (2005) The Hermeneutics of the Subject, London: Palgrave.Goudsblom, J. and Mennell, S. (1998) The Norbert Elias Reader, Oxford: Basil

Blackwell.Guicciardini, F. (1994) Dialogue on the Government of Florence, Cambridge: Cambridge

University Press.Hofstadter, R. (1969) The Idea of a Party System: The Rise of Legitimate Opposition in the

United States 1780–1840, Berkeley, CA: California University Press.Levitsky, S. and Way, L. (2002) “The Rise of Competitive Authoritarianism,” Journal of

Democracy, 13, 2: 51–65.Nagel, T. (2006) “The View from Here and Now: A Tribute to Bernard Williams,” London

Review of Books, 28 (9), 11 May.Obeyesekere, G. (2002) Imagining Karma: Ethical Transformation in Amerindian,

Buddhist, and Greek Rebirth, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.O’Gorman, F. (1982) The Emergence of the British Two-Party System (1760–1832),

London: Edward Arnold.Rosenvallon, P. (1998) Le peuple introuvable: Histoire de la répresentation democratique

en France, Paris: Gallimard.Schedler, A. (2006) “The Logic of Electoral Authoritarianism,” in A. Schedler (ed.)

Electoral Authoritarianism: The Dynamics of Unfree Competition, Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner.

Stoye, J. (1969) Europe Unfolding (1648–88), London: Fontana.Whitehead, L. (2007) “The Challenge of Closely Fought Elections,” Journal of Democracy,

18, 2: 14–28.Williams, B. (2005) In the Beginning Was the Deed: Realism and Moralism in Political

Argument, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

Index

Notes: The names of parties and organizations are indexed by their acronyms, e.g. the African National Congress is indexed as ANC.‘Table’ or ‘Figure’ after a page number indicate Tables or Figures in the text; for example: KMT 133–4Table 8.1

“1955 regime”, Japan 111–16

Abe Shinzo 124accountability, in South Africa 199,

201–2, 204Acemoglu, D. 11Acheson, D. 256Adam, H. 193Adams, J. 20–1adaptation: adaptive choice 5–7; and

“learning” 61, 71–2, 110–11, 116; neocommunist parties strategies for 149–51, 161–4; PAP’s strategies for 231–3, 239–40, see also Former Soviet Union neocommunist parties; reform; transformation

ADPM (Agrarian Democratic Party of Moldova) 155

Africa see South Africa; West African single-party systems

Africa Confidential 79, 84, 87Agh, A. 149agricultural productivity, Japan 118, 119AIDS, in South Africa 201, 203Ajibekova, K. 159, 160Akayev, A. 158, 159Akayev, B. 160Albania 102Allen, J. 212alliances, ANC alliance partners 199–200

“alternation countries” 7, 76, 78, 84–8, see also Benin; Cape Verde; Ghana; Mali; Niger; Senegal; West Africa

Altman, D. 232Amanbayev, J. 158Amritsar, attack on Golden Temple 31Amsden, A.H. 173Amyx, J. 123ANC (African National Congress): and

constitutional settlement 194; as dominant party 10, 191, 192, 196, 203–4, 270; parliamentary and extra-parliamentary opposition to 197–200, see also South Africa

Anderson, C. 5, 128Anderson, J. 157, 158Andreeva, N. 152Anpilov, V. 152anti-Americanism 179, 180, 262, 263anticommunism: in East Central Europe

97–8; in Korea 171, 172Anwar Ibrahim 220apartheid 193, 197, 202Appel, H.. 101Aristotle 16Ash, T.G. 264Asher, M. 246Asian economic crisis: in Korea 173, 184;

in Singapore 242“Asian values” debate 242assassination: of Indira Gandhi 31; of

Rajiv Gandhi 33Atkinson, D. 193authoritarian regimes: in West Africa

84–8, see also China and the CCP; dominant party systems; Singapore

BA (Barisan Alternatif) 213, 220, 221Babak, V. 158, 159

286 Index

Badawi, Abdullah (known as Pak Lah) 221, 222, 223–4

Bailo, N. 160, 161Bakiyev, K. 160, 161Bako-Arifari, N. 81Bakri, M. 216Banégas, R. 85Barter, S.J. 63, 238, 258, author of

chapter 12Bartlett, D. 52, 102Bartolini, S. 100Bayart, J.-F. 76, 80Bekboyev, B. 160Bellin, E. 232Bellows, T.J. 235Benin 79, 80–1, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87–8Bernhard, M. 95Bertrand, R. 82Bhrindanwale, J.S. 31Bierschenk, T. 79, 80, 82, 86, 88Birch, S. 96BJP Party (India) 33–4“black-gold” agendas 68, 130, 136Blazyca, G. 102BN (Barisan Nasional) 214, 215, 221Bodyul, I. 154Bofors scandal 32Bompani, B. 203Borowski, M. 94Bouceh, F. 214Bozóki, A. 148, 149Britain: colonial rule in India 22–6;

colonial rule in Malayan peninsula 212; and concept of “loyal opposition” 19–20, 278

Brooks, D. 264Brown, B. 159Brown, K. 200Bruszt, L. 95BS (Barisan Sosialis) (Singapore) 234BSP (Bulgarian Social Democratic party)

92, 97, 101Buckley, N. 260Bukowski, C.J. 148Bulgaria 92, 96–7, 98, 101“Bumpiputera” 211business interests: international, in China

260; of UMNO 215–16, 224, 238

Calland, R. 196candidate selection, KMT 133–4Table 8.1Cape Verde 86capitalism see economics; financial

control; socioeconomic conditions

Cárdenas, C. 51, 130Carey, J. 151Carothers, T. 3Case, A. 197Case, W. 214, 215, 224, 232CCP (Chinese Communist Party) see

China and the CCPCEFP (Council on Economic and Fiscal

Policy) (Japan) 122, 123CEN (National Executive Council)

(Mexico) 138Centeno, M.A. 51Central Europe see East Central European

post-communist democraciescentralization: of ANC control 200–1; of

KMT candidate selection 133–4Table 8.1; of post-communist party organization 92–3, 94, 152–3; of West African presidentalism 78–80

Chan, A. 256Chan, H.K. 236Chang, M. 172Chao, M. 61, 64Chatterjee, P. 23chauvinism see patriotismChee, S.B. 222Chee Soon Juan 240, 241Chen, President 57, 58, 71, 73, 136Chen Shui-bian 131Cheng, T.J. author of chapter 8; and KMT

dominance in Taiwan 58, 59, 60, 63, 64, 66, 69, 215; KMT and PRI after 2000 127, 128, 129, 130, 143

Chia, S.-A. 246Chiang Ching-Kuo 60, 61, 62Chin, J. 247Chin, K.L. 70China and the CCP 10, 252–66, 281;

anti-democratic agenda 252–5; CCP dictatorship alternatives 263–6; democracy as threat to regime 261–3; democratic history 255–7; dictatorship and democracy 259–61; economic reform 257–9; relations with Taiwan and US 60, 61, 67

China, Republican see Taiwan and the KMT

China Times (newspaper) 135, 136Cho Soon 181Choi, B. 177choice, constraints on 6–7Chou, Y.S. 61Chu, Y.H. 232Chua, B.-H. 236, 242

Index 287

Chun Doo-hwan 175Chung Mong-jun 182citizenship 195, 243civil service, PAP control of 235civil society, South Africa 202Clark, C. 66Clark, J.F. 83, 85class see middle class; social classclientelism, in West Africa 81, 85CNC (Confederation of Mexican

Peasants) 44coalition parties: Japan 116–17;

Malaysia 214Cold War 2–4, 254Colomer, J. 96colonialism 22–6, 78, 212communism: after 1989 collapse 95–7,

101–2, 148; during the Cold War 254; Soviet legacy of 151–2, 161, see also East Central European post-communist democracies; Former Soviet Union neocommunist parties

Communist Party of Russian Federation see KPRF

competition: democratic, and post-communist parties 99–101Figure 6.2, 102; economic, and Japanese productivity 114–15; “game” model of 272, 276–80; and party adaptation 151; and political co-optation in Singapore 238, 242–3

Confucian–Buddhist culture 253, 262–3Congress, Indian National see Indian

National Congressconstitutions: amendments to in

Singapore 242–3; as basis for competitive democracy 278–9; rulings on in West Africa 79, 85, 87; settlement in South Africa 193–6, 201–2

constraints, and choice 6–7contestation see competitioncontingencies, political 5–6Cornelius, W. 137corruption: ANC in South Africa 196–7,

199; in China 261; and dominant party system 113; and KMT’s image 136; in Korea 169, 175–6; and neopatrimonialism 81; and reform agendas 68, 70, 102; in UMNO 215, 220, 223–4

COSATU 199–200“Council entry” issue (India 1922) 27coups, West Africa 77, 86–7

courts, and democratic safeguards in South Africa 201–2

Cox, G. 50CP-MSSR (Moldova) 155CPK (Communist Party of Kyrgyzstan)

159CPN (National Political Council) (Mexico)

138CPSU (Communist Party of Soviet Union)

252–3Craig, A. 137Crampton, R.J. 97crises, political 6CTM (Confederation of Mexican Workers)

44currency revaluation 119Curry, J.L. 148Curtis, G. 113, 116Czech Republic 92, 93, 98, 101–2, 149

Da Costa, E. 29DA (Democratic Alliance) (South Africa)

192, 196, 197Dalton, R.J. 128Daniel, J. 196, 197DAP (Democratic Action Party)

(Malaysia) 213, 221Das, C.R. 27Dasgupta, B. 30De Klerk, President F.W. 193, 197Deaton, A. 197debt, public 121decision-making, KMT control of 135defeat-adaptive strategies 269–71, see also

“game” modelDemocracy Wall Movement 256–7democracy/democratization: China’s

rejection of 253–7, 261–3; electoral defeat and political maturity 128; and “issue ownership” 66; of KMT 69–70, 132–5; Korea as liberal democracy 171–3, 174; in Malaya 212; and multi-party systems 63, 77; of post-communist parties in East Central Europe 92; in South Africa 194, 196, 201–2, see also “game” model; ideologies

demography: Japan 117–18; Korea 173; Malaysia 211–13, 222–3

Deng Xiaoping 10, 252–3, 256–7Deutscher, I. 151Deyo, F. 235Di Palma, G. 4Diamond, L. 4, 9, 232

288 Index

Díaz-Cayeros, A. 8, 44, 45, 46, author of chapter 3

Dickson, B. 60, 61Dixon, J. 29DJP (Democratic Justice Party) (Korea)

170, 174, 175DLP (Democratic Liberal Party) (Korea)

170–1, 177–8dominant party systems 1–2, 4–5, 9,

11; ANC in South Africa 191, 192; characteristics of 28; defeat-adaptive strategies 269–71; in East Central Europe post-communist democracies 101; Japanese one-party dominant regime (1955 regime) 111–16; and KMT/PRI democratic transitions 129–31; in West Africa 77–84, see also China; Singapore; UMNO

Domínguez, J. 51DPJ (Democratic Party of Japan) 110, 124DPP (Democratic Progressive Party)

(Taiwan): electoral gains 57, 58, 62, 130; founding of 61; issue ownership and control 66, 67, 68; opposition to, as ruling party 72, 127, 128, see also Taiwan

Dunning, E. 276Duverger, M. 213Dyer, D.L. 155

East Central European post-communist democracies 4, 8, 91–103; adaptation and transformation of 92–4, 150, 162; communism after 1989 collapse 95–7; communist reinvention and competition 99–101Figure 6.2; communist reinvention and the moderate left 101–2; communist reinvention and public policy 102; diffusion and party differentiation 97–8; impact of Communist successors 94–5

economics: Asian economic crisis 173, 184, 242; communist access to resources in East Central Europe 95, 96, 102; and democracy in China 257–9, 264, 265; in Japan under 1955 regime 112–13, 113–14, 119, 121; and PRI in Mexico 43, 45–6, 52, 53; restructuring and political consensus in Singapore 246–7; in South Africa 193, 200; in Taiwan 59, 65–6, 67–8, 136; UMNO business interests 215–16, 224, 238

The Economist (journal) 121

Economist Intelligence Unit 83, 87Eighteenth Assembly (2001), Mexico

138–9elections/electoral systems: accepting

electoral defeat 270; in China 262; of communist successor parties in East Central Europe 93–4Figure 6.1, 96–7, 101–2; electoral defeat of dominant parties 128–31; of Former Soviet Union neocommunist parties 156–7, 158–9, 160, 162, 163; in France 279–80; “game” model of 271–2, 273–4, 275–80; in India 25, 29–30, 31–2, 33–4; in Japan 109–10, 115, 118, 119–20, 123, 124; in Korea 177–82, 184–5; in Malaya/Malaysia 212, 214–15, 216, 217–18, 219, 220–2; in Mexico 43, 44, 46–50, 47Figure 3.1, 48Tables 3.1 and 3.2, 49Figure 3.2, 130–1, 136–7, 140–2Table 8.3; multi-party in West Africa 77, 86–8; and neopatrimonialism in West Africa 80, 84–5; and party adaptation 151; in Russia 152, 153; in Singapore 237–8, 247; in South Africa 194, 196, 197, 203; in Taiwan 57–8, 61, 62, 63, 130–1, 133–4Table 8.1, 140–2Table 8.2

Elias, N. 276Elster, J. 95Emmerson, D. 222Epstein, L. 150Estévez, F. 52, author of chapter 3ethnicity: in Malaysian politics 211–12,

213, 217–18, 219–20, 222–3; tensions in Kyrgystan 157–8

Europe see East Central European post-communist democracies

Evans, G. 149Evans, P. 173external pressures, and single-party

systems in West Africa 84

Faaland, J. 216factionalism: and intra-party conflict

64–5, 150–1, 153–4, 199; and leadership 50–3, 62–3, 69–70, 136–40; in Malaysia 218–21, 223–4; and regional politics 177–80

“federal fiscal pact”, Mexico 45–6federalism: Malaya 212; South Africa

195, 200–1Feinstein, A. 196, 202Fell, D. 66, 67, 68, 69Ferguson, N. 23

Index 289

Fewsmith, J. 261Fico, R. 94financial control 113–14, 119, 136,

see also economics; socioeconomic conditions

fiscal decentralization, and PRI in Mexico 45–6, 52

Fish, M.S. 95, 96, 151, 162Foord, A.S. 19, 20formal/informal politics 88Former Soviet Union neocommunist

parties 148–64; adaptive strategies 149–51; compared with China 254, 261; CPSU 252–3; divergence of adaptive strategies 161–4; Kyrgyzstan and the PKK 157–61; Moldova and the PCRM 148, 149, 154–7, 161–2, 163–4; Russia and the KPRF 151–4

Fox, V. 46, 137FPTP (first-past-the-post) 214France, electoral democracy in 279–80Friedman, E. 10, 193, 202, 222, 257,

261, 281, author of chapters 1 and 14Fukuda, Takeo, Prime Minister 124

Gallagher, T. 97, 101Galsiounis, I. 224Galvan, D. 81“game” model: genealogy of 274–80;

limits of 271–4, see also democracy; “learning”

Gandhi dynasty 270Gandhi, I. 30–1, 32Gandhi, M.K. (Mahatma) 24, 25–6, 27,

28, 36, 273Gandhi, R. 31–2, 33Gandhi, Sanjay 30–1Gandhi, Sonia 35Ganev, V. 97Ganguly, S. 32Garside, R. 257Gazibo, M. 81, 85Gcukumana, M. 201Geddes, B. 2Gerschenkron, A. 22Ghana 78–9, 81, 82, 83–4Ghana Centre for Democratic

Development 79Gibson, E.L. 88Gilley, B. 259Gills, B. and Gills, D. 177GLCs (government-linked companies)

216, 233, 238, 243, 244–6

globalization, neoliberal in Singapore 243–7

GNU (Government of National Unity) (South Africa) 195

Goh Chok Tong 239–40, 242, 243, 244, 245

Gokhale, G.K. 26–7Gomez, E.T. 215, 216, 223Goray, N.G. 29Gorbachev, M. 152, 254, 270Gore, A. 270Goryacheva, S. 153Goudsblom, J. 276Gould, H. 32governors see gubernatorial elections;

presidentalismGrayson, G.S. 130, 145Grofman, B. 151Grossu, S. 154, 155Grzymala-Busse, A. 6, 8, 9, 62, 65, 69,

91, 92, 93, 102, 148, 150, author of chapter 6

Guatemala 282Gubenko, N. 153gubernatorial elections: Korea 177–82,

184; Kyrgyzstan 158–9; Mexico 47–50, 48Tables 3.1 and 3.2, 52, 142, see also elections; presidentalism

Guicciardini, F. 275Guillermoprieto, A. 136“guksi” (postwar Korean identity) 170,

171, 172–3, 184Gumede, W.M. 201Guthrie, D. 258

Habermas, J. 15Hadiz, V.R. 232Haggard, S. 174Hale, H.E. 80Hamilton, A. 20Hamilton-Hart, N. 238Han, M. 257Handley, A. 10, 193, author of chapter 11Hannara Party 169, 170, 180, 182, 183,

184–5Hardgrave, R.L. 29Harmel, R. 61hegemonies see Mexico, and PRI; Taiwan

and the KMTHeidegger, M. 273Hellman, J. 102Henson, B. 240Herbst, J. 193, 196Higley, J. 127

290 Index

Hinojosa, F.C. 53Hirose, M. 117Hirschman, A. 115Hitchcock, D. 222Ho Ching 245Hobbes, T., Leviathan 17–18Hofstadter, R. 21, 278Hong, C. 224Horcasitas, J.M. 129Horowitz, D. 4Hosokawa Morihiro 119–20Hsieh, J. 58, 62Hsu, Y.M. 130Hu, P. 266Hu Jintao 260, 264Huang, T.F. 60human rights, South Africa 195, 202Hume, A.O. 23Hungary 95–6, 98, 100, 102, 149, 150Huntington, S. 9, 102, 213, 232Huskey, E. 162HZDS (Movement for a Democratic

Slovakia) 98, 101

IDASA 200identity: Han Chinese 255; Korean

“guksi” 170, 171, 172–3, 184; national, in Taiwan 66–7; political, of post-communist parties 93, 149–51, see also image

ideologies: Chinese 253, 262–3; of competition and opposition 276–80; of KMT and PRI 129; of Korean conservatives 170–3, 174, 183; of neocommunist parties 149, 156, 159–60; of PAP in Singapore 233, 241–3, 247, see also democracy

IFP (Inkatha Freedom Party) 195, 201Iliescu, I. 97image: of KMT 135–6, see also identityIMP (Independence of Malaya Party) 212income inequality, Singapore 246independent agencies, South Africa 202Indian National Congress: the colonial era

22–6; and concept of “loyal opposition” 26–7; and development of multi-party system 28–32; the multi-party system consolidated 33–6

industrialization: Japan 112; Singapore 238; Taiwan 59, 68

Innes, A. 98internal opposition 192–3intra-party conflict, and factionalism 64–5,

150–1, 153–4, 199

Ishak bin Tadin 212Ishikawa, M. 117Ishiyama, J. 91, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152,

162, 253, author of chapter 9Ishiyama-, J.T. 86Islam 211–12, 213, 216issue ownership, Taiwan 8, 65–8

Janata Dal Party 33Janata Party 31Janda, K. 61Japan, and LDP reform 109–25;

challenges to one-party dominance 116–22; intra-LDP reform 122–5; one-party dominant regime (1955 regime) 111–16

Jayasankaran, S. 223Jayasuriya, K. 240Jefferson, T., 1801 Inaugural Address 20,

21–2, 278Jesudason, J. 216, 225Jeysretnam, J.B. 240Jomo, K.S. 216Joseph, R. 77Jourde, C. 7, 8, 65, 77, 216, author of

chapter 5Jowett, B. 16JSP (Japan Socialist Party) 111judiciary: and authoritarianism in West

Africa 85; independence of in South Africa 202; rule by law in Singapore PAP 240–1

Kabashima, I. 115Kamarudin, R.P. 219, 224Karasimeonov, G. 98, 101Karl, T.L. 7Katz, R.S. 128KDM (Kyrgyzstan Democratic Movement)

158Keadilan (National Justice Party)

(Malaysia) 220, 221, 222Kent, J. 217Kérékou, President M. 79, 80, 83, 86, 87Khamidov, A. 159Kharitonov, N. 153Khodorovsky, M. 154Khoo, B.T. 224Kim, B. 6, 174, 175, 181, 183, author of

chapter 10Kim, H. 172Kim, S. 174Kim Dae-jung 169, 171, 176, 178, 180,

181–2, 183, 184, 185

Index 291

Kim Il Sung 171, 172Kim Jong Il 182Kim Jong-pil 170, 177, 178, 180Kim Young-sam 169, 170, 174, 175–6,

177–8King, C. 154Kirkpatrick, J. 3Kitschelt, H. 96, 150, 151KMT (Kuomintang) see Taiwan and KMTKobayashi, Y. 115, 117Kochanek, S. 29Koizumi Junichir� 109, 110, 120, 121–2,

123–5Koldys, G. 163Konaré, A.O., President 82Koo, H. 232Korea, conservatives and democratic

consolidation 169–85; electoral defeats in 180–2; and liberal democracy 171–3; progressive control and conservative comeback in 183–5; reform politics in 174–7; regional politics in 177–80

Korean War 262Kothari, R. 28Kovacs, A. 91KPRF (Communist Party of Russian

Federation) 148, 149, 152–4, 161, 162–3, 164

KS�M (Czech Social Democratic party) 92, 93, 101–2

Kuenzi, M. 82Kufuor, J., President 78–9, 82, 83Kuppuswamy, C.S. 217Kuptsov, V. 152Kyongsang–Chuncheong coalition 177,

178Kyrgystan, and PKK 148, 149, 157–61,

158, 162, 163, 164

Labastida, F. 52, 138, 139–40labor unions see trade unionsLam, W. 257, 264Lambright, G.. 82land reform, Taiwan 59Lanegran, K. 197Langston, J. 44, 46, 137, 138, 139Lapshin, M. 152Latin Americanization 252, 253LDP (Liberal Democratic Party) see Japan,

and LDP reformLDS (Slovene Social Democratic party)

92Le Blanc, J.B. 19

leadership: and adaptation 7; of ANC 199; of CCP in China 259–61; of DLP 177–8; and electoral defeat 270–1; and factionalism 50–3, 62–3, 69–70, 136–40; of KMT 132, 134–5; of neocommunist parties 151, 158, 160, 163–4; of PAP 232, 239–40; of PRI 137–8, 142–3; of UMNO 215, 219, 223–4

“learning”: and adaptation 61, 71–2, 110–11, 116; losing, and successful transition 191–2, 224–5, 269, 280–2, see also democracy; “game” model

Ledo, P.M. 51Lee, N. 175Lee Hoi-chang 179, 180–1, 182Lee Hsien Loong 243–4Lee Kuan Yew 234, 235, 239, 240, 247Lee Teng-Hui 64, 67, 68, 70, 131, 132“leftist retreat” 149legislation: and efficiency and issue

ownership 66; KMT control of 135; in Korea 172, 183, 184; repressive, and authoritarianism 79, 87, 235

Leibbrandt, M. 192Leifer, M. 237Levitsky, S. 4, 269Lewis, P.G. 151Li, T. 262Liao, D.C. 66, 143liberal democracy, in Korea 171–3, 174Lien Chan 57, 58, 64–5, 67, 68, 69–70,

132, 143Lijphart, A. 131, 140, 151Lim Boon Heng 246Lim Chee Onn 239Lin, J.W. 59, 64, 65Lindberg, S. 82, 85, 87–8Linz, J. 4, 8, 9Lipset, S.M. 11Liu, Q. 262, 263Locke, J. 18Lodge, T. 199, 201Loh, F. 214, 221, 222losing: and electoral “games” 273–4, 275,

280; and “loyal opposition” 63; and successful transition 10–11, 191–2, 224–5, 269, 280–2

Low, L. 238“loyal opposition”: concept and theories of

15–22; in India 26–7; and “poor loser” 63, see also opposition

loyalty, political, and neopatrimonialism 80

292 Index

Lu, Y.L. 70Lucinschi, P. 155, 156Lukyanov, A. 152Lydgate, C. 240Lynn, B. 258, 264

Ma Ying-Jeou 65, 67, 71, 72Maclachlan, P.L. 123Madrazo, R. 42, 51–2, 53, 138, 139–40,

144Magaloni, B. 44, 45, 52, author of chapter

3Magnusson, B. 83, 85Mahathir 219, 220–1, 223–4, 225Mainwaring, S. 128Malayan Union 212Malaysia see UMNOMalaysia Today (news blog) 215Mali 79–80, 82Maloka, E. 197Manchu monarchy 255Mandela, N. 193, 273Manichean world view 280–1Mao Zedong 256March, L. 148, 149–50, 151, 152, 156Masaliyev, A. 158, 159, 160Masaliyev, I. 160–1Mauzy, D.K. 63, 214, 215, 217, 218, 219,

238, 239, 240, 258, author of chapter 12

Mayrargue, C. 86, 87Mazower, M. 265Mbeki, T. 193, 198, 199, 270McGregor, R. 260, 264Mde, V. 200Means, D.K. 218, 220Me�iar, V. 98Medgyessy, P. 93media, repression and control of 79, 101,

202–3, 235, 240–1Medvedev, Z. 152Mehta, A. 28–9membership: of KMT 132–3; of PAP

239–40Mennell, S. 276Mexico, and PRI 8, 42–54; and

decentralization 45–7; electoral defeat and recovery strategies 140–5; factionalism and leadership selection 50–3, 136–40; hegemonic rule of PRI 43–5; origins, hegemony, dominance and defeat of PRI 128–31; survival of PRI 47–50

Michels, R. 70–1

Michie, J. 193middle class: and economic growth in

China 258–9, 261–2; Japanese urban 117; Malaysian 222; PAP elite 233, see also social class

military power, in Niger 87Miller, L. 94Milne, R.S. 214, 215, 217, 219, 238, 239,

240Minjong’gye 174Minjugye 174minority rights, South Africa 193, 195Miyake, I. 115MNSD party (Niger) 86–7Moe, T. 140Moldova, and PRCM 148, 149, 154–7,

161–2, 163–4Monetary Authority, Singapore 245“money politics” 215, 224Montagu–Chelmsford reforms 25Montiel, A. 52Moore, B. 261Moreno, A. 52Morris, S. 129Morris-Jones, W.H. 30Moser, R. 102Moya, F. 202MSzP (Hungarian Social Democratic

party) 92, 93Mulgan, A.G. 122multi-level government 195multi-party systems: consolidation of

Indian 33–6; and democracy 63, 77; in East Central European post-communist era 98; and Indian National Congress 28–32; in Japan 116–17, 120–1; in South Africa 194, 195; in West Africa 75, 77, 86

Muramatsu, M. 122Murayama Tomiichi 117Mure, D. 260Murray, C. 194, 195, 200, author of

chapter 11Muslims 211–12Muzaffar, C. 213Myers, R. 61, 64

Nagata, J.A. 212Nandy, A. 23Narain, I. 30Narayan, S. 29Nathan, A. 61nationalism see patriotism

Index 293

NCNP (National Congress for New Politics) (Korea) 170, 178

NDA (National Democratic Alliance) 34Nehru dynasty 35Nehru, J. 24, 27, 29–30Nehru, M. 27neocommunist parties see Former Soviet

Union neocommunist partiesneoliberal globalization, in Singapore

243–7neopatrimonial regimes, West Africa

76–8, 80–1, 84–8NEP (New Economic Policy) (Malaysia)

216, 223, 224nepotism 224Neukirch, C. 157New York Times (newspaper) 113, 137Ng, I. 246Niger 79, 81, 82, 86–7Nihon Kokusei Zue 117Nijzink, L. 198“1955 regime”, Japan 111–16NKP (New Korea Party renamed Hannara

Party) 169, 170, 178NMDP (New Millennium Democratic

Party) (Korea) 170, 178, 179, 182NOC (National Council for Operations)

(Malaysia) 218nomination processes: KMT in Taiwan

133–4Table 8.1; for MPs in Singapore 242; PRI in Mexico 46

Norris, P. 214North, D.C. 22North Korea 172, 176–7, 182NP (National Party, later New National

Party) (South Africa) 191, 193, 196, 197, 201

NPP (New Party for People) (Korea) 181NPP (New Patriotic Party) (Ghana) 78–9NSF (National Salvation Front) (Romania)

92, 97NSL (National Security Law) (Korea)

172, 183, 184NTU (National Teachers Union) (Korea)

179Figure 10.1, 183NTUC (National Trades Union Congress)

(Singapore) 235, 239, 246Nugent, P. 81

Obrador, A.M.L. 53O’Donnell, G. 4, 9, 15, 88O’Flynn, I. 4O’Gorman, F. 278

Oksenberg, M. 258one-party systems see Japan, and LDP

reform ; multi-party systems; Singapore and the PAP; West African single-party systems

one-term limit, PRI (Mexico) 137Ong Teng Cheong 239“Operation Cold Store” 235opposition: concept and theories of 15–22,

275; and East Central European post-communist era 95, 97–8, 99–100; in Japan 111, 120–1; legitimacy of in South Africa 191–2, 195–203, 204; and one-party dominance in West Africa 77–8, 79–80, 86–7; to UMNO 216, see also “game” model; “loyal opposition”

organization: post- and neocommunist parties 92–3, 94, 150–3; of UMNO 215

Orttung, R. 153Ostrogorski, M. 20Ōtake, H. 111, 112, 119Ousmane, M., President 81Ozawa Ichiro 116–17

Pacific Council 119Padayachee, V. 193PAIVC party (Cape Verde) 86PAN (National Action Party) (Mexico) 43,

45, 47–8, 50, 127, 128, 130, 137Pan African Congress party 198pan-blue alliance (Taiwan) 58, 62pan-green alliance (Taiwan) 57Panebianco, A. 150, 151PAP (Singapore) 217, 231, 232–4, 240,

247–8, see also Singapore and the PAPPARC (Policy Affairs Research Council)

committees (Japan) 113–14, 123Parliament, British, as model for Indian

National Congress 23–5parliamentary opposition: British concept

of “loyal opposition” 19–20, 278; and electoral competition 276, 278; in South Africa 197–8; South African extra-parliamentary opposition 198–200

Parthasarathi, G. 24PAS (Partai Islam Se-Malaysia) 213, 215,

216, 221, 222Pashentev, Y. 152patriotism: in China 261, 263, 265; in

Former Soviet Union 149, 153, 154, 161

294 Index

patronage, UMNO 215, 220, 238PCRM (Party of Communists of Moldova)

148, 149, 155, 156, 161–2, 163–4PDS (Parti démocratique sénégalais) 79PDSR (Romanian Social Democratic

party) 92, 97, 101, 102Pei, M. 261Pempel, T.J. 61, 63, 110, 111, 114, 130,

136, 215, 232, author of chapter 7; Uncommon Democracies 4

People’s Daily (newspaper) 261Pereira, B. 223Pérez-Liñán, A. 232personalism: KMT in Taiwan 64–5; lack

of elite renewal in West Africa 82Pinochet, A., President 270Piombo, J. 196, 198PKK (Partii Kommunistov Kyrgyzstana)

148, 149, 158, 159–60, 161, 162, 163, 164

Plaza Accord 119Pocock, P.G.A. 15Podberezkin, A. 153Poiré, A. 46, 52Poland 95, 96, 98, 100, 102, 149, 150policy: agenda ownership, Taiwan

65–8; ANC economic policies 200; and communist reinvention, East Central Europe 102; KMT control of 135; Korean, conservative and progressive 169–71, 174–7, 182, 183–4; of neocommunist parties 156, 159–60; PAP’s political strategy 233, 235–6, 241–3; socio-economic in Japan 112–14, 118–19, 122–3; technocratization in Singapore 238–43; of UMNO 214, 216, 222

political contingencies and crises 5–6political economy see economics;

socioeconomic conditionsPollack, K. 259Polozkov, I. 152Ponomarev, I. 154“pork and productivity”: in Japan 112–13,

114, 118–19, 121, 124; in Korea 169, 170

“portable skills” 150post-communist democracies see Czech

Republic; East Central European post-communist democracies; Hungary; Poland; Slovakia

post-communist parties see Former Soviet Union neocommunist parties

postal savings system, Japan 123

PR (proportional representation): East Central Europe 96–7; Former Soviet Union 160, 162; France 279; Japan 110, 120; Mexico 136, 141

“pragmatic reform” 149, 161PRC (People’s Republic of China) see

China and the CCPPRD (Party of the Democratic Revolution)

(Mexico) 44, 47–8, 50, 130presidentalism: centralized, in West

Africa 78–80; selection and factionalism 50–3, 137–8, 140–1; “superpresidentialism” 162, see also gubernatorial elections; leadership

Pressly, D. 201PRI (Partido Revolucionario Institucional)

(Mexico) 127, 128, 128–31, 138; simulated probability of PRI victory 477Figure 3.2; support by partisanship of the governor 47Figure 3.1, see also Mexico

productivity see “pork and productivity”protests, in South Africa 203provincial government, South Africa

200–1Przeworski, A. 16, 28, 102, 196, 222public debt 121Puccetti, R. 235purna swaraj (complete independence) 27Putin, V. 153PVEM (Green party) (Mexico) 46, 50

Quantin, P. 77, 82

racial tension 217, 218, 255Racz, B. 148Rahim, L.Z. 237Rajaratnam, S. 238Ramakrishnan, P. 224Rao, P, V. N. 33Rapacki, R. 102Rawlings, J., President 83recruitment, for KMT membership 133Reddy, T. 205Reed, S. 120reform: administrative and economic, in

East Central Europe 102; and Japanese 2005 election 109–10; Japanese, under Koisumi 122–5; in Korea 170, 174–7; political and social, Taiwan 60–1, 68, 69–70, 142–3; pragmatic, or leftist retreat 149; PRI’s recovery strategies 144–5; third wave transitions, West Africa 76–7; of UMNO 223–4, see

Index 295

also adaptation; Japan, and LDP reform ; transformation

regional politics: Indian regional parties 32; Korean regionalism 177–80; Kyrgystan rivalries 157–8; Mexican voting patterns 43, 52–3; Russian elections 151; South African regionalism 195, 200–1

Reilly, B. 4reinvention, of former communist parties

99–101Figure 6.2Remaking Singapore Committee 247Remington, T.F. 151Renmin ribao (newspaper) 262rent-seeking 102Reporters sans Frontières 79repression: and challenges to PAP 234–5;

in China 259–61; and presidential power 79, 87, see also China and the CCP

Republican China see Taiwan and the KMT

resources, and political adaptation 6, see also economics; socioeconomic conditions

Restall, H. 247revaluation, of Japanese yen 119Rhee In-jae 181Rigger, S. 58, 60, 70rights protection, South Africa 194, 195,

202Robinson, J. 11Robison, R. 232Rodan, G. 233, 241, 244, 247, author of

chapter 13Rodina (Motherland) group 154, 163,

164Roh Moo-hyun 169, 170, 171, 178–80,

182, 183–4, 185Roh Tae-woo 170, 174, 175, 176, 177Romania 92, 97, 98, 101Roper, S.D. 155Rosenvallon, P. 279Ross, R. 71, 193Rousseau, J.-J. 18RPP (Republican People’s Party) (Turkey)

127, 140, 141Ruan, M. 257Rudolph, L. 31, 32Rudolph, L.I. and Rudolph, S.H. 25, 27,

29, 30, 31, 34, 275, 278, authors of chapter 2

Rugoski, R. 262Russell, D. 4

Russia, and KPRF 148, 149, 151–4, 161, 162–3, 164, see also Former Soviet Union neocommunist parties

Rybkin, I. 152Ryspayev, B. 158

SACP 199–200Sakwa, R. 148, 151Salinas, C. 51Salmin, A.M. 152Samuels, R. 111Sangheli, A. 155Sartori, G. 4, 213Schedler, A. 4, 10, 214, 269Scheiner, E. 113, 120Schlesinger, J. 112Schmitter, P. 4, 9, 232Schubert, G. 67Scobell, A. 257Scully, T. 128SDL (Slovak Social Democratic party) 92,

94, 98, 101SDP (Singapore Democratic Party) 240, 241SDP (Social Democratic Party of Japan)

116–17SdRP (Polish Social Democratic party) 92Seely, J.C. 88selection: factionalism and leadership of

PRI 50–3, 136–40; of KMT candidates 133–4Table 8.1

Seleznyov, G. 153Semigin, G. 154Senegal 79, 81Seow, F. 240, 241Seymour, J. 257Shafqat, S. 149Shenin, O. 152Shirk, S. 263Shugart, M. 151Simeon, R. 194, 195, 200, author of chapter

11Simkins, C. 192Singapore 21 (vision statement) 242–3Singapore and the PAP 231–48; class

and party 239–40; elections 237–8; expelled from Malaysia 217, 231, 234; legal and administrative controls 240–1; PAP as state party 233–6; political participation 241–3; public investment and social control 236–7; state capitalism and neoliberal globalization 243–7; technocratic controls 238–9

Singh, I. 24Singh, V.P 33

296 Index

single-party systems see dominant party systems; Japan and LDP reform; multi-party systems; Singapore and the PAP; West African single-party systems

Sissokho, O. 79, 81, 84SLD (Social Democracy of Poland) 94Slimming, J. 218Slovakia 92, 94, 98, 101, 102Smith, S.S. 151Snegur, Miklos 155, 156Snegur, Mircea 155SNTV-MM scheme (Taiwan) 64Snyder, R. 88Snyder, T. 98social class: elite rule in West Africa 82;

party technocrats Singapore 239–40, see also middle class

Social Democratic parties: East Central Europe 92, see also names of parties, e.g. JSP (Japan Socialist Party)

social welfare reform: Japan 112–13; Singapore 236–7, 246; Taiwan 68

socioeconomic conditions: and elections in West Africa 85; in Former Soviet Union neocommunist states 154–5, 157–8; in Japan 112–13, 117–19, 123–4; and KMT in Taiwan 59–60; in Malaysia 212–13, 222; and PAP social engineering 234–7, 246–7; and PRI in Mexico 43, 45–6, 52, 53; in South Africa 200

Socjaldemokracja Polska (Social Democracy of Poland) 94

SOFA (Status of Forces Agreement) 179Soglo, N., President 79, 81, 82, 85, 86Sole, S. 196Solovei, V.D. 148, 152Soong, J. 57, 58, 64–5, 131, 132, 143South Africa 191–205; civil society

and media 202–3; constitutional settlement 193–6; courts and agencies 201–2; extra-parliamentary opposition 198–200; federalism and regionalism 200–1; as model for Indian National Congress 25–6; opposition today 196–7; parliamentary opposition 197–8; success of transition 203–5, see also ANC

Southall, R. 196, 197Soviet Union see Former Soviet Union

neocommunist parties; Russia, and KPRF

Sparks, A. 193sport, and concepts of opposition 276, 277

Stark, D. 95state governors see gubernatorial electionsstate party system see Singapore and the

PAPStepan, A. 4, 8, 9Steytler, N. 201Stoye, J. 278Straits Times (newspaper) 246strategy see ideologies; policyStroessner, A. 270Suh, J. 175Sunshine Policy 169, 179, 182, 185“superpresidentialism” 162Surat annual session (1905) 26–7Swaraj Party 27Szelenyi, I. 91

Tabane, R. 201TAC (Treatment Action Campaign) (South

Africa) 203Taipei Times (newspaper) 131, 132, 133,

134, 135, 136Taiwan and KMT 8, 57–72; authoritarian

regime 1940s–1990s 59–61; electoral defeat and recovery strategies 140–5; electoral losses 57–8, 130–1; identity issues 66–7; origins, hegemony, dominance and defeat of KMT 127, 128–31; party adaptation and political change 61–3, 234; relations with CCP 60, 61, 67; strategic adaptation and democracy 63–70; transformation and reconstruction of KMT 69–70, 129–36

“Taiwanization” strategy 60Tan, A. 69Tan, T.H. 246Tandja, President 82, 86–7Tang, Y. 263Tang Fei 131Tang Liang Hong 240tangwai (“outside the party”) movement

60, 66Tarlev, V. 157technocracy, Singapore as 238–43Temasek 244, 245Temirkoulov, A. 159Teo, A. 245Thames, F. 151, 162third wave transitions, West Africa 76–7,

88Thomas, M.A. 79, 81, 84Thompson, L. 193Tiananmen Square protest 257, 264Tierney, G. 19

Index 297

Tilak, B.G. 26, 27Tismaneanu, V. 97Touré, A.T., President 82trade, Japan–US 118–19trade unions, repression of in Singapore

235, 242transformation 8–10; of KMT 69–70,

129–36; of post-communist parties in East Central Europe 92–3, 97–102; of PRI 129, 136–40; of single party systems in West Africa 86–7, see also adaptation; reform

Tremewan, C. 236, 240TSU (Taiwan Solidarity Union) 57, 67,

131Tucker, S. 265TUCOM (“Todos Unidos Contra

Madrazo”) 52Tulip Revolution 160Tunku Abdul Rahman 218, 234Turkey, RPP 127, 140, 141Turnbull, C.M. 234

ULD (United Liberal Democrats) (Korea) 178

UMNO (United Malays National Organization) 211–25; challenges to dominance of 217–21; as dominant party 211–13; end of dominance 221–4; learning to lose 224–5; retention of dominance 213–16

UNDP (United New Democratic Party) (Korea) 170, 185

unions see trade unionsUnited States: in Guatemala 282;

legitimacy of opposition in 20–2, 278; trade with Japan 118–19; US-Chinese relations 256, 262, 263; US–Korea relations 172, 179, 180; US–Taiwan relations 60, 61

Urban, J.B. 148, 152urbanization, Japan 117Uri Party 170, 183, 184–5US–Korea alliance 172“usable past” 150USSFTA (US–Singapore Free Trade

Agreement) 245USSR see Former Soviet UnionUzbeks 157–8

Vachudová, M.A. 98values see democracy; ideologies;

revaluationVan de Walle, N. 76, 77, 78, 81

Varma, S.P. 30Vatikiotis, M. 223Velten, M. 150Vogel, S. 122Voronin, V. 155–6, 157, 163voting patterns: and defeat of dominant

parties 130–1; in East Central Europe 102; in Japan 115–16, 118, 120; in Korea 179–80Figure 10.1; in Malaysia 220–1; in Mexican gubernatorial elections 47–50, 52, 142; in Taiwan 62; in West Africa 84–5, see also elections/electoral systems

Wachman, A. 60Wade, A., President 79, 81Wade, R. 59, 66Waldmeir, P. 193Waller, M. 91, 149Wang Jin-Ping 65, 71Wantchekon, L. 80, 85Washington, G., Farewell Address 20, 21Way, L. 4, 269Weber, M. 272Wei Jingsheng 256–7Weiner, R. 120Weldon, J. 137welfare reform see social welfare reformWest African single-party systems 75–88;

alternation and authoritarian regimes compared 84–8; and dominant party systems 78–84; and neopatrimonial rule 76–8

Whitefield, S. 149Whitehead, L. 8, 9, 258, author of chapter

15Winckler, E. 60Wong, J. 8, 63, 66, 67, 68, 83, 215, 234,

author of chapters 1 and 4Woo, J. 173Worthington, R. 235, 238, 240, 245Wu, Y.S. 63

Yeltsin, B. 152, 254YP (Young PAP) 240

Zaidi, A.M. and Zaidi, S.G. 25Zakaria, F. 242Zedillo, E. 46, 51Zhao Ziyang 252Zhu, M. 262Zubek, V. 91, 149Zuma, J. 193, 199Zyuganov, G. 152, 163–4

Pol. Transitions in Dominate Party Systems

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