Political Equality: Equality of Power? Equality in Judgment?
Equality of Exposure? Equality of Voice?: Distributing a Certain Equality of
Equals and Unequals Alike
As it was in the democracy of ancient Athens, the key pretension of modern
democracy is its claim to authorize and legitimate rule by establishing and
preserving political equality. Each citizen must recognize the authority of the
laws and their authorized interpreters and enforcers because each citizen is
equally their source and the basis of their authority over any. That claim has
proved astonishingly potent across the world over the last century, but it
remains very hard to pin down quite what it means. What has made it so powerful? What can it coherently mean? What has to be true for it to apply to a political
order?
The quality of every human political system depends on a relation between
judgment and power: on the accuracy and balance with which it assesses practical
causality and on the steadiness and precision with which it transforms that
assessment into effectively binding and focused public action. (This is a
necessary condition for a polity to have merit, of course, not a sufficient
condition. A polity might be effective and pursue abominable purposes with flair
and tenacity. But even if every one of its ascertainable purposes was beyond
reproach, it would still not have much merit unless it could convert these
purposes into effective action.)
Human beings across time and space have interacted with one another, and continue
to interact, in many other sorts of ways besides the political, and in many
other types of setting besides that of a sovereign political unit:
pre-politically, sub-politically, perhaps even post-politically, socially,
culturally, imaginatively, intellectually, economically, even medically. None of
these ways is insulated from politics: guaranteed either to be unaffected by, or
to be inconsequential for, politics. But it is still right, well over two
thousand years after Aristotle somewhat inadvertently coined the term, to think
of politics as a distinctive domain of activity, which poses its own problems of
understanding, and its own challenges to the practical wisdom of the wildly
ingenious but prudentially all too erratic species to which we belong (Dunn
2000).
Democracy, another pregnant Greek word, coined well before Aristotle, though for
distinctly less theoretical purposes, and far more recent than politics in its
global impact upon speech and action (Dunn 1992; Dunn 2005; cf. Keane 2009),
raises the question of the relationship between judgment and power in a
peculiarly blatant manner, and was seen to do so from early on in its known
political and semantic history. For admirers of most forms of political
regime—from serenely inegalitarian aristocracy, through sacred monarchy or
theocracy, to the most belligerently secular and supposedly egalitarian
socialism—the relationship between power and judgment is pre-certified all but
tautologically in the charter (or even name) of the regime itself (the rule of
the best [
aristoi ‘the noble’],
Le Roi Tres Catholique , the Slave of the Slaves of God,
the rule of the collective good of society itself).
[1] In democracy, however, what notionally
rules is not something predesignated as good or capable, let alone something
splendid or sacred. It is simply all the full citizens, all who are eligible in
the first place to do so (Dunn 1993:1–28) on grounds of birth and age (along
with those from elsewhere whom they graciously permit to join their ranks), and
who do not subsequently disqualify themselves in some way or other from the
privilege in the eyes of enough of their fellow citizens. Democracy is
indiscriminate on principle in the empirical qualities which it anticipates or
will tolerate in the constituents of its sovereignty. It may take away political
rights with alacrity and some arbitrariness (consider the classical Greek
practice of ostracism, or the dynamics of the Terror in Jacobin France, or
Stalinist Russia). But it distributes such rights in the first place as
unfastidiously, and even inattentively, as any political regime there has ever
been. Moreover its extraordinary powers of geographical absorption and cultural
adaptation, so conspicuously proven in what Samuel Huntington christened the
Third Wave of its historical expansion (Huntington 1991), stem directly from
this resolute lack of fastidiousness: from the promiscuousness with which it
welcomes, and recognizes the political standing of, any more or less adult human
population within reach. If you tell the historical story of its expansion, and
do so in terms of its own criteria, the criteria which now dominate the
normative political speech of most of the world, what is likely to strike you is
the slow, faltering, endlessly obstructed character of its human extension, and
the sullen existential bad faith which dogs its overt lack of fastidiousness
every inch of the way. But this is a massive perspectival misjudgment. It
misconceives both the basis of democracy’s dynamism and the source of its
power.
It is precisely that unfastidiousness which gives it its awesome political reach:
its capacity to intrude, establish itself, and make itself fully at home, in
settings in which human beings in immense numbers have been bludgeoned into
submission and bemused into servility for literally thousands of years (cf. Moore 1978). This is not a prediction of the political future of our world,
which, for all I or you can know, may go in any number of directions. It is
merely an accurate causal assessment of a prominent feature of its recent
political past.
If democracy in this way is not merely categorically unfastidious over the
sources of its authority, but actually draws its power precisely from that
resolute unfastidiousness, how exactly has it handled, is it now handling, and
can it in future handle the fundamental issue of the relationship between
judgment and power which lies at its heart as a regime? And what is the relation
between its approach to this fundamental issue today, its overt normative
(ideological) commitment to citizen equality, and its covert but relatively
complete reconciliation to the conspicuous political inequalities between
citizens?
Some distinctions can helpfully be drawn from the outset. Since the issue of the
relationship between power and judgment is so fundamental for every regime, it
must always have a number of conceptually quite distinct dimensions. These
dimensions all bear on one another causally more or less without interruption,
if with varying weight. But they can be thought about quite separately from one
another, and indeed must be so considered, if understanding of any of them is
ever to be made at all clear, precise, or profound. Once they have been analysed
separately, the analyses, of course, can then, and for many purposes must, be
recombined and fitted together as accurately as possible, a model reassembled,
and a series of more adventurous and practically orientated causal judgments at
least attempted. But first must come the phase of separation.
Two plainly distinct ways of handling the relationship between power and judgment
at the basis of a democratic regime are to view it as a problem of political
ideology, or to view it as one of institutional design. A third and conceptually
distinct way is to see it as a problem of political or economic strategy. Contemporary political thinking, both academic and practical, fails to register
the distinction between these three cognitive and practical orientations at all
clearly; and it is far from evident that anyone at present possesses a clear and
coherent method for sustaining the distinction steadily in their analyses (Dunn
2000). But there is no pressing and obvious reason why we could not learn to
keep the distinction clearly in mind, and think politically in future on the
premiss that it is there to be drawn, and may well matter a lot.
In historical fact, democracy was a political regime before it was in any sense a
political ideology (Dunn 1992). Perhaps it was also a political strategy before
it even became a political regime, although the historical evidence on this
point is somewhat murky, and the documents which we still have available to us
may well be highly tendentious, whether we take the key historical phase in
question, in the Athenian case, as far back as the reforms of Solon or as far
forward as those of Cleisthenes or even later. But all this is rather distant
news from ancient Athens. In the political history of the modern world, from the
American or French Revolutions up to the present day, the first two elements in
the sequence have been firmly reversed; and the causal role of political
strategy, while certainly every bit as consequential in the fall of the USSR or
Apartheid or the transformation of the South Korean security state as it can
have been in the case of Cleisthenes’ rise to power, is little more legible in
its incidence than in the first case, and just as unlikely to carry stable
general implications. Where the modern power of democracy has come from is its
ideological appeal, the imaginative force of its claim to furnish a uniquely
sound answer to the question of why we should obey our rulers. (We should do so,
it says, because they really are our rulers. Indeed, generously considered, they
are simply us: it is we ourselves in the last instance under democracy who do
the ruling.) Modern democracy does not seek to deny the reality of rule, a
rudimentary concession to the evident in the intensely governed societies of the
world today (cf. Finer 1997:70). What it does, as Plato noted in the
Republic, is to distribute “a certain equality to equals
and unequals alike” (558c). The equality which it offers is one of political
recognition and entitlement in face of the endless range of often all too
blatant inequalities of power, wealth, esteem, dignity, or cultural prowess
which capitalist societies today are certain to display (just as ancient Athens
itself notoriously did). In the eyes of its critics, from the Old Oligarch,
author of
The Constitution of the Athenians, onwards,
this offer of equality was not merely in some ways normatively anomalous, it was
also highly offensive. Athens, as the Old Oligarch pointed out and Benjamin
Constant noted once more well over two thousand years later (Fontana
1988:309–328), was a peculiarly cosmopolitan, sophisticated (“Xenophon”
The Constitution of the Athenians 2.7–8), and commercial
polis, with a large, economically diverse, and remarkably uncowed slave
population. It was more open, politically, culturally, and economically, to
resident aliens (metics) than most other Greek cities; and as eager to milk the
rich, to support its glittering choral and dramatic festivals and its grand
public buildings and games, and to fund its powerful navy, as it was to exploit
for the same purposes the empire which that navy enabled it to hold down.
The relationship between the rich, grand, and powerful (the
khrēstoi , the
dunatoi ) and the mass of the citizen body (the
plēthos , the
dēmos ,
hoi polloi ), both in
other Greek cities and in Athens itself, was not one of steady mutual
appreciation. Its social psychology was far from revolving around that unforced
and authentic esteem for, and humility in face of, wealth or grandeur which Adam
Smith diagnosed in his
Theory of Moral Sentiments
(especially the lengthy passage added to the sixth edition, Smith 1976:1.3.3,
61–66; Dunn 1985, cap 3, Hont 1994), and which Edmund Burke struggled to
re-evoke in the teeth of the revolutionary storm (Mitchell 1989).
[2] Throughout the world,
the Old Oligarch insisted, the best elements in a society are opposed to
democracy (
The Constitution of the Athenians 1.5). There is no city in which the best elements (
to
beltiston ) are well disposed towards the
dēmos (3.10). And the common people, understandably, fully
returned the compliment, taking and retaining as much political power and as
many political offices for themselves as they expected to prove advantageous
(1.1–3), and discounting the claims to cultural and even moral superiority on
the part of the wealthier and better born in favour of less impressive political
leaders whom they judged to be more solidly committed to defending their
interests: “For the people has no desire to be enslaved in a well governed city,
but to be free and to rule. It has little concern for bad governance, for what
you call good governance is itself the very source of its strength and freedom”
(1.8; translation modified). The Old Oligarch makes it very plain that he views
the democracy of Athens with distaste; but he has in the end few criticisms of
the political good sense with which the majority of the Athenian citizen body
pursued their practical interests, or even of the institutional design of the
polity (esp. 3.1, 3.7, and 3.9) and the intermittent practices of class
repression at home or abroad (3.12–13) through which they did so.
The Old Oligarch's argument is a very short and somewhat ungainly text, virtually
at the beginning of systematic causal thinking about politics in the West. It
may be seen, whether metaphorically or literally, as inaugurating a powerfully
critical dissident intellectual community in symbiotic but resentful response to
Athens’s dashing democratic experiment (Ober 1998). There were a number of later
and far more polished and ambitious passages of thinking in or around Athens
itself which attempted to take the measure of that experiment: notably the
History of Thucydides, the major political
dialogues of Plato, and the
Politics of Aristotle. But
none of them in the end offered as direct and synoptic a view of what that
experiment consisted in; and none really offered a bolder or clearer diagnosis
of the peculiar ideological potency of democracy as a regime. It is still a
highly vexed issue within contemporary political struggle whether Lee Kuan Yew
or the Old Oligarch is closer to the heart of the matter—whether or not it
really is true, or within what limits it could possibly be true, that the common
people do not wish to be enslaved in a well governed city, but to be free and to
rule it themselves.
On the whole, however, the political history of the world over the last quarter
of a century has given far more support to the judgment of the Old Oligarch than
it has to that of Lee Kuan Yew. Certainly Singapore has sustained its claim to
be well governed better over this period than the immense majority of
contemporary states in all parts of the world. It is an appreciably better
candidate for being so than the United States of America, and perhaps as
plausible a one as Sweden or the United Kingdom. Unlike many other states in its
vicinity (or elsewhere), moreover, it has not been recently shown up mercilessly
for the fecklessness and the unflinchingly systematic dishonesty with which it
has chosen to run its own economy. But precisely because of this comparative
regional outperformance it looks less emblematic as a political formula than it
seemed to many immediately before the 1998 Asian crash: more a sustained triumph
of political improvisation on a reassuringly restricted scale than the sturdy
maintenance of a dependable political and economic model for other states and
populations across the world (cf. Kampfner 2010).
Distributing “a certain equality to equals and unequals alike” is, amongst other
things, an ideological formula, a set of institutional structures, and a line of
political and economic strategy. The distribution can be symbolic, and
inauthentic, but it can also be eminently practical and audacious to the point
of recklessness. It can be so, too, in each instance, in either direction. The
equality can be effectively empty, or the inequality utterly precarious. What is
really difficult to understand about democracy is less the structure and content
of the trade-off matrix of values which are potentially at stake within it than
the structure of the causal force field itself, and the historical flow of
political judgment, which determines what exactly is, in the event, traded off
against what. It is a truism that all actual regimes exist in history. They
persist or change as they do because of the ways in which human agents decide to
act within them. But democracy as a political regime is historical not just
trivially and truistically, but in a peculiarly profound way (Thucydides
History of the Peloponnesian War; and see Farrar 1988). It
is historical through and through, because its political content is so blatantly
contingent: because it opens itself up so deliberately and unflinchingly to
whatever decisions the majority of its citizens just happen to make.
Democracy in this sense, as both Thucydides and Plato strove to convey, cannot be
a constitutional regime. A constitutional regime has a pre-guaranteed
institutional structure, steadily and dependably arrayed to restrict and
frustrate at least the more erratic and short term fluctuations in the judgment
of the
dēmos : sometimes, too, to block more
obdurate and steady purposes which have been pre-identified as wholly
indefensible. A constitutional regime protects the citizens against one another,
and defends their rights just when these most need defence, when they face the
full wrath of a majority of their fellow citizens. It confines the political
history of a society within a set of rationally pre-specified limits, and
promises to enhance the personal security of every citizen by doing so. Its
essence, as Montesquieu and Madison each clearly recognized, is obstruction and
delay (Manin 1994). Montesquieu and Madison are the great exponents of the
political significance of institutional causality in modern political thinking,
greater in the end, for all their archaism and relative intellectual directness,
than either Karl Marx or Max Weber, let alone their endless academic epigoni. A
clear majority of contemporary political scientists follow in the footsteps of
Montesquieu or Madison, striving to capture the causal dynamics of the full
panoply of modern political institutions, and doing so with particular assiduity
and self-assurance within those modern state forms which are most at ease with
having their institutions subjected to this sort of surveillance. It is far from
clear, even cumulatively, that contemporary political scientists understand
modern democracy very well (cf. Dunn 1996, 1998, and 2000). But, between them,
they know a staggering amount about it; and insofar as they do not really
understand it, it is hardly from want of trying.
The natural approach for political scientists who wish to understand modern
democracy is to approach it by attempting to isolate and measure accurately the
causal properties of its constitutive institutions in action. But this is a
particularly forlorn line of attack on a regime which is so profoundly
historical in character. The causal properties of institutions are either too
vague or too crude to be politically very instructive in any polity, all on
their own. But the explicit ideological point, and a large measure of the
special political eligibility, of democracy in its contemporary avatar is
precisely to be causally indeterminate at the institutional level; not to
pre-guarantee outcomes in advance of the making of sovereign choice. (For the
political importance of this see, for example, Przeworski 1991.) This is because
modern democracy, like ancient democracy and despite their stark institutional
contrasts, is deeply engaged with the idea of freedom, if less in this case with
not being under a wholly alien will than with remaining entirely at liberty to
decide anew (Dunn 1996, 1999).
The main tension between equality and inequality in contemporary democracies
still rests, as it did in the
poleis of
ancient Greece and Athens in particular (Jones 1956:54–61), in the security and
determinacy of the ownership of property. A constitution could pre-guarantee
property against political choice, as modern political economists from Hayek to
James Buchanan have argued that it ideally should (Gamble 1996). But a democracy
which permitted its constitution to do this would have abrogated a large
proportion of its democratic credentials precisely by doing so. Ancient Athens
never abjured the possibility of sovereign reallocation of property rights, even
if Athenian jurors and magistrates had to swear oaths not to tamper with them in
detail (Ober 1998:148, Hansen 1991:77). The systematic threat of debt
repudiation and land redistribution hung over the economic, social, and
political lives of many Greek communities for lengthy periods of time. The Old
Oligarch paints a picture of the wealthy and well born as permanently anxious
over the risks to their economic privilege, and the grumblings of wealthy
Athenians at their exposure to the maintenance costs of naval vessels and
religious festivities have been passed on to us evocatively by Isocrates (Ober
1998:262–265). It would be possible to distribute a certain equality (an
equality of formal and perhaps substantive security of social rights or existing
economic entitlements) to equals and unequals alike, and to sustain this
distribution steadily over time by establishing an institutional structure which
guarantees it. The only threat to this balance of equality and inequality over
time would then have to be a threat to the viability of the institutional
structure as a whole. This is not merely the formula recommended by Hayek and
Buchanan, it was also, more tacitly, a formula recommended in emphatic
preference to democracy by Whig critics of the Philosophic Radicals like Thomas
Babington Macaulay a century and a half earlier (Lively and Rees 1978). If the
suffrage was made universal, Macaulay warned, property would be expropriated,
capital would be destroyed, and civilization itself would rapidly crumble. But
it was not Macaulay but the hapless James Mill whom he pilloried so brutally,
who has proved to be right. What has rendered political democracy fully
compatible with capitalist production over very long periods of time has not
been the pre-ascertainable causal characteristics of either the political or the
economic institutions which constitute each of them, but a cunning and
bewilderingly elastic ideological formula, and a sequence of varyingly
felicitous political and economic strategies. Of these two, the ideological
formula has almost certainly been indispensable; but it is too elastic, and
hence too difficult to grasp accurately, to provide a clear and compelling
explanation of the outcome. (It may only have stretched this far up to now; but
who of us can tell how much further it might yet stretch without snapping, or in
quite which directions?) And the political and economic strategies have been so
diverse, and so uneven in their success over time and space, as to seem more a
part of the substance of what still needs to be explained than the structure
which might explain this.
No ancient Greek interpreter of democracy as a political system of whom we are
aware seriously doubted that democracy in action could and would constrain
economic inequality (though Athens gave reliable guarantees that it would
refrain from doing so by expropriating property over more than two centuries:
Hansen 1991:77). Few supporters of democracy as a regime doubted that it should
do so, and not merely seek to alleviate the more malign consequences that might
reasonably be thought to follow from extremes of economic inequality. Most of
the legacy of causal thinking about the domestic politics of Greek
poleis centres on the issue of what conditions
could keep political, social, and economic conflict within bounds, and stabilize
the cities’ political structures. One element in this puzzle was the challenge
of how to distinguish benign softening of economic extremes from malignant
interference with the entitlements and security of the natural objects of
popular envy (the
khrēstoi ,
to beltiston ). Another was the assessment of the
balance between urban and rural elements in a population and the geographical
scale which favoured or militated against drawing this distinction in at all the
right places. A third was the structure of political decision-making and
legislative and judicial activity which best facilitated doing so.
All of these issues are analysed extensively in Aristotle’s
Politics , and addressed more sporadically throughout a wide range
of Greek sources. Aristotle’s was far the most systematic and carefully
thought-through account, though it lacks the political focus and incisiveness,
or the feeling for the drama of politics, of the more powerful passages in
Thucydides or Plato. Out of this extended sequence of reflection (cf. Ober 1998)
there came neither a ringing vindication of democracy as a state form; a
decisive refutation of its practical political merits from a nonaristocratic
point of view (though Plato attempted something very like this at one point in
his life); a clear set of institutional recipes for taming its political
imprudence or potential malignity and confining this within safe limits; nor a
compelling recommendation of an alternative regime form better fitted to the
social and economic conditions of the Greek world at the time, and fully capable
of establishing and defending itself against the challenge of democracy. Some
ancient democracies were overthrown at particular points in time by domestic
political challengers (Athens itself for a brief time, famously, amongst them). Some, in effect, tore themeselves to pieces in savage civil war. But ancient
democracy as a sovereign political form was crushed militarily from the outside. It was not argued from the field by disapproving intellectual critics; and it
did not succumb to its own internal political enemies, as the city republics of
medieval Italy largely did to the Renaissance princes who succeeded them
(Skinner 1992). When ancient democracy was at last crushed, therefore, it left
the question of its own political merits still largely unanswered. Intellectually speaking, its legacy was more an enigma than a political recipe;
and the political history of the world for the next two thousand years did very
little to resolve the enigma, or to extract a plausible recipe from its
resolution (Roberts 1994, and see Hansen 2005 on the long gap in sympathetic
attention to the Athenian democratic experience): not least because it did very
little to encourage anyone to make any serious attempt to do either (Dunn
1992).
Since at least the outbreak of the French Revolution, however, the enigma has
been distinctly more pressing, and the urge to identify a plausible political
recipe altogether more intense. The quest for such a recipe has centered, as
Filippo Michele Buonarroti noted in the wake of Thermidor, on a long-drawn-out
ideological and practical struggle between partisans of the order of equality
and partisans of the order of egoism (Buonarroti 1957:I,25–28; Dunn 2005). The
order of equality explains itself. If the idea that adult human beings are
indeed equal in their final value, and can and should be politically equal just
because they are so, has the political force and imaginative appeal which it
clearly has exerted over at least this period of time, why should they not be
economically equal too (and thus at least permit themselves to be socially equal
as well, instead of being divided up into little cohorts of mutually
contemptuous companions, all striving to distinguish themselves gratuitously
from most of their fellow humans)? The partisans of the order of equality,
Babeuf and Buonarroti’s co-conspirators and their natural imaginative allies
across time and space, believe that human beings should indeed be economically
equal, and should be so precisely because only through an effective equality of
economic entitlements can they hope to realise, across the lived texture of the
societies to which they belong, the real equality of final value which genuinely
is theirs. The partisans of the order of equality were often distinctly
fair-weather friends of democracy, not least because the sovereign
dēmos so often proved far from zealous in its
commitment to economic equality, and less than trustful of the navigational
credentials, or the claims to political authority, of their would-be leaders
towards this egalitarian destination (cf. Dunn 1984).
What is less easy to understand in the history of the modern resuscitation of
democracy as a political form is the role of the order of egoism. Here
Buonarroti’s nomenclature is a bit misleading. As the Old Oligarch plainly
grasped at least as clearly as Adam Smith himself, few human beings in fact need
to be encouraged to feel some concern for their own interests, or to act on that
concern insofar as they see reasonably promising opportunities for doing so. But
this in itself is scarcely an inegalitarian heresy. What made the partisans of
the order of egoism politically malign in Buonarroti’s eyes was not their
relaxed acceptance of the motivational basis of all human agency, it was their
promiscuous embrace of a very definite system of production, the structures of
property rights on which this was based, and the vertiginous economic
disparities which it generated so e ndlessly and uncontrollably. The true
political enemy of the partisans of equality was not the ego (or human agency as
such). To speak with brisk imprecision, it was capitalism.
You cannot have genuine political equality, a capitalist economy, and economic
equality; and where you do not have economic equality, you will not have social
equality, and will, as time goes by, have more and more pressing reason to
wonder whether you really do have political equality either. There is something
anomalous about capitalist democracy (Dunn 2007), as there was about the
assembly democracy of ancient Greece. It still lies in the distribution of a
certain equality to equals and unequals alike; and it remains eminently possible
to find it offensive in more than one direction—either because it leaves some so
very unequal, or because it at least holds open the possibility of equalizing
the power of those who have done nothing themselves to win it, and have no
purely personal claims to be given it by anyone else in particular.
[3]
The real zealots of the order of equality, the true socialists, have now been
driven from the field, if less humiliatingly so in Greece than in numerous other
settings. They may eventually make an effective comeback. But to do so at all
durably what they require is a means for mastering modern global economic
causality which at present seems a pure fantasy (cf. Dunn 1990). The impulse for
them to come back remains extremely strong, and, as far as I can see, is simply
ineliminable. But global economic causality is exceedingly recalcitrant to
mastery; and, unless we have Armageddon instead, it is here to stay for some
little time. Yet it remains a central conundrum of recent world political
history just why its true socialist enemies have been so comprehensively routed. Why does political equality not favour true socialism quite overwhelmingly over
time, as the Old Oligarch or Macaulay would have confidently assumed? This is
scarcely a new puzzle; and there are plainly a number of elements to the answer
(cf. Przeworski 1985, 2010), the relative weight of which is likely to vary
considerably from instance to instance.Part of the answer, plainly, is that
most human beings are not deeply and stably moved by pattern theories of
justice,
[4] whether
because they do not find them normatively persuasive, or because they have never
seen much occasion to expect them to loom large in real economic and social life
(Runciman 1967). No doubt part is simply the inherent game-theoretical
difficulty of judging what it does make sense to do in a domain—politics—which
is always bound to be extravagantly complicated (Dunn 2000). No doubt part is
just that most of us, for one reason or another, lack the optimism, resolution,
or nerve to press our supposed interests with much persistence or energy against
determined opposition. No doubt part very much remains the dedicated, cunning,
ruthless, and indefatigable efforts of the
dunatoi to keep them more or less in their place. But, when due
allowance has been made for all these interesting and illuminating lines of
thought, it is still a trifle puzzling why political systems grounded on equal
formal political powers across a citizen body should fail to favour economic
redistribution towards the mean quite powerfully and steadily over time. It
would certainly be more to my personal political taste, if they in fact did; and
there have been protracted periods, especially in the long boom which followed
the end of the Second World War, in which they at least appeared to do so. But
the present, of course, is hardly one of them; and it has not been one of them
for some time (Wilensky 2002).
What is it reasonable to conclude, at this point in modern political history,
about the fundamental properties of democracy, not as a diffuse qualitative
value which may or may not inform the milieu of everyday life, but as a
political regime? How much confidence (or indeed hope or fear) is there still
good reason for us to feel in its capacity to handle the fundamental
relationship between judgment and power? How effectively can we expect it to
deploy the balance of purposes and practical wisdom amongst its citizen body in
acting out their public choices? The Athenian democracy did not get a very good
press from many of its contemporary literary commentators. But ancient
historians of the last few decades, no doubt largely because of the rather
different ideological pressures that bear upon them, have tended to take an
increasingly positive view of its political performance (See Jones 1956, Finley
1983, Hansen 1991, Ober 2008 for powerful assessments.) How positive a view
should we in our turn take of the political performance of the ever more
obtrusively capitalist representative democracies of our own day (Dunn
2000)?
You could take the view that this regime form has performed badly because it has
diverged distressingly from your own political tastes, or that it has recently
surpassed itself by conforming more and more punctiliously to these. But there
is little political insight to be elicited from that type of judgment. What can
reasonably be inferred more analytically is that there is no reason to presume
this regime a reliable corrective of the intentions of its sovereign citizenry
(nothing surprising there, especially after 1933), and no reason to credit it
with determinate causal properties at an institutional level which ensure either
its practical wisdom or its effectiveness in implementing those purposes which
it does espouse either formally or substantively (little surprising there
either). If this is right, then the comparative political advantage of this
regime (so strikingly proven in political struggle across the world since 1939)
must lie principally either in the rather abstract ideological formula which
still lends it its political name, or in the miscellany of political and
economic strategies which happen to have been pursued within it over the same
time period. There is something powerfully right about each of these diagnoses. But both are intellectually somewhat discouraging, if in very different ways. If
that is all we understand about it, we still do not understand much more about
democracy nearly two and a half millennia after the Old Oligarch, even if all of
us are now drowning in additional information on the topic.
The political and economic strategies have been far too diverse over this time
span to confer solid political merit on the regime form within which they have
been implemented (cf. the chapters on Chile and on Nigeria in Haggard and Webb
1994): quite apart from the fact that most of them would turn out, even on
cursory inspection, to have been implemented in quite other sorts of regime too
at much the same time, since the current practical inspirations of economists
now leak so relentlessly across the world, often with surprising indifference to
the ideological coloration of those to whom they are proffered (Dunn 1990).
What is permanently disconcerting about democracy, because rooted so deeply in
its ideological formula, is its explicit and utterly promiscuous openness to any
judgment whatever, provided only that the citizenry can be persuaded to espouse
it. What this calls for, in those who find themselves subject to a democracy,
but also, still less comfortably, in those who on balance, for one reason or
another, accept its claims to their political allegiance, is a certain fortitude
in the face of politics. It cannot and must not be any form of epistemic
assurance that matters are bound politically to come out for the better. No such
epistemic assurance is in principle available; and it corrupts our severely
limited resources of practical wisdom and capacity for mutual frankness to
suggest that it might be, let alone that it in fact is.
We come back, then, to the ideological formula. What is appealing about this is
the degree of equality which it does offer to equals and unequals alike, not the
determinacy or reliability of its promises to alleviate or rectify inequalities,
or the harms which often very obviously follow from them. That, and the fact
that equality is indeed offered at the level of ultimate political authority. What it promises is that our governments truly are ours in the very last
instance, even in the teeth of the abundant evidence of their formidable
otherness in virtually any other instance. Most crucially, it assures us (and in
ways which are not essentially deceptive) that we can get rid of the personnel
of this government when enough of us feel strongly enough for a sufficiently
protracted period that we simply cannot stand it any longer.
Democracy as a regime form, in any institutional format, cannot promise capable
or benign judgment. It cannot promise well-considered economic or political
strategies. It cannot promise governmental coherence or efficacy. Indeed, as a
regime form, it cannot (except by its own sovereign political whim) promise even
personal security. All it can promise is a certain equality, and that as a
regime form it at least does not determinately preclude any of the many other
merits which it cannot in good faith guarantee. On the whole the Old Oligarch
was more or less right. It is not easy in principle for the less than equal
(those who most need the protection) to find a regime form which will protect
their interests better than one which is subject, however elusively, to the
democratic ideological formula. This tells us very little about which
institutional forms to favour for the less than equal (or for democratic rule
itself) at any particular time, and nothing at all about what political or
economic strategies to place our trust in. But it perhaps does do something to
explain the source of the formula’s political appeal, and to show why none of us
should be surprised to find ourselves at intervals deeply affronted by what is
done in the
dēmos ’s name and by its
authority. What I have tried to do is to restore a little of the mystery to the
apparently politically obvious—to persuade you that democracy really is hard to
understand, and will probably always remain so. I have done so because I am
confident that much of the politics is in the mystery: not just in barefaced,
skillfully deployed and well-funded befuddlement, but in a real enigma.
If that is indeed right, there is still pressing reason to look back to the
Athenian precedent, for all its unblinking historical distance and the endless
disparities between its structures and culture and our own. Equality was a
conspicuously organizing idea in the articulation of Athens’s democracy—if not
its most potent inspiration, by far its most prominent semantic motif. Ancient
historians continue to differ sharply over the relative ideological weight of
categories like
isonomia or
isēgoria in defining the basis of Athenian citizen
identification with the polis (in the huge majority of instances) of their
birth. They also differ on the relative causal weight of the different
institutional specifications of these values in defining Athenian public choices
on particular occasions or determining the directions of Athenian political
commitments or the outcomes to which these led over lengthier periods of
time.
If the
dēmokratia of Athens was a
koinonia of citizens (Aristotle
Politics 1278b, Hansen 1991:ch. 4), what these citizens held in
common, in the teeth of the drastic differences between their lives, their
fortunes, their talents, and their privileges, was a certain equality. That
equality was in no plausible sense descriptive. It was emphatically not an
equality in causal power, the capacity to get their own way whatever that proved
to be (cf. Dunn 2010 on Hobbes’s conception of power). It was scarcely an
equality, either practically or normatively, in the quality of their judgment
about anything in particular, least of all any choice of major political moment
(Bourke and Geuss 2009). It was very plainly not an equality in rhetorical
prowess or intellectual cogency, facilities which cannot plausibly be held true
of any human population ever. But if it was scarcely an equality in voice, there
is a much stronger case for its having been a true equality of voice: not just a
formal entitlement, but a real opportunity to say what they wished and had the
nerve to say over public decisions great or trivial at the point at which these
were taken. (The most illuminating discussion of the balance between
discretionary personal commitment, the opening of offices to perceived and
endorsed talent, and the carefully egalitarian balance secured by rotation is
now Farrar 2010, glossing especially the remarkable recuperative labours of
Mogens Hansen, who as she says “arguably knows more about the detailed workings
of Athenian democracy than anyone since Aristotle” (Farrar 2010:162), on the
basis of protracted engagement with the limitations of contemporary
representative practice in the United States. (Cf., more abstractly, Lidel 2007,
or for the modern deficit Pettit 2008).
Much the same is true of the equality of exposure carried by citizenship, where
no citizen could expect to be privileged when it came to fighting on behalf of
the polis or contributing the financial resources it required of them to pay for
its religious ceremonies or weapons of war. Equality of exposure was more a
matter of duty than one of entitlement, but equality of voice, its counterpart
in terms of entitlement, comes closer to capturing the true appeal of Athens’s
democracy, not as an alternative to the presumed practical services which it
provided to the majority of its citizens over time (Finley 1983), but in
defining the setting in which its political appeal was most direct, immediate,
and engaging.
It is worth pressing the question how far any contemporary self-characterized
democracy (for all its cornucopia of goods and services in times of plenty) can
hope to match that appeal in directness, immediacy, or engagement. Insofar as
none simply can, that would be a notable political weakness, and one which, on
the roller coaster of modern global economic transformation, may yet prove their
Achilles’ heel.
[5]
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Footnotes
Note 1
Compare, though, the subtext of even the most theocratic of contemporary
regimes: the role of the Expediency Council, alias The Assembly for
Diagnosing the Interests of the People, in Iran today (Gardiner 1999:15,
and for the eminently secular preoccupations of Khomeini himself,
Abrahamian 1995).
Note 2
Compare Isocrates’ summons to resuscitate a constitution once
effectively sustained but now dismally lost—in effect to resuscitate an
(at least imagined) Athenian ancient regime: Ober 1998:282–283.
Note 3
A clash between two vivid, if perhaps unequally normatively insightful,
intuitions about justice (Rawls 1972, Nozick 1975).
Note 4
For a particularly balanced and illuminating discussion see Sen
2009.
Note 5
As will be apparent throughout, the understanding of the workings of
Athenian democracy which underlies this essay is wholly derivative:
originating especially with the unforgettable teaching of Moses Finley;
continuing with more than three decades of close discussion with Cynthia
Farrar; and, within a burgeoning and often extremely illuminating
literature, from protracted and admiring study especially of the
remarkable contribution made by the work of Mogens Hansen.