Memory and Trauma in International Relations

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Memory and Trauma in International Relations

This book seeks to provide a comprehensive and accessible survey of the international dimension of trauma and memory, and its manifestations in various cultural contexts. Drawing together contributions and case studies from scholars around the globe, Memory and Trauma in International Relations, explores the international political dimension of feeling, suffering, forgetting, remembering and memorial- izing traumatic events, and aims to investigate how they function as social practices for overcoming trauma and creating social change. Divided into two sections, the book maps out the different theoretical debates and then moves on to examine emerging themes such as ontological security, social change, gender, religion, foreign policy and natural disasters. Throughout the chapters, the authors consider the social, political and ethical implications of forgetting and remembering traumatic events in world politics. Showcasing how trauma and memory deepen our understanding of international relations (IR), this work will be of great interest to students and scholars of IR, memory and trauma studies, and security studies.

Erica Resende is Assistant Professor of Political Science and International Relations at the Graduate Research Institute of Rio de Janeiro (IUPERJ).

Dovile Budryte is Associate Professor of Political Science at Georgia Gwinnett College. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Interventions Edited by Jenny Edkins, Aberystwyth University, and Nick Vaughan-Williams, University of Warwick

As Michel Foucault has famously stated, ‘knowledge is not made for understanding; it is made for cutting’. In this spirit, the Edkins–Vaughan-Williams Interventions series solicits cutting-edge, critical works that challenge mainstream understandings in international relations. It is the best place to contribute post-disciplinary works that think rather than merely recognize and af¿ rm the world recycled in IR’s traditional geopolitical imaginary. (Michael J. Shapiro, University of Hawai’i at Mãnoa, HI)

The series aims to advance understanding of the key areas in which scholars working within broad critical post-structural and post-colonial traditions have chosen to make their interventions, and to present innovative analyses of important topics. Titles in the series engage with critical thinkers in philosophy, sociology, politics and other disciplines, and provide situated historical, empirical and textual studies in international politics.

Critical Theorists and International The Time of the City Relations Politics, philosophy and genre Edited by Jenny Edkins and Michael J. Shapiro Nick Vaughan-Williams Governing Sustainable Ethics as Foreign Policy Development Britain, the EU and the Other Partnership, protest and power Dan Bulley at the world summit Carl Death

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Universality, Ethics and International Relations Insuring Security A grammatical reading Biopolitics, security and risk Véronique Pin-Fat Luis Lobo-Guerrero Foucault and International Politics and the Art of Relations Commemoration New critical engagements Memorials to struggle in Edited by Nicholas J. Kiersey Latin America and Spain and Doug Stokes Katherine Hite

International Relations and Indian Foreign Policy Non-Western Thought The politics of postcolonial identity Imperialism, colonialism and Priya Chacko investigations of global modernity Edited by Robbie Shilliam Politics of the Event Time, movement, becoming Autobiographical International Tom Lundborg Relations I, IR Theorising Post-ConÀ ict Edited by Naeem Inayatullah Reconciliation Agonism, restitution and repair War and Rape Edited by Alexander Keller Hirsch Law, memory and justice Nicola Henry Europe’s Encounter with Islam The secular and the postsecular Madness in International Relations Luca Mavelli Psychology, security and the global governance of mental health Re-Thinking International Alison Howell Relations Theory via Deconstruction Spatiality, Sovereignty and Badredine Ar¿ Carl Schmitt Geographies of the nomos The New Violent Cartography Edited by Stephen Legg Geo-analysis after the aesthetic turn Edited by Sam Okoth Opondo and Politics of Urbanism Michael J. Shapiro Seeing like a city Warren Magnusson Insuring War Sovereignty, security and risk Beyond Biopolitics Luis Lobo-Guerrero Theory, violence and horror in world politics International Relations, Meaning Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 François Debrix and Alexander and Mimesis D. Barder Necati Polat

The Politics of Speed The Postcolonial Subject Capitalism, the state and war Claiming politics/governing others in an accelerating world in late modernity Simon Glezos Vivienne Jabri Foucault and the Politics of Hearing More than Just War Lauri Siisiäinen Narratives of the just war and military life Volunteer Tourism in the Charles A. Jones Global South Giving back in neoliberal times Deleuze and Fascism Wanda Vrasti Security; war; aesthetics Edited by Brad Evans and Julian Reid Cosmopolitan Government in Europe Feminist International Relations Citizens and entrepreneurs in ‘Exquisite corpse’ postnational politics Marysia Zalewski Owen Parker The Persistence of Nationalism Studies in the Trans-Disciplinary From imagined communities to urban Method encounters After the aesthetic turn Angharad Closs Stephens Michael J. Shapiro Interpretive Approaches to Global Alternative Accountabilities in Climate Governance Global Politics Reconstructing the greenhouse The scars of violence Edited by Chris Methmann, Delf Rothe Brent J. Steele and Benjamin Stephan

Celebrity Humanitarianism Postcolonial Encounters with The ideology of global charity International Relations Ilan Kapoor The politics of transgression Alina Sajed Deconstructing International Politics Post-Tsunami Reconstruction in Michael Dillon Indonesia Negotiating normativity through gender The Politics of Exile mainstreaming initiatives in Aceh Elizabeth Dauphinee Marjaana Jauhola

Democratic Futures Leo Strauss and the Invasion of Iraq Revisioning democracy promotion Encountering the Abyss Milja Kurki Aggie Hirst Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017

Postcolonial Theory Production of Postcolonial India A critical introduction and Pakistan Edited by Sanjay Seth Meanings of partition Ted Svensson War, Identity and the Liberal State Visual Politics and Everyday experiences of the North Korea geopolitical in the armed forces Seeing is believing Victoria M. Basham David Shim

Writing Global Trade Governance Globalization, Difference and Discourse and the WTO Human Security Michael Strange Edited by Mustapha Kamal Pasha

Politics of Violence International Politics Militancy, international politics, and Performance killing in the name Critical aesthetics and creative Charlotte Heath-Kelly practice Edited by Jenny Edkins and Ontology and World Politics Adrian Kear Void universalism I Sergei Prozorov Memory and Trauma in International Relations Theory of the Political Subject Theories, cases and debates Void universalism II Edited by Erica Resende Sergei Prozorov and Dovile Budryte Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 This page intentionally left blank Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Memory and Trauma in International Relations Theories, cases and debates

Edited by Erica Resende and Dovile Budryte Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 First published 2014 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2014 Erica Resende and Dovile Budryte, selection and editorial matter; contributors, their contributions. The right of Erica Resende and Dovile Budryte to be identi¿ ed as editors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identi¿ cation and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Memory and trauma in international relations : theories, cases and debates / edited by Erica Resende and Dovile Budryte. pages cm. — (Interventions) Summary: “This work seeks to provide a comprehensive and accessible survey of the international dimension of trauma and memory and its manifestations in various cultural contexts”— Provided by publisher. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. International relations—Social aspects. 2. Psychic trauma. 3. Collective memory. I. Resende, Erica Simone Almeida. II. Budryte, Dovile. JZ1251.M46 2013 327.101v9—dc23 2013017038

ISBN: 978-0-415-63726-8 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-88265-9 (ebk)

Typeset in Times New Roman by Re¿ neCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Contents

List of contributors xii Acknowledgements xv

Introduction 1 ERICA RESENDE AND DOVILE BUDRYTE

PART I Theoretical approaches and debates 13

1 Memory, trauma and ontological security 15 ALEXANDRIA J. INNES AND BRENT J. STEELE

2 Transitional justice: politics of memory and reconciliation 30 HUN JOON KIM

3 Performing political apologies 42 ERIN K. WILSON AND ROLAND BLEIKER

4 Memory and trauma as elements of identity in foreign policymaking 57 DOUGLAS J. BECKER

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 5 Natural disasters: trauma, political contestation and potential to precipitate social change 74 VANESSA PUPAVAC x Contents 6 Healing and reconciliation in contemporary post-conÀ ict scenarios: securitization movement of war trauma in perspective 92 RENATA B. FERREIRA

7 JustTruth: the role of truth seeking in reconciliation following traumatic events and crisis 107 LAURA K. TAYLOR

PART II Cases 121

8 Trauma as a technology of power: memory, aid and rule in contemporary Haiti 123 MARIA JOAO FERREIRA

9 Remembering and forgetting in Turkish identity and policymaking 138 BRENT E. SASLEY

10 Memory, trauma and changing international norms: the German Green Party’s struggle with violence and its concern for humanity 153 HANNES HANSEN-MAGNUSSON

11 Travelling trauma: Lithuanian transnational memory after World War II 168 DOVILE BUDRYTE

12 Coping with the Lost Revolution: memories of the 1970s and 1980s in Nicaragua 182 MARCOS FARIAS FERREIRA Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 13 Humanitarian witnesses and testimonies in arms control and disarmament: a case study of the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) 198 RITU MATHUR Contents xi 14 Memory and the politics of climate change: between climate justice and climate security 215 PEDRO FONSECA

Bibliography 231 Index 271 Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Contributors

Douglas J. Becker has a BA in political science and history from Illinois Wesleyan University, IL, and an MA and a PhD in political science from University of Connecticut. He is Assistant Professor in International Relations at the University of Southern California. Roland Bleiker is Professor of International Relations at University of Queensland, Australia. His books include Popular Dissent, Human Agency and Global Politics, Divided Korea: Toward a Culture of Reconciliation, and Aesthetics and World Politics. He is currently working on a project that examines how images shape responses to humanitarian crises. Dovile Budryte is Associate Professor of Political Science at Georgia Gwinnett College. Her areas of interest include gender studies and nationalism. She has previously held fellowships from the Carnegie Council on Ethics and International Affairs, in New York, and the College for Advanced Central European Studies at Europa University Viadrina, in Frankfurt, Germany. Her publications include articles on minority rights and democratization in the Baltic States. Marcos Farias Ferreira is Assistant Professor at University of Lisbon, Portugal. He holds an MScEcon in international politics from the University of Aberystwyth, and wrote a PhD thesis on the disciplinary history of international relations in Portugal. He is the leading researcher at the Observatory for Human Security (OSH), and has ¿ lmed and edited two docudramas on contemporary Nicaragua. Maria Joao Ferreira is Assistant Professor of International Relations at the School of Social and Political Science at University of Lisbon, Portugal. Her Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 areas of interest comprise post-structuralist international relations theories, migration policy, and the politics of security and identity, as well as the intersection between trauma and memory studies. Her publications in English include scienti¿ c articles published in peer-reviewed journals such as Journal of Global Analysis, Ethics and Global Politics, Global Business & Economics Anthology and International Social Science Journal. Contributors xiii Renata B. Ferreira holds a BA in legal studies and a PhD in international relations from Ponti¿ cal Catholic University of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Work- ing primarily in Brazil, her research includes genocide, ethnic conÀ icts, collective identities, international security and peace operations. She is currently Assistant Professor at Ibmec University in Rio de Janeiro. Pedro Fonseca is Assistant Professor of Political Science at University of Lisbon, Portugal. His areas of interest comprise political theory and security studies – particularly the connections between energy security and climate security. He has published scienti¿ c articles in the Encyclopedia of International Law and he is co-author of a book in Portuguese about the international energy system. Hannes Hansen-Magnusson holds a BA and MA from the University of York, and is currently a Lecturer/Wissenschaftlicher Mitarbeiter at the Chair for Politics and Global Governance at the University of Hamburg, German y. His PhD advances a hermeneutic perspective on the UN Convention on the Law of the Sea, as well as the European Union’s communication strategy. His publications include Studying Contemporary Constitutionalism: Memory, Myth and Horizon, co-authored with Antje Wiener. Hun Joon Kim is a senior research fellow at the Grif¿ th Asia Institute and the Centre for Governance and Public Policy, Grif¿ th University, Australia. His research interests include international norms, transitional justice and human rights. He has published several articles in international relations journals and law journals. Alexandria J. Innes is Assistant Professor of Political Science at Cardinal Stritch University, having received her PhD in 2011 from the University of Kansas. Her research interests include critical and postcolonial theory, migration and ontological security. She has published studies most recently in Global Society and International Relations. Ritu Mathur is a researcher at the York Centre for International and Security Studies at York University, Toronto, Canada. Her research interests encompass critical security studies and critical legal studies. She has recently published two papers in Contemporary Security Policy. Vanessa Pupavac holds a BA from University of Nottingham, a law degree from Leeds Polytechnic and a PhD in politics from University of Nottingham. She is currently a lecturer and fellow at the School of Politics and International Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Relations, University of Nottingham. Her research interests are politics of disasters, trauma studies, humanitarian and development politics, and language. She is the author of Global Disaster Management and Therapeutic Governance of Communities, has contributed to other edited volumes, and her articles have been published by Journal of Intervention and Statebuilding and Security Dialogue. xiv Contributors Erica Resende received her PhD in political science from University of São Paulo, Brazil. Working from South America, she has authored books and contributed to edited volumes on US foreign policy, critical security studies and international relations theory, as well as having published in peer-reviewed journals. She has been US Fulbright Scholar and US State Department alumna since 2006. She is Assistant Professor of Political Science and International Relations at the Graduate Research Institute of Rio de Janeiro (IUPERJ). Brent E. Sasley received his PhD from McGill University in 2007. He is currently Assistant Professor of Political Science at the University of Texas at Arlington. His research explores the connections between identity and policymaking, the role of emotions in foreign policy decision-making, and how to link together pedagogy, Middle East studies and international relations theory. He has published articles in a number of international studies journals, most recently in European Journal of International Affairs, International Studies Review and Middle Eastern Studies. Brent J. Steele is the Francis D. Wormuth Presidential Chair and Professor of Political Science at the University of Utah. He is the author of three books, including most recently Alternative Accountabilities in Global Politics: The Scars of Violence (also in Routledge’s Interventions series). He is also the co-editor of two volumes and has published articles in a number of international studies journals, most recently Millennium and the Review of International Studies. Laura K. Taylor holds a BA in psychology, with minors in Spanish and Latin American/Iberian studies, from Haverford College, US, and an MA in Peace and Justice from the University of California in San Diego. She is currently a PhD candidate in Psychology and Peace Studies at University of Notre Dame, US. Her research interests include the psychological impact of political violence and disaggregating transitional justice mechanisms. Recent published work appears in International Journal of Psychology and Journal of Peace Research. Erin K. Wilson holds a BA and a PhD in political science from the University of Queensland, Australia. She is currently a research fellow at the University of Groeningen, Netherlands. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Acknowledgements

As in any kind of publishing initiative, the ¿ nal product is the result of the efforts of many people and institutions. This edited volume is no exception. We would like to thank the International Studies Association (ISA) Grant Committee for selecting our application for a venture grant, which enabled us to organize a workshop at the 52nd Annual Convention in Montreal, Canada. ‘Memory, Trauma and Change in World Politics’ was a successful coming together of scholars from a wide range of origins and backgrounds. The day that we spent in a cold Montreal bore many fruits, including the idea for this edited volume. We thank, then, the workshop participants and those who took the time to join us that day for the discussions on issues of memory and trauma. We also recognize the interest that Jenny Edkins and Nick Vaughan-Williams, editors of the Interventions series, displayed when welcoming our book proposal. We hope that we have met their expectations. As in any book proposal, we would also like to thank the blind reviewers who presented us with thought-provoking suggestions and recommendations. We have had many supporters throughout this publishing project, and we extend our thanks to Rebecca Atkinson, Mariana Ribeiro Fernandes, Maria Malksoo, Jeff Olick, Swati Parashar, Mike Shapiro, Tatiana Teixeira, Sabrina Villenave and Maja Zehfuss. We are very grateful to Douglas Becker for his comments on the introduction. Finding the perfect cover art can be challenging not only for copyright reasons, but also because it must somehow be the artistic expression of our own feelings and motivations for thinking and writing about memory and trauma in this book. We therefore owe Reza Sepahdari our deepest thanks for his generosity in authorizing the use of his artwork, and we would like to recognize his rare artistic sensibility and creativity. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Erica Resende would like especially to acknowledge the institutional and ¿ nancial support received from the Brazilian Ministry of Education research agency, CAPES, and from the Rio de Janeiro research agency Faperj. Brazil has an important record of providing public ¿ nancing of research and her academic career would not have been possible otherwise. xvi Acknowledgements Dovile Budryte would like to thank Karl Schloegel, a professor at Europa University Viadrina, Germany, for introducing her to the ¿ eld of memory studies during her fellowship in 1998–99. Finally, we both would like to thank the team at Taylor & Francis – especially Nicola Parkin, Peter Harris, Emma Hart, Josh Pawaar and Vanessa Plaister – for their patience and effort in bringing this book to life. Erica Resende and Dovile Budryte Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, and Atlanta, GA June 2013 Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Introduction

Erica Resende and Dovile Budryte

During the last decade, international relations (IR) scholars have become interested in understanding traumatic events and the ways in which they are experienced, felt, perceived, memorialized and forgotten, as well as how they inÀ uence – and are inÀ uenced by – norms, identities and interests in world politics. As Jenny Edkins argued in her seminal work Trauma and the Memory of Politics, questions of trauma and memory have become two expanding areas of scholarship that try to engage with what she calls ‘the traumatic dimension of the political’ (Edkins 2003: 9). This new trend of scholarly interest in trauma and memory studies has yielded thought-provoking insights about practices of memorialization and remembrance in IR (Bell 2006; Zehfuss 2007), collective memory and foreign policy (Langenbacher and Shain 2010), and witnessing, state apologies and reconciliation (Booth 2006; Hayner 2001; Lind 2010). Traditionally, the study of trauma and of traumatic events originated in the context of treatment of war neuroses following the First and Second World Wars – under the clinical rubric of ‘shell shock’ – and research about the Holocaust. In both cases, their undeniable magnitude rightly justi¿ ed the use of a vocabulary of trauma. However, such was the escalation of war, violence, conÀ ict and abuse throughout the twentieth century that the concept of the traumatic event has been extended to include other types of suffering involving various degrees and kinds of trauma (Kaplan 2005: 1). It is in this sense that Julia Kristeva (1989) writes about two kinds of trauma: the personal and the political. While the former is traditionally conceived in terms of personal, individual psychic identity, the latter may be understood in regards to public events, such as wars, which engender collective traumas. Although different in nature, both share similarities in how the event is (not fully) assimilated. In other words, whether at the individual, personal level or the collective, Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 public level, the same kind of traumatizing effect is produced. This allows us to go beyond the two World Wars and the Holocaust as traumatic experiences to recognize other events as equally traumatic, because they are synecdochic of previous traumatic experiences in which the Real made an unanticipated, forestalled ‘intrusion upon the subject’ (Bowie 1991: 110). In fact, in contemporary times, when war, conÀ ict, disasters, famine, abuse, strife and insecurity abound, a traumatic event has come to be generally understood 2 Erica Resende and Dovile Budryte as an event ‘de¿ ned by its intensity’, by the subject’s ‘incapacity to respond adequately to it’, and by the ‘upheaval and long-lasting effects that it brings about in the psychical organization’ (Laplanche and Pontalis 1967: 465–9) of individuals. This is precisely the situation described by Stolorow (2007) when he characterizes our age as an ‘age of trauma’. Modernity, he claims, has provided us with a range of tranquillizing illusions that have long allowed us to keep on living, to function socially. Today, however, we are forced to deal with globally threatening situations, such as climate change, world hunger, genocide, nuclear proliferation, terrorist attacks, ¿ nancial and economic crises, etc., which produce collective trauma on a global scale, while the very possibility of their occurrence thrusts us into a state of existential anxiety resulting from the shattering of what Stolorow (2007) calls ‘the absolutism of everyday life’. For Stolorow, the essence of psychological trauma lies in the experience of unbearable affect, which may not be explained in terms of the quantity or intensity of the pain inÀ icted by or as a result of a traumatic event. It has to be interpreted in regards to the failure of mechanisms on which we counted to assist us when processing a traumatic event. It thus follows that trauma is best grasped not simply as an individual psychological experience, but also as a social one (Torgovnick 2008). More recently, the study of the intersections between trauma and memory related to global conÀ ict received renewed attention in the aftermath of traumatic events such as 9/11, the 2004 terrorist attacks in Madrid, the 2004 Paci¿ c tsunami and the 2011 Fukushima nuclear disaster, which could easily be interpreted as examples of traumatic events from Stolorow’s ‘Age of Trauma’. For Caruth (1996: 11), ‘trauma describes an overwhelming experience of sudden or catastrophic events, in which the response to the event occurs in the often delayed, uncontrolled and repetitive appearance of hallucinations and other intrusive phenomena’. It is, quite simply, something that lies beyond the realm of normal experience, outside the frontiers of language or normal comprehension, on the ‘limit of writing’, as elsewhere argued by Blanchot (1995: 7). Trauma expresses the momentary incapacity of language to describe reality: exposure to an event so disturbing and destructive that our system of reference for reality is shaken to the core. Jenny Edkins (2002: 245) holds that trauma makes people feel betrayed in their expectations about the order of things: ‘It brings to the surface existential questions which at least in the modern world we prefer to keep submerged’; this is why trauma always implies recognizing realities and limits ‘that most of us have not begun to face’. The human mind is incapable of processing trauma in the same way as it processes any normal event. Standing ‘outside ordinary experi- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 ence’, trauma does not slot into the framework of normal social reality, which is why there is no language for it or any of the other tools on which one would normally rely to make sense of the world. And this is where the paradox lies: trauma is felt, but not understood; it is memorized and recalled, but not necessarily experienced; it de¿ es language, but insists on being communicated; it refuses to be incorporated into normality, but goes on perpetuating itself in memory; it is triggered at a speci¿ c moment in Introduction 3 time, but alters its linearity; it must be forgotten, but is always being recalled and relived. Trauma is a slayer of certainties, a shaker of truths: it irrevocably changes our spatial and temporal concept of the world and ourselves. According to Caruth (1996: 4), it is precisely the ‘un-assimilation’ of a traumatic event – its refusal to be an object of human knowledge – that lets trauma slip back and haunt the individuals that experienced it. As Edkins (2001: 8) rightly points out, a traumatic event is one that ‘shatters our expectations and our preconceptions of how the world functions’. Following trauma, she claims, our world maps fail us: old frameworks and language stand helpless, and the categories we had carefully built up for dealing with experience are destroyed. In this sense, trauma and security are linked insofar as the former destroys the ‘metaphysical certainties that were normally taken for granted’, whilst the latter is an ‘illusion’ that allows us to function (Edkins 2002: 246). Following trauma, Edkins argues, we are painfully reminded of our own vulnerability: ‘All of a sudden people are disorientated and shaken, the black and white narratives, clearly de¿ ned emotions, easy endings’ on which Western culture thrives replaced by an exhausting complexity in which they feel unmoored, some rock of per- manence and safety having given way to shifting sands, the familiar now eerily unfamiliar. ‘Sirens sound different, scary and consoling at the same time. Work feels irrelevant. Normalcy as yet unde¿ ned’ (Edkins 2002: 246). Trauma, then, becomes part of the experience of recognizing our mortality. Life can be bearable only if we buy into a kind of unwritten pact, especially in Western culture, of wilfully forgetting how tenuous our condition is. Trauma gives us a sudden, painful reminder of how useless and impossible such a compact actually is: we are mortal and we are vulnerable, and the idea of total security is no more than a device used to trick ourselves into believing that we can escape death, relieving ourselves of the anxiety brought on by the recognition of our mortality. Edkins’ (2003) work implies a broader de¿ nition of trauma (including collective suffering), and links it to the political, thus creating an opening for a fundamentally different way in which to study trauma in international politics. The focus is placed on political trauma experienced and expressed collectively (instead of personal trauma experienced and expressed on an individual level). Political trauma evokes commemorations (shared practices of collective remembrance) that shape and per- petuate collective memory, which in turn affects the construction of national and transnational identities, national interests and foreign policy behaviours. Like trauma, memory is a complex multidimensional concept. Undoubtedly, the contemporary understanding of ‘collective memory’ can be traced back to Maurice Halbwachs and his work On Collective Memory, in which he famously argued Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 that ‘it is in society that people acquire their memories’ (Halbwachs 1992: 38) and that ‘the past is not preserved but is reconstructed on the basis of the present’ (Halbwachs 1992: 40). Being part of a group is crucial for collective remembering; this type of belonging helps us to remember some things and forget others – and even to invent memories. The use of the term ‘collective memory’ has been subject to scrutiny by many scholars – notably, Jeffrey K. Olick (2007: 18), who raises the following questions: 4 Erica Resende and Dovile Budryte ‘What are the advantages and disadvantages of collective memory in comparison to other terms like commemoration, tradition or myth? What does it mean to say that the memories of individuals are inÀ uenced by the groups to which they belong?’ One of the most important insights of Olick’s work is the importance of what can be described as ‘frameworks of memory’ – ‘clearly demonstrable long- term structures to what societies remember or commemorate that are stubbornly impervious to the efforts of individuals to escape them’ (Olick (2007: 28). In IR, these ‘long-term structures’ can signi¿ cantly affect the cohesiveness of group identity and group behaviour. At the same time, as argued by Maja Zehfuss (2007), we need to remember there is no clear-cut relationship between memory and foreign policy. It is especially dangerous to try to draw ‘lessons from the past’. For example, according to Zehfuss, it is erroneous to believe that ‘because “we” Germans got it so dreadfully wrong in the past, because we remember, we have privileged knowledge about how we should act in the present’ (Zehfuss 2007: xiii). Just as Edkins’ work is crucial for understanding ‘trauma’ in IR, Zehfuss’ work is fundamental for the conceptualization of ‘memory’ in this ¿ eld. According to Zehfuss (2007), allusions to memory involve ambiguity and uncertainty, and the invocation of the past constructs new realities. Consequently, as argued by Olick (2007: 85) and supported by the contributors to this volume, memory should be treated as a ‘sensitizing concept’ (but not as an operational concept, a measur- able phenomenon), drawing our attention to the importance of representations of the past (especially traumatic past) in the construction of group identities. In the words of Olick (2008: 159): ‘We must remember that memory is a process and not a thing, a faculty rather than a place. Collective memory is something – or rather many things – we do, not something or many things we have.’ This is a complex, context-sensitive process, and it is likely to be highly contested and negotiated as groups are invested in searching for a ‘usable past’ (Wertsch 2002: 40). Conceptualizing collective memory as a ‘process and not a thing’ implies that it is an elusive, ‘messy’ concept – dif¿ cult to accept for those who embrace the tenets of behavioural political science in IR. As Duncan Bell (2009b: 349) astutely notes in his article on violence and memory, ‘the mainstream of the discipline is not equipped theoretically to deal with the types of issues raised by the study of memory’. The study of memory necessitates interdisciplinary, eclectic approaches. In his path-breaking collection of essays, Trauma, Memory and World Politics, Bell (2006) embraced a wide variety of theoretical perspectives from various disciplines. The goal was ‘to examine some of the theoretical approaches essential for elucidating and interrogating the multifarious roles played by the “memory” Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 of traumatic events (broadly de¿ ned) in shaping the contours of contemporary global politics’ (Bell 2006: 1–2). Similarly, we believe that, in order to understand the impact of intersections of trauma and memory in IR, various theoretical approaches must be employed. In addition, it is crucial to explore the workings of trauma and memory in less-studied cultural contexts, including the global South. This book is a contribution to the emerging body of literature on trauma and memory in IR. It has two goals. First, by presenting case studies from various Introduction 5 cultural contexts, we attempt to gain insight into theoretical questions posed by the leading scholars studying the international dimensions of trauma and memory, such as:

• ‘How do global conditions affect memory discourses, expressions of trauma and the processes associated with memory construction?’ (Assmann and Conrad 2010); • ‘How [does] memory relate to policy making, and how [does] collective and individual memory inÀ uence the construction and legitimation of foreign policy as well as the contestation of domestic politics?’ (Müller 2002); and • ‘What are the processes of memory production? Are certain relations of power reproduced when memories are constructed?’ (Edkins 2003).

Second, by introducing fresh, innovative approaches to the study of memory, we highlight variables such as religion, diasporas, natural disasters and global climate change, which are often omitted from the study of memory and trauma, and thus contribute to the relevant debates in the emerging sub¿ eld of memory studies in IR. We have grouped the chapters into two separate parts. While the ¿ rst offers a broad selection of theoretical approaches and debates, the second provides a varied range of case studies. The volume opens with a survey article by Alexandria J. Innes and Brent J. Steele on the interplay between memory, trauma and ontological security. Exploring the growing literature in the ¿ eld of security studies, Innes and Steele show how states secure their being by formulating their perceived cohesiveness through the discursive articulation of collective memories and traumatic experiences. Their stress on the very intriguing relationship between cultural memory, traumatic events and ontological security offers a very appropriate point of entry for the reading of this edited volume. Hun Joon Kim’s contribution, entitled ‘Transitional justice: politics of memory and reconciliation’, provides a valuable discussion about the relationship between collective memory, violation of human rights and truth commissions. Articulating a clear, concise and precise summary of the main debates in transitional justice studies, this chapter will provide an especially useful contribution for students who do not have an extensive knowledge of transitional justice. Erin Wilson and Roland Bleiker’s chapter on political apologies offers a fresh, somewhat surprising perspective on this increasingly frequently occurring phenomenon. While exploring the links between trauma, memory and apologies, the authors also highlight the religious dimensions of apology and forgiveness by Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 arguing that the performative dimensions of apologies are key to understanding why they play such an inÀ uential role in coming to terms with traumatic events. The next chapter gives Douglas Becker’s perspective on the use of memory and trauma in foreign policymaking – more speci¿ cally, in constructivist approaches to foreign policy analysis. Becker explores the linkage with regard to one speci¿ c variable in identity formation: the importance of historical memory in forming a unique, yet ever-changing, identity. By claiming that historical memory is a À uid 6 Erica Resende and Dovile Budryte concept, and that memory itself is created and recreated over and over, Becker addresses the different ways in which past trauma inÀ uences identity and foreign policy formation. Vanessa Pupavac’s contribution, entitled ‘Natural disasters: trauma, political contestation and potential to precipitate social change’, offers a well-researched and clearly structured contribution about the role of natural disasters as empowerment and catalysts for social change. While displaying a strong theoretical background, Pupavac also offers readers plenty of empirical material to substantiate her claims. The chapter includes a valuable discussion of recent natural disasters such as the Fukushima nuclear disaster in Japan (2011), hurricane Katrina in the US (2005) and the tsunami in Indonesia (2004). Renata B. Ferreira offers an original and intriguing contribution in her chapter entitled ‘Healing and reconciliation in contemporary post-conÀ ict scenarios: securitization movement of war trauma’. This chapter explores mental health as a security issue, revealing the potential role of medicalization discourses as strategies for social control. Furthermore, Ferreira opens an interesting and astute debate on the various intersections between emotional stability and security. The ¿ rst part ¿ nishes with a chapter by Laura K. Taylor, in which she presents the concept of JustTruth as a new analytic lens for understanding the dynamic processes of narrating events of the past in reconciliation following traumatic events. By examining two paradigmatic cases – South Africa and Guatemala – Taylor argues for the use of the JustTruth lens when analysing the relationship between survivors, perpetrators and truth, which is a key factor that must be addressed in post-conÀ ict societies if reconciliation is to take root. The second part of this edited volume, focusing on case studies, begins with an interesting examination of Haiti. In ‘Trauma as technology of power: memory, aid and rule in contemporary Haiti’, Maria Joao Ferreira starts by positing Haiti as a prime case study of the formation of national subjectivity in contexts of collective trauma normalization. She starts by arguing that the Haitian politics of trauma should be understood as a ‘technology of power’, going on to deconstruct the foundational causes of trauma commodi¿ cation in Haiti, and critically questioning all forms of culturalist and deterministic explanations for Haitian tragedies. Following on from this chapter, a more explicit link is drawn between traumatic memory and foreign policy in a set of case studies that readers will ¿ nd thought- provoking. We start with Brent E. Sasley’s ‘Remembering and forgetting in Turkish identity and foreign policymaking’. The author identi¿ es the Treaty of Sèvres as a traumatic moment in the shaping of Turkish national identity, and from there builds a solid argument about how this trauma impacted on the Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 creation of a speci¿ c Turkish identity, and consequent policymaking, only when a particular subgroup was able to wield its decision-making authority to impose not only its preferred memories on the group, but also the particular policies that those memories recommended. Sasley’s chapter is both a signi¿ cant contribution to the literature exploring the instrumentalization of memory and a review of the relevant IR literature on collective trauma and identity formation – especially the relationship between foreign policy and traumatic memory. Introduction 7 Hannes Hansen-Magnusson’s contribution to this book, ‘Memory, trauma and changing international norms: the German Green Party’s struggle with violence and its concern for humanity’, provides readers with a compelling discussion about the role of memory and trauma in shaping norms. The author starts by challenging the standard textbook knowledge that the study of international politics is about the relationship between sovereign states, and then invites readers to look more seriously into the relationship between individual and group memories and interpretation processes by introducing the concept of ‘topos’. Hansen-Magnusson questions how it was possible for Germany to commit itself to the NATO engagement in former Yugoslavia in the 1990s given that it was a cornerstone of foreign policy not to become militarily involved outside the country. He holds that it was active engagement with memory that led to a reinterpretation of the past and a new ‘mission statement’ for the future in which a normative concern with humanity trumped an adherence to the norm of state sovereignty. Dovile Budryte’s contribution to this volume, ‘Travelling trauma: Lithuanian transnational memory after World War II’, continues along the same path regarding social change by asking the following question: when and how do traumas other than the Holocaust become a consolidating force for transnational memory communities? The author offers an insightful exploration of the creation of transnational traumatic memory based on the experiences of the deportations and political repression carried out in Lithuania under Soviet occupation in 1940–41 and 1945–53. As a result, she demonstrates the tension between two transnational memories (the Holocaust and memory about Soviet crimes) and describes the transcultural emotional appeal of this transformed narrative in Lithuania. From Europe, we go back to Latin America with Marcos Farias Ferreira’s chapter on ‘Coping with the Lost Revolution: memories of the 1970s and 1980s in Nicaragua’. Farias Ferreira highlights the role of representing trauma in memorialization practices in post-revolution Nicaragua. He claims that the disillusionment provoked by its abrupt end marked a traumatic event for Nicaraguan people, leading to a loss of identity brought about by the closing of a new world that captured many people’s utopian zeal in Nicaragua and beyond. This chapter offers readers a set of moving testimonies about the traumatic remembering of thwarted revolutionary desires. This is a deeply sensitive, moving, but still thought-provoking account of a key Latin American political event. Unlike the other chapters in the second part of this volume, the ¿ nal two chapters are more thematic in scope, while still engaging with the issue of norms in world politics: disarmament and climate change. Ritu Mathur’s chapter, ‘Humanitarian witnesses and testimonies in arms control and disarmament: a case study of the Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC)’, offers an interesting case study focused on an international non-governmental organization (NGO) and its inÀ u- ence in shaping the internationalization of trauma. The chapter also continues to highlight the role of testimonies in issues of trauma, memory and world politics by arguing for the way in which the ICRC introduced humanitarian witnesses and testimonies as key political practices for the internationalization of norms in arms control and disarmament. 8 Erica Resende and Dovile Budryte The last chapter of this volume, ‘Memory and the politics of climate change: between climate justice and climate security’, authored by Pedro Fonseca, aims to incorporate issues of memory into the debate on climate change. Fonseca highlights how discursive practices in climate change negotiations explicitly or implicitly draw on questions of memory when discussing the responsibilities of developed and developing countries. He attempts to pinpoint the intersection between memory and climate change politics in the context of the debate about climate justice. He argues that growing discourses on the principles of equity and the common, but differentiated, responsibilities and respective capabilities of states inÀ uence and shape climate change negotiations, particularly when discussing substantial and legally binding reduction targets for greenhouse gas emissions. The essays in this volume show that conceptualizing trauma and memory as ‘sensitizing concepts’ and examining their intersections allows us to understand better the processes behind the construction of group identities, and thus to gain valuable insights into topics such as nationalism, transitional justice and reconciliation. For example, a reaction to a traumatic event can encompass and de¿ ne a group (Sasley’s chapter in this volume), thus leading to the creation of what can be described as ‘emotional communities’. Marcos Ferreira’s chapter traces the creation of such a community in the post-revolutionary context in Nicaragua, where there is a collective ‘urge to keep the revolution alive’ and where, during this process, individual testimonies become ‘a way of narrating or inventing the nation’. Within ‘emotional communities’, memory is invented, created and re-created by various memory carriers, both local actors and ‘outsiders’ (Budryte’s chapter in this volume). The processes associated with the creation of memory can result in new inequalities and new traumas, for example the creation of collective memory often leads to the creation of narratives with hegemonic and masculine values (Lenz and Bjerg 2007). Studies focusing on the intersections between trauma and collective memories can help to outline such processes, challenging the underlying hierarchies and exposing the counter-hegemonic narratives. Furthermore, conceptualizing trauma and memory as ‘sensitizing concepts’ can help us to dwell on them as crucial variables in interstate relations in general and foreign policymaking in particular. As mentioned in our previous discussion of the literature, memory has to be analysed as a crucial variable affecting foreign policy actions. Several chapters in this book (by Hansen-Magnusson, Sasley, Wilson and Bleiker, and Becker) embrace this perspective. In particular, Wilson and Bleiker’s chapter helps to enrich this body of literature by exploring the aesthetic (visual) and religious dimensions of apologies. It is feasible to argue that understanding the aesthetic and religious dimensions of apologies can Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 help us to conceptualize a ‘deep’ reconciliation between states that reshapes and reforms previous resentments, and thus contributes to a fundamentally different relationship between former enemies and victims. Being sensitive to the works of traumatic memory in transitional settings within states can help us to understand better various processes of reconciliation that take place at the national level. The concept of JustTruth (‘a dynamic process of narrating the events of the past with an eye on just and more human Introduction 9 relationships in the future’) developed by Taylor in this volume identi¿ es speci¿ c variables that contribute to ‘thick reconciliation’ (that is, long-lasting, transfor- mational reconciliation) – a term coined by David A. Crocker (1999). Taylor conceptualizes transitional settings as spaces in which multiple narratives and interpretations constitute the collective memory of an entity. The importance of individual narratives (testimonies) is also evident in Marcos Ferreira’s chapter on the memory of the revolution in Nicaragua. These contributions imply that it is imprudent to leave out the study of memory from the study of transitional regimes – that using memory as a ‘sensitizing concept’ allows us to reach a fuller, broader understanding of political change:

Memory has become a central issue in our discussions about transition, as this truth is directly related to the memory of victims, and it is the medium of a new shared narrative of the past that integrates formerly divided perspectives. (Aleida Assmann and Linda Shortt 2012: 1)

As argued by Elizabeth Jelin (2003: 75), in addition to individual narratives, a comprehensive study of memory and political change should include other dimensions, such as ‘political, institutional and juridical responses to past con- À icts’. In that sense, Kim’s chapter in this volume is an important contribution to the study of memory and political change because it proposes a ‘broader understanding of transitional justice’ that includes justice as a ‘legal response’ to the atrocities perpetrated in the past. In addition, like several authors before him (for example, Levy and Sznaider 2006; Stan and Nedelsky 2012), Kim points out an important trend in transitional settings: the proliferation of human rights commissions and other transitional justice mechanisms, both formal and informal. Having also noticed this trend, Levy and Sznaider (2006) put forward a daring hypothesis: that legitimacy in IR is becoming increasingly denationalized, thus transforming sovereignty, with historical memories playing an important role in this process. More and more nation states are engaged in processes of ‘coming to terms with the past’, during which the past is critically examined and ‘post-heroic’ narratives critical of human rights abuses are constructed. These processes are immensely important: they have the potential to transform the Westphalian sovereignty-based system. Kim argues that historical memories of past failures prevent human rights abuses insofar as they become a primary mechanism through which the institutionalization of human rights idioms and their legal inscription during the last two decades have transformed sovereignty. Kim’s Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 chapter contributes to a better understanding of this ‘de-nationalization’ of legitimacy by surveying different measures of transitional justice, which are increasingly internationalized (such a in the use of regional and foreign courts). This suggests that the study of the intersection between memory and political change should take international actors into account. By highlighting the international dimension of memory and the wide variety of actors involved, this volume challenges nation-centred accounts of memory 10 Erica Resende and Dovile Budryte construction. Several authors set out to explore the roles of international actors in the processes of memory construction. Ritu Mathur’s chapter traces the ways in which memory can be constructed by an international organization (the International Committee of the Red Cross). Renata Ferreira’s contribution shows how international actors have contributed to the emergence of an ‘international therapeutic culture’ that prescribes the ways in which survivors of traumas are expected to deal with their memories. Dovile Budryte’s chapter traces the role of international actors (the diaspora and international organizations) in the construction of transnational memory communities. Vanessa Pupavac’s study of ‘international disaster politics’ shows how representations of disasters by international actors can lead to the construction of lasting metaphors (such as the ‘disease’ metaphor to characterize Haiti). These analyses of international ‘memory carriers’ engaged in various activities constructing traumatic memory prove that memory cannot be conceptualized in simplistic terms; for example, for Olick (2003: 10), as ‘a vessel of truth or a mirror of interests . . . it is a process of constructing meaning’. Memory is pluralistic, multidimensional and multilayered, and to study memory means to be ready to explore various (including non-territorial) spaces of memory and to construct various memory communities. At the same time, to study the intersections of memory and trauma means to gain understanding of the timeless and universal human feelings of anxiety and anguish. By tracing various manifestations of traumatic memory across the globe, the essays presented in this volume attest to the universality of these emotions. There are multiple sources of anxiety and suffering – political transitions; failed revolutions; genocides; wars; natural disasters; paralysing and infuriating inequality – and these feelings surface in these contexts. Memories about these universal feelings are constructed by various forces – governments, self-appointed memory entrepreneurs, cultural factors, historical conditions and international norms, to mention only a few – and therefore these memories acquire different shapes and are best understood as sites of intense contestation. By examining trauma as a political experience, the essays contribute to the understanding of the ways in which these universal feelings affect international relations. As argued by Innes and Steele, trauma can become ‘a springboard to political contestation’, thus serving as a ‘resource’ for identity construction – the topic of interest to the constructivist school of thought. We hope that bringing together voices from different parts of the world and embracing a variety of theoretical approaches will enrich the study of identity construction, and raise new questions about the intersections between trauma and memory in IR. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Concluding remarks Drawing on theoretical investigations and rich case studies, this edited volume of essays attempts to gain insight into the following questions.

• How do traumatic experiences affect international politics? • How do trauma and memory manifest themselves in various cultural contexts? Introduction 11 • How do various expressions of the feelings of suffering, remembering and forgetting help us to deal with trauma and create social change?

In addition to exploring the international dimension of traumatic memory, this volume analyses less-studied areas and topics such as the ways in which to deal with traumatic experiences in the global South, a comparison of apologies in Western and non-Western cultures, and the relationship between trauma, memory and ontological security. When we were putting this volume together, one image that kept intruding into our mind – which we had initially suggested for the cover art, but which copyright issues precluded – was Edvard Munch’s The Scream. For both of us, Munch’s famous 1893 painting, depicting a distorted mummy-like ¿ gure against a stark landscape with a tumultuous, in¿ nite, orange and blood-red sky, struck a chord deeply within us as a strong representation of the interplay between trauma and anguish. What was that ¿ gure screaming about? Was it suffering and in pain? Was it calling for help? Help from whom? Why were we so deeply touched by its cry of pain and despair? The Scream – more precisely, the unsettling feelings that the painting stirs – seemed to us to be the adequate background to the concerns that this edited volume tries to tackle. Indeed, as pointed out by Simeon and Abugel (2006), the imagery of The Scream has been most commonly linked to acute traumatic experiences, encompassing a palette of violent emotions from anxiety to despair, madness to hopelessness, all of them trying to signify human suffering resulting from experiences of ‘depersonalization, decentring, distortion and the void of one’s self’ (Simeon and Abugel 2006: 127). Our aim here is not to exhaust the discussion on the relationship between memory, trauma and politics, but to offer some considerations of why such a cry resonates across time, places and communities. We believe that the anguish Munch tried to convey through his painting has much to do with the experience of facing a traumatic event, of having been submitted to an ‘enforced encounter with death, violence, and brutality’ that ultimately reveals the contingency of social order (Edkins 2003: 3–5). Munch’s ¿ gure cries in helplessness because it realizes the unbearable truth of the human condition in modern times: the subjection of life to the power of the Sovereign, which allows for some to live and some to die, thus betraying our trust and expectations about how the world functions. This is precisely what makes issues of memory and trauma so universal and timeless: they pertain to – and are universally interpreted as – the very basics of the human condition. We feel. We suffer. We despair. And we yearn for some explanation that will allow us to come to terms with it. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 This page intentionally left blank Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Part I Theoretical approaches and debates Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 This page intentionally left blank Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 1 Memory, trauma and ontological security

Alexandria J. Innes and Brent J. Steele

Introduction Ontological security is the seeking of a consistent self through time and space, and the desire to have that self recognized and af¿ rmed by others. Applied to global politics, state and other forms of group behaviour, it is a form of security- seeking that is pursued regarding the ‘who’ or ‘what’ (ontologically) it is or desires to be. Insecurity develops in the ontological security-seeking process in a variety of ways, and trauma presents a radical form of that insecurity – a rupture of the consistent self through time and space. The aim of this chapter is to engage the growing literature on ontological security, and to connect it to issues of trauma and memory by showing how states secure their being by formulating their perceived cohesiveness through the discursive articulation of collective memories and traumatic experiences. This articulation can help to reduce the fundamental unpredictability of the surrounding environment and their own vulnerability vis-à-vis other states and political actors. The chapter begins by providing a basic ‘sketch’ of ontological security. We discuss how ontological security treatments have located trauma and memory in the ontological security process. As we demonstrate, the ontological security literature is far from uniform on this location. We review the growing, robust, empirical engagements of ontological security in global politics, with a focus on how such studies treat trauma, memory and social change. The chapter concludes by considering the Arab Spring and what additional insight the rebuilding of order in Egypt can offer for ontological security theory. Egypt, during the revolution, came to be in a position of ontological insecurity as the social order that had been in place for several decades was overturned. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Ontological security theory The ¿ eld of international relations (IR) has conventionally been focused on security concerns. Traditionally, such concerns have centralized the physical security and insecurity of states as they exist in an anarchic international system. States are vulnerable in the anarchic realm of international politics to the actions of other states and political actors (Herz 1950; Jervis 1978; Morgenthau 1978; 16 Alexandria J. Innes and Brent J. Steele Waltz 1979). Insecurity results from uncertainty over the intentions of other states; thus states acquire power to protect themselves from the possible malicious actions of other states and actors. Yet, especially over the past two decades, this understanding of ‘security’ has been expanded and amended, and this chapter posits the assumption that, among other purposes of states, identity plays a fundamental role in state security practices. Potential state insecurity can be understood, then, as not only the possibility of physical threat from other actors and global entities, but also the prospective transformations and developments that call into question a state or group’s identity. The concept of ontological security comes from psychologist R. D. Laing, who:

. . . described the ontologically secure agent as someone who has ‘a sense of his presence in the world as a real, alive, whole, and in a temporal sense, a continuous person’ and noted that if ontological security is absent, ‘the ordinary circumstances of everyday life constitute a continual and deadly threat’. (Zarakol 2010: 6, citing Laing 1969: 39)

Ontological security theory was developed most extensively through Anthony Giddens’ structuration theory more than three decades ago. Structuration theory sees structures and agents as mutually constitutive. Put another way, rather than taking structure and agency as dichotomous concepts that operate independently from one another, structuration theory understands all agents to be a product of their structure, and all structures to be created and recreated by the (constrained) choices of agents (Giddens 1984). Structure is not a compelling force, but is the dynamic in which autonomous agents manage their actions. Thus, ‘ordinary day-to-day social life . . . involves an ontological security founded on autonomy of bodily control within predictable routines and encounters’ (Giddens 1984: 64). Ontological security is security that is internal to the individual and which represents the ability of an individual to exercise bodily autonomy within a given environment. Certainty in the routines and practices of daily life, and a ‘futural sense’ of social life in which one can form predictable expectations, help to secure who we are as social beings (Giddens 1984: 62). Identity is constituted from experiences in social interactions. These interactions are founded in a body of subconscious knowledge that makes routines predictable and recognizable. This knowledge is ‘“mutual knowledge”, which refers to the interpretive schemes whereby actors constitute and understand social life as meaningful; . . . [and] “common sense”, which can be seen as comprising a more-or-less articulated body of theoretical Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 knowledge’ (Giddens 1993: 21). If the mutual knowledge and theoretical knowledge are disrupted, and made irrelevant through unexpected change in quotidian life, then the individual has no foundation on which to base expectations and thus is left in a state of ontological insecurity. Social life becomes unpredictable, and the individual is vulnerable and experiences existential anxiety. If ontological security is a sense of certainty of one’s way of being in the world, then the state can be theorized at two levels. At the ¿ rst level, the state is Memory, trauma and ontological security 17 the body that provides the community identi¿ cation and institutional framework that guarantees certainty, order and predictability for society (Kinnvall 2004; Skey 2010). At the second level, the state itself is an actor that exists within a given environment and which strives to maintain ontological security. In that sense, the state’s way of being in the world depends on its place in the international community as well as its internal identity. Therefore ontological security at the state level relies on the state’s biographical narrative and the perceptions of the social community of which the state is a part (Mitzen 2006; Steele 2005, 2008a; Zarakol 2010). The state seeks out a continuous collective identity in which it understands itself to be a real entity. It must have a basis on which to manage behaviour within a body of mutual knowledge that is shared by the social community. One of the ways in which states attempt to secure their Selves is to provide meaning for their past and current actions. This is accomplished through the discursive articulation of a(n) (auto)biographical identity narrative that informs state behaviour in the international system. State or group behaviour thus can be considered a series of active attempts to underwrite, and narrate, a sense of what it is as a state or group act. Ontological security refers to the desire and urge of a social actor to survive and surpass not only as a physical entity, but also as a certain sort of (social) being. Actors craft such being by assessing their Selves within ordered environments, for an entity cannot know what or who it is within chaos. The importance of ontological security can be seen most clearly in situations of ontological insecurity. Issues of memory and trauma are implicated because states secure their perceived cohesiveness through the discursive articulation of collective memories and traumatic experiences in order to reduce the unpredictability of the surrounding environment and their own vulnerability vis-à-vis other states and political actors. Trauma can be understood as an instance that, when experienced, creates radical ontological insecurity – calling into question the Self as it is conceived and conceptualized. Trauma can also serve as a springboard to political contestation, creating space for a biographical narrative to be reaf¿ rmed or rewritten through political action (Steele 2008a). Put another way, some ‘chosen’ traumas can serve as a resource for crafting and shaping the present and future group Self (Kinnvall 2004: 755), ‘used by agents to synthesize’ their narratives regarding who or what they wish to become in light of who or what they do not (Steele 2008a: 57).

The contributions of ontological security

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 in international relations Like individuals, the state or other groups are social actors, constructing a sense of Self against, with and amongst others. Ontological security depends on the order that states maintain through institutional arrangements (Huysmans 1998; McSweeney 1999). Because such routines are created within a social environment not ¿ rmly within an actor’s control, these changes can be À uid and frequent. Further, this interactive environment includes other actors who can manipulate or 18 Alexandria J. Innes and Brent J. Steele insecuritize a targeted actor’s sense of Self with actions, intended or otherwise, which call that Self, and its narratives, into question. Social movements, for instance, frequently seek to revise and undermine a given institutional order. This then creates a space of ontological insecurity whereby order must be re-established and the identity narrative rewritten or reaf¿ rmed according to the new order. Thus, the need for ontological security, and therefore the process of seeking ontological security, can be seen most clearly where it is absent: in situations in which traumatic events make ontological security and insecurity legible. Jennifer Mitzen describes one such situation via the example of a rape victim, who:

. . . might ask herself how could this happen to me – which becomes who am I, what kind of person am I that this could happen? A survivor of 9/11 might ask why he survived and not his partner, which becomes who am I without her? (Mitzen 2006: 348)

Thus identity is implicated when the routines of existence in which identity is practised are ruptured. Ontological security is a burgeoning theoretical approach in the critical security literature, associated with the broadening and deepening of security studies. The ¿ rst studies by Jef Huysmans and Bill McSweeney, appearing in the late 1990s, introduced the term to explain ‘the mediation of chaos and order’ that constitutes political communities and other social communities (Huysmans 1998). Security thus is broadened, for rather than identifying objective threats, a threat becomes something that the state normatively recognizes as posing a danger to social order. Therefore the social collective intersubjectively determines the characteristics of threat in order to exist in a secure social environment. McSweeney’s study suggested that ‘we can only do security, or do identity, if there is a body of typi¿ ed actions, mediated by structure, from which to draw in order to make sense’ (McSweeney 1999: 166). Thus security is positioned within the experiences of humans in building communities. McSweeney adopts ontological security as a method of creating boundaries in which a positive security can remain analytically narrow enough to be coherent, yet allow security to be conceived of as broader than statecentric military concerns or the physical negative security of the state. Security can be analysed via a core of ontological security that ‘locate[s] the meaning of security in the common experience of individuals’ (McSweeney 1999: 154). Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 One might organize the work since those pioneering studies on ontological security via the apt observation made by Ayse Zarakol, in a recent study, that ‘this concept within IR has come to be marked by the same tension that demarcates psychology and sociology. In other words, the budding scholarship on ontological security has run into its own version of the agent-structure problem.’ Zarakol (2010: 6) summarizes this problem in the form of a succinct question: ‘Are interactions and the international environment the main source of ontological Memory, trauma and ontological security 19 anxiety for a state, or are the insecure interactions merely a consequence of the state’s own uncertainty about its own identity?’ On the more structural, sociological or ‘social’ end of the spectrum is Jennifer Mitzen’s iconic 2006 article. Here, ontological insecurity is attended to by participation in a community in which routines can be structured according to the social relations and the order of that community. The state seeks identity security in social relations in addition to physical security, understanding the state as a coherent actor in possession of an identity. Thus state relations, to the extent that they are routinized, might provide a sense of ontological security. This can effectively explain the endurance of security dilemmas in that states become attached to the routine and identity of being in conÀ ict. Thus it is not uncertainty that prohibits the end of a security dilemma conÀ ict, but identity (Mitzen 2006). As Zarakol (2010: 6) notes, Brent Steele’s work emphasizes the agentic focus of ontological security, emphasizing ways in which agents seek out ontological security. The ‘environment’ here sees the Self as the source for its own ‘sociality’: ‘our inner Selves are an environment of their own – a dialectical community’ (Steele 2008a: 34). This environment is both spatial and historical-temporal. In this way, Steele emphasizes how agents engage past Selves as sources of positive and negative models for current and future actions. Much of the literature remains concerned with ontological security at the level of the common experience of individuals, frequently engaging the unit of the state, but also focusing on collectives within states. These more ‘middle ground’ studies focus both on the need to narrate the collective Self and on how those narrations develop in a context of relations with others (Zarakol 2010: 7). Caterina Kinnvall’s work explains the rise of religious identi¿ cations and nationalist identi¿ cations as a means of reaf¿ rming ontological security in the face of the increasing uncertainty of globalization (Kinnvall 2004). Globalization represents social change in terms of the economic, political and social linkages between societies. Globalization contests who society members are and where social boundaries lie (Held et al. 1999; Kinnvall 2004). Thus changes brought by globalization can be understood as social change. For Kinnvall (2004: 743), globalization provokes ‘increasing rootlessness and loss of stability as people experience the effects of capitalist development, media overÀ ow, structural adjustment policies, privatization, urbanization, unemployment, forced migration, and other similar transformative forces’. Such a social dislocation provokes an ontological insecurity and a desire to form stronger social community bonds to overcome such insecurity. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Understanding trauma through ontological security Memory proves central to ontological security. It is used, and even manipulated, to create the basis for action – a practice that Giddens titles ‘historicity’: the ‘use of history to make history’ (Giddens 1990: 243). Trauma occurs when something cannot be easily located into that collective memory, because it poses a threat either to how the state sees itself or to how the state is perceived by others 20 Alexandria J. Innes and Brent J. Steele in its behaviour in the international environment. Trauma can then be understood as resulting from a particular disturbing or shocking event proving dif¿ cult to narrate collectively. Trauma is relevant to understanding ontological security in two main ways. The ¿ rst is speci¿ c to collective memory. A particular traumatic event for a nation that becomes important in the creation and reproduction of ontological security tends to be one that upsets a nation’s idea of itself – that is, it upsets a certain understanding of the collective biographical narrative. In this way, trauma produces ontological insecurity, and state actions can be understood as ways in which to bolster national identity and to recreate ontological security. On the other hand, a particular trauma might be narrated in such a way in the collective memory as to be formative of the collective identity of a nation. One of the criteria of nationhood, according to nationalist scholar Dan Smith (2000), is the will to ‘walk through blood’; hence the trauma of a war of independence or secession is understood as contributing to the right of territorial autonomy for a national group and is formative of the group in question. Social change comes about in the ontological security-seeking process through a variety of practices. A ¿ rst occurs when the routine of an ontologically security- seeking actor is ruptured by a ‘critical situation’ – an unpredictable situation that an actor ¿ nds threatening to its sense of Self. Facing the possibility of ontological insecurity, the actor revises or updates its routine in light of such a situation. Another way in which ontological security-seeking actors seek out social change regards the biographical narratives used to create meaning for their past, current and future Selves. Social change may represent rupture or revision of that biographical narrative that affects ontological security, forcing a state to rewrite how it sees itself. When a collective is exposed to ontological insecurity and unpredictability, there is a need to revise the collective narrative that helps discipline memory and understanding of the Self. Although it has not been a primary focus in the ontological security literature, several studies foreground the role of trauma in the ontological security process and have applied ontological security to understanding a variety of processes. Steele (2008a: 56) discusses the role of trauma in disrupting collective memories: ‘History in a collection of experiences and memory is the conduit through which we recall those experiences, but traumatic experiences disrupt the ability to channel certain events into a coherent narrative.’ Since the biographical narrative of the state that constitutes state identity can be understood as collective memory, trauma can destabilize that memory and consequently the biographical narrative can either be contested or reinstalled through narration, which is a political act (Edkins 2003; Steele 2008a). Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Zarakol (2010) shifts consideration of the identity narrative to the role of the social community in which states reside. In that context, identity is not only reÀ exively produced by the biographical narrative, but also asserted from outside, in that other states attribute identity to a given state and that contributes to the routinization of that state’s ‘way of being in the world’. Zarakol addresses the tension between identity narratives generated endogenously to the state and exogenously to the state by examining non-Western states’ later entry into Memory, trauma and ontological security 21 international society. In this argument, power hierarchies contribute to the generation of identity; those states that remain lower in the power hierarchy are subject to exogenously determined identity. While Zarakol argues that this is speci¿ c to non-Western states entering international society, the dual inÀ uences constructing identity can be seen in the case of German reÀ exive identity with regard to the Herera genocide in Namibia as compared to the Holocaust. German actions during World War II have been reÀ exively incorporated into German collective national identity. Steele (2008a) examines the discursive revisiting of shame on the part of Germany with regard to action in Kosovo, stating that tension between German guilt with regard to the World War II bombing of Yugoslavia and German shame with regard to the memory of the Holocaust created a dynamic in which action would simultaneously ameliorate shame and intensify guilt. Germany becomes an interesting focal point for Zarakol’s question regarding state apologies given the emphasis on the Holocaust in German reÀ exive identity, combined with the lack of attention in international discourses and German collective identity given to the Herero war and genocide of 1904. According to Henning Melber (2005: 140), ‘[f]or large parts of collective memory in Germany this chapter is either closed or forgotten’. Zarakol looks speci¿ cally at the reluctance to apologize for past crimes on the part of Turkey (the Armenian genocide) and Japan (World War II atrocities), stating that this reluctance can be explained by the shame caused by perceived inferiority from outside. The exogenous attribution of inferiority provokes more shame than shame in the act itself – that is, ‘the pressures to apologize for past crimes, instead of inducing shame about the acts in question, recall this earlier, greater shame, associated with being “Eastern”, “barbaric”, “Asian” and “uncivilized”’ (Zarakol 2010: 20). Thus the states in question deny the acts to avoid the shame of these ‘inferior’ identities, rather than apologize for the acts generated by shame provoked by the state’s biographical narrative. Returning to the case of Namibia, the German Minister for Economic Cooperation made a speech at the centennial commemoration of the genocide in which she acknowledged that it would be considered a genocide by today’s international standards, and expressed guilt and remorse on behalf of Germany, although she did not include a formal apology in the speech. The minister ‘expressed the understanding that her whole speech was an apology’ and was criticized by the opposition party in Germany, which suggested that she was ‘risking an expensive bill for being carried away’ (Melber 2005: 144). Germany was unwilling to commit to reparations payments. This example is interesting in light of Zarakol’s argument. Germany’s re- À exive identity incorporates both shame and guilt for German actions during Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 World War II. The German self-identity should logically experience the same shame for actions in Namibia, although this is not incorporated into reÀ exive self-identity. While Turkey and Japan face outside pressure to apologize for atrocities, they are compelled to ignore the atrocities because, according to Zarakol’s argument, there is a greater shame associated with being perceived as ‘uncivilized’. Germany does not share that social position of inferiority that Zarakol suggests of Japan and Turkey. Furthermore, Germany’s European peers 22 Alexandria J. Innes and Brent J. Steele have also been reluctant to apologize for colonial actions. For example, Labour Secretary for International Development Clare Short denied that Britain had a responsibility to assist with the costs of land redistribution in Zimbabwe (Short 1997). Thus there is no exogenous pressure that compels Germany to acknowledge colonial shame within its self-identity and that shame does not represent a threat to Germany’s ontological security. Zarakol’s study thus examines how context proves resistant to change for certain actors, as in the case of Turkey and Japan’s uneven and ‘bordered’ incorporation into international society:

The traumatic character of the incorporation of Turkey and Japan into international society has inÀ uenced national identity in such a way as to make new reÀ ections about the state ‘self’ dif¿ cult. Both countries joined European international society in the nineteenth century as stigmatized outsiders. The insecurities created by that international environment have been built into the national identities of both states. (Zarakol 2010: 4)

Kinnvall (2004) explores the link between trauma and ontological security in terms of national and religious identi¿ cations. Kinnvall uses the term ‘chosen traumas’ ¿ rst deployed by Vamik Volkan in a psychoanalysis of ethnic conÀ ict. De¿ ned as ‘the collective memory of a calamity that once befell a group’s ancestors’ (Volkan 1997: 48), ‘chosen traumas’ become absorbed into group identity, helping to solidify in-group and out-group distinctions. Volkan demonstrates the Battle of Kosovo in 1389 as a chosen trauma for the Serb ethnic group that can explain deep-rooted ethnic divisions. The idea of chosen trauma thus provides insight into the connection between trauma, memory and ontological security. The narrating of a trauma is a practice of identity, and the memory of a particular trauma is maintained by the historical narrative and by the preservation of shrines and monuments (Kinnvall 2004; Smith 2000; Volkan 1997). Kinnvall observes that such places then solidify historical differences. In the face of the uncertainty of globalization that creates insecurity and rootlessness, people retreat into the security of identity, which then perpetuates ethnic, national and religious divisions (Kinnvall 2002, 2004). Thus not only formal institutions, but also the collective memories, myths and symbols of a cultural group represent a sense of ontological security. Forces of globalization contest conventional in-group/out-group distinctions, which mean that the emotions associated with the ‘chosen trauma’ (or the concept’s double – the ‘chosen glory’) become linked to ontological security and are consequently reinforced. The reinforcement of a traumatic memory reinforces Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 the notion of a collective needing the will to ‘walk through blood’ in order to obtain the right to territorial self-determination. Trauma is not a precursor to ontological security-seeking, but can be both destructive and formative in the national identity that unites the collective under a shared framework of belonging. The foregoing examples have focused on the link between trauma and ontological security. However, as outlined, a particular traumatic event might create ontological insecurity. In the same way as the rape victim might ask ‘how can this Memory, trauma and ontological security 23 happen to me?’ and question her own identity, in the case of a traumatic event, a nation might then question its own identity. Thus national identity and collective memory can be built upon formative traumatic events, but the nature of that identity may be either questioned or reappropriated and reinforced after an insecurity- inducing trauma. In this way, trauma is a provocateur of both ontological security and ontological insecurity. While social change occurs embedded in a structure that provokes change and is simultaneously affected by change, the reinforcement of religious and national ties can be understood in the context of ontological insecurity. National identi¿ cations might reinforce community identity in the face of the uncertainty of globalization and create a sense of security for participants in the national in-group. At the same time, the nationalized society might represent signi¿ cant social change, particularly in multicultural societies. For example, the ‘rally round the À ag’ effect in the US following the events of 11 September 2001 (‘9/11’) brought with it movement away from the multicultural US identity, and enforced policies that were illiberal and which held a particular perception of American identity. Since these attacks were shocking and unexpected, they disrupted the ontological certainty in everyday existence for Americans. The ‘rally round the À ag’ mentality that was apparent in America has been explained by the threat not only to the physical existence of US Americans, but also to America as a national community (Huntingdon 2004; Norris et al. 2003; Li and Brewer 2004). This reÀ ects the theorizing of McSweeney (1999) regarding the role of the social community as the provider of security. A second example can be seen in the newly popularized ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ slogan in Britain. This slogan was originally part of a three-tiered campaign to avoid widespread panic and insecurity during World War II. The ¿ rst two posters in this campaign attempted to rally the national morale during the dif¿ culties of rationing and the blackout. The ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ poster was produced in only limited numbers, because it was intended to be used in the case of invasion, which never came to pass (for details, see Henley 2009; Hughes 2009). The war effort is considered a period formative of a stoic aspect of British identity (Hedetoft 1993; Mandler 2006). The ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ slogan was rediscovered in 2000 and was popularized during the recession that began in 2008. Thus, in a time of collective insecurity generated by economic hardship, a positive aspect of British identity reinforced national ontological security. Building on the connections between nationalism and ontological security (see also Kinnvall 2004), Michael Skey (2010) understands nationalism as ‘anchoring subjectivity’ and permitting ontological security through routine Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 practices and institutional order in the face of ethnic and racial ‘Others’, with particular reference to the ethnic majority in England in the context of increasing globalization and migration. In this context, changes in society threaten the functioning of everyday social practices and ideological attachment to institutional arrangements and practices. Thus nationalism on the part of the ethnic majority might be understood via the ontological security provoked by changes in the social makeup of the state. 24 Alexandria J. Innes and Brent J. Steele Skey (2010) looks to nationalism to reaf¿ rm a sense of ontological security in the face of ‘Others’ who threaten the institutional order and everyday practices of life. Skey focuses on the growing visibility of ethnic minorities in Britain; however, one can argue that the suddenness of a traumatic event can have a similar, if accelerated, effect on ontological security. For example, the shift in US immigration law following the 9/11 attacks reÀ ects the security of the in-group in the face of an ‘Other’. Most notably, the ‘Absconder Apprehension Initiative’ rounded up all people of Arab descent who had been ruled deportable, but for whom deportation had not been enforced (Coleman 2007; Miller 2005). These individuals were held on suspicion of terrorism and either subsequently deported or incarcerated. The initiative reÀ ects a reaf¿ rmation of the national ‘in-group’ evident in the situation of uncertainty and ontological insecurity provoked by trauma in the after-effects of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Ontological security offers compelling explanation for behaviour at the individual or societal levels within the state. Scaling up ontological security to be understood as a characteristic of the state offers further insight into state actions as ontological security-seeking. The role of identity for ontological security at the state level is developed by Steele (2005, 2008a), who understands states as capable of reÀ exive behaviour. States reÀ exively and discursively reproduce a discursive construction of identity, or an autobiographical narrative. For example, Steele explains Britain’s lack of intervention in the American Civil War as based on the timing of the Emancipation Proclamation. Lincoln made the Emancipation Proclamation at the time that, according to an analysis of British economic interests, would have been most expedient for intervention. However, had Britain intervened after the Proclamation, the action would have disrupted the British identity narrative that saw Britain as the ‘emancipators’, intervening in the Netherlands, Portugal, Greece and Belgium to support independence and to oust political tyranny (Steele 2005). Britain would have been intervening to prevent the abolition of slavery and such action did not tally with how Britain understood itself. The role of reÀ exivity is apparent in the public debates and declarations with regard to identifying the nature of the war and determining Britain’s potential role. Similarly, Steele (2008a) observes reÀ exivity in Belgium’s actions during World War I, in which Belgium decided to ¿ ght Germany, speci¿ cally knowing that, as a political community, it faced catastrophic physical consequences. Steele (2008a: 95) asserts that ‘in pursuing self-identity needs a state can completely jeopardize its own physical security’. Ontological security can explain state actions for which conventional explanations are inadequate: the actions of Belgium contradict the assumption that states seek their own survival; rather, ‘ontological Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 security . . . demonstrate(s) how an ontological security approach helps make intelligible the seemingly irrational Belgian decision to ¿ ght the German army’ (Steele 2008a: 96). Thus ontological security, identity and reÀ exivity can explain state actions for which conventional explanations are inadequate. To consider the rupture of an identity narrative in a situation of ontological insecurity, the idea of ‘shame’ is important. Giddens (1984: 55) outlines the Memory, trauma and ontological security 25 concept of shame as produced by ‘the fear of transgression’, which implicates shame with regard to self-identity. Steele clari¿ es:

Individuals who break laws feel ‘guilty’, whereas no formalized rule needs to be compromised for shame to be produced. Thus, shame is a much more private sense of transgression and produces a deeper feeling of insecurity because it means that someone behaved in a way that he or she felt was inconsistent with their sense of identity. (Steele 2008a: 53, emphasis original)

Steele illustrates this concept in IR with regard to humanitarian intervention. A state that does not intervene while genocide is carried out may feel shame because a failure to do so might challenge the self-identity of the state as an entity that does not condone genocide. Of course, this type of ontological security- seeking behaviour – a military intervention – creatively engages past traumas while creating new ones through violence and physical dislocation. Steele provides examples of shame in states’ internal discursive articulation of identity in the case of military intervention in the Balkans. In Britain, there is continuity throughout statements advocating intervention and likening the Serb treatment of ethnic Albanians in Kosovo to the Jewish Holocaust during World War II. British shame regarding Chamberlain’s appeasement of Hitler during World War II can be understood as leading Britain to act in Kosovo, in order to reaf¿ rm British identity as a state that does not appease dictators and to ameliorate the shame from World War II. Similarly, the US acted because of shame felt by the Clinton administration following a lack of action in Rwanda in 1994 (Steele 2008a). Returning to the example of the US post-9/11, the identity narrative of the state can be understood as ruptured in the face of the traumatic experience. The US prior to the terrorist attacks had not faced an attack on its own soil since Pearl Harbor and had not faced large numbers of civilian deaths at the hands of a hostile foreign power. Thus the biographical narrative presented the US as practically untouchable. Steele (2008b) outlines two elements of US biographical identity that have been ‘discursively prominent’ and can be considered relevant to US state action following the terrorist attacks: the ¿ rst identity is that of ‘American exceptionalism’, based on the unique political, geographic and cultural traits of America; the second is that of physical strength. Steele notes that the ‘strength’ aspect of identity was pervasive during the Cold War, but that:

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 . . . far from securing the identity of the agent who professes such strength, the result of such an emphasis has been perpetual insecurity – if one is comprehensively strong then that strength is under continuous threat. This consistent insecurity is not only created physically (regarding visible threats) but ontologically (challenging the agent’s sense of being). (Steele 2008b: 248) 26 Alexandria J. Innes and Brent J. Steele Thus the attacks represent a rupture to the ‘strength’ aspect of identity and create ontological insecurity. Prospective state action might be inÀ uenced by state identity and shame, in that a state will act in a way that is consistent with its biographical narrative to avoid feeling shame, or to reinforce internal honour (Steele 2008b). Steele emphasizes, in particular, trauma situations that create an opening for biographical narratives of states to be rewritten by political actors, who might then revisit old feelings of shame or generate shame with regard to old events, disrupting ontological security. Returning to the case of the 9/11 terrorist attacks and the subsequent ‘War on Terror’, US actions can be understood as a reaf¿ rmation of identity in the face of ontological insecurity. The US rearticulated its identity in opposition to the terrorist ‘Other’, and implemented illiberal policies such as extraordinary rendition, torture and inde¿ nite detention. In part, this can be explained by the ‘shame’ of being vulnerable to a terrorist attack and the need to reassert ‘strength’. The space to rewrite history is apparent. What is particularly interesting in the case of the US is the move away from the liberal core of the US Constitution and the use of illiberal policies, such as the Absconder Apprehension Initiative. Steele (2008b) looks to the example of the use of torture and detainee abuses in the US ‘War on Terror’ to understand the role of shame and dishonour in the reconstitution of American identity. First, detainee abuses can be explained by the American identity of strength, with America reinforcing and reclaiming that strength in the face of its enemies, and thus re- establishing that aspect of identity. However, detainee abuses and the use of torture conÀ ict with the liberal ideals and natural rights at the heart of the US Constitution, leading to the reÀ exive consideration of US identity. For example, Jane Mayer (2008) references Navy general counsel Alberto J. Mora, asserting that:

[T]he Constitution recognizes that man has an inherent right, not bestowed by the state or laws, to personal dignity, including the right to be free of cruelty. It applies to all human beings, not just in America – even those designated as ‘unlawful enemy combatants’. (Mayer 2008, cited in Steele 2010: fn. 19)

Further to that, Steele cites John McCain’s statement that:

[W]e are Americans, and we hold ourselves to human standards of treatment of people no matter how evil or terrible they may be. To do otherwise . . . undermines our greatness as a nation. We are not simply any other country. (Steele 2008b: 254) Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017

Thus the ontological insecurity created space for the political act of reconstituting identity via the ruptured biographical narrative. The terrorist attacks of 9/11 arguably provoked a third level that undermined the global institutional order, in that the actor that carried out such a huge and destructive attack was a non-state entity. In IR theories of war and conÀ ict, the main actors are states. Al-Qaeda demonstrated the potential of a non-state actor Memory, trauma and ontological security 27 to carry out massive destruction to a state and thus undermined the order of relations in international affairs. Thus the state of the discipline of IR can be seen as ruptured and the way in which statesmen understand the world can be seen as ruptured. The assumption of states as the power holders of international politics is called into question by the action of a non-state actor (Mendelsohn 2005). We might end this section of the chapter by consulting ontological security theory for insight into a key example of social change: the ‘Arab Spring’. Events in Tunisia, Egypt and Libya in particular show that the order established by an authoritarian institutional framework was disrupted, creating ontological insecurity. The social movements were dependent on a collective identity and set of goals that broke down the extant institutional framework. Thus the rearticulating of an identity narrative and the reconstruction of social order rely on maintaining the collective identity that was created in opposition to the former authority. In this way, ontological security can offer insight into the process of social movements and social change. Rather than predicting when social change might happen, ontological security theory looks at the security and identity implications of social change, and at how this might affect political interactions internationally, as the 2011 Egyptian revolution illustrates. The Egyptian revolution began in January 2011 and culminated with the ousting of President Hosni Mubarak on 11 February 2011. The protests were initially against the heavy-handed policies of Mubarak’s regime, corruption, economic issues, and a draconian state-of-emergency law that extended police powers, restricted constitutional rights, banned protesting and social action, and permitted censorship. The protests incorporated numerous domestic opposition groups who came together against these issues, including: Youth for Justice and Freedom; the Popular Democratic Movement for Justice and Change; the National Association for Change; and political parties Ghad, Karama, Wafd, Democratic Front and the Muslim Brotherhood, the biggest opposition group in Egypt and considered illegal under Mubarak’s regime. Returning to Huysmans’ understanding of ontological security in the order of the institutions of social life, the revolution demonstrates a collective movement with the intention of overthrowing the extant order. Political commentators have considered Egyptian common identity in opposition to Mubarak’s regime to be indicative of the success of the revolution and the establishment of functioning democracy (Bender 2011; Murphy 2011). However, following the ousting of Mubarak, the military took over administration of the country in an intermediate period before the scheduling of democratic elections. During this time, disputes arose involving Coptic Christians in Egypt. In October 2011, clashes between the military and Coptic Christians left 26 people Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 dead in Egypt, leading to reÀ ection on the role that Coptic Christians play in Egyptian collective identity. Copts are native Egyptian Christians and thus Coptic inclusion in national identity is dif¿ cult to contest. Coptic Christians cannot be considered an external ‘Other’, yet they have been historically persecuted in Egypt as a religious minority. The divisions between Copts and Muslims in Egypt have been evident following the fall of Mubarak’s regime, suggesting that the collective identity that arose to contest the regime is reaf¿ rming itself to exclude 28 Alexandria J. Innes and Brent J. Steele Coptic Christians in Egypt. The Copts, then, represent the internal ‘Other’. Further, the historic persecution of Copts in Egypt can potentially function as a trauma that allows the group to consolidate against Muslim opposition, deepening ethnic and religious differences. The ontological insecurity that is evident as a result of the breaking down of the extant order by the revolution simultaneously provokes the constitution of identity against an internal Other, as the work of Kinnvall and Skey suggests occurs as a result of uncertainty in existence. In the rewriting or the af¿ rmation of national identity, the Muslim identity is con- solidated against Coptic Christians. There are, of course, dissenting voices to this af¿ rmation of national identity: for example, Egyptian newspaper Al-Jumhuriya asserted that, ‘after two days of riots and lack of security it is time to reÀ ect . . . and to realize what has been true throughout history: “Religion is for God, Egypt is for everyone”’ (BBC News 2011). Ontological security theory here is relevant to understanding the reconstitution of society in the event of social change and divisions that emerge within the national identity as a mechanism through which to regain ontological security as part of a collective identity that may or may not encompass all members of the state.

Concluding remarks Ontological security has made signi¿ cant contributions to IR literature at the individual and societal levels, looking at the behaviour of individuals within states and the ways in which the community of the state both seeks to provide security for its members, but is also threatened by the presence of others. Ontological security has perhaps more signi¿ cantly been scaled up to offer an understanding of a state’s identity and the way in which that identity experiences security or insecurity of being. Through a consideration of state identity constituted via a biographical narrative and via social relations with other states in the milieu of the international system, ontological security-seeking at the level of the state offers unique insight into state actions in times of crisis or trauma. Situations of trauma and crisis highlight ontological insecurity, and have the capacity to explain state actions that appear counter-intuitive to the traditional security literature. The relationship between trauma, collective memory and ontological security is a growing research area. What remains to be investigated includes the ways in which ontological security theory can provide insight into the relationship between trauma and national narratives, how such narratives smooth out the opened traumatic space or rupture, or how they can serve to reopen past traumas. Thus, while our chapter and this volume gesture towards the ways in which Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 trauma and memory implicate ontological security, more investigation on what ontological security can offer to the broader study of trauma in IR could prove useful and productive. National collective identity, constituted via a collective (auto)biographical narrative, can be a particularly revealing focus in times of social change, given that change might simultaneously threaten and reaf¿ rm that identity. In times when social change occurs and the routines of a particular society are disrupted Memory, trauma and ontological security 29 in a traumatic way – for example through violent revolution – the need to recreate a sense of ontological security is all the more evident. This security might be regained by turning to ethnic, religious or cultural identi¿ cations – themselves resources not only for identity, but also for narratives about the Self – that can prove simultaneously to include and exclude. While the Arab Spring of 2011 is not a closed historical event and, as such, the repercussions and social changes are ongoing, consideration of these events highlights the insight offered by an ontological security analysis in global politics. Ontological security theory provides a valuable means of explaining developing social divisions in transitioning societies. Many of these questions invite further study and this burgeoning research area has much potential in the future of IR theory. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 2 Transitional justice Politics of memory and reconciliation

Hun Joon Kim

Introduction One of the most pressing concerns facing governments and policymakers today is the question of how human rights violations by previous regimes and from past periods of conÀ ict should be addressed. New democracies and states in the fragile post-peace settlement phase are confronted by the need to make crucial decisions about whether to hold perpetrators of human rights violations accountable for their actions and, if they choose to do so, about the best mechanisms with which to achieve that end. Since the 1980s, post-transitional states have increasingly opted in favour of accountability for human rights violations, and have used a wide range of measures such as prosecution, truth-telling, lustration of police and security forces, reparations, judicial reform, exhumations and reburials, memorialization and other guarantees of non-repetition (Roht-Arriaza 2002: 97). The recent wave of democratization and armed conÀ icts in the Middle East and North Africa suggests that this new tendency, which has been termed ‘the justice cascade’ or a ‘revolution in accountability’, will continue in the twenty-¿ rst century (Lutz and Sikkink 2001). This chapter aims to survey various approaches to the politics of memory focusing on addressing past human rights violations in transitional countries, and to explore the theoretical debates that have arisen around the practices and process of transitional justice. It ¿ rst explores the de¿ nition of transitional justice and surveys different measures, focusing on human rights prosecutions and truth commissions. It then summarizes the development of transitional justice over the last three decades, focusing on three key debates in the ¿ eld: prosecution versus pardon; retributive versus restorative justice; and a bottom-up versus a top-down approach. It goes on to explore two recent debates on the causes and Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 impacts of transitional justice measures, and concludes by examining the practical implications of these debates.

Transitional justice The debates in the politics of memory are nowadays centred on the issue of transitional justice in countries experiencing political transition (Onken 2007: 26). Transitional justice 31 The politics of memory can occur at three different levels of politics: domestic, bilateral and regional/international (Onken 2007: 25). The ‘politics of memory’ often refers to the practice whereby ‘societies rework the past in a wider cultural arena, both during the transitions and after of¿ cial transitional policies have been implemented and even forgotten’ (Barahona de Brito et al. 2001: 2–3). In a sense, transitional justice is one of the important phases within the long-term process of the politics of memory, which covers ‘unof¿ cial social initiatives and the wider politics of memory transcending of¿ cial efforts and extending beyond the initial transitional period’ (Barahona de Brito et al. 2001: 3). Transitional justice has often been understood as ‘the conception of justice associated with periods of political change, characterized by legal responses to confront the wrongdoings of repressive predecessor regimes’ (Teitel 2003: 69). Here, I propose a broader understanding of transitional justice by expanding the horizon not only of transition as a political change from repressive predecessor regimes, but also of justice as a legal response. I begin from a broad understanding of transitional justice that includes ‘justice associated with periods of political change’ and with the ‘movement from repressive regimes to democratic societies’, as well as transitions from conÀ ict to peace. ‘Transitional justice’ was ¿ rst used to refer to trials and truth commissions associated with the ‘third wave’ of democratic transitions from authoritarian/Communist regimes in the 1980s and early 1990s (Teitel 2003). However, starting in the mid-1990s, the parameters of transition broadened into areas traditionally referred to by scholars as ‘conÀ ict resolution’. Here, transition occurs when countries recover from the instability and turmoil of civil wars. In recent times, this spillover of transitional justice into conÀ ict resolution has been the result of changing practices in world politics. In the face of new ethnic and civil conÀ icts in the former Yugoslavia, Rwanda and El Salvador, diplomats, peace negotiators and international organizations considered – and actually adopted – trials and truth commissions before, during and after conÀ ict resolution. Therefore transitional justice measures such as criminal prosecutions or truth commissions have been used within these two distinct political contexts. Whether these measures are intrinsically different or may have a different impact on transitional societies are empirical questions, but scholars and practitioners refer to transitional justice as a relevant factor in both political settings. Similarly, the concept of justice embedded in traditional understandings of transitional justice has been expanded beyond its original focus on ‘legal responses . . . to the wrongdoings of repressive predecessor regimes’ to reÀ ect a broad understanding of justice. Although some scholars and practitioners Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 still believe that the importance of criminal prosecutions remains ‘unrivalled’ compared with other measures (see Freeman 2006: 10), the world has also seen a dramatic increase in both formal and of¿ cial responses such as truth commissions, reparations and vetting, and in informal and customary practices. What unites these different understandings of justice – particularly where issues of transitional justice are concerned – is that each seeks to achieve accountability for serious crimes, including human rights violations, committed during the past. 32 Hun Joon Kim Accountability means that ‘some actors have the right to hold other actors to a set of standards, then judge whether they have ful¿ lled their responsibility and to impose sanctions if they determine these responsibilities have not been met’ (Keohane and Grant 2005: 29). Although such transitional justice measures take diverse forms of political, economic, social and (quasi)legal measures, they usually have at least one of four interrelated understandings of justice at their core: retributive, interpretative, distributive and/or rectifying perspectives.

• Retribution – which is often understood as the most traditional understanding of justice as ‘an eye for an eye’ – is manifested in judicial activities such as criminal or civil proceedings and subsequent punishments for perpetrators. • Justice also contains an interpretative element, which includes an establishment of suppressed and distorted facts, and involves rewriting new narratives in of¿ cial documents and history textbooks. Interpretation could be manifested either under an institutional setting such as a truth commission or under the less formal setting of apologies. • Distribution usually refers to economic activities, and includes reparation or compensation for the losses of the past. Recently, this aspect has been emphasized in recovering stolen assets from former dictators and using them as a source for reparations (Carranza 2008). • Finally, recti¿ cation is the restoration of the prior political and social status of the victims and their family members through restitution or rehabilitation.

These are ideal types of accountability and, in reality, these ideal types often occur in combination. Criminal prosecution, for example, contains not only the notion of retribution by punishing accused perpetrators, but also that of interpretation by revealing and establishing a new factual truth.

Transitional justice measures Human rights trials take the form of a prosecution of individual perpetrators on the charge of past human rights violations. Criminal prosecutions in a domestic court have been most widely used since 1980, but states increasingly adopt other forms. These include prosecution in foreign or regional courts, as in the Pinochet case (Roht-Arriaza 2005), ad hoc international criminal tribunals, such as the Inter- national Criminal Tribunals for the former Yugoslavia and Rwanda (Bass 2000), and the International Criminal Court (ICC) (Akhavan 2001). Recently, states such Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 as East Timor, Cambodia and Sierra Leone used innovative criminal prosecutions in hybrid – some combination of domestic, foreign and international – courts. Through trials, individual criminal accountability and criminal charges are ¿ led against an individual in order to seek criminal responsibilities for human rights violations during his or her term in public of¿ ce. Some trials involve former heads of state and high-level of¿ cials, but trials of lower-level of¿ cials, including police of¿ cers and prison guards, also take place. Transitional justice 33 A truth commission is an of¿ cial government body temporarily set up to investigate a past history of human rights violations and to submit an of¿ cial report (Hayner 2001). Truth commissions issue an of¿ cial report showing the interpretative aspect of transitional justice measures – but they do not con¿ ne their goals to interpretation. Other of¿ cially proclaimed goals include: to discover, clarify and formally acknowledge past abuses; to restore the dignity of the victim and to facilitate the victim’s right to know; to contribute to justice and accountability; to outline governmental responsibility and recommend reforms; to promote reconciliation and reduce conÀ ict; and to establish the legitimacy of the new regime (Hayner 2001: 98; Minow 1998: 88). Truth commissions usually have a mandate of between six months and two years, and the mandate is set in advance with the possibility of an extension (Dancy et al. 2010). Some truth commissions are empowered with certain rights and privileges, such as subpoena, search and seizure, or witness protection; all are endowed with resources and independent legal status. Other transitional justice measures exist besides trials and truth commissions. For example, lustration, purge and vetting have been adopted by several post- Communist governments in Europe. Such measures take the form of adopting laws that bar former government of¿ cials and Party members from public employ- ment (Ellis 1996; Schwartz 1994). Reparation is to ‘render justice by removing or redressing the consequences of the wrongful acts and by preventing and deterring violation’, and to this end restitution, compensation, rehabilitation, satisfaction and guarantees of non-repetition are included (van Boven 1993).

Three debates in transitional justice In order to understand the development of the concept of transitional justice, we have to explore the history of three key debates that have preoccupied both scholars and practitioners of transitional justice for the last two decades. The historical development of the debate is important because it provides a precondition for the broader understanding of transitional justice and lays out the contexts for the recent developments. Three key debates in transitional justice have emerged around three sets of dichotomous extremes:

1 prosecution vs pardon (often referred to as ‘trial vs amnesty’ or ‘justice vs peace’); 2 retributive vs restorative justice (‘justice vs truth’, ‘a perpetrator-focused vs victim-centred approach’ or ‘a backward-looking vs forward-looking approach’); and Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 3 a top-down vs bottom-up approach (‘a state-led vs civil society-initiated approach’ or ‘an international vs local approach’).

Prosecution vs pardon In the early phase, the fault line was drawn mainly between international lawyers and social scientists around the morality, legality and ef¿ cacy of criminal 34 Hun Joon Kim proceedings against former state of¿ cials.1 Lawyers endorsed the criminal prosecution of the perpetrators based on both deontological and utilitarian perspectives (Neier 1990; Orentlicher 1991; Roht-Arriaza 1990). Scholars believed that criminal prosecution was either a necessary moral and legal response to criminal offences or useful in endorsing the criminal system and the rule of law, thus preventing future abuses through deterrence. These scholars explicitly opposed amnesties and questioned the instrumental function of amnesties to bring peace or stability in transitional countries (see Bass 2008). On the contrary, scholars of democratization believed that this rising demand for accountability in Latin America was a fad that would go away with the passage of time. Huntington (1991: 228), for example, observed that no effective criminal prosecution and punishment occurred in most transitional countries, and concluded: ‘In new democratic regimes, justice comes quickly or it does not come at all.’ Similarly, O’Donnell and Schmitter (1986: 29) predicted that such prosecutions would become less likely as ‘the bitterness of memories attenuated with the passage of time’ in transitional societies. These scholars openly supported the positive function of amnesties in bringing democratization, while others proposed a balanced approach in which both ethical principles and political constraints were considered (Zalaquett 1992). This debate over punishment versus pardon exploded with the creation of the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) in 1993. Sceptics of criminal prosecutions vehemently criticize the Tribunal for obstructing the ongoing peace process, and thus prolonging a war of human suffering (Anonymous 1996; D’Amato 1994), and lawyers and human rights activists responded to these critiques supporting the Tribunal (Gaer 1997; Mendez 1997). The debate continued and intensi¿ ed over the signing of the Rome Statute of the ICC in July and the arrest of Pinochet in London in October 1998 (Roht-Arriaza 2005). Both events instigated a debate over the question of universal jurisdiction (Kissinger 2001; Roth 2001) and the debate over justice versus peace continued among scholars (Sriram 2004). For example, Snyder and Vinjamuri (2003) made a strong argument based on empirical data that human rights trials themselves could increase the likelihood of future atrocities, exacerbate conÀ ict and undermine efforts to create democracy. In particular, they suggested that, during civil wars, insurgents would not sign peace agreements if they feared that they would be held accountable for past abuses; Snyder and Vinjamuri also maintained that a prolonged war would seriously exacerbate human rights violations. This debate is still ongoing, and has been revived in the cases of Darfur, Sudan, Egypt, Northern Uganda and Libya.

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Retributive justice vs restorative justice Simultaneously with the debate over punishment versus pardon, scholars started to notice a new and potentially powerful alternative to criminal prosecutions: truth commissions. As long ago as 1988, an international group of experts unanimously agreed on ‘the central importance of establishing and acknowledging the truth about past violations’ (Henkin 1989). Consequently, truth commissions were used frequently in Latin America and scholars started to make Transitional justice 35 positive assessments of the ef¿ cacy of truth commissions – for example, in Chile and El Salvador (Buergenthal 1994; Ensalaco 1994; Weissbrodt and Fraser 1992). A scholarly divide over truth versus justice emerged with the creation of the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) in 1995, which was claimed to be a deliberate ‘third-way’ decision overcoming both criminal prosecution and impunity (Tutu 1999). This added another dimension to the ‘prosecution versus pardon’ debate by continuing to criticize criminal prosecutions, but eschewing impunity. This debate revolved around the issue of what kinds of justice should be prioritized, and it certainly was a development from the ¿ rst debate in which the main goal was to ¿ ght against immunity (Fletcher and Weinstein 2002: 584). The debate was initially framed as ‘truth vs justice’ (Rotberg and Thompson 2000), but soon expanded to become a debate over retributive justice versus restorative justice as a result of its focus on other measures such as reparations. Critics of punitive justice point out that criminal prosecution is ‘a struggle against perpetrators, rather than an effort on behalf of victims’ (De Greiff 2006: 2; Nagy 2009: 166). Considered from the retributive perspective, the purpose of justice is to establish blame for wrongs committed and to administer punishment, and the central driving force of retributive forms of justice is thus the simple belief that ‘wrongdoing must be punished’ (Sriram 2004: 7). However, this misses other aspects of justice that increasingly are being conceived in reparative or restorative terms. At its most basic, reparative justice seeks to repair damage or harm that has been inÀ icted unjustly on an individual, group or state. In its ideal extreme, it is ‘designed to re-establish the situation prior to . . . [a] wrongful act or omission’ and by doing so it acts to ‘wipe out all consequences of the illegal’ – or indeed immoral – act (Pasqualucci 1996: 25; Sohn and Baxter 1961: 545–6). Reparative justice may be administered through a formal legal system or via informal community or grassroots processes. It commonly does so through truth-telling, apologies and reparations. Thus scholars and practitioners argue that the restoration of social relationships – which is forward-looking in contrast to the backward-looking nature of criminal prosecution – should be the most important goal of transitional justice (Fletcher and Weinstein 2002).

Top-down vs bottom-up The most recent debate around transitional justice was formed in response to international expansion of transitional justice. As growing numbers of countries began to adopt transitional justice measures, international organizations started to adopt and promote transitional justice as one of their policy goals. For example, Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 new international non-government organizations (NGOs) such as the International Center for Transitional Justice (ICTJ) have emerged, and many old NGOs such as Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch have included transitional justice in their programmes. Since 2004, the United Nations has of¿ cially incorporated transitional justice as a major policy tool with which to promote and protect human rights in conÀ ict and post-conÀ ict societies. Although the United Nations clearly states that it tries to avoid ‘one size ¿ ts all’ approaches, international 36 Hun Joon Kim organizations such as the UN Of¿ ce of the High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR) or the UN Development Programme (UNDP), along with the ICC and donor states, have started to standardize the practice, and to demand accepted or standardized norms and practices to transitioning countries. Transitional justice has become something that is ‘normal, institutionalized, and mainstreamed’ (McEvoy and McGregor 2008: 16), and transitioning states are now ‘expected, encouraged, or even coerced’ to adopt transitional justice by ‘the international justice industry’ (Subotic 2009: 21). Researchers and practitioners in the ¿ eld have already noticed the side-effect of the top-down imposition of tribunals and truth commissions in many places, such as Sierra Leone, Rwanda, East Timor and Cambodia (Carranza 2008; Hinton 2010; Nagy 2009: 86; Shaw 2005: 8). Simultaneously, in places such as East Timor, Rwanda and Northern Uganda, local leaders and activists have started to use traditional and customary justice measures in order to address past atrocities (Quinn 2009). Since scholars have only recently witnessed this new development in local justice, it is still too early to tell which approach is more effective in terms of bringing peace. This debate over a top-down versus bottom-up approach resonates with the other debate over a state-led versus civil-society-led accountability process. International efforts are often referred to as transitional justice ‘from above’ in opposition to the efforts made by ‘grassroots actors’ (McEvoy and McGregor 2008: 5). In the early stage, scholars of transitional justice mostly focused on the decisions taken by the legitimate and responsible bodies of the government established after transition; similar efforts made by non-state actors were considered less relevant. However, scholars have recently started to value these efforts, and have found a symbiotic relationship between state-led projects and civil society projects (Bickford 2007).

Recent empirical ¿ ndings on transitional justice An interesting development is the dissolution of these debates over dichotomous extremes, both in practice and research. For example, a UN OHCHR report states that ‘the assumed tension between justice and peace has gradually dissolved’ over time (United Nations General Assembly 2011), and scholars recently noted that the previous debates are now being resolved in a way that both acknowledges and values the complementary role of each (Roht-Arriaza 2006: 8). Thus a new trend is emerging where diverse transitional justice measures are now applied simultaneously with local, national and international initiatives. The United Nations is promoting a ‘comprehensive’ approach and the ICTJ – which Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 initially focused on disseminating the South African model of truth commissions (Duncan Bell 2009b: 8) – now proclaims that it seeks holistic solutions to transitional justice. This comprehensiveness and wholeness extend not only to the choice of transitional justice measures, but also to the locale of justice – local, national or international. Often, hybridity is created between different elements of justice concepts, and between local and international efforts. The most recent scholarly debate is formed around two questions: ¿ rst, why and under what Transitional justice 37 conditions states are more likely to adopt transitional justice measures; and second, what is the impact of such measures on the future conditions of human rights, democracy and peace in transitional countries?

The adoption of transitional justice measures Recently, there have been scholarly attempts to integrate dispersed theories of the adoption from various disciplines and sub-disciplines of political science, sociology, criminology and law (Huyse 1995; Pion-Berlin 1994; Skaar 1999), but we still know very little about them. Moreover, despite the emergence of recent examples of cross-national analysis (Dancy and Poe 2006; Olsen et al. 2010a), the research has been dominated by case studies of a single nation or a small number of countries. Although the details of the transitional justice process can be traced closely in these case studies, the variations in the way in which decisions to adopt transitional justice measures are made within different countries cannot be examined easily. Thus it is necessary to test empirically the recurring and overlapping explanations for how states decide to use transitional justice measures to address past human rights violations. I have tested three key theories after surveying the existing literature in the ¿ elds of human rights, transitional justice, democratization and international relations (IR): the balance of power between old and new elites; transnational advocacy networks; and diffusion theory (Kim 2012). The validity of each theory has been attested to separately in case studies of individual countries, but has not yet been tested simultaneously in a cross-national study of global samples. Conducting a cross-national analysis, I found strong evidence to support the transnational advocacy networks and diffusion explanations. First, active domestic and international advocacy for individual criminal accountability proved to be a key factor guaranteeing persistent and frequent use of transitional justice measures. Since the 1990s, scholars have observed that the demand for justice and accountability from victims has become increasingly effective. This change was a puzzle, because the demand from the affected population had always been present, but had not always presented a politically effective advocacy for judicial accountability. In other words, the demand from victims had been a necessary condition, but not a suf¿ cient condition to explain the new tide of accountability. Scholars therefore started to pay attention to the increase in the number and effectiveness of domestic and international advocacy groups. Some scholars ¿ nd the role of individuals and civil society movements to be more important (Roht-Arriaza 2002), while others stress the role of international organizations Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 (Buergenthal 1994) in promoting trials. Scholars of IR had already discovered the important role of individuals and advocacy groups in bringing normative changes to politics (Finnemore 1996). Transnational advocacy networks theory provides a useful analytic framework for incorporating existing explanations at both the domestic and international levels (Finnemore and Sikkink 1998; Keck and Sikkink 1998). Advocacy networks are committed and knowledgeable actors who work on specialized issues, 38 Hun Joon Kim and promote causes and principled ideas and norms; they include international and domestic NGOs, the media, and parts of regional and international intergovernmental organizations (Keck and Sikkink 1998: 8–9). Advocacy networks pursue various strategies in order to achieve their intended goals within given domestic and international structures. Margaret Keck and Kathryn Sikkink (1998: 16) provide a useful categorization of the strategies used by advocacy networks: information politics, symbolic politics, leverage politics and accountability politics.

• Information politics refers to the ability to generate politically useful information quickly and credibly, and to move it to where it will have the most impact. • Symbolic politics refers to the ability to call upon symbols, actions or stories that make sense of a situation for an audience. • Leverage politics refers to the ability to call upon powerful actors to affect a situation in which weaker members of a network are unlikely to have inÀ uence. • Accountability politics refers to the effort to hold powerful actors to their previously stated policies or principles.

Second, diffusion theory was af¿ rmed, since transitional justice experience in neighbouring countries is a relevant factor. Interestingly, transitional countries are most sensitive to such measures adopted by other culturally or linguistically similar countries. ‘Diffusion’ refers to the process whereby ‘prior adoption of a trait or practice in a population alters the probability of adoption for remaining nonadopters’ (Strang 1991: 325). Diffusion occurs when the decision to proceed with a human rights prosecution or a truth commission in one country is inÀ u- enced by previous choices of other countries with an authoritarian past. In earlier studies of human rights prosecutions, the contagion effect was often introduced, but found insigni¿ cant because of a lack of evidence (Pion-Berlin 1994: 126). However, after witnessing the dramatic increase in human rights prosecutions around the globe, more scholars are suggesting that there is a diffusion of individual accountability (Roht-Arriaza 2002: 97; Sikkink and Walling 2007). However, I found that the power balance explanation – which has been the prevailing explanation – was valid only for the immediate use of transitional justice measures. The level of repression in the former authoritarian regime, the past history of political instability and prevailing current economic conditions were also relevant. My ¿ ndings provide the ¿ rst comprehensive test for three Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 key theories explaining the emergence and diffusion of transitional justice measures. When combined, these three theories adequately explain both the early and late adoption of transitional justice measures. By its very nature, the diffusion factor provides a relatively weak argument for the cases of global and regional pioneers of transitional justice measures, such as Argentina or South Korea. On the other hand, the balance of power and transnational advocacy factors, or some combination of the two, are strong determinants of the adoption of Transitional justice 39 transitional justice measures for those early adopters. However, as time passes in transitional societies, the power balance factor becomes increasingly less relevant, and the impact of transnational advocacy and peer pressure from like-minded countries grows stronger. In conclusion, it is a combination of peer pressure and transnational advocacy networks that explains the delayed transitional justice phenomenon.

The impact of transitional justice measures At the same time, scholars are making consequentialist arguments regarding the impact of transitional justice measures based on evidence from empirical data. However, recent empirical studies have not been able to resolve a decade-long debate over the effects of transitional justice measures. For example, Mendeloff (2004) ¿ nds many claims about the positive or negative effects of transitional justice, but relatively little solid evidence to support these claims, and Thoms et al. (2008), after reviewing 100 recent empirical studies, conclude that ‘empirical evidence of positive or negative effects is still insuf¿ cient to support strong claims’. In my collaborations with Kathryn Sikkink (Kim and Sikkink 2010, forthcoming in 2013), we addressed this problem by examining whether human rights prosecutions and truth commissions deter future violations of human rights in transitional countries. We collected new data on human rights prosecutions and truth commissions in transitional countries – both from authoritarian regimes and civil wars – between 1980 and 2004, and tested various hypotheses of the impact of transitional justice measures. We found that countries with transitional justice measures were less repressive than countries without such measures. Our study also showed that countries with more measures were less repressive than countries with fewer measures. In addition, countries with more neighbouring countries that used transitional justice measures were less repressive, which may suggest that individuals learn from the experiences of other countries to create a deterrence impact across borders. We also explored the theoretical mechanisms through which transitional justice measures exert such inÀ uences. Human rights prosecutions are not only instances of punishment or enforcement, but also high-pro¿ le symbolic events that communicate human rights and impunity norms, so it is dif¿ cult to separate the deterrent impact of punishment from the normative impact of socialization. We thus decided to compare the impact of prosecutions with that of truth commissions, which produce information and convey norms, but do not involve punishment. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 If it were only punishment that mattered, we would not expect truth commissions to have an effect. We found that both truth commissions and human rights prosecutions are associated with improvements in human rights practices. Thus we argue that both normative pressures and material punishment are at work in deterrence, and that the combination of the two – as in the case of prosecution combined with truth commissions – is more effective than either pure punishment or pure normative pressure alone. 40 Hun Joon Kim Our ¿ ndings provide the ¿ rst quantitative support for the existence of a positive effect of transitional justice measures, and thus suggest that the increased use of transitional justice measures such as human rights prosecutions and truth commissions around the world can be a valuable policy tool that can contribute to lessening repression. Our ¿ ndings suggest that more micro-level transitional justice policy responses such as prosecutions and truth commissions can also have an impact on human rights practices, thus providing policymakers with more viable short-term options. In the past, state of¿ cials faced few costs for committing human rights violations; now, they face more pressure, with the adoption of various transitional justice measures. The impact of transitional justice occurs mostly through the impact of such measures on new generations of military and police of¿ cers, and on civilian political leaders. Future military of¿ cers may decide that transitional justice measures such as prosecution have made repression and coups too costly and risky to use in the future. How these leaders calculate costs may vary: some may interpret the costs of prosecutions mainly in terms of the costs to the reputation and honour of the military or police as an institution, while others may calculate the costs in a more individual fashion. Future research needs to focus on the reactions of the military, police and other state of¿ cials to transitional justice measures in order to con¿ rm the exact mechanisms through which transitional justice leads to an improvement in human rights practices. We believe that the economic and political costs of formal sanctions (lost wages, litigation fees, the inability to participate in elections while being prosecuted or in prison), as well as the informal social and political costs that arise from the publicity surrounding the prosecutions (loss of reputation or legitimacy, and the resulting loss of political and social support), need to be taken into account in future research. In our most recent paper, we further found that not only those prosecutions that resulted in conviction, but also broader prosecution processes themselves, are associated with improvements in human rights conditions. We found that human rights prosecutions are especially effective in deterring future torture cases, and that even those prosecutions that ended in acquittals correlate with a lower inci- dence of torture. Second, we found that prosecution processes and convictions of high-level state of¿ cials appear to have a stronger deterrence effect when compared to prosecutions and convictions of low-level of¿ cials. In addition, high- level prosecutions and convictions are associated with improvements in a wider range of physical integrity rights. Our study shows that high-level prosecutions correlate with lower extrajudicial killing and use of torture (Kim and Sikkink forthcoming in 2013). Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 In this paper, we argue that while the whole ‘process of prosecution’ is likely to be associated with improvements in the human rights situation, those prosecutions that result in convictions appear to have a greater effect than those that do not. We believe that the fact that some prosecutions result in dismissals or acquittals for lack of evidence will not necessarily undermine a deterrence effect, but that a sustained failure to convict could diminish the belief in the likelihood of punishment. Second, human rights prosecutions are associated with Transitional justice 41 improvements in torture, even if they do not reach convictions or they end in acquittal. This has an important practical and theoretical implication: torture remains one of the most prevalent human rights violations; our study suggests that, regardless of the result, prosecuting torturers could be an effective tool to diminish torture. Often, human rights victims or human rights lawyers are dis- appointed or frustrated with any acquittal of a suspected perpetrators, but our study suggests that the even those processes may not be in vain: by means both of the process (arrest, detention, trials), and of public education and media exposure, prosecutions appear to improve human rights practices.

Concluding remarks What kind of implications do these recent empirical ¿ ndings have for future cases of transitional justice – not only for those countries still awaiting transition, but also for those countries experiencing the ‘fourth wave of democratization’ in the Middle East and North Africa? Even though the world has experienced the rise of transitional justice, the culture of impunity is still strong. It is therefore not surprising that we are witnessing stronger resistance to accountability after a transition like the Mubarak case in Egypt, or even resistance to stepping down from the leadership, as in the cases of Libya or Syria. In addition, with an increase in the use of a holistic approach, transitional justice measures are highly susceptible to criticism that emphasizes economic development, national unity and stability. Nevertheless, despite strong resistance to transitional justice, accountability eventually overcomes impunity in many cases. Increasing numbers of countries are adopting transitional justice measures to address the human rights violations of the distant past. My study shows that two conditions are critical for adopting transitional justice measures: ¿ rst, the development of democracy and its consolidation are important preconditions for achieving further accountability measures; second, strong and resilient domestic and international activism is a key to achieving transitional justice. As long as these two factors exist, the future is not so dark. Furthermore, the good news is that transitional justice measures generally have a positive impact in driving the improvement of human rights in the country post-transition.

Note 1 A landmark seminar was held in 1988 on the issue of state crimes, organized by the

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Aspen Institute. The seminar was framed as ‘punishment or pardon’. The seminar papers and discussions were later published in Henkin (1989). 3 Performing political apologies

Erin K. Wilson and Roland Bleiker

Introduction Atoning for past wrongs has become a major political phenomenon, so much so that some scholars refer to the era post Cold War as ‘the age of apology and forgiveness’ (Brooks 1999; Gibney et al. 2009; Lind 2010). They highlight the central role that apologies play in the wake of traumatic events. Societies that experienced a major conÀ ict often struggle to recreate a stable order. The memory of trauma can linger for decades, and give rise to new animosities and conÀ icts. Approaches to reconciliation that incorporate gestures of apology and forgiveness are said to signi¿ cantly reduce the risk of resurgent conÀ ict. The example of post- apartheid South Africa is often cited here (Tutu 1999), but scholars point towards the signi¿ cance of apologies in broader processes of reconciling individuals, communities and even states (Lind 2010). The purpose of this chapter is to explore these political linkages between trauma, memory and apologies. We do so by highlighting the crucial religious dimensions of apologies. Numerous scholars have, of course, already noted how notions of apology and forgiveness have their origin in Western religious traditions (Arendt 1998: 238; Celermajer 2009; McGonegal 2009: 19; Tutu 1999). Some even believe that the secular tradition lacks a viable precedent for public expressions of apologies and forgiveness. Danielle Celermajer (2009: 8), for instance, insists that only religious practices offer the kind of language and historical antecedents necessary for a genuine public apology. We explore the reasons why public apologies play a particularly inÀ uential role in breaking the vicious cycle that can arise after a major conÀ ict and trauma. We evaluate arguments that stress how apologies mark a turning point in the relationship between the parties to a conÀ ict. Apologies are said to reconstitute

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 the moral framework that governs the communities and direct them towards an alternative future built on equality, mutual dignity and respect (Celemajer 2009; McGonegal 2009). We argue that the performative dimensions of apologies are the key to understanding why they play such an inÀ uential role in coming to terms with traumatic events. It is not by accident that religious apologies were usually performed as part of services and rituals of atonement. These performative dimensions rendered the act of offering forgiveness far more powerful. It remained enshrined Performing political apologies 43 in the memory of those attending the service. And so it can be in politics: an apology is remembered as much by how it is given as by what it contains. It is through its performative dimension that an apology is most likely to become an important collective memory, inÀ uencing both collective representations of the conÀ ict and how future generations deal with its political residues. We illustrate the performative dimensions of apologies through a prominent example that took place in 1970, when Willy Brandt, the West German chancellor, silently knelt before the monument marking the Warsaw Ghetto uprising of 1943. This famous visual apology created international headlines, and was much discussed in both Poland and Germany. To this day, the photographs of this gesture remain inÀ uential – more so, perhaps, than any verbal repentance of the Holocaust. It is the performative nature of Brandt’s apology that made it both famous and part of the collective European memory of what it means to come to terms with the Nazi past. Drawing on insights from both religion and aesthetics, we make some preliminary conclusions regarding the performative power of apologies, emphasizing that political leaders should not simply focus on the words that are said, but also on the actions and rituals that are carried out as part of public collective apologies.

The politics of apologies Apologies have become an accepted and frequent component of contemporary politics. Coming to prominence in the latter half of the twentieth century, public apologies were initially a means of dealing with mass atrocities committed during World War II, speci¿ cally in relation to the Holocaust (Lind 2010: 1–2; Nobles 2008: 1–2). But in response to increasing humanitarian disasters and human rights violations, apologies have become an integral component of processes of reconciliation and peace-building. They are now largely recognized as an essential political tool for reconciling antagonistic groups within emerging democracies. At the same time, apologies have also become foreign policy instruments used by states to interact in the international community (Lind 2010; Seiple 2004). Several theories have been advanced to explain why apologies have become so prominent. Melissa Nobles (2008: 2) draws attention to what distinguishes apologies from other symbolic gestures, such as diplomatic agreements or monuments designed to commemorate traumatic events. She believes that apologies not only offer public recti¿ cations of the past, but ‘also morally judge, reassign responsibility, and introduce expectations about what acknowledgement of that history requires’. Used in this way, apologies can enable a recon¿ guration of the identity Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 of a political community. In particular, they may allow for excluded members of the community to become politically reintegrated. By acknowledging that an act of violence or any other trauma was wrong, an apology resets the moral framework in which the community operates and acknowledges that certain individuals or groups have experienced injustice (Celermajer 2009; Tutu 1999). Because apologies alter the norms of what was and is right and acceptable, they may bring dignity to those who have been wronged in the past. 44 Erin K. Wilson and Roland Bleiker The surge in political apologies has come in a variety of forms. The literature on apologies tends to classify them by two main sets of criteria: the actors who are offering the apology; and what is being apologized for. We now discuss each of these categories in turn, aiming not for a comprehensive analysis, but simply for a rudimentary appreciation of why apologies have become so politically salient. There are at least ¿ ve types of actor that have played important roles in offering political apologies. In discussing them, we draw heavily on the inÀ uential analysis undertaken by Michael Cunningham (1999).

• The ¿ rst group is individuals. A recent example can be seen in Australian citizens who sign ‘sorry books’ to Indigenous Australians as a gesture to acknowledge the fate of the ‘Stolen Generation’ – that is, the Aboriginal children who were forcefully removed from their parents. Although each of these gestures is private, they become political when taken together. Another prominent example of individual public apologies can be found in South African citizens apologizing to each other as part of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC). • The second group is professional and commercial organizations. Cunningham (1999: 285) here cites the New South Wales police commissioner apologizing for the role of the police force in the fate of the Stolen Generation. Other more recent examples include the 2009 apology from the chief executive of¿ cer of Goldman Sachs for mistakes made that contributed to the global ¿ nancial crisis, the way in which BP apologized to people living in the US Gulf Coast for the 2010 oil spill – or there is News Corporation apologizing for the way in which one of its À agship publications, News of the World, was involved in a major phone hacking scandal in the UK in 2011. • The third type of actor is religious organizations. Here, Cunningham (1999: 286) draws attention to particular orders of nuns and monks that were responsible for past abuses in their orphanages. Other examples are spiritual leaders offering public apologies, such as the Pope apologizing for atrocities committed during the Crusades and for the role of the Catholic Church in the Holocaust (Cunningham 1999: 286; Celermajer 2009: 25). • Fourth, Cunningham (1999: 286–7) highlights political leaders as another signi¿ cant group of actors to offer apologies. Examples whom he includes are Bill Clinton, apologising for medical experiments carried out on African- Americans, and Queen Elizabeth II, apologising on behalf of the Crown (not the government) for wrongs done to Maoris in New Zealand. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 • Fifth, and perhaps most politically salient, are public apologies offered by states. Examples that stand out here are apologies given by the Japanese government for the treatment of prisoners of war during World War II, or by the Canadian government for its treatment of native people.

A more recent example of a state apology that is worth describing in more depth is the Dutch government’s apology in December 2011 for the Rawagedeh Performing political apologies 45 massacre in Indonesia in 1947. The Rawagedeh massacre occurred as part of the anti-colonial struggle for Indonesia’s independence that occurred between July 1947 and January 1949. The Dutch military entered Rawagedeh in search of Lukas Kustario, a commander in the Indonesian Siliwangi division. The following is an account of the massacre given by Kustario himself:

On December 9, in the evening hours, Dutch soldiers forced their way into the village. The men were assembled on a ¿ eld thirty meters wide in front of the community house. The soldiers asked where Lukas was hanging out and threatened to kill the villagers if they would not hand me over to them. When everyone remained silent, they opened ¿ re. In cold blood. At that moment most victims fell. (Quoted in Houben 1997: 60)

Estimates of the dead vary from 150 (of¿ cial Dutch estimates) to 433 (the ¿ gure given by the Muslim cleric of Rawagedeh) (Houben 1997: 65–6). An of¿ cial UN investigation into the atrocity in 1948 declared that the act had been intentional and without mercy (Houben 1997: 66). While in 1949, the Dutch government expressed ‘regret’ for the incident, it was not until 9 December 2011 that the government offered an of¿ cial apology (Dutch News 2012; News Desk 2011). Even then, the apology was offered only after the ruling of a Dutch court that the government was liable for damages suffered by the next-of-kin of the victims and ordered to pay compensation (Dutch News 2012; News Desk 2011). Tjeerd de Zwaan, Dutch ambassador to Indonesia, attended a ceremony in the village, where he formally apologized for the actions of the Dutch military (de Zwaan 2011). There are disagreements concerning which form of state apology is most effective. For some, an apology offered by a head of state is more effective than if the same apology were merely expressed as a government policy. If pronounced by a major political leader, the apology is seen as gaining additional symbolic value. As noted above, Michael Cunningham gives the example of Queen Elizabeth II apologizing for wrongs done to New Zealand Maoris during the colonial period. This form of apology is, in some ways, the prevailing practice in the West, where apologies have traditionally been thought of as an essentially private act between individuals – as a gesture that occurs within personal relationships (Celermajer 2009: 1–2). Such a private gesture, even if expressed by a head of state, is rather different from a public act that is rati¿ ed and pronounced by the political body as a whole. This is why some scholars, such as Melissa Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Nobles (2008), believe that an apology given by a head of state ultimately does not carry the same signi¿ cance as one given of¿ cially by a political entity, such as a government or a parliament. This is the case, Nobles argues, because of¿ cial state apologies are ‘the results of deliberative processes and have frequently been accompanied by monetary compensation’ (Nobles 2008: 5). A second main way of categorizing apologies – after considering the actors that express them – is to examine what they actually apologize for. Here, we distinguish 46 Erin K. Wilson and Roland Bleiker between historical apologies and contemporary apologies. In doing so, we rely on the analysis undertaken by Danielle Celermajer (2009: 15), although we use a different vocabulary from that of Celermajer. Historical apologies address injustices that occurred in the remote past. Such apologies often deal with situations in which either the perpetrators or the victims, or both, are no longer alive. As a result, it is no longer possible either to admit personal responsibility for crimes or to receive a personal apology for them. Most public apologies fall in this historical category. This, in turn, creates a particular challenge since, as Celermajer (2009: 15) acknowledges, determining responsibility and attributing agency is unusually dif¿ cult in historical apologies. Descendants of people or groups who committed past crimes may not feel personally responsible for them, and thus might have a certain reluctance to admit guilt and responsibility. This was the view of former Australian prime minister John Howard and one of the key reasons why he refused to offer a formal apology to members of the Stolen Generation (Barta 2008). Still, there are numerous prominent examples of historical apologies, including, of course, the various private and public apologies for crimes committed during the Holocaust. So inÀ u- ential have they been that state-sanctioned apologies for these crimes were, arguably, the catalyst for many subsequent forms of political apologies. Among them are apologies that seek to rectify colonialism, imperialism and race-related discrimination. A prominent example here is former US President Bill Clinton apologizing for US support of dictators throughout Africa during the Cold War period (Celemajer 2009: 27). Contemporary apologies, by contrast, take place in contexts in which the trauma is recent. Victims and perpetrators are facing the challenge of living and working alongside one another in rebuilding their communities. Contemporary apologies tend to take place in the immediate aftermath of conÀ ict and societal breakdown. The South African TRC is perhaps the best-known example of a situation in which contemporary apologies were used as tools for peace-building and reconciliation. It must be acknowledged, though, that the TRC promoted apologies and forgiveness at the level of civil society, which is a different approach from those involving of¿ cial government apologies. Celermajer (2009: 40–2) also refers to apologies offered by President Wahid of Indonesia and his successor, President Megawati Sukarnoputri, for human rights violations in East Timor, Aceh and Irian Jaya. Then there are the public apologies by US President Clinton, as well as by the prime minister of Belgium, Guy Verhofstadt, for failing to respond adequately to the Rwandan genocide. The difference between historical and contemporary memory has direct impli- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 cations for the politics of memory. In fact, the very distinction between apologies for long past traumas and those for more recent wrongs echoes a distinction that Duncan Bell (2003: 63–81) urges us to make about the concept of memory. He believes that the concept of memory should not be used loosely to refer to collective representations of history. There are far too many different aspects involved here. Recalling a trauma that took place three generations ago is very different from trying to come to terms with recent events. This is why Bell urges us to limit Performing political apologies 47 the concept of memory to the experiences of people who directly witnessed and shared events in question. Memory, he argues, is always anchored in common experience, as is the case, for instance, with the South African TRC. Apologies here take place between and among people who have been directly affected by the trauma. Such encounters are – if we follow Bell’s logic – very different from dealing with the memory of long past events. For him, recalling such events is not an issue of memory, but one of myth: a process of establishing a common set of assumptions about what took place in the past and how the respective events are to be remembered. This process is shaped by numerous factors, from media representation, to school curricula and linguistic conventions. Offering apologies in such a context is thus a very different political process. It is not a face-to-face encounter, but an attempt to inÀ uence how past events have come to be represented in public discourses, and how these representations shape the identities and lives of the descendants to the parties involved in the original trauma.

The religious origins of apology and forgiveness While public apologies have become an established part of contemporary political discourse, there remain a range of open questions and contradictions. One of them is the central – but still largely underestimated – religious dimensions of the issues at stake. The actual religious origin of apologies and forgiveness is not disputed (Arendt 1998: 238; McGonegal 2009: 19; Tutu 1999). But these religious origins also put the politics of apologies in direct confrontation with contemporary political practices, which largely revolve around the secular principle of separating church and state, as well as religion and politics. It is thus not surprising that there have been few attempts to explore how the religious origins of apology and forgiveness inÀ uence processes of reconciliation. One of the notable exceptions is Celermajer (2009), whose study suggests that exploring the religious origins of apology is crucial for developing a more nuanced understanding of the public dimensions of public apologies. The very idea of apologizing – of admitting wrongdoing and exposing one’s vulnerabilities – goes against the logic that prevails within the rational secular political realm. It also goes against the grain of prevailing masculine understandings of political leadership. Added to this is the fact that there are numerous pragmatic reasons against asking for forgiveness: apologizing for past actions of a state can easily expose a government to demands for reparations from injured parties (Lind 2010). Viewed from these perspectives, the recent surge in public apologies Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 seems rather intriguing. Further investigations into these contradictory sides are thus in order. At a minimum, one needs to look beyond the immediate history of collective apologies and understand the extent to which their religious roots continue to shape the politics of forgiveness. Danielle Celemajer (2009) offers a particularly revealing example. She traces the history of apologies back in time, examining practices that range from Jewish atonement services to private Christian rituals, up to their secular reincarnations 48 Erin K. Wilson and Roland Bleiker today. She argues that understanding contemporary public apologies requires a deeper appreciation of the ancient Jewish rituals – particularly those related to teshuvah (repentance) and Yom Kippur. She justi¿ es her argument by highlighting that ‘the Jewish tradition privileges the constructive role of collective symbolic action and speech and encodes it as part of a suite of reparative acts that work in concert to effect not only individual but, more importantly, collective transformation’ (Celermajer 2009: 65). Taking the Jewish practice of repentance (teshuvah) as an example, one can identify three key elements that are still relevant to today’s secular and often liberal politics of apologies.

• First, teshuvah provides both a conceptual framework and a physical set of practices that ‘transcend the apparent contradiction between individual and collective responsibility’ (Celemajer 2009: 67). • Second, teshuvah provides insight into how apologies contribute to the reshaping of collective identities. • Third, teshuvah offers a kind of map that sketches ‘the relationship among speech, action, and being that does not reduce speech to mere representation’ (Celermajer 2009: 67) – that is, while language is important, the politics of apologies also has other, more symbolic dimensions, including those associated with gestures and rituals.

Let us follow Celemajer’s example of Jewish atonement rituals a step further and look at the Jewish holy day of Yom Kippur, as outlined in Leviticus 16. The respective atonement rituals include animal sacri¿ ces, burning incense, and the ritual cleansing of the altar and of the High Priest (Celermajer 2009: 72). The ¿ rst point to notice here is that the wronged party – in this case, Jehovah – is the one who sets the terms for the atonement. It is Jehovah who says how atonement should be made. If one were to translate these Jewish terms of atonement into a contemporary context, one would have to stress that it is the responsibility of governments and political leaders to consult with representatives from the community of victims about the elements that an of¿ cial apology should contain. This very responsibility is underlined by the role that High Priests assume in the ritual of atonement. As the representative actor of the community, they perform all of the required rituals in the service of atonement. Again, translating this ancient practice into a contemporary context, one can understand why it is so important that political leaders and heads of state have a key responsibility to offer public apologies. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Several scholars have, in fact, noted the similarities between political leaders and spiritual leaders, and the extent to which their public declarations are imbued with power and political consequences (Wilson 2012: 149–50). The Jewish practice of atonement places particular emphasis on ‘presentation’. There are very speci¿ c rules about how the High Priest must present himself and how he has to symbolically present sacri¿ cial offerings from the community of Israel. For instance, the High Priest cannot undertake the rituals without speci¿ c clothing, and must follow particular procedures that regulate the visual and Performing political apologies 49 performative dimension of the ritual. Indeed, while part of the ritual occurs in the Holy of Holies with only the High Priest present (Leviticus 16: 17), the rest of the service occurs on the altar in the central court (Leviticus 16: 18), in full view of the entire community. In addition, the whole community is involved in prepara- tions for the Day of Atonement. On the day itself, the community fasts and does not work. These forms of self-denial are important so that everyone is focused entirely on the process of atonement and reconciliation to Jehovah (Leviticus 16: 29–31; Celermajer 2009: 72). Here, too, one can see strong parallels between these ancient religious practices and contemporary political apologies: the latter also have to be made in public places of signi¿ cance for the community, such as parliaments, governmental of¿ ces or memorials. The statements must have a high pro¿ le and must attract media attention, so that as many members of the community as possible may witness and participate in the act of apology. Indeed, almost all public apologies take place as part of some kind of of¿ cial ceremony or proceedings. Consider how Australia’s apology to the Stolen Generation occurred as the ¿ rst of¿ cial act during the ¿ rst session of the new parliament in February 2008. The apology was the culmination of two decades of campaigning, public education and agitation for recognition of the indignity and suffering caused by the government policy of removing Aboriginal children from their families and placing them with white families or government or church-run institutions (Barta 2008). Indeed, the apology to the Stolen Generation was a decisive issue in the 2007 Australian Federal election. The then-incumbent prime minister, John Howard, had repeatedly refused to offer an of¿ cial apology, preferring instead to talk of ‘practical reconciliation’ (Barta 2008: 203). While expressing his personal regret over the events that had occurred, Howard did not believe that an of¿ cial government apology was warranted (Mellor et al. 2007: 16). In 2007, not only the Howard-led Liberal Party, but also Howard himself, was defeated by the Rudd-led Australian Labour Party. One of its main campaign promises had been an of¿ cial apology to the Stolen Generation and – rarely for politics – it was a campaign promise that was kept. On the ¿ rst sitting day of the new parliament, Prime Minister Kevin Rudd moved that the House of¿ cially apologize to the members of the Stolen Generation. This special session was broadcast nationally on all of the major television stations. It was also transmitted to large screens in and around Parliament House in Canberra, enabling the Australian community as a whole to be part of the historic event. Members of the Stolen Generation sat in the parliamentary gallery, and both the prime minister and the leader of the op- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 position addressed their apology speeches directly to the Stolen Generation through eye contact and gestures.1 The prime minister, in his speech, speci¿ cally and repeatedly said ‘sorry’ – something on which victim groups had insisted (Barta 2008: 204):

We apologise for the laws and policies of successive Parliaments and governments that have inÀ icted profound grief, suffering and loss on these our fellow Australians. We apologise especially for the removal of Aboriginal 50 Erin K. Wilson and Roland Bleiker and Torres Strait Islander children from their families, their communities and their country. For the pain, suffering and hurt of these Stolen Generations, their descendants and for their families left behind, we say sorry. To the mothers and the fathers, the brothers and the sisters, for the breaking up of families and communities, we say sorry. And for the indignity and degradation thus inÀ icted on a proud people and a proud culture, we say sorry. We the Parliament of Australia respectfully request that this apology be received in the spirit in which it is offered as part of the healing of the nation. (Excerpt from Prime Minister Kevin Rudd’s speech to the House of Representatives, 13 February 2008)

By comparison, the speech from the opposition leader, Brendan Nelson, continued to uphold the view of the former prime minister and Liberal Party leader, John Howard, and took the opportunity to emphasize that the people who carried the policy of removing children did so ‘with the best of intentions’:

Our generation does not own these actions, nor should it feel guilt for what was done in many, but not all cases, with the best of intentions. But in saying we are sorry – and deeply so – we remind ourselves that each generation lives in ignorance of the long term consequences of its decisions and actions. Even when motivated by inherent humanity and decency to reach out to the dispossessed in extreme adversity, our actions can have unintended outcomes. As such, many decent Australians are hurt by accusations of theft in relation to their good intentions. (Excerpt from opposition leader Brendan Nelson’s speech to the House of Representatives, 13 February 2008)

In response to Nelson’s comments, audience members both within and outside the parliament stood and turned their back to him as a sign of protest, anger and dis- respect (Barta 2008: 205). The audience’s response to Nelson’s speech provides a vivid example of the performative dimensions of public rituals, and particularly how signi¿ cant the visual dimensions of apology and forgiveness – or, in this case, unforgiveness – can be. While the Australian government’s apology formed part of the of¿ cial proceedings of parliament, apologies can take place in other of¿ cially sanctioned Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 locations and forums, such as the gacaca courts in Rwanda and the TRC in South Africa. Gacaca traditionally concerned the reintegration of low-level offenders into a community, and subsequently focused more on reconciliation than justice (Graybill 2004: 204). However, following the seeming ineffective- ness, or at least tardiness, of efforts by the International Criminal Tribunal in Rwanda (ICTR), gacaca has been adapted to deal with the perpetrators of Rwanda’s genocide (although not with the main organizers and planners of the Performing political apologies 51 genocide) (Graybill 2004: 204). Gacaca involves ‘hearings’ before a council of elders, with the ultimate goal of resolving disputes within a community (Graybill 2004: 204). In the Rwandan case, the common hope was that the courts would help to unify Rwanda in the wake of the genocide, that it would bring to light new information about the killings, enabling survivors to deal with the trauma, and that perpetrators could be successfully reintegrated into Rwandan society (Graybill 2004: 204). The courts have had mixed success, however: while there was initially widespread support in the Rwandan community for gacaca, this enthusiasm rapidly declined in the wake of murders of some of the witnesses (Graybill 2004: 204). In each of these examples, the encounter between victim and perpetrator forms a critical component of the public apology ritual. As with the other of the foregoing dimensions of public apologies, the notion of encounter is equally central to ancient Jewish rituals of atonement. An apology cannot be offered authentically and sincerely without seeing and being in contact with the wronged party – the ‘Other’, so to speak; neither can an apology be accepted nor forgiveness be given without actually seeing the Other. As such, while apologies require signi¿ - cant verbal formations and speech acts, as Celermajer (2009) has demonstrated, they also necessarily require a physical encounter to be authentic. For Celermajer (2009: 74), the contemporary legacy of these religious practices leads to situations in which political apologies mostly take on a form of puri¿ cation. She argues that this process is far more important than other dimensions of apologies, such as practices to offer compensation or the pursuit of retributive justice. For her, the essence of communicating an apology is not to pay someone something back, but to change the nature of the relationship in question. The process of exposing and atoning for wrongdoings also alters the power dynamics between the parties and their identities (Celemajer 2009: 75). A public admission of guilt and a request for forgiveness inevitably requires a certain amount of humility – a willingness to humble oneself, to make oneself low, for the bene¿ t of another person (Dickson 2011). The original Leviticus text on the Yom Kippur rituals does, indeed, emphasize the importance of humility, stating that the community must ‘afÀ ict [them]selves by fasting with penitence and humiliation’ (Leviticus 16: 29 and 31, Ampli¿ ed version). We have highlighted the links between apologies and religion primarily with reference to Jewish rituals. But one could ¿ nd similar patterns in a range of other religions, both Western and non-Western. It is not our task to outline them here, but we would like to note that the Christian tradition also provides numerous precedents that highlight the power of apology and forgiveness. Hannah Arendt Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 (1998: 238) argued that Jesus Christ was ‘the discoverer of the role of forgiveness in human affairs’. Although this claim could be disputed, it still draws attention to a feature that Julia Kristeva (quoted in McGonegal 2009: 45) noted: that forgiveness is similar to the notion of being born again. The act of apology or repentance is thus seen as a form of renewal that leads to a new identity, a new life, and ultimately a new future for parties that shared a traumatic past and had hitherto been in conÀ ict (see McGonegal 2009). 52 Erin K. Wilson and Roland Bleiker Related, although distinctly different, conceptions may also be found in the northern Ugandan traditional practices of mato oput (drinking the bitter root) and tomo gong (bending the spear) (Allen 2008: 48).

• Mato oput occurs at the conclusion of negotiations for compensation between the family members of a murder victim and the perpetrator of the crime. Rather than a ritual of atonement, however, it is a ritual to signify that the disagreement between the two parties is now resolved and ended, taking place after the compensation has been negotiated and agreed upon. Both the perpetrator and the relatives of the victim drink a mixture of the blood of a sacri¿ ced sheep and bitter root (Allen 2008: 48). • Tomo gong is a more public ritual, usually occurring after the conclusion of a local war, symbolizing, through the bending of the spear, that the hostilities between the groups are at an end (Allen 2008: 48). (It is interesting to note the similarities here with ideas in the Judeo-Christian tradition of ‘turning swords into ploughshares’.)

In both cases, performance is central: all parties must engage in the rituals, otherwise they are meaningless. It is important, however, to emphasize that these two rituals are not strict equivalents of apology and forgiveness. Indeed, whether the true meaning of these rituals is possible to translate into the predominantly Western notions of apology and forgiveness that currently govern contemporary international relations (IR) is questionable. Nonetheless, they do both signify a new beginning in a sense: the past hostilities are resolved and forgotten once these rituals occur.

Memory and the performance of political apologies While the religious origins of political apologies continue to reverberate today, one aspect is particularly important: their performative nature. Apologies are not only about the content of what is being apologized for; they are as much about the manner in which the apology is offered. A speci¿ c person or group offers apologies, in a speci¿ c manner and location, and for the maximum bene¿ t of a speci¿ c target group. This was as much the case in ancient religious practices as it is today. High priests have been replaced with heads of state; temples, with parliaments; religious procedures, with equally well-rehearsed rituals dictated by media-entertainment networks. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 A focus on performance opens up opportunities to ask different questions about political apologies. An innovative study by Shirin Rai (2012) on political performance and claim-making in democracies reveals why this is the case. She demonstrates convincingly that political claims are, to a considerable extent, inÀ uenced not only by what they claim, but also by how, where and why the claims are made. The mode of performing an apology is one aspect that renders the process social and political. Again, this was as much the case with religious apologies as it is Performing political apologies 53 with secular ones today. Robert Gibbs (2001: 74) stresses that ‘teshuvah is not a private act of contrition but is a social performance’. The public performance of an apology enters the process through which the memory – or myth – of trauma is being shaped and reshaped. Remembering past events is always a political process and it always involves as much forgetting as it does remembering. There is no way in which we can remember everything about a trauma – all of its various manifestations, causes and consequences. We cannot possibly remember everything. We cannot give every aspect of the event the same weight. Our memory of the past is the result of a process through which certain events and interpretations are remembered and prioritized, while others are relegated to secondary importance or forgotten altogether. This process is political in its very nature – particularly with regard to a trauma, in which the different parties to the conÀ ict tend to disagree strongly not only about who is responsible, but even about what happened in the ¿ rst place. Nietzsche has already stressed that coming to terms with past events always involves a mixture of forgetting and remembering. To move from trauma to reconciliation, some aspects of the war have to be ‘forgotten’. Nietzsche (1981: 118) stresses that the past suffocates the present unless we forget it, and he calls upon people to have the courage to ‘break with the past in order to live’. Forgetting, in this sense, does not mean ignoring what happened. Forgetting, after all, is a natural process, an inevitable aspect of remembering: we all do it, whether we want to do it or not. The public performance of a political apology enters and alters this process of remembering and forgetting. It inÀ uences how societies select and present the few facts, perspectives and interpretations that ought to be remembered. If a group admits to wrongdoing, it not only changes the moral lenses through which we view the past, but also opens up possibilities for reshaping the past – more importantly, using this process in the service of creating a better future (see Nietzsche 1981: 100). Nowhere is the power of performance more evident and inÀ uential than in its visual dimension. Consider what is perhaps the most famous visual apology: Willy Brandt’s kneeling – or so-called kniefall – at the memorial for the Jewish uprising in the Warsaw Ghetto during World War II. When the German chancellor offered this apology in 1970, he did so in a highly symbolic manner. While the religious dimensions of the act are obvious, there are numerous more secular dimensions to it as well. For some commentators, the process of kneeling equated to giving up Germany’s ‘position of domination and its claim of authority over history’ (Celemajer 2009: 74). In kneeling, Brandt Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 lowered himself, and made himself and his country lower than the Jewish people it had so wronged, purposefully placing himself in a position of vulnerability and inferiority, and elevating the Jewish people to the position of power. The Jewish community was thus symbolically given the power to choose whether to forgive Germany (or not) and thereby restore Germany to a position of equality within the international community through forgiveness. For other commentators, a key aspect of Brandt’s apology was the fact that it was not scripted: Nobles (2008: 6), 54 Erin K. Wilson and Roland Bleiker

Source: Der Spiegel, 14 December 1970, 24(51), cover page; copyright Stiftung Haus der Geschichte der Bundesrepublik Deutschland. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017

for example, believes that the spontaneity of the gesture makes the apology more sincere and authentic. But what exactly rendered Brandt’s apology so powerful? Key here is that it was not only a symbolic act, but also one that was acutely visual. With the advent of global mass media, images have come to play a particularly important role in Performing political apologies 55 politics. Some commentators refer to a ‘pictorial turn’, stressing that people often perceive and remember key events more through images than through verbal accounts (Mitchell 1986, 1994). Our collective memory of the Vietnam War, for instance, is decisively shaped by a few iconic images, such as Nic Ut’s photograph of the 9-year-old girl, Kim Phuc, running away naked after a napalm attack. Or consider how the essence – and the memory – of the Tiananmen incident is nowhere more powerfully captured than in Jeff Widener’s photograph of a lone man trying to stop a convoy of assault tanks. In short: we live in a visual age. Images play an essential role in representation and, to some extent, in constituting political events, phenomena and issues. Still and moving images inÀ uence how we view and approach phenomena as diverse as war, humanitarian crises, protest movements and election campaigns. It is not surprising, then, that images of Willy Brandt’s kniefall have had a major political impact. Because of its visual power, the apology received immediate media attention across Europe, and indeed the world. A mere verbal statement would never have been able to get that kind of global coverage. A striking image, by contrast, was perfectly suited for newspaper covers and television headlines. It conveyed, in an immediate and visceral manner, the signi¿ cance of the event in question. Once the image acquired an iconic status, it came to stand for an entire political attitude towards what the Germans call Vergangenheitsbewaeltigung – that is, the dif¿ cult process of coming to terms with the problematic past. It is in this sense that photographs of Brandt’s gesture conveyed an apology far more powerfully than any verbal repentance ever could. Today’s generation of Polish and German peoples – Jewish or not – are unlikely to recall speci¿ c verbal apologies; many of them would have seen images of Brandt’s gesture – a gesture that is enshrined in our collective memory. Because of its iconic status, the image will be passed down to other generations – so much so that the performance of the apology becomes its very content.

Concluding remarks We have tried to offer a series of reÀ ections that link trauma, memory and political apologies. We have done so to explain why apologies have become such a prominent political feature over the past decades. We have stressed that appreciating the religious origins of apologies is essential if we are to understand how they function and what impact they have on processes of reconciliation. Apologies interfere with and alter the moral and political framework through which past traumas are seen. In doing so, they have the chance to recast the relationship between victim Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 and perpetrators, and to open up possibilities for a politics of reconciliation. An appreciation of the religious residues in apologies allows us to recognize a particularly inÀ uential aspect: the performative nature of apologies. We have argued that the process through which apologies are given can be just as important as their content. Religious apologies have always been embedded in a range of rituals that are performed in a meticulous manner. The rituals and their location may have changed, but political apologies are just as performative: they need to 56 Erin K. Wilson and Roland Bleiker be made by people in power, in a symbolic location and with maximum media effect. Some scholars have already drawn attention to this performative power of apologies, but they tend to focus primarily on their verbal dimension. Celermajer (2009), for instance, is predominantly concerned with apologies as speech acts. She does not deny that rituals, gestures and actions often accompany such speech acts, but the power of these gestures largely remains to be investigated in detail. We have argued that the visual dimension of apologies occupied a particularly inÀ uential, but so far largely underestimated, place. Both scholars and practitioners alike have paid relatively little attention to the signi¿ cance of visual apologies. Images of apologies not only capture their essence in a succinct and particularly powerful manner, but also are ideally suited to inÀ uence political attempts to come to terms with traumatic events and to open up possibilities for reconciliation. Once an image becomes iconic, it conveys certain political attitudes – such as acts of asking for forgiveness – far more powerfully than verbal statements can. Such iconic images often survive for decades. They enter and linger in the public memory, thereby inÀ uencing both how past traumatic events are viewed, and how political attitudes towards them are formed and reformed.

Note 1 This is not the place to discuss the issues surrounding this case in detail. But we note that we consciously write of ‘apology speeches’ rather than ‘apologies’. We do so because the remarks by the opposition leader were highly controversial and considered by many as not constituting an actual apology. The prime minister, on the other hand, was explicitly apologetic, speci¿ cally using the phrase ‘We say sorry’ multiple times. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 4 Memory and trauma as elements of identity in foreign policymaking

Douglas J. Becker

Introduction What are the primary motivations for states in the formation of foreign policy? In foreign policy analysis, differences on this question guide the theoretical and paradigmatic approaches for researchers, particularly when writing case studies. Realists argue that state interests in security, military power and a balance of power to maintain order are what guide state-level decision-makers. Systemic- level variables, such as the number and strength of poles of power, guide the Waltzian neo-realist approach to foreign policy formation (Waltz 1979). Inter- ests are considered relatively ¿ xed and exogenous to the state. The variables of power distribution and structure are what guide decisions at the state level. Power distributions and structures determine interests and opportunities. When state leaders misunderstand the power structures of the system, realists typically theorize about a lack of competent information or even perhaps misperceptions among leaders (see Jervis 1976, for example). By contrast, constructivists highlight the importance of identity and image in guiding state foreign policy behaviour. As Hopf argues, ‘whereas constructivism treats identity as an empirical question to be theorized within a historical context, neorealism assumes that all units in global politics have only one meaningful identity, that of self-interested states’ (Hopf 1998: 178). And this identity drives state policy, for constructivism as a process explores the relationship between state identity and interest (Hopf 1998). This chapter continues in this vein, exploring the linkage with regard to one speci¿ c variable in identity formation: the importance of historical memory in forming a unique, yet ever- changing, identity. Because historical memory is itself a À uid concept, for memory itself is created and recreated over and over, this approach will urge further Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 researchers to consider identity itself as a moving target. This analysis then conceptualizes the variable to a greater detail and identi¿ es speci¿ cally one historical development that tends to play an inordinately important role in the creation of memory. When states experience trauma, it tends to cast a longer and more indelible shadow over the creation of memory and hence identity. Traumas often provide fertile ground for the instrumentalist manipulation of memory to serve a speci¿ c foreign policy purpose. They are the guideposts to 58 Douglas J. Becker which memory is often anchored. Trauma tends to cast its memory forward in such a way that the victim often continues to experience the trauma over and over (making the past as present – see Edkins 2003). So this chapter will explore how trauma creates and interprets memory. It addresses the different ways in which past trauma inÀ uences foreign policy formation. The question this chapter explores is twofold: ¿ rst, what exactly is the impact that trauma plays in the formation of identity that is so central to foreign policymaking in the constructivist construct? Second, what expectations do we, as researchers, have when exploring these impacts? In essence, what are the different types of policy that states have adopted following these traumas? What sort of theoretical assertions can we make about the type of trauma and the likely state reactions? This chapter outlines a series of variables that serve as guides for further empirical (and often densely descriptive) case studies on foreign policy formation following trauma.

Image and foreign policy: the constructivist agenda International relations (IR) theory has traditionally privileged the study of power, interests, norms and strategic interactions. International relations scholars have only recently focused on the importance of identity as a fundamental inÀ uence on state action. More speci¿ cally, the ¿ eld of foreign policy analysis has largely focused on either state interests, or elite preference formation, or decision-making processes, or domestic political alliances, or even perhaps public opinion in analysing how foreign policy is formulated. Constructivism, the most recent theoretical development in IR theory, has begun to address this omission of identity within foreign policy analysis. As Wendt (1992) writes, ‘identities are the basis of interests’. Meanwhile, Cynthia Weber (2010) states that ‘what states do depends on what states’ identities and interests are, and identities and interests change’. And Ernst Renan (1990) has proclaimed that nations both possess in common a rich legacy of memories and, at the same time, will forget certain things. Nations, particularly in the context of Benedict Anderson’s imagined communities, share these common memories and forge a common identity through them. The constructivist paradigm within IR makes a series of claims about foreign policy analysis. It claims that interests and identity matter. This, in contrast with the simpler realist conception that states act according to interests, is – to borrow an analogy by John Lewis Gaddis (2001) – used in a similar vein, rather like arguing that ¿ sh must swim in water: it is true, yet theoretically uninteresting. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 (His assertion is about states seeking security in a self-help system, but is apropos here.) The concept of interests often becomes so elastic that the term ceases to have meaning. But for most realists state action is guided either by the structure of the system or by opportunities to change the system. There is nothing unique about any individual state interest – only its capabilities and the capabilities of its potential rivals. Constructivists reject the simple construction of state interests in the realist paradigm. Instead, they argue that interests are fundamentally a Memory and trauma as elements of identity 59 component both of state identity, and of strategic and meaningful international interactions. As Hopf argues, ‘[m]eaningful behavior or action is possible only within an intersubjective social context’ (Hopf 1998: 173). And through the lens of identity, durable expectations about state behaviour ensure predictable patterns (Hopf 1998: 174). Hence, as stated, constructivists assume nothing about the generalizability of state identity, but instead treat it as an essential line of analysis. The use of image helps policymakers to craft their arguments based on teleological rather than ontological descriptions of state interests and motivations (Edkins and Zehfuss 2005). Image becomes the lens through which state leaders invite external analysis to view any policy. States are de¿ ned therefore by their image rather than objectively through their actions. Australia’s intervention in Indonesian domestic politics –crafted as a version of the responsibility to protect (R2P), coupled with an eventual recognition of East Timorese sovereignty – is therefore not to be characterized as an invasion. Australia’s image, particularly reinforced through the government’s apology to the ‘Stolen Generation’ of indigenous persons that many describe as a genocide, provides the lens of humanitarianism necessary to justify its support for East Timor’s independence. American policymakers have sought to make similar arguments concerning the potential for empire-building in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001 (‘9/11’) and the announcement of the Bush Doctrine. The role of identity in foreign policy formation is considered an element of the ‘public psyche’ in much of the literature. Roger Morgan considers this concept to run deeper than simple public opinion, which is a common theme within foreign policy analysis. It is a deeper, emotional connection that the general public has to their image of what their nation represents (Morgan 2003). In other formulations, identity becomes a vehicle by which a nation can de¿ ne its historical existence. It is a lens through which international interactions are viewed. Information on potential international interactions is ¿ ltered through this lens of image, so that threats are perceived as they relate to historical threats to the nation. In other forms, however, identity is seen as more instrumentalist. Consider a recent discourse on identity and instrumentalism at the international studies meetings in 2012.1 The empirical issue discussed was the role of identity, as opposed to material interests, in Australian foreign policy. The rationalist would posit Australia’s growing dependence on China and indicate that, should there arise a conÀ ict between the United States and China, Australia would need to side with China. Constructivists, however, would conclude that Australia’s long- standing image as an Anglo nation (a white settler nation of largely British Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 subjects, coupled with a long alliance with the United States) would compel it to side with the US. In essence, this captures the differences between identity and rational state behaviour that mark the constructivism–realism divide. One possible outcome, and perhaps the likeliest one, would be that Australian leaders would side with China, but then craft the necessary historical image of cooperation between the two nations as a buttress against opposition to the apparent shift in policy. Or it would have to craft the issue as decidedly not driven 60 Douglas J. Becker by image and ‘choosing sides’, but instead as something much more consistent with Australia’s image. In short, a new historical narrative (perhaps even myth) would need to accompany the shift in policy. Yet it is not clear whether this tactic would successfully blunt Australian (not to mention international) criticism of such a shift. It may well invite a domestic political challenge. In the democratic context, it would potentially invite a rival political party to make this an issue in the next parliamentary elections. That an instrumentalist approach would face opposition, multiple inputs and, in short, dialogue and contestation is the best way in which to understand how image and instrumentalism/rationalism interplay with one another. But, then, is the use of image here merely instrumentalist and a post hoc justi¿ cation for policy, or does it actually inÀ uence political leaders’ decision- making? Image clearly matters, but is it mere window dressing? This reinforces the necessary, but insuf¿ cient, arguments about image and foreign policy that mark most of the constructivist claims. In some cases, the use of teleology is a calculated decision. In these, a leader has chosen a policy and simply looks to its image as a sort of toolbox to provide justi¿ cation for the policy. In other cases, the leader’s embedded emotions and sense of his or her nation’s identity determine (or at least colour) the state’s interest. It is tempting to leave this determination to a thickly descriptive case study and to make no real theoretical assertion about the instrumentalism/emotional differences. Certainly, such case studies are necessary. But we will return to this question about when the appeal to image (and also to memory) is more likely an instrumental tool, as opposed to a more emotional ‘marking’ on a leader’s preferences, later in this chapter.

The role of historical memory in image creation The study of memory, an essential element of identity, remains largely on the margins of IR. Memory studies tend to cluster in sociology journals, with an emphasis on social psychology. Even with the constructivist focus on the importance of identities, terribly little attention has been paid to how history, memory and trauma inÀ uence the creation of these identities (Adenauer Bell 2009b). The few IR scholars who do write on the subject are largely critical theorists. They can delve into the descriptive, such as Zehfuss’s analysis of how remembrances of the Holocaust couple with the Adenauer apology and reparations paid to Israel reinforce Germany’s commitment to humanitarian interventions. It dulls criticism that Germany’s participation in these missions is a reassertion of Germany militarism (Zehfuss 2007). Yet general theories about how trauma and memory affect Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 foreign policy formation are severely lacking. Western society possesses what Jelin (2003) calls a ‘culture of memory’, meaning that individuals, family groups, communities and nations narrate their pasts for themselves and for others who are willing to visit those pasts, to listen to and look at their icons and remnants, to enquire about and investigate them. This characteristic of American culture is the foundation that provides scholars with the opportunity to carefully study memory and memorialization. The term Memory and trauma as elements of identity 61 ‘memory’ has a multitude of different de¿ nitions. For example, the Random House Webster Dictionary de¿ nes memory as ‘the mental capacity or faculty of retaining and reviving facts, events, impressions, or of recalling or recognizing previous experiences’. In contrast, Elizabeth Jelin utilizes a three-part de¿ nition to describe memories in her work entitled State Repression and the Labors of Memory, stating that:

First, memories are to be understood as subjective processes anchored in experiences and in symbolic and materials markets. Second, memories are the object of disputes, conÀ icts, and struggles. . . . Third memories must be looked at historically . . . which is to say that meanings attached to the past change over time and are part of larger, complex social and political scenarios. (Jelin 2003: xv)

Jelin’s de¿ nition highlights the issues inherent to the discussion of memory, resulting in part from its subjectivity, and also from its broader social and political contexts. She therefore highlights the nature of what is to be remembered, how it is to be remembered and whose purpose this memory serves. The study of memory has evolved from the largely individual, psychological interest into a more collective study. Previously, memory studies focused on how individuals process past experiences into a complex, yet personal, narrative. But memories are contextualized through the collective experiences of the people who recall and give meaning to events. For example, the Iranian who lived through the 1979 revolution views the 2009 protests through that lens; a supporter of the revolution may view the protesters as traitors to the principle of the 1979 revolution; opponents of the current regime see a parallel between protesters taking to the streets in 2009 and those who did so in 1979. Generations, ideologies and groups all matter in deriving meaning from history (and contemporary events). This is sociology’s contribution to the study of memory. And the seminal work of Maurice Halbwachs, who is generally credited with the foundation of this study, provides tremendous insight into the meaning of historical memory. Halbwachs’ work demonstrates the complex relationship between individual and collective memories. He writes that ‘[w]hile the collective memory endures and draws strength from its base in a coherent body of people, it is individuals as group members who remember’ (Halbwachs 1992: 22). In essence, while memory is given meaning within a social context, it is still held by a group of individuals. Remembrances often are guided by a common generational understanding as well. This is best captured in the cultural device of ‘generations’. Different generations Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 bring different frames of reference to respective historical memories. The de¿ nitions of these generations are sociological attempts to bring a richer understanding of historical memories. But they also carry important political consequences. Generational differences matter, but groups within the same generation also have competing historical memories. Different nations have different experiences and therefore a different historical memory. But even within each nation, there are differing experiences. As illustrated, for example, in the history textbook 62 Douglas J. Becker controversy in Japan, the rise of nationalist groups countering more internation- alist groups has physically resulted in multiple history textbooks with differing stories (Bukh 2007). Within the United States, hawkish and dovish groups dif- fered greatly, both on the proper policy response to the psychological trauma of 9/11 and also on US responsibility for the attacks and how the international community would perceive US military aggression as a response. In Russia, Hopf (2005) identi¿ es liberal, conservative and centrist groups all competing for identity following the breakup of the Soviet Union. Trauma creates and changes image in profound ways that are differentiated from normalcy. They are hypersensitive moments that indelibly mark an individual or state’s image. Jeffrey Alexander (2004: 1) writes that ‘[c]ultural trauma occurs when members of a collectivity feel they have been subjected to a horrendous event that leaves indelible marks upon their group consciousness, marking their memories forever and changing their future identity in fundamental and irrevoca- ble ways’. Trauma’s impact on foreign policy is therefore broadly embedded in the issue of identity in foreign policy analysis, but should be considered a uniquely important and deeply emotional form of identity creation and transformation. Jan Assman, highlighting Halbwachs’s work, differentiates between short-term communicative memory and longer-term cultural memory. Identifying communicative memory as roughly three or four generations after a trauma, Assman cites this period as focused strongly on orality. Oral historical traditions predominate as the story is experienced and re-experienced throughout time. For it to pass into cultural memory, however, the history becomes part of a common cultural experience. The speci¿ cs of the trauma are lost to the more general cores of the trauma. Yet Aleida Assman, working with Jan Assman, developed a third category: ‘connective memory’. By this, the Assmans mean ‘imposed, selected, enforced, inevitably politicized memories designed to create a closely guarded group identity’ (Winthrop-Young 2008). The Assmans’ work then allows for individuals with vested interests in the creation of memory to create this memory and impose it on a population. Bell makes a similar argument that memory is produced by conÀ ict, power struggles and social contestation. It is always mutable and subject to further alteration (Bell 2009b). This assertion then recalls Jelin’s conception of memory entrepreneurship and reminds us that memory is an arena of political contestation. Therefore the insights on how trauma affects individuals and their identity have a salience within the larger political community. States, as comprising individuals and as a political manifestation of connective memory, may experience similar processes of identity formation and transformation as individuals. But, as we will Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 see in a moment, the internal and external elements of trauma, stress, identity and response that differentiate individuals and states are illustrative.

Foreign policy analysis and historical memory Standard psychology texts identify three common archetypes of response to post-trauma stress: ‘¿ ght’, ‘À ight’ or ‘freeze’ (Bisson 2007). Clinical psychologist Memory and trauma as elements of identity 63 Pete Walker adds a fourth typology, a ‘fawn response’, as well as descriptions of hybrid responses (Walker 2009). Using Walker’s typology:

• ¿ ght refers to the belief that power is the means by which to control insecurity, and to create acceptance and support; • À ight creates an obsessive–compulsive disorder that usually involves high- risk behaviour as a means to distract a patient from the traumatic stress; • freeze refers to the extreme withdrawals that often accompany post-trauma stress; and • fawn refers to the patient’s response by aligning their wishes with the wishes of those around them – to ‘get along’ with others and to subsume their identity within the identities of those surrounding them.

While the fawn response is not universally recognized by post-trauma stress psychologists, it is instructive for understanding state responses. Wulf Kasteiner (2002) has urged memory scholars caution in a number of challenges that we, as a ¿ eld, face. The most compelling at this point in the chapter is his identi¿ cation of the unsettled nature of the precise relation between the individual and the collective. This anthropomorphizes the state so that it can feel, believe, remember or suffer stress. At one level, this move is unjusti¿ ed at the empirical level, for the state is an abstract entity. I do not mean simply to place leaders as surrogates for the state. So, to avoid this fallacy, I would caution the reader that my use of these archetypes is somewhat metaphorical. At another level, Nancy Wood (1999) suggests that the key difference between psychological trauma in individuals and collective memory of states or populations is that the former is internalized and often unconscious, while the latter is always public, often instrumental to some policy goal and a matter of public discourse. While these processes are quite public, they are meant to appeal to individuals at an often subconscious level. In essence, it is a macro, societal- level campaign that appeals to the micro, individual level within a state. This transference is never assured, is often messy, and creates the arena of memory contestation that marks the discourses emerging from instrumentalist attempts to create and manipulate memory. So consider the potential responses of ¿ ght, À ight, freeze and fawn within states. Trauma, as an element of historical memory, can direct foreign policy in different ways – and in particular along two different continuums: states that have experienced trauma can use this experience to cast a more aggressive foreign policy or a more paci¿ stic one. Within the archetypes, this is the Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 ¿ ght/fawn differentiation, on the issues of war and peace. Additionally, state leaders can use the trauma as a way in which either to engage or to withdraw from international interactions, or the withdrawal/engagement continuum. While psychologists would treat each patient individually based on how he or she presented, the IR scholar has a more systematized toolbox available with which to analyse how a state’s foreign policy will emerge out of the trauma. 64 Douglas J. Becker The nature of the trauma story The ¿ rst issue is to ask what the nature of the victimhood is. In essence, is the victim’s trauma story one of exclusion or inclusion? Is the victim state seeking to have its trauma recorded and recognized within a broader narrative of trauma, or is it presenting its trauma as a unique experience that might ‘crowd out’ other potential traumas? And is the victim state responsible for the trauma of other states, and hence might a recognition of its own victimhood potentially create a moral equivalency argument to blunt criticism against the state for its own crimes? Consider, for example, the difference between the trauma story of Armenians and Jews as victims of genocide contrasted with the trauma of Germany and Japan in the Second World War. In the former case, the challenge that they have faced within their trauma response is an international recognition of their suffering. In both cases, this recognition has enabled their communities to have their own independent states. Certainly, there are signi¿ cantly different paths and different levels of controversy surrounding their ‘right to exist’. Armenians chose the protection of the Soviet Union following the First World War, rather than to join with the Turks, who had committed genocide against them. Their independence arose exogenously of their trauma, because they were simply one of the 15 Soviet republics to gain independence upon the breakup of the Soviet Union. Israel faces a more existential threat, with the international perception that the moral authority under which they made their declaration of independence and secured recognition for their state was owed to the trauma experience of the Jews under the Holocaust. Yet both have adopted a more aggressive foreign policy stance, particularly when faced with threats to their security. Both embody the ¿ ght mechanism in their post-trauma stress responses. For the Armenians, genocide is the lens through which they experience the world around them. Following the breakup of the Soviet Union, the presence of a large Armenian community in the Azerbaijani region of Nagorno-Karabakh was history repeating itself. A large Armenian Christian community living surrounded by a Muslim ‘Turkish’ community suggested a de¿ nitive repeat of the 1915 genocide. Western states – most notably the United States, with its sizable Armenian population and its historic interest in Armenia (see, for example, Balakian 2004) – supported Armenia, and muted any criticism of its aggression and human rights abuses. The war that ensued in the 1990s and continues to this day is a direct result of the Armenian historical memory as to the threat posed by an Armenian minority in a Muslim nation. The collective memory of victim-

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 hood was then wielded as a sword by Armenian militias, as well as the newly independent state, to propel an aggressive, militaristic foreign policy. The declaration of an independent Nagarno-Karabkh region has created an ongoing war between that entity, backed by Armenia (with Armenians insisting on its independence, and that therefore all negotiations must be between that republic and Azerbaijan) and the host government. One of the roots of the conÀ ict lies in how the maps were drawn by Stalin in the early 1920s, isolating an Armenian Memory and trauma as elements of identity 65 community within the borders of Azerbaijan. But at the root of Armenia’s insistence on supporting this breakaway republic lies its historical memory of the genocide. First, the importance of territory in the Armenian national psyche is reinforced with the loss of Armenian territory as a result of Turkish expulsions during the genocide. The threat of expulsion of Armenians from the Karabakh mountain region (despite the lack of an Azerbaijani threat to do so) reminds the Armenians of a painful trauma. Second, the fact that Azerbaijanis are Muslims (as well as Turkic, with historical implications) reinforces the Armenian conception that all Turkic Muslim peoples threaten Armenians. The lens through which Armenians view this conÀ ict is distinctly that of the memory of trauma. The foundational cause of this conÀ ict is memory of trauma. Jewish memory of trauma trends to the exclusionary and unique. Israeli identity is tied to the narrative of unbroken exile, coupled with the violence of the genocide perpetrated against the Jewish nation at the hands of German-led Europe. The uniqueness of the intercession of the genocide guides this perception of Israel not only as the end of exile, but also a denial as such. The key elements of the impact of trauma and memory on Jewish identity are that:

• Israel represents the historical and present manifestation of Jewish nationhood; • anti-Jewish sentiment historically threatens that nation, even to the point of extinction; and • the historical ties of Judaism to the land that is contemporary Israel constitute a historical claim to the land seized as a result of the ongoing trauma of the destruction of the Second Temple and the persistent diaspora.

These elements suggest that Zionism is synonymous with the nation. As such, opposition to the state of Israel is opposition to the Jewish nation; the Jewish nation had lived in exile since the destruction of the Second Temple. Resistance in the Jewish community was restricted to a group of militants who refused to surrender and hence holed up in the fortress of Masada, choosing death over enslave- ment. Following their exile, Jews were forced to wander as a people, never fully integrating into the societies in which they lived. Historically, from discrimination embodied in the ghettoization of the Jewish people, through forced conversion through the Inquisition and the pogroms in Eastern Europe, to the Nazi genocide, the Jewish nation was a nation at risk. Where this nation was a minority population, its security was threatened. The anti-Semitism that tinged the Dreyfuss Trial led to the creation of a modern Zionist movement that, in the mind of its founder Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Theodor Herzl, was a security-centric ideology. Jewish protection, a response to the trauma of the destruction of the Second Temple and the return from the trauma of exile all melded together into a single Zionist movement. Guided by the Jewish memory of the Nazi campaign of extermination of Jews, opposition to Zionism is therefore equated with a negation of Jewish nationhood. It is not a long conceptual leap, then, to declare opposition to Israel as resulting from a desire to exterminate Jews. Nowhere is the tension between memory of 66 Douglas J. Becker trauma as instrumental and memory as cultural psyche more apparent than in this case. While this memory is a potent political tool to characterize criticism of Israeli foreign policy, it also marks how Israelis view their place within the international scenario. This helps to explain Israel’s fears of an Iranian nuclear programme. Iran has never attacked Israel, but with President Ahmedinijad questioning the veracity of Jewish claims concerning the Holocaust, Israel views that nation as denying Israel’s right to exist. Its historical memory is tied to recognition of the violence perpetrated at the hands of the Nazis and their collaborators. Threats of invisibility reinforce and revive the trauma, which is once again experienced. The act of denial is an act of denying the essential national character of the Jewish people. Israel is another nation that was born out of genocide. The impact of the Holocaust left deep scars and a deep memory image upon the state. Upon its founding in 1948, with its foundational ideology coming from the roots of insecurity in Europe (and the importance of Theodor Herzl’s writings), the need for Israel to be an oasis of Jewish majority in light of anti-Semitism is deeply rooted. Historical memory has compelled Israelis to view any security through the lens of trauma. The Israeli desire to reinforce the notion of Israel as being synonymous with the Jewish nation, and as having suffered the Holocaust as that nation, is reinforced by Germany’s apology and restitution to Israel for the Holocaust (Barkan 2001). This apology takes on a signi¿ cant role, in part because it divides the political community in Israel (over the issue of whether this is blood money) (Segev 1991). But the decision to accept the apology and restitution reinforces in the Western political psyche the idea that Israel is indeed the political manifestation of the Jewish nation. Its historical memory is identical to the Jewish historical memory. Therefore, since Israel and Judaism are synonymous, opposition to Israel is the moral equivalent to supporting the Holocaust. Both represent the desire to negate the existence of the Jewish nation. While perhaps this is a form of public diplomacy, it runs deeper within Israel; it becomes a fundamental component of its political psyche. What this indicates is that the Israeli historical memory and the founding of the modern state of Israel is an example of triumphalism. It is triumph over trauma. And as triumph it is therefore exclusionary. Out of the trauma that was the Holocaust, Israel was able to establish an independent state, a rising military state and a growing power internationally. Reinforcing military triumphalism, Israeli collective memory is predicated on united Arab opposition to Israel. All Arabs constitute a threat to the existence of an independent Israel and there is no need to Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 differentiate between differing Arab nationalities. This narrative requires a degree of forgetting – rewriting history to remove all indigenous peoples from Palestine. For the Israeli memory of return from exile to be valid, the land needs to be largely uninhabited. This is common for many settler-colonial historical memories. Recall the history of the American expansion westward. The indigenous peoples, mentioned in diminished numbers when mentioned at all, constituted a militarily aggressive threat to the Memory and trauma as elements of identity 67 legitimate occupation of open territories. Likewise, the Palestinian national identity is denied (a common trait of Israeli historiography) other than to acknowledge the common Arab hatred of Jews. In this light, Israeli responsibility for Palestinian trauma is a claim of ‘moral equivalency’. The Palestinian campaign for Nakba recognition signals the primary focus of recovery of memory. It poses the greatest challenge to Israel’s exclusionary use of trauma in its foreign policy. The Nakba (Arabic for ‘disaster’) is the name given to the displacement of Palestinians after the Israeli War of Independence. The formerly colonized Palestinians suffered from invisibility, mirroring many colonial peoples’ experiences. The existence of Palestinian nationalism is challenged by the importance of Arab nationalism. Historically, Palestinians have emphasized their Arabness over their Palestinian-ness. But the 1993 Oslo Agreement fundamentally changed this calculation (Mi’Ari 2009). Like so many other actors who suffer trauma, the Palestinians’ ¿ rst desire is to gain of¿ cial recognition of that trauma. In the same way as Holocaust denial suggests opposition to the Jewish nation (by denying that Jews are a nation at risk), and Armenians demand a Turkish apology and recognition of the genocide (while refusal fuels the fears within Nagorno-Karabakh), so Palestinians insist that the refusal to acknowledge the Nakba is an act of the continuing trauma of invisibility. Palestinian identity is forged from the narratives articulated in the Palestine National Charter. Even with the nulli¿ cation of many of the articles in 1996, the Charter remains the most visible expression of Palestinian identity. The main themes of the Charter include the indivisibility of the land (seized from Palestinians in a traumatic moment), as well as the victimization of the Palestinian people at the hands of Zionists. This creates a narrative of Palestinians as a victim nation and demonizes the Israelis as the cause of the trauma (Kaufman 2009). As such, it is a nationality forged from trauma, dedicated to a historical memory that demands recognition. So the ¿ rst key point of contestation between Israelis and Palestinians is whether something called the Nakba even exists. Palestinians, in an assertion of their national identity, have memorialized and commemorated ‘Nakba Day’ (15 May 1948). Initially, in 2009, Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu supported a law that would criminalize all Nakba Day memorials, which would be punishable by up to three years in prison. After intense political debate and opposition within the Israeli Knesset, the law was softened to deny funding for groups that celebrate the Nakba. Increasingly Nakba Day commemorations have led to greater violence. In 2011, for example, protests along Israel’s border and in the Occupied Territories led to more than a dozen people killed. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Desire for visibility is at the heart of the recent successful Palestinian application to the United Nations for recognition as a non-voting state. Certainly, Palestinians are seeking international legal recognition, which could complicate the Israeli occupation of the territories. But the lack of recognition of the existence of the Palestinian state is an existential denial of the Palestinians as a nation and reinforces Palestinian invisibility. Israel’s intense opposition to recognition is often painted as opposition to Palestinian unilateral action. But it cuts further: it 68 Douglas J. Becker could serve as a negation of the Israeli exile return story and as a legitimation of a historical memory that is at odds with Israel’s. These are dual and competing trauma stories. Contrast the Armenian and Israeli–Palestinian examples with the more inclusionary victim stories of Germany and Japan. As Maya Zehfuss (2007) has argued, German trauma is absent from Second World War narratives. German scholarship in memory studies is largely derived from the community’s challenges in coming to grips with the immense suffering that it experienced as a result of the war. Germany, however, has not sought to deny its own responsibility for suffering throughout the war; Germans merely wish to be included within the trauma narrative of German responsibility for the war. It is an inclusionary trauma story and is embedded in a common understanding of the need to avoid German militarism. It is coupled with German paci¿ sm, support for the European Union and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), and other forms of global governance. It typi¿ es the fawn response to post-trauma stress. Additionally, German scholars seek to rebuild a German identity that has either been lost to more super-national identities such as the EU, or tainted by the perpetual reminder of German responsibility for European trauma, with policies of reassurance to neighbours that German nationalism is still indeed peaceful. The German reparations to Israel seem to open the door to this sort of recognition as well. In Japan, Alexander Bukh (2007) argues that the history textbook controversies indicate that the Japanese people’s recognition of their own suffering need not be exclusionary to the suffering caused by others. Since this trauma was caused not by Japan as a nation, but instead by militarists and the Japanese army, Japanese suffering is embedded in the story of Japanese militarism and aggression. Japan is also a victim of its own military, along with the Chinese, Koreans and others regionally who suffered trauma during the war. It is a case against the Japanese military and reinforces the paci¿ sm that embodies Japanese foreign policy post Second World War. Its general withdrawal marked by paci¿ sm is a freeze response (and perhaps its economic dynamism and export-oriented growth patterns show signs of À ight as well). Narratives of victimhood and responses to trauma can create a more aggressive response (in the form of military spending, support for irredentism and even potentially military occupation of neighbouring lands), or they can become part of a larger narrative of inclusion and even the identi¿ cation of their own military to build a more paci¿ stic response. Exclusionary trauma stories such as the competing Israeli–Palestinian narratives or the Armenian trauma contrast quite mark- edly with the inclusionary stories of Japan and Germany. So the key variable is Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 whether the trauma in question competes with other traumas. A policy recommen- dation would be to recognize trauma as broadly as possible, so as to combat the exclusionary tendency towards a more aggressive policy response to trauma.

Structural constraints Another key variable in determining policy responses is the role of structure and power within each traumatized state. Clearly, the options available to states Memory and trauma as elements of identity 69 are constrained by their relative power within the system, as well as by how the international community creates expectations about states (and interacts with their images). States’ decisions to take a more aggressive or paci¿ stic, or a more engaged or withdrawn, policy are still conditioned in part by their opportunities and constraints. Unlike the previous variable, however, this variable seems driven more by instrumentalism than emotionalism. Consider, for example, the Rwandan response to the Hutu genocide committed against the Tutsis. Consider how Paul Kagame, the Tutsi commander-turned- president, has made use of his nation’s involvement in the peacekeeping mission in Darfur. Rwanda has the largest contingent in the joint African Union/UN peacekeeping force in the embattled region. Additionally, Rwandan troops were the ¿ rst AU troops on the ground there. Rwanda’s interests in Sudan are many. First, there is a long history of Rwandan involvement in the nation, notably through its ally Uganda. Uganda and Rwanda long supported the southern Sudan Peoples’ Liberation Movement (SPLM) rebels in Sudan, led by John Gareng, drawing the two nations into conÀ ict numerous times with the central government in Khartoum. Rwanda’s ability to highlight Sudanese atrocities certainly serves its interests in the region. Its support for the new state of South Sudan and its desire to curtail Sudanese aggression in that region motivate its interest in the nation. But to consider the intervention in Darfur as being merely motivated by power politics is to miss the key element of Rwanda as an international ‘spokes-nation’ against genocide. Based on its ability to inÀ uence Sudanese politics, it seems to adopt a ¿ ght role – albeit under the normative principles of countering genocide. Additionally, Rwanda has sought to build closer ties with the United States and the United Kingdom since the genocide. With the American ¿ nding of genocide in Darfur under the Bush Administration, coupled with a lack of American interest in militarily intervening in the conÀ ict, Kagame is seeking to position Rwanda as the state willing to serve as a Western proxy in the region. This is becoming increasingly important as a result of Kenya’s instability and the perception on the part of American policymakers that Uganda’s ongoing civil war threatens its role as a regional stabilizer. Darfur demonstrates how Rwanda can be a useful tool for the United States, and Kagame stands to bene¿ t from American patronage. Opportunity and power constraints compel Rwanda, in this case, to adopt a fawn strategy. But as a memory entrepreneur, Kagame has carved out a Rwandan brand that highlights its unique position as a survivor of the genocide. Its involvement in Darfur is conditioned by its palpable sense of abandonment and neglect during Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 the 1994 genocide. Indeed, the West did not save Rwanda from the genocide; Kagame did. That Kagame not only committed numerous atrocities during the war, that there are allegations of atrocities in the widening war in eastern Congo following the Rwandan genocide and that his rule is increasingly autocratic are not a part of this narrative. Kagame’s positioning as saviour of the nation, as an American ally and proxy, and as the one nation willing to ensure that ‘never again’ is not just a slogan presents him with a space within his foreign policy for aggression and military domination. 70 Douglas J. Becker In a cruder incarnation of memory entrepreneurship and contestation, Kagame has sought to blunt any potential human rights cases against him and his allies. When a French court charged the old Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) general with shooting down President Habriyamana’s plane (the event that triggered the 1994 genocide), Kagame charged then French Prime Minister Dominique de Villepan with complicity and alliance with the Hutus during the genocide (Munyanesa 2006). Munyanesa (2006) goes on to report that Kagame then condemned the French magistrate who accused him of shooting down the plane, saying: ‘France gave the then government of Rwanda money to commit Genocide. If he is credible, why doesn’t he [Bruguiere] investigate the role of the French government and of¿ cials in the Genocide?’ Kagame then used his involvement in the AU/UN peacekeeping force in Darfur to protect General Karenzi Karake, his old friend and comrade, from charges of war crimes and atrocities during and following the 1994 war. Karake was set to command the Rwandan forces in Darfur. Rwanda had both the ¿ rst troops as well as the largest contingent on the ground in the battered nation. In February 2008, Spanish judge Fernando Andreu Merelles indicted 40 Rwandans, including General Karake, for their involvement in killings in Rwanda following the RPF victory. Human Rights Watch had alleged that Karake was also responsible for killing civilians in the Congolese town of Kisangani in a 2000 battle between Rwandan and Ugandan forces. The United Nations had known about the charges against Karake and had vetted him for command in Darfur. Upon the indictment, the US State Department urged the UN to renew Karake’s contract and supported Kagame’s threat of a withdrawal of Rwandan troops from the nation should Karake be forced to step down. Although Karake has been removed from command, it is largely owing to a personal battle that he waged against Kagame, rather than emanating from these charges. Additionally, the International Criminal Court is investigating war crimes and other violations of international humanitarian law in the Congo. Rwanda, whose military is heavily involved in the ¿ ghting there, faces potential judicial exposure at the Court. These moves were in part a political hardball played by an African president who has shown a willingness to challenge international organizations and European leaders alike. But the support that Kagame has received throughout Africa and in the United States is partially driven by the desire to respect the historical memory of Rwanda. He sees the opportunity to raise Rwanda’s pro¿ le and to have the constraints on his state lifted as a result of the trauma. But this is only with the tacit support of the more powerful nation, the United States. The Rwandan case is but one of many. Germany and Japan’s own postures Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 of paci¿ sm, coupled with a fawning reaction to their generally unrecognized trauma, were conditioned by their relative previous weakness following their military defeat. Weaker states are far less likely to adopt a ¿ ght strategy – although, depending on the nature of the trauma, they certainly show willingness to do so under certain circumstances. Armenia’s relative weakness in the Caucusus region has not deterred it from supporting the insurgency in Nagorno-Karabakh. Structural weakness compelled victims of the Soviet Union, such as the Baltic Memory and trauma as elements of identity 71 States of Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia, to choose a À ight strategy (À eeing Russian control for closer alliance with Western powers). The obvious nature of the trauma – Soviet aggression against them – helps us to understand their desire for À ight; structural opportunities and constraints explain the speci¿ c form that the policy takes. In short, structural opportunities and constraints matter.

Discourse, memory and contestation What should be clear is that there are two arenas of potential contestation of a trauma story and the image and identity that develops from it. George Orwell suggested, in his book Nineteen Eighty-Four, that a state can simply rewrite its history by employing a ‘memory hole’. In this vision, populations are powerless to contest this rewriting of history, because Big Brother is the most effective memory entrepreneur that the world has seen. But Orwell’s fears do not seem so plausible upon further review. Internal contestation is a scene of intense domestic political struggle. Memory entrepreneurs may advance a speci¿ c, and even instrumentalist, memory to support a policy. Political leaders play a key role in the processing of cultural trauma, but they rarely play a decisive role. While political leaders will attempt to create favourable responses to these traumas, as Neil Smelzer (2004: 49) argues, ‘most often the establishment of a collectivity’s responses to a trauma is a matter of bitter contestation among groups, sometimes over long periods of time and often without de¿ nitive settlement’. Political contestation of the meaning of the events of September 2001, even as they were instantly de¿ ned, has marked American politics. The use of 9/11 as a means to rehabilitate the use of the military and overcome the Vietnam Syndrome, a hallmark of the Bush Doctrine, has given way to an intense debate about the ¿ nancial, political and ethnic costs of military intervention. This cultural trauma continues to mark the American psyche, but without a clear or de¿ nitive answer. By 2006, by a two–one margin, Americans believed that Iraq was a war of choice rather than a war of necessity. The 2008 election was played out in part on the issue of the continuation of the American military presence in Iraq and Afghanistan. John McCain, echoing the analogy with the Second World War, offered that the United States should stay in those two countries for as long as it has been in Japan and Germany (an ongoing military presence since 1945). His remarks about staying for 100 years if necessary became a talking point for the Obama campaign and one of the reasons why McCain lost the presidential election. The trauma is undeniable, but the proper reaction (aggression/paci¿ sm; withdrawal/engagement) to the trauma marks the political discourses in the country. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 In the other direction, the Australian acknowledgement of its atrocities against the Stolen Generation has sparked a rather intense political debate about whether the government overstated the level of aggression. In the United States, President Obama’s mere acknowledgement that the United States acted unilaterally in the past prompted his opposition to claim that he had gone on an ‘apology tour’ and hence undermined American authority. Any Japanese acknowledgement of the suffering of people at the hands of their military regime in the Second World War 72 Douglas J. Becker instigates a nationalist reaction. Democratic governments are de¿ nitely prone to intense political contestation, making memory entrepreneurship messier and less effective. Contrast this with the Rwandan reaction to trauma with its military interventions in the Congo (largely seen as illegal) and Darfur (legal and welcomed as part of the joint AU/EU force). There has been much less contestation about these interventions in large part because Kagame has used the trauma and the subsequent promise of security after it to consolidate his power as a growing electoral autocracy. The democracy–autocracy continuum is illustrative in understanding how the arenas of contestation play out internally. At the far end of this spectrum, Stalin’s decision to expel foreign inÀ uences and to harden his totalitarian grip on the nation (most horri¿ cally encapsulated in the ‘Doctor’s Plot’), based largely on the trauma that the Soviets experienced in the Second World War, had no contestation. Indeed, the only forms of contestation took places decades later, when Gorbachev opened the nation to political debate and was shocked to ¿ nd the latent, intense trauma memories lingering. These overwhelmed the Soviet regime and contributed signi¿ cantly to the fall of the state. In short, the type of government inÀ uences the level of contestation and can limit the effectiveness of crude memory entrepreneurship based on instrumental- ity. It suggests that the emotional marks that trauma leaves cut rather deeply. When populations have the ability to inÀ uence how trauma affects policy, the options tend to be more mixed and less concise. But the nature of these discourses internally gives great insights into how trauma affects foreign policy. Memory contestation is often even more intense externally. State power and opportunity play a role, but are far from decisive. Consider, for example, Japan’s crafting of its trauma memory, and its relationship with its regional and global partners. Contrast, for example, its recognition of trauma against the United States and its relative refusal to acknowledge its trauma against China. The United States has vigorously refused to join Japan in dual trauma recognition by elevating the dropping of the atom bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki as a cause of any trauma to the Japanese. To Americans, Japanese agency in their own suffering is unquestioned: had Japan not attacked the US, there would have been no atom bomb. Japan’s response has been to remove agency from their suffering and to reinforce their trauma as a clarion call for nuclear disarmament. Their own military may have caused the suffering of the population, but the bomb itself was a unique trauma. Yet the perpetrator of the bombing was not the US, but the bomb itself. It becomes less about blame, and calls for justice and vengeance, and more about paci¿ sm (reinforcing the previous variable of the nature of the trauma). Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Power constraints clearly guide this decision, but intense American contestation of the Japanese trauma story plays a key role as well. Japanese acknowledgement of trauma against Korea (in the form of acknowledgement of the comfort women) is also a clear case of a state seeking to build stronger ties with a nation growing in economic and political strength. Yet, curiously, Japan has not matched this recognition with an acknowledgement of the full extent of the trauma that it caused China. Intense political contestation Memory and trauma as elements of identity 73 of the trauma stories of the two nations drives conÀ ict and rivalry between them. This suggests that the reactions to external contestation of a trauma story are embedded in the larger IR variables of rivalry or alliance. Israel and Palestine contest one another’s trauma stories, and are driven into conÀ ict as a result. The same is true of India and Pakistan, and the partition (and speci¿ cally Kashmir). The trauma stories themselves serve as a cause of the conÀ ict, but instrumentalism seems to be at play as well. Power constraints and international structural interactions are most de¿ nitely factors in the nature of the trauma stories and the role that they play in foreign policy. But the trauma stories complicate foreign policies and their understanding, and the discourses around them are an essential component to À eshing out more meaningfully the formation of foreign policy.

Concluding remarks This chapter has explored the impact of trauma on a nation’s foreign policy through the lens of constructivism. It identi¿ es trauma as inÀ uencing a state’s identity. Identity and foreign policy is an increasingly rich area of analysis. But the factors that contribute to state identity are still being explicated. I argue that trauma is an under-researched, yet vastly important, component of identity. I then outline three different broad theoretical assertions about how trauma stories inÀ uence foreign policy. First is the nature of the trauma, meaning the relationship between victim and perpetrator, as well as the exclusionary/inclusionary elements of the trauma story. Second are the power and structural constraints, reintroducing elements of realism into what is possible under a trauma narrative. Finally, the internal political variables about domestic political contestation, as well as the external (international) variables of power, alliance and structure, can help us to explore the ways in which international actors contest a trauma story. This chapter should serve as a way in which to highlight the important questions that researchers should ask about the impact of trauma and foreign policy. It should accompany the thickly descriptive case studies that this line of analysis deserves. It should complexify the rationalist models of foreign policy analysis, and illuminate the thinking of constructivist scholars seeking to operationalize and de¿ ne identity in a clearer manner.

Note 1 A roundtable between Ted Hopf, Helen Milner, Audie Klotz and Charles Hermann, chaired by Jarrod Hayes and Patrick James, March 2012, San Diego, CA. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 5 Natural disasters Trauma, political contestation and potential to precipitate social change

Vanessa Pupavac

Introduction Natural disasters have been a core prism through which international organizations have related to developing countries over the last half-century, from the Biafran famine in the 1960s to the Ethiopian famine in the 1980s, or, more recently, the 2004 Asian tsunami and the 2010 Haitian earthquake. But wealthy Western countries have also seemed more vulnerable to disasters than they have been for decades. We saw this in Hurricane Katrina in 2005, or the 2011 Japanese earthquake and tsunami, causing hundreds of deaths and large-scale destruction. Furthermore, climate change as a global cause underpins imperatives for greater coordinated global action. Strikingly, we see the globalization of natural disasters. The 2011 Japanese earthquake and tsunami not only was a national disaster requiring national responses, but also prompted national risk management responses in other continents. The contrasting responses reveal the signi¿ cance of broader cultural understanding of disasters, unrelated to the immediate dangers. There are lessons to be learned for international disaster management from Japanese disaster consciousness, as well as from earlier disasters such as the Lisbon earthquake. Disasters have historically assumed fundamental signi¿ cance for human populations, as testi¿ ed in the earliest surviving myths such as the Gilgamesh epic and its tale of a great À ood. Natural disasters have an elemental aspect to them, which speaks beyond existing cultural and social norms to the human condition. Earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, À oods or comets have portended momentous events, alongside their direct physical impact. This chapter explores how natural disasters, despite their destructiveness, may galvanize active responses, temporar- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 ily suspending social divisions, potentially transforming norms and ideas, and reaf¿ rming a sense of common humanity usually unrecognized in normal conditions (Fritz 1996: 23). The chapter discusses natural disasters in historical context, highlighting the distinct social and political meaning of particular disasters from the earlier 1755 Lisbon earthquake, to the 1770 Bengal famine and the 1845–47 Irish potato famine disasters, to the recent disasters of the 2010 Haitian earthquake and the 2011 Japanese earthquake and tsunami. Natural disasters 75 Following the typology of E. L. Quarantelli (1978, 1998), studies have identi¿ ed three broad historical understandings of disasters: acts of God, acts of nature and acts of man. These three historical understandings are associated, respectively, with the traditional pre-Enlightenment condition, the modern Enlightenment condition and the postmodern post-Enlightenment condition. Indeed, disasters have marked watersheds in human history – in particular, the 1755 Lisbon earthquake accelerating the Enlightenment, and the Holocaust and atomic bomb fostering post- Enlightenment thinking. Furthermore, the three broad historical understandings of disasters are associated, respectively, with presumptions about disaster-affected communities and humanity in general: stoicism towards acts of God; agency towards acts of nature; and pathology over acts of man. In summary, religious interpretations see disasters as warning humanity to return to religious faith and encourage stoicism in the face of danger. Enlightenment-inspired interpretations typically indict unenlightened practices or social neglect and see imperatives for social improvement. Premised on belief in human agency, disasters become pre- ventable or mitigable through improved public infrastructures and interventions. Conversely, post-Enlightenment interpretations, sceptical towards human progress, are inclined to indict human activity and seek solutions in its constraint.

Acts of God Disasters in ancient times had terrifying religious signi¿ cance. Disasters attributed to ancient gods were often represented as their malicious sport. This understanding is present in the myths of the ancient Greeks – notably Poseidon, god of the sea and the ‘earth-shaker’. In later antiquity, especially in the monotheist religious traditions, disasters were viewed as God’s punishment of human wickedness. Yet suffering in disasters did not only strike the wicked, but also the good. The idea of primary divine causes and secondary human causes informed the dual interpretation of disasters as both divine events and events linked to human behaviour (Akasoy 2009; Favier and Granet-Abisset 2009; Weintritt 2009). Disasters became represented as tests of faith and portents of judgement day. The ¿ gure of Job, in both the Bible and the Koran, has af¿ rmed religious steadfastness in the face of suffering. Indeed, the religious understanding of disasters as divine portents treated comets and solar eclipses as disasters along with earthquakes, À oods and volcanoes (Kempe 2003: 151–2). This earlier understanding is captured in the origins of the word ‘disaster’ from astrology, meaning bad portents in the stars (Gramsci 1971: 450), and underscores how disasters involve cultural constructions. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Research on European historical responses describes how religious rituals were developed to mark the distinct pre-disaster, disaster and post-disaster phases, including public prayers, processions, fasting or abstinence to atone for sins, and later thanksgiving rituals for lives spared (Favier and Granet-Abisset 2009: 108–9). These ceremonies were not simply religiously inspired against divine punishment, but also sought to curb disorder and panic, and to calm communities (Favier and Granet-Abisset 2009: 109). 76 Vanessa Pupavac However, treating disasters as acts of God did not preclude seeking to understand secondary causes in nature, or potential human preventative or relief actions, as recent studies have stressed (Akasoy 2009: 188; Favier and Granet-Abisset 2009: 109; Weintritt 2009: 177–8). Communal experience of previous disasters, documented in public and private records, helped communities to develop local preventative and coping strategies, even with limited technological capacity. In the face of À oods, for example, these strategies might include securing vital bridges and local food supplies, relocating precious livestock to higher ground, organizing boats and making shelters in trees, or the longer-term construction of À ood defences and irrigation systems (End¿ eld et al. 2009; Favier and Granet- Abisset 2009: 113; Prieto 2009: 296–9; Weintritt 2009). If ideas of primary causes and secondary causes allowed religious and practical responses to coexist, they also opened up secular distinctions between geological and human time, and ultimately undermined divine understandings of disasters as caused by human sinfulness.

Acts of nature Religious interpretations of disasters as acts of God were profoundly shaken in the 1755 Lisbon earthquake, which has been described as ‘the ¿ rst modern disaster’ (Dynes 2005: 34). The disaster occurred on the Catholic Feast of All Saints, killing thousands, many in church, and destroying most of the city’s buildings (Dynes 2005: 39; Jack 2005: 9–12). Lisbon was a major international port and commercial centre, and there were prominent foreign casualties and economic losses. These circumstances prompted debates across Europe on the meaning of a religious providential order under God and developed secular Enlightenment thinking (Braun and Radner 2005; Kendrick 1956). Most famously, Voltaire’s ‘Poem on the Lisbon Disaster’ questioned the religious interpretation of the earthquake as the consequence of sin. The poem called for humanity to develop enlightened thinking, and to better understand itself and the natural and social worlds (Voltaire 1911). Alongside the demands of enlightenment, religious interpretations of the earthquake as punishment for human sinfulness were reasserted across Europe. Philosopher Jean Jacques Rousseau condemned corrupt urban life for contributing to the Lisbon disaster. Rousseau invoked healthy peasant responses against those of dissolute urban intellectuals (Dynes 1999). His interpretation both embodies Calvinist religious concerns over sin and anticipates post-modern ecological concerns. Likewise, the inÀ uential Methodist preacher John Wesley Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 published a sermon Serious Thoughts on the Earthquake at Lisbon, which reiterated nature as ‘the Act of God’ and the earthquake as ‘the hand of the Almighty’ against human sinfulness (Wesley 1756). Yet, overall, the state-sponsored reconstruction of Lisbon suggested new con¿ dence in the human potential to improve the world. In particular, the leadership of the Portuguese prime minister, the Marquis of Pombal, showed active state interventions treating the disaster as an act of nature susceptible to human Natural disasters 77 intervention (Dynes 2005; Jack 2005: 12–13). Pombal superseded traditional religious frameworks in both his emergency measures and his reconstruction plans. He introduced a raft of immediate measures addressing the crisis, including ensuring security and the organization of temporary shelters, military requisition and transportation of food, restrictions on vital labour, price controls on essen- tials, tightening tenancy rights to prevent pro¿ teering, and tax relief on ¿ shing to enhance food supplies, while also ordering the salvaging of materials from the debris (Dynes 2005: 40; Jack 2005: 13–15). Simultaneously, his measures prioritized secular national concerns over religious sanctions: public health, when he ordered the mass disposal of the dead, departing from traditional religious rites; and commercial interests, when he told the clergy to desist from preaching any sermons calling for withdrawal from commercial activity as penance (Dynes 2005: 41). Pombal also organized a strong display of Portuguese naval power to protect national shipping interests. Surveys were commissioned and ambitious plans were drafted for the city’s comprehensive reconstruction. In the longer term, Pombal used the disaster to modernize Portugal and pushed through a reform agenda that included challenging the hold of the church and nobility, and developing Portuguese commercial interests (Dynes 2005; Jack 2005: 13–20). A key area of Pombal’s reforms was education. Importantly, the Portuguese authorities sponsored one of the ¿ rst major attempts to conduct an objective scienti¿ c inquiry into the causes and effects of disasters. This in turn inspired scienti¿ c interest across Europe, from John Michell’s studies given at the Royal Society in London (Michell 1760) to the German philosopher Immanuel Kant’s essays on seismology (Benjamin 1999; Reinhardt and Oldroyd 1983). Thus traditional religious responses to the Lisbon earthquake did not deter scienti¿ c exploration from treating the disaster as an act of nature; indeed, Rousseau and Wesley were themselves also interested in scienti¿ c ideas (Georgi 2005; Webster 2005). A study of contemporary Portuguese culture highlights how letters testify to the trauma of the earthquake, but suggests how post-disaster Lisbon society also offered greater social opportunities for the middle classes (Vieira 2005). Consequently, its literature tends to support government emphasis on recovery and does not convey a picture of an immobilized society overwhelmed by loss and mourning, but of activity orientated towards the future. In a phrase of con¿ dent de¿ ance, Pombal is quoted as asserting of his ambitious plans for Lisbon, ‘one day they will be small’ (New World Encyclopaedia 2008). This spirit of con¿ dent de¿ ance was demonstrated in the course of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Optimistic, forward-looking responses prevailed Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 in disasters such as the devastating 1871 Chicago ¿ re, which expanded the city and stimulated its economic growth (Rozario 2007). Venture and stoicism in the face of loss and danger were culturally af¿ rmed – whether the pioneering spirit in the United States, celebrated in works such as Laura Ingalls Wilders’ Little House series, or the colonial spirit in Britain, mythologized in Rudyard Kipling’s writings such as his well-known poem ‘If’. Strong beliefs in national and social progress broadly accepted the disasters of modernization, such as the 78 Vanessa Pupavac heavy death tolls caused building the Panama Canal in South America or in the electri¿ cation of the Soviet Union. Moreover, pioneering sociological studies such as On Suicide by Emile Durkheim (2002) suggested that the experience of war or disaster potentially allowed societies to transcend modern anomie, at least temporarily, developing secular interpretations of older religious moral lessons from adversity.

Acts of man The twentieth-century man-made disasters of world wars – the Holocaust, Hiroshima and the Soviet Gulags –challenged Enlightenment humanist con¿ dence not only in science and technology, but also in humanity itself. These catastrophic political disasters, coupled with the potential for nuclear destruction, raised the spectre of disasters on a previously inconceivable scale: the extermination of whole human groups and the destruction of the planet itself. Critical theorists Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer indicted the Enlightenment project in their book The Dialectic of Enlightenment, which opens with the assertion, ‘In the most general sense of progressive thought, the Enlightenment has always aimed at liberating men from fear and establishing their sovereignty. Yet the fully Enlightened earth radiates disaster triumphant’ (Horkheimer and Adorno 1976: 1). Social pessimism fostered the development of environmentalism and ecologism from the 1960s, and increasingly haunted disaster thinking. Environmental concerns were taken up in later sociological risk studies, such as Zygmunt Bauman’s Modernity and the Holocaust (1989), Ulrich Beck’s Risk Society (1992), or Anthony Giddens’ The Consequences of Modernity (1990). But until the 1980s, pessimism was largely limited to elite and intellectual circles; instead, optimistic humanist thinking prevailed in post-war international disaster responses. For it was not automatic that the experience of the Holocaust or Hiroshima should undermine active humanist and reformist approaches. We may consider how the writer and Auschwitz survivor Primo Levi argued that his experience of the Holocaust ‘increased my desire, it gave my life a purpose, to bear witness’ (Levi, cited in Anissmov 1999: 11). The creation of the United Nations, the reconstruction of Europe and Asia, international revulsion against the Holocaust and the formal delegitimizing of racist theories demonstrate active humanist and reformist aspirations. The reaf¿ rmed post-war belief in human progress belies the anti-Enlightenment and anti-humanist conclusions of Adorno, Horkheimer and later disaster risk management models. More speci¿ cally, the optimistic thinking of key post-war US disaster experts Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 was informed by witnessing the British population’s reaction to the World War II bombings (Fritz 1996: 48–50). Overall, the wartime experience, requiring the population’s mobilization, af¿ rmed ordinary people’s responses, marginalized negative views and bridged political divisions, appealing to a common national identity and a social reform agenda. The ‘Blitz spirit’, or a spirit of courage and resolve in the face of aerial bombardment, became the popular representation of the wartime responses. Behaviour counter to the Blitz spirit ideal, when people Natural disasters 79 panicked or were cowardly or sel¿ sh, was marginal in mainstream accounts (Jones et al. 2004). Both conservative and leftwing wartime narratives, such as Orwell’s essay ‘England Your England’, typically sought to show people hero- ically working together as a community, transcending their social differences (Orwell 1965). Such ideals became internationalized in works such as Aaron Copland’s 1942 symphony Fanfare to the Common Man. In turn, the experience informed con¿ dent post-war expectations of ordinary people’s communal, altruistic, stoical responses to disasters – essentially, until the 1970s in the United States and until the 1980s in Europe.

Political meanings of disasters Alongside these broad historical understandings of disasters, we can identify political readings of disasters. Disasters were commonly read as portents for the ruling regime. Indeed, not only regimes, but civilizations have been shaken by disasters, whether the volcanic eruption destroying the Minoan culture of ancient Crete, or the earthquakes and storms destroying the Peruvian Moche culture (Mauch 2009: 3–4). Chinese theories of ‘heaven-sent disasters’ not only linked disasters to dynastic crises, whether the end of a dynastic mandate or a test of dynastic legitimacy, but also prompted state disaster management (Janku 2009: 233–4). The imperial Chinese state developed signi¿ cant disaster management responses, including weather monitoring and alerts, tax reductions, rent relief and distribution of state grain (Janku 2009: 240). Disasters continued to be treated as omens of dynastic rule in early modern Europe. Indeed, the signi¿ cance of cosmic portents for dynastic rule propelled key areas of scienti¿ c research well into the seventeenth century (Koestler 1964). But it is the seventeenth century when we really begin to see contesting political interpretations of disasters, and efforts to harness disasters or the language of disasters to distinct religious and political projects. Conservative approaches tended to suppress social divisions in disasters, seeking instead to reaf¿ rm social relations and responsibilities destabilized during crises – including responsibilities towards the poor. Reaf¿ rmation of the existing social order also potentially af¿ rmed ordinary people’s traditional responses against the temptations of new political forces. Conversely, progressive or radical responses to disasters were signi¿ cantly associated with critiques of existing power relations and social inequalities. The causes and consequences of disaster were linked to oppressive social conditions requiring social and political change. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Furthermore, religious and political challengers could identify with disasters – volcanoes, À oods, earthquakes – as agents of revolution. In this vein, the seventeenth-century English radical literature identi¿ ed divine wrath in biblical disasters with the wrath of commoners turning the world upside down:

The Lord maketh the earth . . . waste, and turneth it upside down . . . And it shall be, as with the people, so with the priest; as with the servant, so with his 80 Vanessa Pupavac master; as with the maid, so with her mistress . . . The earth shall reel to and fro like a drunkard, and shall be removed like a cottage . . . The Lord shall punish the host of the high ones . . . and the kings of the earth upon the earth. (Isaiah xxiv, 1–2, 20–1, quoted in Hill 1975: Epigraph)

Radicals saw themselves as earth-shakers challenging traditional authority. The English radical writings illustrate how nascent political movements appropriated the older religious frameworks of divine wrath to support their interests, drawing on Renaissance and Reformations associations of natural disasters with a coming apocalypse and establishment of the heavenly kingdom (Kempe 2003: 152–4). Radical political identi¿ cations with disaster metaphors abound. The political potential of disasters was explored in Marxist and leftwing crisis theories. Oppositional political movements could use the opportunity of crisis conditions fostered by disasters to push for political and social change. Symbolically, C. Day Lewis’ 1936 poem ‘Noah and the Waters’, a secularized reworking of the biblical À ood and the traditional morality play, identi¿ es the À ood with ordinary people as the forces of progressive political change (Day Lewis 1992). The poet interweaves phrases and passages from Marx and Engels’ The Communist Manifesto into the representations of the À ood (Day Lewis 1992). The À ood voices explicitly cry out ‘Waters of the world unite!’ (Day Lewis 1992: 242); meanwhile, the burgesses threaten that no mercy will be shown to the surviving rebelling waters, which will be dammed or ¿ ltered or forced underground (Day Lewis 1992: 242). Similar representations appear in anti-colonial literature. On the one hand, Césaire (1995: 125) suggests that European colonial elites represent disease and decay: ‘Europe has been stuf¿ ng us with lies and bloating us with pestilence.’ At the same time, however, he uses apocalyptic metaphors of the volcano, À ood, disease and ¿ re to characterize the anti-colonial struggle: ‘words which are tidal waves and erysipelas and malarias and lavas and bush-¿ res, blazes of À esh, and blazes of cities . . .’ (Césaire 1995: 99); ‘the enormous lung of the cyclones breathes and the hoarded ¿ re of volcanoes’ (Césaire 1995: 125). Likewise, the Marxist anti-colonial thinker C. L. R. James (2001: 311) in turn describes Jomo Kenyatta as ‘a simmering volcano of African nationalism’. But how were colonial disasters themselves represented? Whereas some disasters involving immense human suffering and destruction did not register in colonial political debates, others attracted intense public attention and reveal sharply contested political differences.

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Contested colonial meanings The 1770 Bengal famine was seminal in revealing how evolving colonial relations fostered the famine and colonial political responses worsened the crisis (Arnold 1999; Damodaran 2009). Not least, the more systematic taxation regime under the East India Company forced farmers from subsistence farming into riskier rice production for sale. Rice, as a crop, is comparatively more susceptible to drought than other key local crops and, when successive droughts struck, Natural disasters 81 rural communities were more affected than they might otherwise have been. The traditional communal relations, mutual responsibilities and coping strategies were undermined by the penetration of market forces and external relations (Arnold 1999; Damodaran 2009). The East India Company was slow to register the evolving crisis, but even when it did so, it did not reduce taxation; indeed, the tax revenues collected by the East India Company actually increased in the famine years (Damodaran 2009). Furthermore, the East India Company introduced measures restricting agricultural trade and transport, but instead of ameliorating the crisis, these measures actually made it harder for the population to secure food from other provinces. Contention in Britain over the company’s governance culminated in Edmund Burke demanding the impeachment of the former Governor General of Bengal, Warren Hastings (Gibbons 2003: 121–44). Yet overall there was some ambivalence towards the affected population. On the one hand, Indians were seen by radicals such as Charles Pigott (2004 [1795]) as victims of a rapaciously greedy company. Pigott’s political dictionary condemns British expansion in India in his de¿ nitions: ‘Company (East India). Chartered robbers, licensed murderers, ¿ nding out military ruf¿ ans to conquer, plunder, and desolate the remotest countries’ (Pigott 2004 [1795]: 13). Meanwhile, his de¿ nition of famine indicts the British in India for reducing a nation to famine: ‘When the English bought up all the rice in Calcutta, the natives daily expired by thousands at the doors inhabited by our countrymen’ (Pigott 2004 [1795]: 35). On the other hand, Indians were also seen as victims of their own passivity and backwardness. As such, they had to be rescued from their cultural darkness and brought to Enlightenment through external intervention. Such conclusions led to arguments for more foreign governance, not less, despite condemnation of the existing British authorities. Ideas of the population’s passivity overlooked how coping strategies were attempted, but frustrated (Arnold 1999; Damodaran 2009). Foraging was obstructed by enclosures and the erosion of common land rights. Meanwhile, popular resistance and rebellion in the face of oppressive company policies belies notions of people’s passivity. Many survivors turned to banditry to survive and the company’s control over the territory became more insecure in the decade after the famine, despite expanding British presence (Arnold 1999; Damodaran 2009). Burke strongly condemned the East India Company’s interventions for exacer- bating the Bengal famine. Yet his opposition to government intervention, expressed in his impeachment calls and elaborated in his later ‘Thoughts on Scarcity’, Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 ironically legitimized of¿ cial policies, which proved disastrous in subsequent colonial famines. Namely, Burke’s writings were invoked by the British of¿ cials to legitimize their endorsement of laissez-faire policies and resistance to state assistance, which exacerbated the Irish famine of the 1840s and other colonial disasters (Gibbons 2003: 121–44). Potato crops across Northern Europe were devastated by a potato blight, which originated in America. However, it was only Ireland that suffered catastrophic 82 Vanessa Pupavac famine (Gray 1999). Crop failure was a familiar problem throughout eighteenth- century Ireland, but instead of dependence on the potato being lessened in eighteenth-century Ireland, if anything, it was reinforced. The country was characterized by absentee landlords who rarely visited and had little knowledge of their estates, which were run by overseers whose responsibility was to maxi- mize revenues. Agricultural wages were low and insuf¿ cient to provide a family living, while family holdings were also inadequate. Irish tenancies were typically small, on poorer land, and lacked rights to any improvements on the land. Thus incentives did not exist to invest and improve the land. The pattern of small- holdings meant that potatoes were the only crop possible to cultivate for subsistence. Alternative sources of income were lacking, so crop failure had serious consequences. The authorities were slow to recognize the evolving crisis and, drawing on Burke, assumed that the situation was one of scarcity rather than famine (Gibbons 2003: 121–44). There was of¿ cial resistance to calls to provide rent or tax relief and other measures to alleviate the acute problems (Gray 1999). Irish suffering was acknowledged in the British press and parliament, but of¿ cial thinking blamed the famine on Irish backwardness and failure to make progress. Thus the 1840s Irish famine reinforced of¿ cial arguments for British governance of Ireland and its development. However, such perceptions neglected how Ireland’s economy was held back by its relations with Britain. Against British of¿ cial representations, the Irish famine became a founding myth of Irish nationalism (Gray 2004). The disaster con¿ rmed the oppressive character of British rule among the Irish and helped to inspire a movement for Irish national independence, as well as precipitated mass migration. John Mitchel, a leading ¿ gure in the Young Ireland movement, published a political pamphlet, The Last Conquest of Ireland (Perhaps), which held the British authorities directly culpable for the population’s disaster: ‘The Almighty, indeed, sent the potato blight, but the English created the famine’ (Mitchel 2005: 219). But alongside political consciousness, the post-famine conditions also reinforced cultural con- servatism and the Catholic Church’s position among the remaining decimated rural communities. The famine remains a founding myth of Irish nationalism, but its political meaning has shifted over the decades with changing Irish and Irish diaspora politics. In the 1990s, the famine’s 150th anniversary was invoked to help to establish Ireland as a post-colonial society with a special global humanitarian role to play in disasters (Gray 2004). Yet the traumatic character of the Bengal and Irish famines does not mean Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 that modern disasters have automatically led to political contestation, or become signi¿ cant in national or international discourse. Strikingly, the later devastating Finnish famine of the 1860s did not lead to political crisis and remains virtually unknown outside Finland; instead, the traumatic experience prompted the Finnish state to industrialize its economy and to shift from its reliance on subsistence farming (Myllyntaus 2009). Such capacity for progressive social change appears anathema in today’s prevailing international disaster models. For international Natural disasters 83 political developments, especially after the 1970s, have undermined social optimism and led to the triumph of pessimistic expectations in international disaster approaches.

Disasters, social pessimism and risk consciousness In recent decades, both conservative and leftwing thinking has become increasingly negative about humanity, seeing disasters as embodying human pathology and expecting dysfunctional or antisocial responses. Conservative politics has long been more likely to draw pessimistic conclusions from disasters that have shaken established social norms. The cultural elites’ fears for civilization in the face of mass society, expressed in works such as Spengler’s The Decline of the West (1946), Ortega y Gasset’s The Revolt of the Masses (1964), Freud’s Civilization and its Discontents (2004), or T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land (1922), were reinforced by the experience of the First World War and the Russian Revolution, while the Holocaust, Hiroshima and the Soviet Gulags came to haunt leftwing political subjectivity as evident in Robert Lifton’s Death in Life: Survivors of Hiroshima (1968), or Herbert Marcuse’s One Dimensional Man (1991). Signi¿ cant frameworks of meaning – notably, post-war belief in social progress, social engineering and the expansion of public welfare – kept pessimistic critiques marginal and largely con¿ ned to cultural elites until signi¿ cant national frameworks of meaning eroded. Speci¿ c national tipping points may be identi¿ ed at which countries adopted more pessimistic professional and cultural outlooks. Individual national demoralization was reinforced by international progressive setbacks, including the failure of 1968 radicalism, the 1968 Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia, the frustrated promise of the Non-Aligned Movement, political repression and violent conÀ ict in post-independence countries, and stasis in international development (Laidi 1998). The United States, with the ideal of the ‘American Dream’, has been associated with social optimism against disaster (Rozario 2007), yet pessimistic critiques gained wider cultural resonance in the 1970s in a US nationally demoralized over defeat in the Vietnam War and questioning the idea of American exceptionalism (Engelhardt 1998). For Vietnam represented not just a physical defeat for the US, but a moral defeat, amidst international condemnation of its invasion and the effects of its military strategies, including chemical warfare against civilians. Social optimism was further undermined domestically by the end of the post-war economic boom, the demise of Bretton Woods and the link between the US dollar and gold, the Watergate scandal, the political assassination of President Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 John Kennedy, Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy, fragmentation of the civil rights movement, racial divisions, urban riots and urban terrorism such as Weatherman, and a broader decline of communal life (Lasch 1984). Pessimistic critiques gained wider cultural resonance a decade later in Europe. In Britain, for example, the defeat of the year-long miners’ strike in 1985 and the demise of a working-class movement marked a shift towards a more pessimistic political and policy preoccupation with victimhood and risk. 84 Vanessa Pupavac From therapeutic communities to corrosive communities at risk Disaster studies have long observed how a community’s response was determined by ‘its culture, its morale, its leadership’, not only the scale of the disaster itself (Carr 1932: 211–12). Optimistic thinking prevailed in post-war disaster responses linked to wider belief in social progress, which saw disasters as natural, the dangers of which were to be overcome through human action. The broadly optimistic view about addressing the physical impact of disasters was accompanied by broadly optimistic cultural expectations of people’s responses to disasters. And crises seen through the lens of socially progressive outlooks reinforced the imperative for social support. Sociological accounts of disasters document the spontaneous creation of therapeutic communities (Barton 1969; Fritz 1996; Kreps 1984; Saunders and Kreps 1987). Leading post-war US disaster expert Charles Fritz (1996: 9) was struck by how large-scale disasters produced ‘such mentally healthy conditions’. Fritz’s disaster research was heavily inÀ uenced (as was that of many others) by his wartime experiences, ¿ rst in England and then leading the US Strategic Bombing Survey of Germany. His 1961 study, Disasters and Mental Health: Therapeutic Principles Drawn from Disaster Studies, focuses on the ‘positive, bene¿ cent, therapeutic personal and social effects of disaster’ (Fritz 1996: 9). Fritz argues that ‘disaster-struck communities and societies naturally develop therapies that quickly and effectively overcome the losses, traumas, and privations of disaster – without the intervention of mental health care professionals’ (Fritz 1996: 25). Fritz discusses the emerging ‘community of sufferers’, the waxing and waning of this community in the course of the disaster, and the way in which disasters temporarily overcome modern trends towards anomie and community fragmentation (Fritz 1996: 27–38). Fritz contests ‘overworked metaphors of pathology’, although he warns that different responses could be expected if ‘outside forces or authorities intervene in spontaneous community processes of adjusting to the disaster’ (Fritz 1996: 27–8). Against negative predictions, the study suggests that panic and hysteria are rare: that people exhibit self-control and concern for the welfare of others, and that reports of looting are typically exaggerated (Fritz 1996: 18). Fritz questions studies or disaster management responses extrapolating from ‘routine crises or small-scale accidents to later-scale disasters’, arguing that their enormity shakes up cultural norms and everyday behaviours (Fritz 1996: 23). Signi¿ cantly, disaster-affected communities may cross existing social, racial and minority divi-

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 sions (Fritz 1996: 40–2), and ‘most of the behavioural pathologies of everyday life fail to increase or actually decline in disaster’ (Fritz 1996: 27). Post-war accounts of disasters reveal a strong collective narrative af¿ rming courageous, altruistic and stoical communal reactions (Furedi 2005). Furthermore, disaster research links expectations of self-reliance to the dignity and autonomy of citizens of a democratic society. These ideas also are reÀ ected in socially engaged twentieth-century literature. Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath (1951) Natural disasters 85 af¿ rms ordinary people’s mutual support, stoicism and dignity in the face of poverty, harsh working conditions and economic ruin as part of demanding social change. Steinbeck describes economic refugees building camps, which develop their own laws and social supports (Steinbeck 1951: 177–84), while Camus’ The Plague (1960) seeks to explore the impact of an epidemic on a town and its people’s adaptation at different stages. At its centre is the emergence of ¿ gures whose quiet heroism combats the epidemic. In recent decades, as already mentioned, more pessimistic risk models have been embodied in works such as Zygmunt Bauman’s Modernity and the Holocaust (1989), Ulrich Beck’s Risk Society (1992) and Anthony Giddens’ The Consequences of Modernity (1990), displacing earlier optimistic sociological accounts in the disaster management literature. Ecological risk approaches focus on the scale and causes of disasters, and communities’ vulnerabilities to external risks. Simultaneously, the disasters attributed to human agency have expanded, as have the concepts of disasters and toxic disasters themselves (Furedi 2005). We see this in works such as Kai Erikson’s inÀ uential Everything in its Path: Destruction of Community in the Buffalo Creek Flood (1976) and later A New Species of Trouble: Explorations in Disaster, Trauma, and Community (1994). Ecological approaches effectively pathologize human agency, whereby human agency is associated with culpability for disasters or vulnerability to disasters, as opposed to capacity to recover and progress from disasters (Bracken 2002; Furedi 2005). Meanwhile, assumptions of psychosocial dysfunction became expressed in the pervasive informal diagnosis of disaster-affected communities as suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Accordingly, populations are approached dualistically as perpetrators or victims, at risk of trauma and dysfunction without expert interventions. Predictions of community dysfunction and long-term mental health problems are being applied to natural, as well as technological, disasters (Furedi 2005). So whereas earlier sociological accounts saw the spontaneous creation of ‘therapeutic communities’, today’s thinking presumes the need for therapeutic governance of ‘corrosive’ disaster-affected communities. Nevertheless, disasters may still shake inhibiting frameworks and prompt spontaneous communal responses, even if these are later stiÀ ed by prevailing cultural norms or corrosive risk models.

Disaster politics and Hurricane Katrina In 2005, Hurricane Katrina, a Category 3 storm, hit New Orleans and other coastal communities in the Gulf of Mexico in one of the worst modern disasters experienced in the US, killing more than 1,800 people and displacing hundreds of Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 thousands (Bullard and Wright 2009; Marable and Clarke 2008; Rozario 2007; Troutt 2007). There was wide condemnation of the failure of of¿ cial disaster responses, including the poorly maintained À ood defences and the lack of adequate evacuation measures. In the words of then Senator Barack Obama:

. . . whoever was in charge of planning and preparing for the worst case scenario appeared to assume that every American has the capacity to load up 86 Vanessa Pupavac their family in an SUV, ¿ ll it up with $100 worth of gasoline, stick some bottled water in the trunk, and use a credit card to check in to a hotel on safe ground. (Obama 2005a)

Signi¿ cantly, there was widespread anger over the negative representations of the disaster-affected black communities, whose coping strategies were criminal- ized as looting and rioting (Bullard and Wright 2009; Marable and Clarke 2008; Rozario 2007; Troutt 2007). Critics of of¿ cial responses commonly countered the pathologization and criminalization of the À ood victims by emphasizing their vulnerability, trauma and social exclusion. Politically, the disaster put race and poverty back at the centre of US politics, and encouraged a demand for political change, undermining the standing of Republican President George W. Bush and facilitating Obama’s subsequent election as US president. In the wake of Hurricane Katrina’s political debacle, Obama succeeded in better articulating the victims’ sense of marginalization than other presidential candidates. As one victim stated, ‘We had nothing before the hurricane. Now we got less than nothing’ (quoted in Obama 2005b). The Hurricane Katrina-ravaged region was hit again by Hurricane Isaac on 29 August 2012, on the seventh anniversary of the earlier disaster. Hurricane Isaac, albeit a less severe Category 1 storm, put a spotlight on post-Katrina recovery and disaster preparedness, including the effectiveness of the improved À ood protection system, local reforms and accountability for failures of of¿ cials, whose progress has been closely followed politically and in the media (Anglin et al. 2011; GNOCDC 2011; New York Times 2012). Strikingly, in the years since Hurricane Katrina, we also see a growing shift of emphasis from trauma to resilience – a policy trend discernible in global disaster management. The Brookings Institute’s Resilience and Opportunity: Lessons from the U.S. Gulf Coast after Katrina and Rita embodies and promotes this emphasis on resilience, which it characterizes as ‘both the capacity to respond to a shock and the performance . . . once a shock has occurred’ (Lui et al. 2011: 50). We see this emphasis on resilience too in cultural representations such as the Louisiana State Museum’s exhibition ‘Living with Hurricanes: Katrina and Beyond’, which refers to Katrina as ‘an unforgettable experience of loss and devastation’, but which exhibition also seeks to be ‘a celebration of the spirit of service and resilience in the face of catastrophe’ (Louisiana State Museum n.d.). The theme of resilience may echo ideas of fortitude and character, but actually Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 involves expectations of expert empowerment of communities for self-reliance, especially where resilience models are translated into international disaster responses, as this chapter will highlight in the ¿ nal sections. Before doing so, let us stress the fortitude shown by the Japanese population in the 2011 earthquake and tsunami, the scale of which vastly exceeded that of the 1753 Lisbon earthquake or the 2010 Haitian earthquake. Natural disasters 87 The 2011 Japanese disaster and Japanese disaster management The 2011 Japanese disaster had three key components – an earthquake, a tsunami and a nuclear accident – and tested Japan’s developed disaster management systems. The 9.0 underwater earthquake – one of the largest ever recorded – and the resulting powerful tsunami caused some 20,000 deaths and 6,000 injured, and huge destruction along the coastal region, including damage to the nuclear power stations at Fukushima, leading to a subsequent decision to evacuate the population within a 20km radius. Yet the disaster, over 700 times more powerful than the 2010 Haitian earthquake, could have been so much worse but for Japan’s sophisticated systems to address earthquakes, from building design to emergency preparedness. These measures minimized the loss of life from the initial earthquake, while the striking communal activities supported those affected by the devastating tsunami, challenging the PTSD models that assume mass psychosocial dysfunction. However, the Japanese disaster not only prompted national responses, but also led to alarmed reactions elsewhere, from North Americans buying anti-radiation pills (Stein 2011) to the German government deciding to discontinue its nuclear programme (Gale 2011; Spiegel 2011a, 2011b; Stamp 2011). Such contrasting reactions show the signi¿ cance of broader cultural understanding of disasters, as against spontaneous responses to immediate dangers. Here, it should be stressed that the remarkable communal response shown in Japan does not mean that Japan has always responded to disasters so constructively (Furedi 2011). In the wake of the 1923 Japanese earthquake, when more than 100,000 were killed, social disarray fuelled panic against ethnic Koreans, leading to their slaughter by the thousands (Furedi 2011). But cultural responses are not set in stone. Japan has been able to develop not only sophisticated technical systems, but also a solid disaster consciousness able to withstand the more recent catastrophic three-pronged disaster. Nevertheless, while the earthquake and the tsunami responses tended to consolidate social consensus, the multiple safety failures behind the nuclear accident prompted political protests and cultural questioning. The of¿ cial report of the Fukushima Nuclear Accident Independent Commission, published by the National Diet of Japan (2012), concluded that the accident was a ‘profoundly man-made disaster’ and, further, a disaster ‘Made in Japan’ (quoted in McCurry 2012). Chair of the Commission Kiyoshi Kurokama singled out, inter alia, ‘the ingrained conventions of Japanese culture: our reÀ exive obedience; our reluctance to question authority; our devotion to “sticking with the programme”; our groupism; and our insularity’ (quoted in McCurry 2012). Thus we see how the man-made disaster is

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 being politically mobilized for a reform agenda. Let us now consider contemporary international disaster politics.

Contemporary international disaster politics The 1990s were designated the ‘International Decade for Natural Disaster Reduction’. However, natural disasters were marginalized by international 88 Vanessa Pupavac concern over state collapse and civil wars. The very concept of natural disasters was fundamentally questioned in this decade by the United Nations and international relief organizations. Economist Amartya Sen’s 1981 study on Poverty and Famine had already challenged Malthusian ideas of famine, and his critique was further developed in Alex de Waal’s Famine Crimes (1997) and other studies. Thus, while earlier disasters such as the 1985 Ethiopian famine were primarily treated as events related to natural causes like drought, 1990s disasters were increasingly conceptualized as complex political emergencies or human security problems with social, political and economic causes. Many disaster researchers today dislike the term ‘natural disasters’ (Mauch 2009; Mauelshagen 2009; P¿ ster 2009: 17–18). There is a preference for seeing disasters not as events, but as socio-economic and political processes. Studies such as Ted Steinberg’s Acts of God: The Unnatural History of Natural Disaster in America (2006) emphasize the political, social and economic politics of disasters, and how powerful interests jeopardized the interests of weaker sections of society. Yet while earlier critiques supported progressive agendas, more recent critiques have been invoked to support narrower political claim-making or more paternalistic global action (Duf¿ eld 2007). Accompanying changing critiques is a tendency in later critiques to pathologize disaster-affected communities, leading to pressures for greater external governance, with implications for autonomy and self-determination. These echo the ambivalence of earlier colonial responses towards disaster-affected populations whose culture is deemed in need of external reform (Damodaran 2009; Gibbons 2003: 121–44; Gray 1999; Taithe 2009). Furthermore, such frameworks are reinforced in the shifting interpretations of earlier disasters. We see these tensions in the 2010 Haitian earthquake, which took more than 230,000 lives and made a million homeless. Global concern over the plight of Haitians saw ordinary children and adults spontaneously organizing events raising aid for Haiti, puncturing prevailing of¿ cial Western representations of Haiti as a failed state without a sense of community. The spontaneous sympathy towards Haitians was also supported by the heightened consciousness of race politics that surrounded the 2005 Hurricane Katrina (Bullard and Wright 2009; Marable and Clarke 2008; Rozario 2007; Troutt 2007). Heightened consciousness among disaster experts of racialized framing of Hurricane Katrina encouraged more positive representations of Haitians along with the spontaneous global concern. There was quick public condemnation of US rightwing groups treating the earthquake as divine punishment for Haitian traditional voodoo beliefs. However, the idea of Haiti as a failed state and society still overshadowed Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 of¿ cial donor thinking and some media representations (Austin 2010; Collier and Warnholz 2010). Of¿ cial Western representations of Haiti as a failed state and security problem affected international humanitarian relief. US military control of the airport was attacked for giving paramountcy to security of international interveners and delaying rescue work in the crucial early stages, although it is also argued that the military sped up food distribution (Butter¿ eld et al. 2010). More signi¿ cant is Natural disasters 89 how the international aid effort tended to bypass local initiatives – symbolized and exacerbated by the fact that aid coordination meetings were in English, not even in French, let alone Creole (Holmes 2010; Levine 2010). Symptomatic is how the international aid community in Haiti, as elsewhere, preferred to give aid in kind and was reluctant to trust the disaster-affected population with cash aid schemes. Yet those affected were overwhelmingly urban citizens operating in a cash economy (Levine 2010). Of¿ cial negative representations tended to strengthen as the crisis prolonged. Thus the problem of cholera, caused by UN peacekeepers, became not only an urgent humanitarian problem to be addressed through practical interventions, but also a disease metaphor to characterize both Haitian society and a failing United Nations. And while the UN failed to eradicate the UN-borne cholera or to improve Haitian water supplies, the natural disaster was once again further overshadowed by representations of male violence. The international security and insurance risk protocols, which have been developed in response to the threats faced by aid workers in the politicized humanitarian space of conÀ ict situations, are beginning to impinge on international disaster work more broadly. Risk management models are expanding the crisis situations deemed to present security dangers, and shaping the creation of forti¿ ed humanitarian archipelagos at a distance from the disaster-affected population (Duf¿ eld 2007, 2010). Simultaneously, the evolving humanitarian architecture and its accompanying protocols reinforce donor–recipient hierarchies, with consequences for post-crisis relations.

From wrath of God to wrath of nature While security approaches to disasters in the developing world have problema- tized the agency of developing populations, climate change politics indicts humanity as a parasitical species. Only those communities living a naturalized existence are ostensibly free from censure here. However, those very communities are most exposed to natural disasters. So while they are invoked as victims of climate change caused by industrializing or post-industrial societies, the non- liberal coping strategies of those same communities become pathologized under other global concerns. Parallels have been observed between earlier religious ideas of disasters as divine wrath against sinful man and today’s secular ideas of disasters as nature’s revenge against human greed (Mauelshagen 2009: 66). The 2003 Bam earthquake, as a result of which more than 26,000 lost their lives and 30,000 were injured, was Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 represented by the Iranian authorities and media as a test of religious devotion (Akasoy 2009: 193). Equally, secular Europe tends to represent recent disasters such as the European 2003 heatwave or the 2011 Japanese earthquake as a test of global ecological commitment. Strikingly, advocacy campaigns accompanied by denunciations of human greed and calls to change unenvironmental ways have focused on public actions to restrain personal consumption. Apocalyptic fears are leading to demands 90 Vanessa Pupavac by environmental campaigners such as Mayer Hillman to suspend democratic decision-making in this area and impose measures on populations (response to audience question at East Midlands Salon debate, Derby, dated 11 October 2011). Political identi¿ cation with apocalyptic natural disasters has modi¿ ed its meaning here and reÀ ects the decline of mass radical politics. Politics of recent years increasingly invokes catastrophic events to galvanize policy enforcement and public compliance, as opposed to a positive vision of the future. In this vein, the philosopher and cultural critic Paul Virilio (cited in P¿ ster 2009: 18) suggests that twenty-¿ rst century political action ‘will result from disasters rather than from revolution’. However, international relations (IR) theorist Zaki Laidi (1998) has warned that the ‘politics of emergency’ fosters a politics emphasizing security interventions over freedoms. Here, we may note how the concept of resilience intersects with these security and ecological concerns. Over the last decade, resilience has incrementally displaced trauma as the predominant policy paradigm through which disasters are understood. The language of resilience was attractive to critics of trauma models as countering representations of disaster-affected communities as psychologically dysfunctional (Durodie 2005). Nevertheless, the resilience concept essentially follows the previous 1990s PTSD models in assuming the need for intervention, and reinforces ecological approaches treating human agency as toxic and expanding expert governance. Simultaneously, the fused psychosocial and ecological approaches in the resilience paradigm decentre humanity in international disaster thinking. In particular, international disaster concerns over climate change or extreme weather involve policy demands that would privilege the planet over humanity (IPPC 2012; Oxfam 2012). The leitmotifs of international disaster and development strategies have become adaptation and adjustment, rather than the material social transformation of people’s lives. Effectively, international strategies seek only basic material subsistence for populations in developing countries realized through labour-intensive agriculture or petty trade within the market economy (Pupavac 2010). Furthermore, critics note how international reports invariably invoke voices from poor marginalized populations vulnerable to natural disasters to support international strategies, which effectively treat their lifestyles as hazardous and requiring adjustment to the needs of the biosphere or local ecosystem (Chandler 2012; Duf¿ eld 2007; Reid 2012). As such, instead of disasters becoming potential means of progressive social change, they imply expanding bureaucratic governance seeking to police populations’ physical and psychological responses to crisis. Of democratic concern, the promotion of the resilient subject implies the Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 suppression of the political subject. Political theorist Julian Reid contends that:

[T]he resilient subject is a subject which must permanently struggle to accommodate itself to the world. Not a political subject which can conceive of changing the world, its structure and conditions of possibility, with a view to securing itself from the world. But a subject which accepts the disastrousness of the world it lives in as a condition for partaking of that world and which Natural disasters 91 accepts the necessity of the injunction to change itself in correspondence with the threats and dangers now presupposed as endemic. (Reid 2012: 74)

In short, the resilience paradigm is accused of being complicit in the existing global political economy, rather than representing a critique of its relations (Neoclous 2013).

Concluding remarks We need to look beyond contemporary international disaster and development strategies, to seek progressive politics and aspire to greater human À ourishing. In particular, the expanding resilience paradigm embodies a restricted political imagination antithetical to humane À ourishing and promotes an alienated, securitized existence. Key disaster studies today suggest that we should not overlook past experience. Under the resilience paradigm, the celebration of past coping strategies implies retreating to heavily circumscribed ways of life. Alternatively, past experience suggests humanist possibilities for people transcending tragic disasters and generating progressive social transformation. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 6 Healing and reconciliation in contemporary post- conÀ ict scenarios Securitization movement of war trauma in perspective

Renata B. Ferreira

Introduction Ethnic conÀ icts marked by genocidal practices represent one of the greatest challenges for contemporary international security. Their complexity has prompted many reÀ ections about the meaning of security, which encompasses the development of the idea of human security and the study of different objects of analysis, such as war trauma and the psychological health of the populations affected by these violent occurrences. As for human security, new analytical possibilities have been brought to the international security debate by some decision makers who have endorsed the need to re-evaluate the state as the primary subject of security or to represent some middle powers in search of a more signi¿ cant role in world security politics. Concomitant to these new approaches to human security has been the emergence of an international therapeutic culture, which has reinforced – among other things – a discourse that interprets war trauma as a risk to social reconciliation in post-conÀ ict scenarios and instils the belief that the emotions of survivors should be ‘managed’ in order not to compromise the pursuit of sustainable peace. The management of this unease has been advanced by the United Nations and the World Health Organization (WHO) through the development of social psychotherapy programmes, which are part of the activities dedicated to the promotion of social reconciliation in many countries affected by violent conÀ icts. Nevertheless, these programmes, in spite of the assertion that they respect the local cultural environment of these populations, are based on a Western con- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 ception of wellness that promotes the medicalization of trauma, and characterizes survivors as vulnerable and dysfunctional people, perpetuating in great measure the sense of insecurity among them. In the theoretical domain, some of the contemporary international security debates have absorbed these concerns through intense discussions around the idea of ontological security – that is, the internal capacity of individuals to exercise their physical autonomy within a social environment marked by practices of social control (Mitzen 2006). Healing and reconciliation post-conflict 93 Given this set of issues, my purpose in the present chapter is threefold. First, I will brieÀ y observe how the contemporary international security debate has connected with the human security idea in the last two decades, with emphasis on the constructivist contributions from the Copenhagen School and international political sociology. Second, I will observe why and how these mental health issues have been progressively absorbed by the United Nations and WHO’s discourses and activities designed to promote social reconciliation in post-conÀ ict scenarios. Finally, I intend to debate the terms within which war trauma has been presented by these two organizations inside the programmes formulated to ‘heal the wounds’ of the survivors and to guarantee that the memories of the violent past do not compromise the future.

Human security in the contemporary international security debate Human security has been introduced to the contemporary international security debate as part of an emancipatory project that has the purpose of reinventing the theory and practice of international security by considering priorities other than the national security of states (Gasper 2005). Its analytical purpose is to take the security of men and women in a broader sense, and to debate the traditional readings that postulate that the protection of individuals is best served if it is provided by states (Hampson 2004). Despite the relevance that the idea of human security has achieved in the last 15 years among international policymakers, among international relations (IR) academics, human security is still considered by many to be an essentially contested concept (Macfarlane and Khong 2006; Paris 2001; Thomas and Tow 2002). Its critics argue that the breadth of the concept compro- mises its analytical capacity and political utility, making it extremely dif¿ cult to handle if it is not clearly delimited. Since the 1960s, however, the idea of human security has accompanied the long- standing concerns of researchers and practitioners of international development – an agenda that has tended to focus on the ways in which globalization dynamics have damaged the prospects for human development and the provision of basic human needs. At the end of the Cold War, these debates – promoted by a series of independent commissions – ¿ nally had an impact on the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), and since then the idea has been promoted more vigorously as part of the UNDP’s aim to make the well-being of individuals a central theme in development analyses and policies (Bajpai 2003). Meanwhile, the United Nations Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 has not been the only party interested in the promotion of the idea of human security. In 1997 and 1999, Canada and Norway organized two conferences that reaf¿ rmed the position of the middle powers on human security. For these middle powers, human security should be equated with freedom from fear only, and their list of threats is much more limited than the UNDP list, which also includes – and emphasizes – freedom from want. In spite of their different views, there is some common ground between the two interpretations of human security, which is 94 Renata B. Ferreira represented by their consideration of individuals as objects of security and recognition that states are not always capable of guaranteeing the protection of their own citizens (Macfarlane and Khong 2006). In the last two decades, both views of human security have stimulated a series of initiatives by different international actors, with formulations varying between the narrower and the broader de¿ nitions. If, in terms of policy, the idea of human security has won over an increasing number of followers, inside the international security literature, the situation is quite different. The debate about the concept of human security has faced many challenges, which have also impacted on the concept of security itself, mainly since the 1990s, when discussions about the broadening and deepening of the meaning of security became more intense. Debates over the nature and meaning of security and the future of security studies have been a characteristic of international security literature since the end of the Cold War. As Keith Krause and Michael Williams observed, these debates have three main sources of concern:

. . . a discontent among some scholars with the neorealist foundations that have characterized the ¿ eld, a need to respond to the challenges posed by the emergence of a post-Cold War security order, and a continuing desire to make the discipline relevant to contemporary concerns. (Krause and Williams 1996: 229)

The variety of contributions to the new thinking on security can be classi¿ ed along some axes. Among those who propose the broadening and deepening of security, the main point of departure is the perception of the constructed nature of the concept. For these scholars, the claim to scienti¿ c knowledge underlying neorealist security studies is supported by a series of foundational assumptions that are presented as ‘facts’ about the world. The most important of these foundational claims is the centrality of the state as the subject of security, presented as an autonomous, rational actor confronted by an environment ¿ lled with similar actors. In this sense, critical security studies has sought to prepare a set of critiques that questions these claims and proposes different theoretical concerns, albeit without invoking a new orthodoxy. Krause and Williams, upon the publication of their Critical Security Studies: Concepts and Causes in 1997, clearly stated their intention to bring on board different new perspectives on security without a renewed call for de¿ nitive answers, interpreting these disciplining dynamics as part of the problem of traditional readings of security. It is not my purpose here to cover all of these alternatives. In the present chapter, Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 it is important for me to focus more speci¿ cally on how critical security studies literature has assessed the human security idea, giving special attention to the constructivist readings from the Copenhagen School and international political sociology. In my view, these two approaches provide interesting insights on the human security debate and represent a further step towards understanding how discourses that take war trauma as a risk to social reconciliation are produced Healing and reconciliation post-conflict 95 in order to justify psychosocial programmes dedicated to the administration of this ‘unease’. The Copenhagen School has developed a substantial body of concepts with which to rethink security, most notably through its notions of sectoral analysis of security and securitization. According to Barry Buzan, Ole Waever and Jaap de Wilde (2004), a constructivist proposal that promotes a multisectoral approach to security would be fully meaningful only if referent objects other than the state were allowed into the picture. Thus Buzan and his colleagues propose to transcend the classic theory of security complexes developed by Buzan by broadening the sectors to be analysed – including the political, economic, societal and environmental sectors, along with the military – and by suggesting the existence of heteronymous complexes – that is, complexes with their own regional logic, with different types of actor interacting through two or more sectors. The analytical value of this proposal is the possibility of thinking about security on many levels, in spite of the authors’ choice for a state-centric frame. Nonetheless, of more theoretical signi¿ cance to the development of critical security studies is the work of Waever (1995) on securitization. Essentially, he suggests that we treat security as a speech act – that is, a concrete action that is performed by virtue of its being said. Waever, de Wilde and Buzan opened their investigations with a fundamental question: which qualities make an issue an object of security in IR? In response, they asserted that:

[I]n this context, security is about survival. It is when an issue is presented as posing an existential threat to a designated referent object (traditionally but not necessarily, the state, incorporating government, territory, and society). The special nature of security threats justi¿ es the use of extraordinary measures to handle them. (Buzan et al. 2004: 21)

In this sense, for Buzan and his colleagues the invocation of security is a fundamental element for legitimizing the use of force and de¿ ning situations as existential threats in need of emergency measures. The essential quality of the existence therefore varies according to the different sectors and levels of analysis, and the same applies to the nature of the existential threats. In other words, security is a self-referential practice because it is this practice that turns certain issues into security issues every time they are presented as a threat, even if a real threat is not always present. Buzan et al. observe that the exact de¿ nition and criteria of securitization are constituted by the inter-subjective Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 construction of a great enough existential threat to prompt substantial political effects. Thus the study of securitization processes requires the study of discourses and political constellations to answer the following question: when does an argument with this rhetorical and semiotic structure have enough effect to make an audience tolerate violations of rules that, in other circumstances, would be obeyed? If, with this discourse of urgency and existential threat, a securitizing 96 Renata B. Ferreira actor succeeds in breaking the rules that limit its actions, then a process of securitization is complete. Nevertheless, to reach this objective, a securitizing actor has to follow some predetermined conditions: existential threats, emergency measures and effects on the relations among the units that free the actors from the limitations posed by rules in some speci¿ c matters. This process is known inside the theory of language as a ‘speech act’ and it means that the very enunciation of words is the action. Speaking is doing. To Buzan and his colleagues, this logic offers some consistency to the de¿ nition of security and it provides a speci¿ c pattern for the deepening of security. This pattern is, then, the basis for undertaking a security analysis of a variety of sectors without losing sight of the essential quality of the concept. It is important to notice that the relationship between the different subjects is asymmetrical and that the chances of success of a securitization process are intimately connected to the position that the securitizing actor occupies. In certain areas, some actors are in a position of power, because they are accepted as voices of authority and this grants them better opportunities to promote securitization processes. However, this power is not absolute, because there are no guarantees that their discourses will be accepted or that they will not be marginalized by alternative interpretations of security. In this sense, it is as important to know who is securitizing, what is being securitized, what is the referent object, why it is being securitized and with what results as it is to know under what conditions the discourse is being developed. Meanwhile, my interest in the Copenhagen analysis proposal is also critical of its limitations. One of the problems presented by this proposal is that it develops the idea of securitization based on a methodology focused on col- lectivities, consciously marginalizing the individual level of analysis that takes the individual as the referent of security. On this matter, Buzan and his colleagues argue that those who select human security as a focus of analysis accept a much heavier burden than they do by taking the existing constructions of security as arbitrary and by selecting other different issues as more important security problems. As we have already noted, human security faces a lot of criticism inside the security literature, even inside critical security studies. Nevertheless, for the latter, it also represents a discourse in construction, as a response to the many practical and normative initiatives of different international actors around the idea of human security in the last two decades. For those who value human security, its broad de¿ nition represents a critical analytical exercise that contributes to raising questions that are peripheral inside traditional security debates and which allow us to discuss the adoption by the international com- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 munity of more comprehensive measures to deal with issues that affect people’s everyday lives. All in all, those who defend the human security concept seem more in tune with contemporary international security practices. These same practices that promote the securitization of issues traditionally considered as matters to be managed only inside states are, in fact, forcing those who adopt a collectivist methodology in their analysis of securitization movements and processes to Healing and reconciliation post-conflict 97 re-evaluate their positions, as well as stimulating others to search for some more comprehensive analytical tools with which to understand securitization movements that take individuals as their referent objects. In other words, the so-called ‘burden’ mentioned by Buzan et al. in dealing with the individual level of analysis can no longer be avoided, mainly when we witness the development of security policies and discourses that have presented panic notes, or when we observe the insertion of issues such as emotions and trauma in these same discourses and policies (Ferreira 2010). As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, ethnic conÀ icts characterized by genocide have led to a persistent instability in the international contemporary system, which is a matter of concern even after these conÀ icts come to an end. One of the elements that comprise the post-conÀ ict reality is the possibility that the survivors of these conÀ icts will experience some strong feelings as a result of the violence suffered or testi¿ ed during such events. Since the 1990s, the impact of these conÀ icts on survivors’ minds and bodies has become one of the international community’s main security concerns, and has led it progressively to interpret these people as vulnerable and traumatized. As a consequence, a series of UN and WHO programmes have been developed in post-conÀ ict scenarios focused on the recovery of the physical and psychological well-being of these survivors. These programmes were established according to discourses that see certain emotions as disruptive and capable of compromising the chances of a sustainable social reconciliation in these areas. In these contexts, the UN and WHO programmes have signi¿ cantly contributed to the interpretation of war trauma as a risk to the security of individuals living in post-conÀ ict societies, and have led many analysts to rethink the role of emotions in international security and politics. In the last ten years, a considerable body of work has been produced on the study of emotions in other disciplines such as anthropology, psychology and sociology, and a few international security authors have chosen to engage in a dialogue with these other disciplines for a more comprehensive understanding of emotions inside their own ¿ eld (Crawford 2000; Pupavac 2004a, 2004c). In this sense, researchers who take part in international political sociology – also known as the ‘Paris School’ – are those for whom the investigation of securitization movements and processes is possible inside a constructivist frame that nevertheless does not exclude the individual as a level of analysis and which is more open to the analysis of processes of [in]securitization that involve issues traditionally understood as matters of domestic politics (CASE Collective 2006). Moreover, these authors propose analysing more than speech acts, because they also observe the practices that reinforce the production of [in]securities. As Didier Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Bigo (2002) points out, security and insecurity are a consequence of a process of [in]securitization – that is, the result of a continuum of threats and general unease in which different actors exchange their fears and beliefs in the making of a risky and dangerous society. During this process, the professional in charge of the management of risk and fear frequently transfers the legitimacy that it gains from struggles against terrorists or criminals, for instance, towards different targets, such as ‘traumatized people’. The underlying logic that orients these professionals 98 Renata B. Ferreira is based on Michel Foucault’s idea of disciplinary normalization, according to which a role model of what is considered ‘normal’ is set by these professionals in order to promote conformity among the individuals and to produce social control (Foucault 2004: 75). For this reason, international political sociology’s proposal of analysis presents – according to my perspective – a more comprehensive view of the process of securitization, and it serves our purpose of investigating why and how mental health issues have been progressively integrated into the UN and WHO agendas as a security issue – more speci¿ cally, in their peace-building activities developed in post-conÀ ict scenarios to promote social reconciliation.

Social reconciliation and war trauma in contemporary UN peace-building operations In the last two decades, UN peace operations have undergone substantial reforms in order to accommodate contemporary world demands. The last generation of these reforms has been characterized by the possibility of the temporary administration by the UN of territories whose government structures have weakened or collapsed. The purpose of the UN during these operations has been to guarantee a transition to a new administration and the construction of a new state. In general terms, peace-building may comprise at least three elements:

1 the (re)creation of political, economic and security structures destroyed by the conÀ ict; 2 external interference – national, multilateral or via the UN – to help to build sustainable peace; and 3 the promotion of social reconciliation in the remaining societies affected by generalized violence (Ball 2001).

The recurrence of intrastate conÀ icts in the last two decades, characterized by genocidal practices and large À ows of refugees or displaced people, has forced the expansion of UN activities – mainly, those dedicated to humanitarian assistance in post-conÀ ict scenarios (Barnett and Weiss 2008). To ful¿ l its new purposes, the organization has established new partnerships with other governmental organizations and non-governmental organizations (NGOs), as a result of an adaptive process triggered by the existence of a series of previous successful aid programmes and activities already implemented in post-conÀ ict scenarios by many humanitarian non-governmental agencies since 1992. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 More speci¿ cally, the proposal of these partnerships has been to strengthen the interaction of the organization with these other actors in order to integrate or absorb them into the UN peace-building activities as a clear effort to control or mitigate the level of autonomy that they attained in their work before the UN initiatives (Lee 2009). The of¿ cial discourse, nonetheless, is that there is a strong expectation on the part of the international community of more comprehensive humanitarian aid capable of managing more complex emergencies. Healing and reconciliation post-conflict 99 According to these arguments, weak or failed states, or states sustained on severe human rights violations, have started to be interpreted by the UN as a great risk to individuals all over the world. This interpretation has not only allowed the organization to broaden its peace operations to the post-conÀ ict moment, but also helped it to justify the broadening and deepening of the ‘humanitarian space’, which has progressively encompassed situations understood as posing a ‘risk’ of conÀ ict. These innovations have reÀ ected on humanitarian activities by triggering an intensi¿ cation of the aid network and a diversi¿ cation of the types of action implemented. In this sense, they represent more than the provision of individual basic needs – food, housing and medicines – to extend to actions dedicated to more complex issues, such as the trauma experienced by conÀ ict survivors. A common characteristic among the international actors involved in humanitarian assistance in the 1990s is the interpretation of trauma as one of the main risks to sustainable peace in post-conÀ ict peace-building processes. The concerns over this issue are a result mainly of the existence of different ethnic and religious groups that have survived conÀ icts and which need to share the same territory, but which are still attached to feelings of hatred and resentment. In view of this situation, the general belief among international actors has reinforced the need to overcome war trauma and all ‘negative’ feelings that could reignite tensions if they were not properly managed. In order to attain this new goal, the UN has established a series of mechanisms dedicated to the promotion of social reconciliation, making it one of its main responsibilities. At the same time, the WHO has developed a broad de¿ nition of health according to which:

Psychological health is understood . . . as encapsulating, among other factors, subjective well-being, perceived self-ef¿ cacy, autonomy, competence, inter- generational dependence, and self-actualization of one’s intellectual and emotional potential. Psychological, emotional, physical and social health are not only interlinked but interdependent. (Hamber 2003: 77)

As far as peace operations are concerned, the WHO has also expanded its activities, mainly as a consequence of the review of its humanitarian actions in the ¿ rst years of the 1990s. In 1997, the WHO’s division dedicated to humanitarian activities promoted the First WHO Consultant Meeting, inspired by the British project entitled ‘Health as a Bridge for Peace’. One of the purposes of the meeting Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 was the proposal of ‘a plan of action that would advance peace-building through health, based on lessons learned from past experiences’.1 The ‘Health as a Bridge for Peace’ project is central to the new WHO discourse on health in peace operations and it has contributed to the subsequent development of health programmes dedicated to mental health in post-conÀ ict scenarios – an issue that became the responsibility of a new WHO department created in 2000, the Department of Mental Health and Substance Dependence. A document 100 Renata B. Ferreira drafted by this department in 2003, entitled Mental Health in Emergencies, then clearly recognized that ‘the number of persons exposed to extreme stressors is large and that exposure to extreme factors is a risk factor for mental health and social problems’ (WHO 2003: 2). With this and some subsequent documents, the WHO has signi¿ cantly contributed to the perception that trauma is a risk to the efforts of social reconciliation and sustainable peace in post-conÀ ict scenarios. A common feature of these discourses that seek to securitize health and characterize trauma as a risk is a modern Western ethno-psychology that gives precedence to a speci¿ c idea of wellness, and which has produced a lot of controversy. These discourses convey the idea that feeling good about oneself is one of the most distinctive disciplinary norms of contemporary Western culture, and it determines that any behaviour that diverts individuals from these normative references should be suppressed. One result of this practice of normalization is that any social interaction that values altruism, hard work or commitment is frequently understood as an obstacle to an individual’s attainment of happiness (Furedi 2004: 31). In other words, this idea of wellness draws on a contemporary therapeutic model that worships positive emotions in an individualized way, without considering that this form of interpreting emotions is not always coad- unate with the ways in which they are understood and experienced by the local communities for whom these Western programmes are developed. In fact, many of these communities are collectivist, and experiences of pain, for instance, acquire meaning for their members only if one considers their relationship with the system of meanings developed inside their communities. In this sense, there has been a dubious valuing of emotions: if, on the one hand, they are seen as something fundamental to the reconciliation process, on the other hand, they are classi¿ ed as either negative or positive, and the ones that are de¿ ned as negative are systematically treated as pathologies that must be managed or controlled. In this movement, the effort to promote security clearly has the opposite effect, since the disciplinary normalization of emotions promoted by the organizations’ discourses – and practised by the web of professionals involved in the humanitarian space and dedicated to the management of trauma – takes the form of medicalization, characterizing individuals as vulnerable or unhealthy beings in need of medical/psycho-therapeutic intervention. According to this line of thought, the ‘new wars’ that have taken place since the 1990s are frequently characterized as irrational conÀ icts motivated by socially and psychologically dysfunctional individuals in need of treatment in order to have their destructive feelings readdressed. As Vanessa Pupavac (2004c) observes, the categorization of these wars as atavistic processes rather than pro- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 cesses stimulated by noble sacri¿ ce for a just cause led the international community to promote a signi¿ cant paradigm shift once the security of individuals started to be prioritized over the security of states, mainly through ‘therapeutic regimes conducted by informal networks of norm entrepreneurs’. The main purpose of this new disciplinary normalization has been to manage the ‘negative feelings’ of individuals in order to develop new subjectivities or identities capable of effectively implementing sustainable peace in their post-conÀ ict environments. Healing and reconciliation post-conflict 101 These concerns, translated into psychotherapy programmes, are a further expansion of the meaning of security that is strongly based on a Western logic of control and vigilance sustained by a transnational network dedicated to the management of anxiety/trauma. Moreover, they represent a complex securitization movement that offers many peculiarities. For the purpose of this chapter, I am going to brieÀ y present and debate just two of them: the securitization movement of mental health and the medicalization of emotions.

The securitization of mental health and the medicalization of emotions Since its Supplement to an Agenda for Peace, published in 1995, the UN has demonstrated a preoccupation with promoting the ‘healing of the wounds of war’. According to the document:

The validity of the concept of post-conÀ ict peace-building has received wide recognition. The measures it can use – and they are many – can also support preventive diplomacy. Demilitarization, the control of small arms, institutional reform, improved police and judicial systems, the monitoring of human rights, electoral reform and social and economic development can be as valuable in preventing conÀ ict as in healing the wounds after conÀ ict has occurred. (UN General Assembly and Security Council 1995: item 47, emphasis added)

From the very beginning, the organization chose the word ‘wound’ to refer to the impacts of war on individuals, reinforcing the prevalence of a biomedical conception of health. Several political and economic reasons allowed the prevalence of this conception inside the UN and WHO, in spite of the broadening of the meaning of security reinforced by the UN and the ample de¿ nition of health promoted by the WHO since 1946. Nonetheless, this was not the only political connotation in the process of inclusion of health as a UN security concern. As we can observe in Ko¿ Annan’s report to the Security Council about the UN peace operations in 1997:

The United Nations system as a whole is focusing as never before on peace- building – action to identify and support structures that will strengthen and solidify peace. Experience has shown that keeping peace in the sense of avoiding a relapse into armed conÀ ict is a necessary but not suf¿ cient condi- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 tion for establishing the foundations of an enduring and just peace. Areas of additional activity may include military security, civil law and order, human rights, . . . health, education, ¿ nance, . . . and general attempts to return society to some sense of normality. No other institution in the world has the experience, competence, capacity for logistic support, coordinating ability, and universality that the United Nations brings to these tasks. (UN General Assembly 1997, No. 1 A/52/1, emphasis added) 102 Renata B. Ferreira In this report, not only is health presented as an additional activity to be incorporated into peace-building processes, but the organization also clearly states its intention to expand its activities in order to ‘return society to some sense of normality’. Also, the UN puts itself in the privileged position of a disciplining power that develops normalizing policies designed to help to manage the lives of individuals. These discourses are frequently sustained by actors who have enough authority to decide what the objects of security are, why their own violence should be understood as a form of protection and why the violence of others should be taken as a sign of insecurity. In this sense, security does not have a meaning per se, because it is also socially and politically constructed by those who struggle to justify practices of surveillance, control and punishment, alongside those of protection and reaf¿ rmation (Larrinaga and Doucet 2008). As the case of the UN demonstrates, these constructions not only de¿ ne new objects of security, but also seek to reaf¿ rm their roles as leading institutions in the promotion of international order and peace. As for mental health, it came to be interpreted as an issue of security by the UN in 2000, with the Millennium Declaration. The organization’s discourse in that document was that:

Immunizations, nutrition, pharmaceuticals, controlling epidemics and mental health remain World Health Organization (WHO) priorities. This past year, WHO has called attention to such critical global health threats as malaria, poliomyelitis, HIV/AIDS and maternal mortality. Efforts to overcome these challenges have been complicated by the increased number of natural disasters and complex humanitarian emergencies. With the support of the Organization’s central management bodies, intensi¿ ed efforts have been made to enhance the readiness of WHO country of¿ ces and to assess and address the health needs of those affected by natural and human-induced disasters in a timely manner. (UN 2000a: item 129, emphasis added)

According to the Millennium Declaration, then, mental health is de¿ ned by the UN as a global health threat and one of the priorities of the WHO. Moreover, it also validates, as we mentioned before, its partnership with the WHO as part of the organization’s efforts to adapt to the already existing humanitarian assistance network in peace-building processes. This intention to coordinate or control was ¿ rst expressed by Ko¿ Annan in 1998, when, in his report to the Security Council entitled The Causes of ConÀ ict and the Promotion of Durable Peace and Sustainable Development in Africa, he claimed that:

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Peace-building does not replace ongoing humanitarian and development activities in countries emerging from crisis. It aims rather to build on, add to, or reorient such activities in ways designed to reduce the risk of a resumption of conÀ ict and contribute to creating the conditions most conducive to reconciliation, reconstruction and recovery. (UN General Assembly and Security Council 1998, A/52/871: item 63, emphasis added) Healing and reconciliation post-conflict 103 Once validated by the UN, the WHO – in consonance with the ‘Health as a Bridge for Peace’ project – developed its own discourse with the purpose of offering practical orientation for health professionals working in peace-building programmes. Simon Rushton observed that the WHO’s claim that health is a ‘super- ordinate goal’ is based on the idea that health concerns can bring irreconcilable parties together in favour of a common good. The belief is that health is valued by everyone; for this reason, health could be taken as an important mechanism in the promotion of dialogue and peace among the parties in conÀ ict. The ¿ nal objective of the organization has been to integrate peace-building concerns into all of the WHO’s activities, in order to use health initiatives ‘to reduce discrimination, polarization, centralization of power and violence and for promoting intercommunity reconciliation’ (Rushton 2005: 446). Although each organization has its own particular reasons for promoting a securitization movement concerning health issues, it can be seen that the discourses of one organization reinforce the discourses of the other, and both contribute to developing the idea that health is a universal value and a means towards the promotion of sustainable peace. The belief in the production of a consensus about what health is and its importance has contributed to the formulation of the new WHO health paradigm. In the 2004 report entitled Promoting Mental Health: Concepts, Emerging Evidence – Practice, health is de¿ ned as ‘a state of complete physical, mental and social well-being and not merely the absence of disease or in¿ rmity’, while mental health is ‘a state of well-being in which the individual realizes his or her own abilities, can cope with the normal stresses of life, can work productively and fruitfully, and is able to make a contribution to his or her community’ (WHO 2004: 12). These de¿ nitions, according to the WHO, inherit the lessons learned in 1978 during the Conference of Alma Ata, Kazakhstan, which put forward a proposal for a social model of health promotion. The organization af¿ rms that this proposal was progressively endorsed by many NGOs during the 1980s and that, during the 1990s, it became the main orientation for those working with the promotion of education as an instrument of public health. For this reason, in the same document, the WHO asserts that mental health has two dimensions:

Positive mental health considers mental health as a resource. It is essential to subjective well being and to our ability to perceive, comprehend and interpret our surroundings, to adapt to them or to change them if necessary, and to communicate with each other and have successful social interactions. [. . .] Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Mental ill-health is about mental disorders, symptoms and problems. Mental disorders are de¿ ned in the current diagnostic classi¿ cations mainly by the existence of symptoms. Mental symptoms and problems also exist without the criteria for clinical disorders being met. These subclinical conditions are often a consequence of persistent or temporary distress. They, too, can be a marked burden to individuals, families and societies. (WHO 2004: 15) 104 Renata B. Ferreira These elements have contributed to an expansion of the de¿ nition of mental health that the organization calls ‘positive mental health’, which the WHO presents as a concept developed in accordance with social medicine, which points to poverty and other structural issues as the main sources of health problems. Nonetheless, the controversial point in this formulation is that by proposing a more comprehensive de¿ nition of mental health – that is, going beyond the mere absence of an in¿ rmity – it also, paradoxically, allows a wider range of behaviours and symptoms to be categorized as diseases. Moreover, the level of arbitrariness in the de¿ nition of symptoms – that ‘may exist without the criteria for clinical disorders being met’ – signi¿ cantly expands this process of categorization. The main consequence of this process is the medicalization of a series of symptoms, emotions and behaviours. As Peter Conrad (2007) has observed, medicalization describes a process by which non-medical problems become de¿ ned and treated as medical ones, usually in terms of illnesses and disorders – that is, a problem is de¿ ned in medical terms, using medical language, understood through the adoption of a medical framework, or ‘treated’ with medical intervention. According to Conrad, the ¿ rst targets of this categorization were behaviours considered deviant, such as alcohol- ism, mental disorders, drug dependence, sexual dysfunctions and trauma. In this sense, throughout history, those behaviours considered immoral, sinful or criminal went through a process of categorization in medical terms, which transformed them from deviances into diseases. Some of these categorization processes were so intense that they resulted in the designation of speci¿ c medical categories such as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), which is still in use nowadays. One of the main concerns with the widespread medicalization of societies is the transformation of many human differences into pathologies. Medicalization pathologizes what might otherwise be seen simply as variations in normal human functioning, diminishing tolerance for and appreciation of the diversity of human life. By the same token, medical designations increasingly de¿ ne what is ‘normal’ and contribute to the establishment of ‘patterns’ to evaluate what is ‘acceptable’ in life. In the case of trauma, it has a long history of medicalization, which culminated in the categorization of PTSD during the Vietnam War from 1959 to 1975. During the 1990s, it reached a globalized dimension, when the category was progressively expanded to encompass survivors of sexual abuse, natural disasters and urban violence, and even those who witnessed these acts affecting other individuals. Medicalization processes in many respects represent a form of social control and a practice of disciplinary normalization. In Western societies, medicine – Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 along with the legal, law enforcement, religion and education systems – has been one of the most frequent forms of social control. During the last two decades, medicalization processes have become more intense, with the contribution of many medical professionals, health insurance services and the pharmaceuticals industry. In this context, new drugs and technologies not only work as facilitating factors for the medicalization process, but also help to connect the UN and the WHO to those other specialized actors who master medical expertise. Healing and reconciliation post-conflict 105 In order to guarantee its own control over this new web of medicalization, the next step of the WHO has been to de¿ ne positive mental health as a common goal to be achieved by all peoples throughout the world, since positive mental health has begun to be interpreted as something that could have a universal meaning, in spite of the differences across cultures. According to the WHO:

De¿ ning mental health is important, although not always necessary to achieving its improvement. Differences in values across countries, cultures, classes and genders can appear too great to allow a consensus on a de¿ nition . . . However, just as age or wealth each have many different expressions across the world and yet have a core common sense universal meaning, so too can mental health be understood without restricting its interpretation across cultures. (WHO 2004: 13, emphasis added)

With this de¿ nition of mental health, the WHO endorses a process of medicalization on a global scale that intends to control the emotions of individuals, and which categorizes negative mental states and negative feelings as risk factors, de¿ ning the individuals who ‘suffer’ from these disorders as vulnerable. Even if the UN and the WHO declare that they take account of the local values and cultures of individuals in their categorizations and social psychotherapy programmes, the consideration of these elements is signi¿ cantly compromised by the Western framework that guides their actions – mainly if we consider that, when- ever local values are mentioned in the WHO documents, they are said to be applied ‘when possible’ or ‘in certain contexts’ (IASC 2007, 2010). However, what remains unclear in these documents is who decides when these values are possible and who decides in which contexts they are to be applied (Ferreira 2010). This new dimension of therapeutic action represents a clear form of biopolitics, de¿ ned by Michel Foucault (2004) as mechanisms for the management of unease designed to control or eliminate different forms of life management that do not conform with what is considered ‘acceptable’ by those in power. As for trauma, the psychotherapy programmes implemented by the WHO, and supported by the UN and many other governmental and non-governmental agencies, insist on treating the symptoms of trauma by evaluating the inner psychological, physical factors without observing more attentively the social elements that contribute to the construction of trauma.

Concluding remarks

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 The need to promote social reconciliation in post-conÀ ict scenarios has been a challenge not only to policymakers and international organizations, but also to those who dedicate themselves to the study of international security (Hutchison and Bleiker 2008; Huyse 2003). As Neta Crawford (2000: 116) observes, ‘theories of international politics and security depend on assumptions about emotion that are rarely articulated’. The prevalence of the rational actor paradigm is, to a large extent, responsible for this marginalization, because it considers emotions – or 106 Renata B. Ferreira the ‘passions’ – to be a threat to politics and therefore something that should be controlled or banned from public life. This has been the line of thought of both realists and liberals since the inception of their theoretical enterprise in IR and international security. The literature produced by critical security studies has, for its part, made signi¿ cant contributions to the study of security, with important debates developed around different issues and levels of analysis as a result of the broadening and deepening of the meaning of security. Nevertheless, the critical security studies literature is quite recent and limited to a series of issues (Bellamy 2004). This is the case of the study of emotions in international security and in post-conÀ ict peace-building processes. My purpose in this chapter, then, has been to engage in this debate in order to point out how the biomedical conception of emotions and trauma presented by the UN and the WHO undermines the possibility of different interpretations of emotions and trauma being considered in the process of social reconciliation. In other words, my claim is that international security theory and practice are in need of a more comprehensive approach to the sociology of emotions, which would help to develop social reconciliation among the survivors according to their contexts, values and meanings, and not as the result of a Western therapeutic security paradigm that seeks to create new subjectivities with the sole objective of suppressing ‘negative feelings’ to produce ‘normality’.

Note 1 Available online at http://www.who.int/hac/techguidance/hbp/strategies_/en/ Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 7 JustTruth The role of truth seeking in reconciliation following traumatic events and crisis

Laura K. Taylor

Introduction What are the personal psychological effects of truth-telling after mass trauma? Is establishing a common truth necessary for national political reconciliation? How have mechanisms designed to elicit the truth considered each of these factors? Often, truth commission literature fails to explore the relationship between the individual psychological consequences of truth-telling, the effect of truth-telling on local communities and the role of clarifying historical truth at the national level (Brounéus 2010; Mendeloff 2004). Although mention of these multiple dimensions is common, comprehensive analysis for how truth contributes to reconciliation at each level is not. The peace studies literature advanced the concept of positive peace, rather than merely the cessation of hostilities, with the term ‘justpeace’. In this chapter, I apply a similar approach to the study of truth and reconciliation, integrating the at-times conÀ icting demands of personal psychological healing and the political reconstruction in the wake of traumatic events and crisis such as war. First, I argue that truth is a necessary, but not suf¿ cient, condition for reconciliation. Truth is a process, a narrative of individual interpretations woven into a community’s and a nation’s history; it cannot be reduced to facts alone. The process of truth-telling and truth-seeking must involve all parties engaged in the rebuilding of society after gross human rights violations and mass violence. Second, I introduce a new analytic lens of JustTruth: a dynamic process of narrating the events of the past with an eye on just and more human relationships in the future. JustTruth lays the foundation for the transformation of relationships Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 that constitutes deep reconciliation at the individual, community and national level. The lens of JustTruth is used to analyse the relationship between survivors, perpetrators and truth. I argue that this relationship is a key factor that must be addressed in post-conÀ ict societies for reconciliation to take root. Third, I examine the social and political implications of truth-seeking processes in two paradigmatic cases – South Africa and Guatemala – through the JustTruth framework. These truth processes exemplify successes in promoting a JustTruth 108 Laura K. Taylor process, but also highlight the limitations of the existing methods, practices and institutions. In conclusion, I suggest that, consistent with the JustTruth approach, truth- seeking processes must simultaneously clarify the past to prevent against repetition of crimes, and to create a space in which individual survivors and a wounded society can heal and recover from traumatic events.

Truth: necessary, but not suf¿ cient, for reconciliation In the wake of violent conÀ ict, the question often arises: how can we heal from these past wounds and prevent the cycle of violence from continuing? Addressing this question of reconciliation is particularly important coming out of the bloodi- est century in the world’s history. As Everett Worthington (2001: 182) adeptly articulates, ‘at the beginning of the new century [we are] on the threshold of an age of reconciliation’. John Paul Lederach (2001: 842) describes reconciliation as a ‘dynamic, adaptive process aimed at building and healing the torn fabric of interpersonal and community lives and relationships’. Understood in this way, reconciliation is not merely about peaceful democratic transition, or the ¿ nal report of a truth commission; it is the fundamental transformation of relationships upon which, and through which, peace can be constructed (Lederach 1997). In this light, the analysis follows a paradigmatic shift from the traditional framework of national interests and security, to one of human security and sustainable peace. Rejecting the notion of national reconciliation, however, would not be a truly inclusive approach to reconciliation; therefore I combine Lederach’s understanding of reconciliation at the interpersonal and community level with political or national reconciliation (Darby et al. forthcoming). Lederach (2001: 848) quotes Psalm 85, using it to frame the four contributing energies to reconciliation: ‘Truth and Mercy have met together, Justice and Peace have kissed.’ Although all four components – truth, mercy, justice and peace – are necessary for true reconciliation, this chapter focuses on truth, and the ways in which South Africa and Guatemala have attempted to incorporate it into their post-conÀ ict processes of reconciliation. The scope of this chapter permits a deeper conversation about truth, developing a dialogue for the introduction of a new analytical lens of JustTruth and its interaction with the institutions designed to pursue it.

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 JustTruth: an analytical lens Understanding truth is an exercise commonly reduced to the assessment of the commissions of inquiry formed to document it. In the past few decades, dozens of truth commissions have been created (Dancy et al. 2010), but what is the impact of of¿ cial truth-seeking bodies? Past work has examined the impact on democratization and human rights (Olsen et al. 2010b; Taylor and Dukalskis 2012), but how do truth commissions contribute to our understanding of personal, community and JustTruth 109 national reconciliation? Truth, as a concept, must be understood independently from its manifestation as an institution. Truth is not about ‘establishing facts and attaching those to individual persons . . . it is a social energy’ (Lederach 2001: 849). It is constructed from multiple narratives and interpretations, which together comprise the collective memory of a community and a nation. After widespread atrocity, truth has often been obscured and silenced through oppression and marginalization of targeted populations. It is, in many ways, a casualty of war. Part of reconciliation, therefore, is to re-establish truth in the wake of violent conÀ ict. JustTruth builds from Lederach’s truth as social energy, and recognizes the need for multiple voices to be represented in the unfolding narrative and the dynamic reconstruction of collective memory. Key components of JustTruth are the assimilation of all voices – survivors, perpetrators and bystanders – and attention to the context in which those voices can be heard and acknowledged. This multitude of voices ensures the fullest possible truth (Minow 1998). The micro-truth of what happened to speci¿ c loved ones and the macro-truth about the nature of the struggle must be intertwined in the narrative (Gibson 2004: 13). Much of the literature heralds the need for survivors to have a space in which to voice their stories, but there needs to be equal attention to how these stories are heard. Fiona Ross (2003) highlights the importance of listening and empathy as a survivor shares her story. Brandon Hamber (2001: 136) also calls attention to the context in which a survivors’ testimony is being heard as an essential element in reconciliation, challenging the simplistic cathartic release justi¿ cation for survivor testimony: ‘Just revealing is not just healing. It depends on how we reveal, the context of revealing, and what it is that we are revealing.’ Therefore JustTruth expands the understanding of truth to be an inclusive and participatory process, and calls attention to the dynamic nature of the truth narrative – both the truth-telling, and the listening and receiving of that testimony. Thus, consistent with our comprehension of reconciliation, JustTruth focuses on the process of transforming social relationships.

Applying the lens of JustTruth With this understanding of JustTruth as a process based on the relationships of the various stakeholders, I examine how JustTruth contributed to three levels of individual, community and national reconciliation in South Africa and Guatemala. These countries provide paradigmatic case studies, and highlight the strengths and shortcomings of truth-¿ nding efforts. These two cases are also important because they received much international attention, are the subject of scholarly Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 research and serve as models for subsequent truth-seeking efforts. The JustTruth framework offers a new way in which to evaluate the successes and lessons learned from each case. Both South Africa and Guatemala emerged from decades of racist oppression, institutionalized brutality, economic exclusion and extreme physical violence orchestrated by the state against a ‘minority majority’. Their bodies of inquiry were held at roughly the same historical period during the mid-1990s after the 110 Laura K. Taylor end of the Cold War. In both cases, religious communities played an important and visible role in the commissions of inquiry. There was also vocal opposition to the process and ¿ nal conclusions of each report: the Agricultural, Commercial, Industrial and Financial Associations of Guatemala (CACIF) claimed that the Commission for Historical Clari¿ cation (CEH) was biased (Sieder 2001); and the Afrikaner population criticized truth-efforts as biased in favour of the survivors and the African National Congress (ANC) (Verwoerd 2003). There was tempered government acceptance of each report: then President Alvaro Arzu recognized government excesses and former President F. W. de Klerk labelled apartheid a ‘mistake’ (Minow 1998: 83), but neither formally apologized nor took responsibility for the role that the government played in the brutality of the past. Finally, the range of actors participating in the truth-seeking process – the Catholic Church in Guatemala and the media in South Africa – strengthened the of¿ cial national efforts to uncover details about the past and to recover collective memory. There are many notable differences between the two truth processes, however. The South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) was an internal country affair, established in an act of congress, while the CEH in Guatemala was a project carried out by the United Nations. The Recovery of Historical Memory Project (REMHI) in Guatemala was a more grassroots effort, but its association with the Catholic Church may have excluded some voices. Amnesty and the public forum are the most striking differences between the two countries’ approaches to truth. Conditional amnesty was an essential component of the TRC’s strategy to uncover a complete picture of past events; the public nature affected all of society who were exposed to the TRC hearings on a daily basis. In Guatemala, on the other hand, the blanket amnesty of the peace accords left little room at the time to leverage the justice angle in exchange for perpetrator testimony and there was not the same public face to the truth processes: the witnesses remained anonymous in the published reports. However, since the publication of the REMHI and the CEH, public recognition has grown, with marches commemorating the Day of Dignity for the Victims and the anniversary of Bishop Gerardi’s assassination, and trials against former dictators continuing. In this manner, the message of ‘Never again’ still receives media attention. This comparative contextualization of the TRC, CEH and REMHI leads to a more in- depth analysis of how each commission approached the process of reconciliation through the lens of JustTruth.

South Africa: the long road to national reconciliation

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 The South African TRC is perhaps the best known and most studied of the truth commissions. The public images of the Human Rights Violations Committee (HRVC) hearings and the disclosure of torture practices in the Amnesty Com- mittee (AC) hearings have permeated the global consciousness. But did the TRC positively contribute to establishing JustTruth? How effective was it in forging individual, community and national reconciliation? Was the TRC able to follow the message portrayed on the banner behind the TRC Commissioners, ‘Truth: the Road JustTruth 111 to Reconciliation’? As the heading of this section suggests, the TRC was successful in taking a ¿ rst step on the long road to national reconciliation; its impact on individual and community reconciliation still remains to be seen (Gibson 2004). The TRC was established by the Promotion of National Unity and Reconciliation Act No. 34 in 1995 as part of the transition to a democratic government after four decades of apartheid. Although the name clearly presents the focus on national reconciliation, the Commission initially attempted to portray itself as addressing individual and community reconciliation as well. The speci¿ c objectives of the TRC mandate were stipulated in section 3(1) of the Act, with the goal of ‘establishing as complete a picture as possible of the causes, nature and extent of the gross violations of human rights which were committed’. Granting amnesty to perpetrators who fully disclosed relevant facts, ‘restoring the human and civil dignity of victims by granting them an opportunity to relate their own accounts of the violations’, reparations and a comprehensive ¿ nal report were the other top-down measures established in the mandate of the TRC.

JustTruth and the Truth and Reconciliation Commission By offering amnesty, the TRC hoped to elicit truth from the perpetrators and to avoid further conÀ ict in the transition to democracy (Minow 1998). Although there is much criticism that the TRC ‘traded’ truth for justice, an alternative analysis would see that the conditional amnesty of the TRC left open channels for the pursuit of traditional justice compared to the blanket amnesty often passed in post-conÀ ict transitions. The tool of conditional amnesty increased participation in truth-telling: more than 7,000 applications for amnesty brought to light many of the tactics of the apartheid regime and police force. However, a disproportionate majority of the applicants for amnesty were black South Africans, and many notable authors of the policies of oppression and violence – namely F. W. de Klerk and Winnie Mandela – resisted coming before the TRC. Therefore conditional amnesty may provide a meaningful incentive to include perpetrators’ voices in the narrative of collective memory, but it does not guarantee JustTruth. The TRC also addressed the systemic bias of truth-telling: who is willing to testify? In addition to the amnesty incentive for perpetrators, the TRC provided a forum for the survivors’ voices to be shared with the community through the HRVC. However, the framing the HRVC hearings for ‘victims’ also meant that individuals who may not have seen themselves as victims, but rather as active agents for social change, may not have chosen to come forward. Criticism has also been raised as to whether the HRVC contributed to JustTruth, particularly Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 with regard to women’s experiences under apartheid. The public setting, although valuable for collective participation, also deterred many women from participating, or perhaps from sharing the full truth, particularly concerning sexual violence and abuse. Yet women’s ‘silence’ can be recognized as meaningful; careful probing can reveal the deep truth of women’s testimonies (Ross 2003). The narrow mandate of the HRVC also excluded the ‘ordinary’ structural violence that fell explicitly along gender and racial lines. The oppressing effects 112 Laura K. Taylor of poverty were not considered by the HRVC, but tore at the social fabric of community life. During the TRC, the HRVC noticed that women tended to testify differently: ‘they expressed the pain of others, not of themselves’ (Ross 2003: 23). In response, three additional Special Hearings on Women were held, focusing on the impact of apartheid on women and their contributions to its termination. This was an important step that recognized that ‘women’s voices are rarely heard in societal responses to collective violence’ (Minow 1998: 84). However, many gender-sensitive recommendations were not adopted by the Commission, such as the recommendations that women need not testify in public, that they testify in closed hearings to women commissioners and that hearings be arranged for women, supported by social workers and psychologists, to testify in groups (Ross 2003). Critical feminist critiques have commented that the format of the Special Hearings on Women misconstrued violence as ‘naturally gendered, and the sociological problem [became] women’s experience of violence, rather than violence and its links to gender and power’ (Ross 2003: 25). Despite the validity of this critique, adaptations throughout the course of the TRC, such as Special Hearings on Women, enhanced the TRC’s ef¿ cacy as an instrument with which to pursue the process of JustTruth. The TRC devised a way in which to include the voices of perpetrators and survivors through the amnesty and human rights hearings, respectively; the public nature of both of these commissions invited the voices and reÀ ections of bystanders. ‘The process of public testimony was the greatest achievement of the TRC’ (Chapman 2001: 262); it confronted the silent accomplices, the majority of the white population who bene¿ ted from the institutionalized racist structure of apartheid, but did not engage directly in the violent oppression. In this manner, the TRC brought the bystanders into the dialogue through the media, offering a public space in which to debate the proceedings of the TRC. This open and shared acknowledgement of the experiences of suffering and loss is consistent with the JustTruth framework. However, although many praise the public forum of the TRC, it is not clear that it was suf¿ cient to prompt the majority of white South Africans to accept their responsibility. Even after the TRC, only 18.9 per cent of white South Africans are willing to acknowledge the ways in which they bene¿ ted from apartheid; even fewer (9 per cent) are willing to rectify past injustices through redistribution or af¿ rmative action policies (Chapman 2001). JustTruth alone cannot change these attitudes; other steps must be taken to address and amend historic injustices, including economic reform, community empowerment, education and awareness, which can promote individual and community healing in pursuit of more robust reconciliation. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017

Potential catalyst of national reconciliation Hugo van der Merwe (2001) classi¿ es the TRC as a top-down approach to reconciliation, focusing on the macro-narrative, letting local reconciliation develop as a by-product of the national-level TRC. Although there was a period for public comment, the mandate emerged from political interests and was shaped JustTruth 113 by power politics. He describes the ‘locus on initiative’ of the TRC in the ranks of the political of¿ cials, who prioritized the speed and maximized impact of national reconciliation. The top-down approach of the TRC is illustrated by the community hearings: limited community consultation was conducted prior to the hearings and there was no follow-up or follow-through after the day-long hearing took place. An ambitious and ambiguous mandate stating goals of individual, community and national reconciliation was con¿ ned by time and limited resources. As a result, the TRC chose to prioritize national reconciliation, leaving many confused and disillusioned with the process. A more bottom-up approach, on the other hand, stems from the premise that a healthy society can be formed only by healthy members and prioritizes the psychological well-being of all, rooted in a more ideological and theological paradigm (van der Merwe 2001). Although many on the TRC staff were sympathetic to the bottom-up approach, the process as a whole prioritized national reconciliation. Despite this, the TRC was able, to a large degree, to portray itself as community- and survivor-centred. Much of the media attention highlighted the symbolic meetings between victim and perpetrator (Kaplan 1999); however, these cases are more aptly described as the exceptions that prove the rule. This tension in the dual mandate of individual and national reconciliation was further complicated by the role of religion in the TRC. Particularly in the HRVC, the resemblance to a church service more than a judicial proceeding set a Christian atmosphere for the TRC (Chapman 2001). Archbishop Desmond Tutu as chair also advanced the Christian notion of reconciliation as a theological concept – namely, one that includes forgiveness and repentance, and the African social concept of ubuntu, the humanity of one inextricably bound to another. Archbishop Tutu’s overarching message, ‘no future without forgiveness’, emphasized the level of micro-truth, with deeply religious overtones, in some ways equating reconciliation with forgiveness (Gibson 2004). The TRC ¿ nal report itself notes the ‘potentially dangerous confusion between a religious, indeed a Christian understanding of reconciliation, more typically applied to interpersonal relationships, and the more limited notions of reconciliation applicable to a democratic society’ (Chapman 2001: 265). Despite the Christian overtones of individual forgiveness, the TRC’s structure was not conducive to individual reconciliation; the HRVC and AC were conducted independently, and the survivors and perpetrators were rarely afforded the opportunity to meet. Even with the shortcomings in individual reconciliation, the TRC still serves as a beacon of hope for many. The hope is that national reconciliation serves as a catalyst for community and individual healing, which enables people to envision and imagine new alternatives for peace. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 However, truth-telling must not be confused with therapy or trust-building. Although there are no linear and uniform responses to trauma, a simplistic discourse that truth is healing can undermine the actual healing of individuals and communities. Nevertheless, national-level truth commissions do offer a potential springboard for further reconciliation at other levels. Truth commissions can help individuals to understand and integrate new meanings for themselves, to understand that their pain is not isolated from the socio-economic and political 114 Laura K. Taylor realities. The dimension of individual reconciliation highlights the importance of framing truth-telling in the lens of JustTruth. As mentioned, the context in which the truth in revealed, including a dynamic process of empathetic listening and acknowledgement, is essential if individual reconciliation is to begin. This analysis has demonstrated how JustTruth can be used to evaluate the successes and shortcomings of different instruments of truth-telling, such as the South African TRC, in fostering national, community and individual reconciliation. The TRC was successful in some ways by including many perspectives in the collective, post-apartheid narrative. The amnesty incentive for perpetrators, the Special Hearings on Women and the public forum for bystanders are speci¿ c elements of the TRC that contributed to varying degrees to a JustTruth process. Although the public image of the TRC was a body created for all three levels of reconciliation, it displayed a clear prioritization of national reconciliation. The JustTruth lens therefore highlights the need for other complementary mechanisms with which to address community and individual reconciliation.

Guatemala: historical memory and JustTruth Guatemala presents an interesting case, with two truth commissions: one, the CEH, a UN project, generated from the formal peace negotiations; the other, the REMHI, initiated by the Human Rights Of¿ ce of the Archbishop of Guatemala. Therefore it is possible to compare how these two social responses to collective violence may contribute differently to the pursuit of JustTruth and reconciliation (Minow 1998). Interestingly, both commissions avoided even using the term ‘truth’ in the naming of their bodies of inquiry, opting instead for language of recovering memory and historical clari¿ cation. However, both commissions sought to depict patterns of abuses, and to analyse the root causes of oppression and violence of the 36-year internal armed conÀ ict in Guatemala that left more than 200,000 dead or disappeared and 1 million refugees and internally displaced people, and which disproportionally affected the Mayan indigenous majority. In this manner, both the UN CEH and the Catholic Church’s REMHI took the ¿ rst steps to bring to light the voices of the oppressed, and to establish JustTruth about the history of the conÀ ict. The REMHI in particular, rooted in the tradition of liberation theology, aimed to alter ‘the balance of power by recognizing the power of the truth of those who have been oppressed and marginalized . . . [thus] setting the foundation for a change in power relations’ (Lopez Levy 2001: 117). The REMHI explicitly dedicated itself to a process of JustTruth and reconciliation. The CEH also dedi- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 cated itself to establishing historical truth about the conÀ ict with the goal of national reconciliation (Isaacs 2005). In contrast with the South African TRC, Guatemala’s bodies of inquiry were explicit with their approach to truth through the construction of a historical narrative, laying the groundwork for JustTruth processes and reconciliation. Both commissions were conducted in a similar time frame: the CEH, from 1994 to 1999; and the REMHI, from 1995 to 1998. Both began before the of¿ cial JustTruth 115 signing of the Firm and Lasting Peace Accords, and were completed during the Arzu presidency. This timing set the context in which the bodies could pursue JustTruth. Fear ran deep, especially in the rural communities, and a blanket amnesty for all violations except torture, genocide and crimes against humanity was passed in 1996 with the ¿ nal Accord. The release of names in the Salvadoran truth commission also inÀ uenced these processes; the CEH did not name names, but the REMHI noted top-ranking government and military of¿ cials who were responsible for the violence during the scorched earth campaign (1978–84). Despite the difference in naming names, the two reports reached similar conclusions, attributing the majority (93 per cent) of the blame to the Guatemalan state and security forces.

JustTruth, CEH and REMHI Arguably, much more could have been done by both commissions to pursue the goal of JustTruth. The voice and perspective of the perpetrators were essentially silenced. In some 8,000 testimonies, the CEH did not interview perpetrators; only 8 per cent of the REMHI’s 5,500 witnesses were perpetrators of abuse, whether guerrillas, self-defence patrollers (PACs) or members of the army (Isaacs 2005). This exclusion could partially explain the military’s continued denial of the atrocities that occurred during the scorched earth campaign. Tensions persist to this day and reinforce the need for a participatory JustTruth narrative, such that all actors accept the truth as their own. Although great efforts were made to collect survivor testimonies, there is much criticism about the methodology employed by the two projects. The CEH and the REMHI both relied heavily on their networks of support in the local communities to reach witnesses willing to testify. People not originally associated with a CEH partner organization or the Catholic Church had little access to testimony-takers. As noted in the case of the TRC, there is a systemic bias on who chooses to testify and why, based in each historical-social-political context. In the case of Guatemala, both the CEH and REMHI were ‘hamstrung by the very obstacles they sought to confront’ (Isaacs 2005: 17) – namely, silence, fear and mistrust. Many in Guatemala lived alongside those who had committed the abuse and were simply still too afraid to speak out. In addition, many of those who did speak were already organized and politically active. Many survivors spoke not ‘seeking psychological relief, but out of a sense of moral responsibility’ (Isaacs 2005: 17). The commissions did little to reach out to those who had not had the chance to tell their stories. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Those who spoke rarely shared all that they knew; the bias of gender was also seen in Guatemala. The REMHI did include chapters dedicated to violence against women and government attempts to destroy the seed of the Maya. Similar to the TRC’s Special Hearings on Women, however, a critical feminist interpretation demonstrates the need for this gender-based violence to been seen in a larger system of oppression. These power struggles can be manifested in gender-speci¿ c ways, however, and the REMHI did attend to this dimension of the conÀ ict. 116 Laura K. Taylor Another factor that plagued the testimony collection was the 23 distinct languages spoken in Guatemala. In South Africa, public hearings were conducted in all 11 South African languages; similar results were not obtained in Guatemala. The CEH staff congregated in the capital and major cities throughout Guatemala; the REMHI, working through local Catholic networks and in more rural regions, employed testimony-takers who were often from the community and spoke the indigenous language of the witness. In addition, the ¿ nal reports were published in Spanish and were therefore intelligible to many Guatemalans. However, the REMHI did release illustrated, popularized versions, which helped with the dissemination in the rural regions of the country. Language was also a double-edged sword for those who received the testimony. The bodies of inquiry in Guatemala were, in part, conducted by outsiders: at times, this created a safe space in which witnesses could testify, since the testimony-taker was not part of the conÀ ict; at other times, this deepened the sense of fear and mistrust. The participation of outsiders also created tension when few of the recommendations of either report were instituted. Among community members, there is a sense that outsiders came and took their stories, and that now there is still nothing to show for it (Isaacs 2005). This point highlights another one of the shortcomings of the truth efforts in Guatemala: little dissemination and outreach was conducted in the wake of the reports. Although the UN established a veri¿ cation mission (MINGUA) that remained in Guatemala until 2004, and the Archdiocese of Guatemala has continued its human rights work, integrating some of the REMHI into educational curriculums, the impact of the CEH and REMHI is quali¿ ed by initial expectations of national, community or individual reconciliation. The Guatemalan bodies of inquiry did far less than the South African TRC to create a public space for discussion and acknowledgement. In this manner, JustTruth was not fully achieved, because the voices of the perpetrators were excluded, and the bystanders and other members of society had no avenue to express their pain and confusion. Although some survivors spoke out, the stories remained anonymous, marked only by numbers in the ¿ nal publications. The military still strongly denies the extent of the violence and there is no sense of shared, collective truth. In the absence of the participatory creation of the historical narrative, a public space in which the survivors were heard and acknowledged, and societal acceptance of responsibility (even if through complicity), JustTruth was not fully realized by the mechanisms devised by the CEH and REMHI. It could be argued that the political climate at the time means that JustTruth may not have been possible. However, the CEH and REMHI were successful in initiating dialogue and taking the ¿ rst step down the ‘long road to reconciliation’. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017

Reconciliation and patience The immediate responses to the publication of the CEH and REMHI appeared to undermine national, community and individual reconciliation. Two days after the release of the REMHI report in 1998, Bishop Gerardi, its architect, was brutally murdered. The Catholic Church turned its attention and energies to the JustTruth 117 legal pursuit of his assassins, rather than the dissemination of the REMHI’s ¿ ndings and recommendations. The political response to the CEH resulted nine months later in the election of a Guatemalan Republican Front (FRG) presidential candidate, Alfonso Portillo, commonly described as the puppet of Efraín Ríos Montt, dictator and intellectual author of the scorched earth campaign. Ríos Montt, leader of the FRG party, was himself elected head of the Guatemalan Congress, where he remained until his unsuccessful presidential campaign in 2003. Thus the initial response to the bodies of inquiry seemed to be a radical and conservative backlash. A decade later, however, other political and legal developments appear to be moving toward national reconciliation. Former president Oscar Berger, representing the economic oligarchy, included high-level indigenous activists and human rights defenders in his cabinet, including Nobel Peace Prize winner Rigoberta Menchú and Frank LaRue, former director of the Centre for Legal Action and Human Rights (CALDH). CALDH is also supporting the Association for Justice and Reconciliation (AJR), a collective of survivors and their communities, in the legal case prosecuting Ríos Montt and Romeo Lucas García for genocide and crimes against humanity. In addition, through the Spanish court system, the Rigoberta Menchú Foundation brought a case against Lucas Garcia for the bombing of the Spanish Embassy. These steps for legal accountability and ending impunity, in part based on the ¿ ndings of the CEH and REMHI, demonstrate the delayed steps toward national reconciliation and the need for patience in the evaluation of the ‘success’ of truth mechanisms. The commissions also laid a foundation for individual and community healing, as in the case of South Africa. The REMHI in particular stated the need for the victims’ bodies to be returned to their families, to honour the Mayan spirituality practices of proper burial and respect for the dead. Exhumations, one of the recommendations of the REMHI report, have continued to be carried out by non- governmental organizations (NGOs) and international forensic anthropologists. The Catholic Church has continued to play a strong role in the struggle to rebuild communities, to establish trust and to reweave the torn social fabric. In the northern highlands, for example, Pastoral Social, the social justice branch of the Catholic Church, is providing mental health assistance for AJR members and communities. In addition to the legal proceedings of the case, the AJR focuses on education for the youth in these communities, with the hope that, whatever the legal outcome, the process of seeking justice will strengthen community bonds and prevent the repetition of the bloody history of Guatemala. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Recommendations South Africa and Guatemala lend a number of lessons learned to reconciliation in the wake of mass violence and trauma. The lens of JustTruth should guide the analysis of these of¿ cial truth commissions, and highlights the need for other tools and mechanisms for individual and community reconciliation. Culturally relevant creativity is essential to envision the forms of these truth tools, integrating, 118 Laura K. Taylor when possible, indigenous or local methods of social and individual recovery from violence. Borrowing from the peace literature, one could propose ‘track one’ and ‘track two’ JustTruth processes. These parallel, simultaneous, coordinated and complementary approaches would lead to fuller and more robust JustTruth and reconciliation at all three levels of society. ‘Track one’ JustTruth would focus on achieving some type of justice, not necessarily retribution or punitive, but restorative justice that addresses accountability. The goal of this track one JustTruth would be to end impunity through institutional reforms, to create a national macro-narrative for education of future generations, and to devise and implement a programme of reparations for the survivors that addresses the root causes of conÀ ict and which provides a means of sustaining human development. In this manner, track one JustTruth would address the structural injustice of society after mass atrocity or trauma. ‘Track two’ JustTruth would provide the space and create channels for individual and community healing, transforming the relationships that created a culture of violence. As noted in South Africa and Guatemala, this dimension of JustTruth is a longer process, most often carried out by local NGOs and/or faith communities. The goal would be to include as many voices as possible in the collective narrative, fostering a sense of common history for a shared future. Group testimony and other mechanisms with which to address the systemic bias of national-level truth commissions should be included. Also, the manner in which the stories are heard and validated must be included at this level: moral recognition of suffering and apologies are important at each level of society. Even when the truth process takes place in a public forum (Taylor and Dukalskis 2012), designing a way in which to return the witnesses their testimony, in their language, expands the previous bias toward truth-telling. Indigenous methods of reconciliation or mediation should be adapted and integrated into track two efforts, adjusting structural injustices that may be present in these traditional practices, such as the exclusion of women and youth. Other symbolic components of social reconstruction that were present in both South Africa and Guatemala could also be used, such as media attention and a day of recognition for the survivors or national unity day. Together with the formal, track one JustTruth processes, these efforts would deepen reconciliation in post-conÀ ict settings, addressing individual and community healing.

Concluding remarks Truth commissions should not be confused or compared with trial or therapy Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 (Dukalskis 2011); that is not their intent. Truth commissions have evolved as a vehicle for clarifying the past, to prevent repetition of past crimes and, in many ways, to begin to heal a wounded society. Although commissions may not be the most appropriate vehicle toward reconciliation at all levels, they have had notable success in political, or national, reconciliation. National reconciliation, however, is a lengthy process that requires patience and active civil society participation. National reconciliation does not necessarily lead to individual or JustTruth 119 community reconciliation, but it can take the ¿ rst steps towards establishing a collective macro-narrative that may serve as the basis for community and individual healing. In post-conÀ ict settings, there is a great need to create a space for the survivors, perpetrators and bystanders of a divided nation to participate in an inclusive narrative of the past. This is the basis for JustTruth, a process of emancipatory truth that not only brings to light details from the past, but also shines an analytical light on the relationships among survivors, perpetrators and truth, guiding the development of positive social interactions. The JustTruth framework transforms the notion and practice of truth from a tool used to manipulate and silence a marginalized population during conÀ ict, to a collective and collaborative process among all members of society. JustTruth is not the unidirectional process of truth-telling, but the dynamic process in which stories are heard and acknowledged. JustTruth emphasizes the context in which truth is revealed, leading to an examination of the multiple nested levels of reconciliation. JustTruth can steer the social energies for change in the construction of the truth tools and institutions that best ¿ t the historical-social-political needs. The cases of South Africa and Guatemala demonstrate that truth commissions may indeed be a well-crafted tool for national reconciliation, but the JustTruth lens reveals that new tools must be developed with which to address community and individual reconciliation. As an analytical lens, JustTruth also suggests areas for further research, such as developing a range of ‘track two’ mechanisms to complement of¿ cial truth commissions at the national level. Although JustTruth is only one component of reconciliation, it is necessary for positively transforming relationships in societies torn apart by mass human rights violations. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 This page intentionally left blank Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Part II Cases Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 This page intentionally left blank Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 8 Trauma as a technology of power Memory, aid and rule in contemporary Haiti Maria Joao Ferreira

Introduction Haiti constitutes an exemplary case study of national subjectivity formation in contexts of collective trauma normalization. The articulation between trauma contexts and national identity formation is essential, revealing how the construction of national subjectivity cannot be considered to be a linear process, because it involves speci¿ c and contextual power relations that frequently derive from historical periods of exceptional physical violence and psychological unrest (Edkins 2003). In this chapter, I discuss how the Haitian politics of trauma can be understood as a technology of power (for a discussion on trauma, biopower and governmentality, see James 2004; for a discussion on biopower and aid in the Haitian context, see Farmer 2010). Technologies of power can be de¿ ned as the set of discursive and non-discursive practices used by private and public entities to govern the conduct and decisions of others, and therefore to achieve speci¿ c goals (Lemke 2007; Pissareva 2010: 9). Understanding the Haitian politics of trauma as a technology of power allows us to deconstruct the foundational causes of trauma commodi¿ cation in Haiti (see Farmer 2010; James 2004), as well as to critically question all forms of culturalist and deterministic explanations for Haitian tragedies. In addition, discussing trauma through a political technological framework permits the analysis of how modern rationalities of rule are based on the immaterial crystallization of concepts, on the material competition for political and ¿ nancial resources, and on the material and immaterial production of knowledge (see Farmer 2010; James 2004). Haiti should be approached as an illustration of trauma multidimensionality. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Trauma is an inescapable aspect of Haitian historical experience (Munro 2006: 81). The multidimensionality of Haitian trauma requires a particularly cautionary approach concerning both the historical roots and the causal apparatus that may explain the overwhelming sense of tragedy that is triggered each time the country is invoked. It also requires addressing how the discursive and non- discursive practices of exclusion, violence and inequality contribute to normalizing or questioning the Haitian politics of trauma (Farmer 2010; James 2004). 124 Maria Joao Ferreira In the context of this chapter, ‘politics of trauma’ means the set of discursive and non-discursive strategies that crystallize inter-subjective understandings that allow governing contexts of vulnerability and rupture of trust (Edkins 2003). The chapter is structured in four sections. The ¿ rst section discusses how technologies of power are fundamental to understanding the Haitian politics of trauma. The second describes the multidimensionality of Haitian trauma, articulating it with the reminiscences of the Haitian ‘predatory state’, as well as with the emergence of a development model in the country based on non-governmental organizations (NGOs). In the third section of the chapter, I explore the negative effects of arguing trauma as entitlement. I discuss how trauma recognition in Haiti has been ham- pered by the rendering of trauma narratives as a neoliberal commodity recognized through a language of entitlement. When trauma is argued as a commodity, it immediately becomes inscribed as a technology of power (see James 2004; Kamat 2003). Finally, the fourth section of the chapter questions the performative role of the Haitian political elite in the commodi¿ cation and governance of Haitian trauma.

Power, violence and knowledge in contemporary Haiti Haiti’s political system can be characterized by ‘strong man rule’ and ‘winner takes all’ politics (Maguire 2006: 47). The consequences are twofold: political violence and instability have become almost endemic, and so has the dependence of the political system on the country’s security apparatus – namely, the army and paramilitary forces, but also criminal gangs (Maguire 2006: 47). The result of this truly ‘predatory’ system is the non-existence of a social contract between those who govern and those who are governed. Consequently, the majority of Haitians are deprived of a social safety net that may render their lives less precarious (Maguire 2006: 31). Haiti is recurrently characterized as ‘failed’ through a discourse of Haitian exceptionalism (Schuller 2007: 68). Haitian traumas are frequently argued as a result of its ‘Africanness’, mirrored in the perpetuation of traditional values and the departure from Western rationality models (Fatton 2009). Discursive representations are heavily based on the (re)production of knowledge. It should be stressed that trauma in Haiti is often argued and rei¿ ed following cultural arguments (Fatton 2009). These arguments are used with the goal of normalizing the belief that trauma in Haiti is a fatalist condition. (For a discussion, see Farmer Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 2010.) Lawrence Harrison, the former director of a United States Agency for International Development (USAID) mission in Port-au-Prince, employs a cultural argument in order to justify the sense of fatalism inherent to Haitian precariousness when he states:

I believe that culture is the sole possible explanation for the ongoing Haitian tragedy: the values and attitudes of the majority of Haitians are deeply Trauma as a technology of power 125 inÀ uenced by traditional African culture, in particular by voodoo religion and by the experience of slavery under French rule. (Harrison, quoted by Fatton 2009: 2)

Following Harrison, the African cultural tradition is undeniably associated with values and attitudes that are not coherent with modern Western rationality. It is in this context that Haiti is frequently considered an ‘American Guinea’, and a territory in which the succession of generations reproduce a sense of fatalism and inevitability regarding the extreme poverty that exists in Haiti (Fatton 2009). We can, in fact, identify an attempt to normalize trauma in Haiti through cultural causal arguments. Such an attempt reveals the importance of both trauma discourses and trauma practices for the characterization of trauma politics in Haiti. It therefore becomes necessary to discuss how the constant usage of a language of trauma to characterize scenarios such as Haiti contributes to their normalization through knowledge production and is constitutive of a distinctive Haitian political economy of trauma (James 2004). The performance and circulation of trauma narratives has actually been fundamental for the shaping of relations between Haitian victims and international and national aid and development policies, since it is through these relations that Haitians have sought recognition for their multiple traumas (James 2004). The existence of a political economy of trauma in Haiti (James 2004, 2009) drew my attention to Foucauldian perspectives on power technologies. On the articulation between trauma and biopower, see James 2004. In his studies on modern rationalities of rule, Foucault (2007: 108, 109) de¿ nes a political economy as a form of knowledge that allows for the exercise of a complex kind of power over populations. Such forms of knowledge embody political technologies, depicted as the combination of rationalities, regimes of truth and rules of conduct (Dean 1996). Modern political technologies intend to ensure the calculated shaping of human capabilities through the structuring of the ¿ eld of possible actions (Dean 1996: 47). The analysis of such practices emphasizes both the prescriptive and the codifying effects regarding regimes of truth, as well as their historical and political consequences. Foucault (1991: 75) states that ‘[t]o analyse “regimes of practices” means to analyse programmes of conduct which have both prescriptive effects regarding what is to be done (effects of “jurisdiction”) and codifying effects regarding what is to be known (effects of “veridiction”)’. Consequently, to govern (namely, to govern contexts of trauma) is to establish domains in which the construction and rei¿ cation of what is true and what is false is ordered, made imperative and served by a set of ‘moral technologies’ Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 (Foucault 1991: 74, 79), the effects of which range from the macro level to the individual level, since it reaches the production of the individual truth. The fact that trauma politics in Haiti is heavily based on the production of knowledge, and that Haitian trauma is often argued and rei¿ ed following cultural arguments, highlights the importance of the Foucauldian articulation between power and the production of knowledge (see James 2004). Such articulation stresses the importance of the circulation of causes and effects, the discursive 126 Maria Joao Ferreira de¿ nition of risk factors, and above all the construction of theoretical ¿ elds of knowledge that simultaneously uphold and are supported by power technologies (Foucault 2007: 34). Contemporary discourses on trauma and suffering are representations with a strong moral framing that raise questions of compassion, ethics, obligations and action, and which are undeniably articulated with historical and political-economic factors (James 2004: 129). Since the politics of trauma are associated with moral framing and because moral representations are argued through discursive practices, the latter assume a fundamental importance for trauma studies. As argued by Rose and Miller (1992: 177), political technologies are ‘morally coloured, grounded upon knowledge, and made thinkable through language’. Discussing the Haitian politics of trauma as a power technology allows us to question the reasons behind trauma commodi¿ cation in Haiti (Farmer 2010; James 2004), as well as to deconstruct culturalist explanations for Haitian tragedies. Following Foucault, to critically question contemporary power technologies and regimes of truth constitutes a tool for the pluralization of causes and the denunciation of self-evidences in ‘places where there is a temptation to make a historical constant, an immediate anthropological trait, or an obvious- ness which imposes itself uniformly on all’, as well as for the ‘breach of self- evidences, of those self-evidences on which our knowledge acquiescenses and practices rest’ (Foucault 1991: 76). In the next section, I discuss the multidimensionality of Haitian trauma, and how such multidimensionality is tied to the Haitian governmental and non- governmental apparatuses of rule that manage the way in which trauma is internally and internationally argued and represented.

The multidimensionality of Haitian trauma Writing about Caribbean trauma, Munro (2006: 81) argues that individual and collective memory in countries such as Haiti is characterized by ‘lacks, lacunae and traumatized absences’ that derive from an experience of historical time marked by the purposeful erasure of memory. Munro quotes the poet Édouard Glissant, who describes the experience of history in Caribbean countries as a:

. . . struggle without witnesses, the inability to create even an unconscious chronology, a result of the erasing of memory in all of us. For history is not only absence for us, it is vertigo. This time that was never ours, we must now possess. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 (Glissant 1989: 161, cited in Munro 2006: 81)

Glissant’s words illustrate the importance of trauma politics in Haiti. Trauma, vulnerability and rupture of trust (Edkins 2003) are not unfamiliar to Haitians. Haiti occupies the 161th position on the Human Development Index (UNDP 2013) and is considered the poorest country in the western hemisphere. In 2007, 50.6 per cent of Haitians survived on less than US$1 a day and 62 per cent on less Trauma as a technology of power 127 than US$2 a day (UNCTAD 2010). In 2009, about 50 per cent of Haitians had no access to health care and more than four-¿ fths had no access to drinking water; since 1980, per capita income has decreased by 50 per cent (Oxfam International 2009: 20). Haiti has lived for decades in a cycle of poverty and conÀ ict that is at the core of the multidimensional trauma that haunts the Haitian population (Maria Ferreira 2011). Haitian vulnerability is rei¿ ed not only through material factors, but also through discursive patterns that normalize trauma and the vulnerability of Haitian living conditions. One of the dimensions of Haitian vulnerability that is more visible at an international level is the instability of the country’s political apparatus. The instances of trauma in Haiti are, in fact, directly related to the performance of the state apparatus and state-sponsored terror. (For a discussion, see Maguire 2006.) Haitian society has been controlled by a small, but hetero- geneous, group of elites that monopolize the Haitian state through the control of the political system, foreign trade and the military (Schuller 2007). These elites, which continuously compete for power, have prevented the emergence of a true deliberative democracy in Haiti. Political violence and instability have become almost endemic, as has the dependence of the political system on the country’s security dispositive – namely, the army and paramilitary forces, but also criminal gangs (Maguire 2006: 47). The goal of successive administrations has been the brutal usurpation and consolidation of power. Haitian civil society has been a particular target of repression. In addition, and particularly from the 1990s onwards, the state apparatus has been forced to compete with another kind of apparatus: the apparatus of international NGOs working in the country, which have an exceptionally important function in the distribution of international aid. Both the Haitian state’s apparatus and the international NGOs’ apparatus have a performative role in the governance of trauma in Haiti, contributing to its normalization and commodi¿ cation (James 2004). The public acknowledgement of traumatic events can be seen as one of the most important factors for post-conÀ ict rehabilitation and democratization processes (Quinn 2003: 46). In contexts of post-conÀ ict reconstruction and transitional justice, in which states undergo transitions from violent conÀ ict to democracy and political stability, ‘truth-telling’, and trauma testimonies and narratives, assume particular importance (James 2009). The processes of documenting and recognizing trauma are very complex, especially when trauma instances are directly related to state power performances and state-sponsored terror, since, historically, the divisions between political and domestic, public and private instances of trauma have been critical to the pursuit of justice (James Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 2009: 106). Trauma performances are a way for societies to face the details of history (Quinn 2003). However, the institutionalization of trauma reparation procedures depends of a set of a priori conditions – namely, the willingness to surpass trauma and often the consistency of grassroots civil society organizations that may contribute qualitatively to diversifying trauma discourses. The articulation between the politics of trauma and the ‘politics of memory’ engi- neered by civil society is fundamental, since in order to come to terms with the 128 Maria Joao Ferreira past, societies have to rework their history ‘in a wider cultural arena, both during the transitions and after transitional policies have been implemented and even forgotten’ (Barahona de Brito et al. 2001: 2). One of the causes behind the commodi¿ cation of trauma in Haiti and its transformation into a political technology of power is the downplay of grassroots Haitian civil society organizations and the predominance of an internationally funded NGO development model for Haiti (see Edmonds 2012; Farmer 2011; James 2004). Discussing civil society in Haiti requires analysing two different realities: the grassroots and local movements that started to À ourish during the late 1980s; and the apparatus of some 3,500 NGOs that operate within the territory (Schuller 2007). With the exception of agricultural associations, the Haitian public welfare arena at both national and municipal levels is monopolized by internationally funded NGOs, which maintain unequal and vertical relations with local NGOs (Author interview with Haiti expert, 13 October 2012).The subjugation of local Haitian civil society organizations stems from the interaction of both internal and external forces. Underdevelopment and the failure of international aid in Haiti reveal the frailties of underlying local and global structures of power (Gros 2011). From the 1990s onwards, and as a result of internal competition for international funding, a kind of ‘cold war’ has been institutionalized between the Haitian state and internationally funded NGOs. The stigma of the collision between the state’s apparatus and internationally funded NGOs in Haiti cannot be fully understood without discussing the responsibilities of global structures of power, which, through their aid policies, have contributed to the fostering of instability and economic strati¿ cation in the country (Gros 2011; Schuller 2007). Being one of the oldest nations of the western hemisphere, Haiti had a tradition of civic engagement at the grassroots level (see Quinn 2003). However, the country’s history of brutal repression and the perpetuation of its ruling elites mitigated any possibility for the existence of dialogue between the state apparatus and Haitian civil society. The Duvalier regime, in particular, outlawed any kind of civil society manifestations. In response, Haitians cultivated strong community ties that were decisive in the emergence, in the late 1980s, of popular movements that constituted the basis of support for Jean-Bertrand Aristide (Quinn 2003). Haiti conducted the ¿ rst free election of its history in the autumn of 1990. The liberal technocrat Marc Bazin was expected to prevail. However, Jean-Bertrand Aristide won the election with an overwhelming majority (Kumar 2000). Aristide’s election was the result of the gradual constitution, from the 1980s onwards, of diverse popular organizations whose goals were to ‘advocate the interests of grassroots Haitian communities at the national level’, and to question the tradi- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 tional repression and neglect by the elitist urban political class (Kumar 2000: 128). It was this ‘popular awakening’ and civic thrust for democratization and emancipation (Kumar 2000: 128) that opened a window of opportunity for the election of Jean-Bertrand Aristide. Aristide, a liberation theology priest, seized the moment and developed his own political movement around this popular engagement: the popular movement and political platform called Lavalas (or ‘the À ood’), which emerged in the late 1980s with the aim of liberating Haiti Trauma as a technology of power 129 from dictatorial rule (Hallward 2007). It was the civic engagement of popular grassroots movements that ensured Aristide’s victory. However, as a political platform, Lavalas also included members from the progressive Haitian middle classes, who were interested in liberating Haiti from the economic constraints on its development (Kumar 2000: 128). After his election, Aristide started to implement the Lavalas agenda, the main goal of which was to ensure the economic development of the country through fair tax collection, the removal of monopolies in trade and business, and economic assistance measures for Haitian peasants and the informal sector. Aristide’s economic and social recovery plans rapidly entered into a collision course with traditional Haitian elites. The president urged his followers to manifest their support publicly. This appeal was portrayed by traditional elites as a threat to democracy and peace (Kumar 2000: 128). As a consequence, Jean-Bertrand Aristide was overthrown by a violent military coup in September 1991. The visible empowerment of popular mobilization and its translation into political results explain why, after the September 1991 coup, the military regime selected civil society as its preferred target for repression (Quinn 2003). In fact, following the military coup, the network of cooperatives and community associations that had À ourished during the 1980s and early 1990s – in particular, those with ties to Lavalas – were brutally repressed. Internal dissidence was crushed by a spiral of violence that murdered between 3,000 and 10,000 people (Kumar 2000: 128). The Lavalas phenomenon had become a real threat to Haiti’s traditional elites and the military regime ensured the physical elimination of the movement (Kumar 2000: 128). The bloody repression of the military regime led to a considerable wave of Haitian migration À ows, mainly towards the United States. Confronted with an inÀ ow of Haitian refugees, the Bush administration took the decision to allow the deportation of Haitians upon their arrival in US territory. The administration’s argument was that Haitian migration was economically driven and not politically motivated (Kumar 2000). This decision, associated with US passivity concerning the deposition of Aristide and the military regime, fuelled a transnational civic campaign based on the articulation between international NGOs and the Haitian diaspora residing in the United States. What followed constitutes one of the most important case studies of the empowerment of transnational civil society movements in the 1990s. Organizations such as the New York-based National Coalition for Haitian Refugees (NCHR), an NGO platform whose members included Human Rights Watch and the Haitian Refugee Center, actively protested against the US refugee policy and the United States’ lack of active engagement in pro- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 moting the return to democracy in Haiti. The NCHR and its allies argued that it was necessary not only to restore democracy through international presence in the territory, but also to devise an economic and internationally backed plan for Haitian development. Following Bill Clinton’s election to the US presidency, the efforts of the transnational network of civic engagement for Haiti were strengthened through the multiplication of resistance and mobilizing events, political lobbying, and particularly through the constant dissemination of information 130 Maria Joao Ferreira concerning the brutal massacres carried out by the military regime (Kumar 2000: 134). The cause gained the support of politicians (such as John Kerry), inÀ uential US and international human rights NGOs, and international personalities. Finally, in July 1994 and as a result of mounting transnational pressure, the United Nations approved the use of force in Haiti, with the goal of restoring democracy. In October 1994, Jean-Bertrand Aristide returned to Haiti to complete his term in of¿ ce. The Clinton administration, however, compelled Aristide to follow a neoliberal development agenda (Kumar 2000). From 1995 onwards, Haiti received unprecedented amounts of international aid, which contributed to the revitalization of Haitian civil society – namely, peasants’ associations and local NGOs (Schuller 2007: 72). During this period, however, the inÀ uence of international NGOs also grew, as did the absolute disassociation between internationally funded NGOs and Haitian political elites (Quinn 2003: 253). This inÀ uence and subsequent disassociation became particularly visible after the 1998 International Monetary Fund (IMF) freeze on all international funds to Haiti. Despite this move, direct donors’ À ows to NGOs remained high, which led to a policy of circumventing the state in favour of NGOs, and to a collision between the ¿ nancially deprived Haitian state and the non-governmental sector. The NGOs funded by USAID were instrumental in promoting policies that were in direct opposition to Haitian governmental priorities (Schuller 2007). In addition, the political entrepreneurship of some Western-funded NGOs fuelled political instability in the country, contributing to the frequent nationalist and defensive response of the Haitian administration concerning NGO involvement in public policy (Author interview with Haiti expert, 13 October 2012). Dependency on international funding contributed to the deepening of economic strati¿ cation among Haitian civil society organizations (Schuller 2007: 73). In the process, and with notable exceptions (such as the NGO National Federation of Young People for Development), local community-based and grassroots organizations were entangled in the anti-politics machine (Ferguson and Lohmann 1994) that is absolutely visible in Haiti. There are three different lines of structural inequality afÀ icting Haitian civil society (Schuller 2007).

• A ¿ rst line of inequality concerns the patterns of interaction between local NGOs and contingent and selective international funding. • A second line of inequality is established between local NGOs and the Haitian administration, whose lack of planning, associated with bureau- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 cracy and defensive protectionism (Author interview with NGO volunteer, 30 January 2012), hamper communication with Haitian civil society. • A third line of structural inequality happens among civil society organizations themselves, since the almost total lack of coordination and communication among NGOs, community-based organizations and grassroots movements, and the extreme dependency on international funding, empowers large international NGOs, which function like mini-states within the country. Trauma as a technology of power 131 There is a visible and clear power relation between local and international NGOs, and also between the state apparatus and the international NGOs’ apparatus (Author interview with Haiti expert, 13 October 2012; Author interview with NGO volunteer, 30 January 2012). The latter – namely, religious NGOs – possess ¿ nancial resources that are not available for public and local private institutions, allowing them to act as a counter-power. It should be noted that the ¿ nancial costs of humanitarian and development operations in Haiti are very high, which empowers larger and professional NGOs (Author interview with Haiti expert, 13 October 2012). The triangle formed by selective international funding, the Haitian state apparatus and local NGOs has, in fact, not succeeded in empowering the emancipation of local NGOs (Schuller 2007). The use of the term ‘emancipation’ here is not meant to signify a desire to conceptualize community-based and grassroots organizations as necessarily autonomous of state and capital. As Kamat (2003) argues, civil society movements can never be fully autonomous towards the political economy of the states(s) in which they work. What is necessary is to address how domestic and global political cultures shape the workings, and even the nature, of local civil society. The structural inequalities pervasive in Haiti signi¿ - cantly derange the work of local NGOs. Those organizations have been failed by Haitian and international policies and institutions, which have institutionalized an oppositional and zero-sum relationship between state and civil society. Schuller rightly claims that:

. . . seeing the system from a subaltern perspective, from that of apparently failed NGOs, reveals systemic structures at work globally and in Haiti, such as transnational development institutions, social inequalities—along lines of class (or ‘social levels’ in local terminology), race (or ‘color’), gender, language—and global political and economic inequalities. (Schuller 2007: 68)

Domestic and international institutions have fuelled structural and power inequalities that characterize Haitian society, and which are reproduced at civil society level. The majority of Haitian grassroots organizations lack the human capital, the international connections, the personal/professional networking experience and the ¿ nancial resources that could allow them to survive and À ourish. They have to muddle through a network of dependencies that range from the defensive nationalist Haitian state – the central planner of development in Haiti – and international funding institutions, the ¿ nancial À ows of which are contingent and selective (Gros 2011; Schuller 2007). The bureaucratic processes that allow grass- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 roots movements to work as of¿ cial, registered organizations are costly and time-consuming (Schuller 2007). The result is the institutionalization of chronic competition over scarce resources, which fosters mistrust between the state and civil society. The question that must therefore be addressed is: how does this status quo affect the way in which Haitian trauma is presented and the country is governed? The answer lies in what James (2004, 2009) designates the Haitian ‘political economy of trauma’. 132 Maria Joao Ferreira Haitian trauma and the politics of entitlement A political economy of trauma (James 2004, 2009) emerged in Haiti as a consequence of the set of interventions to repair human rights violations perpetrated in the 1991–94 coup period. The performance and circulation of trauma narratives have been fundamental for the shaping of the relations between Haitian victims and international and national aid and development policies, since it is through these relations that Haitians have sought recognition for their multiple traumas (Farmer 2010; James 2004, 2009). Trauma recognition in Haiti has, however, been pursued through a language of entitlement, since trauma narratives are often used as commodities that ensure access to international funding (James 2009). The way in which entitlement is managed is fundamental for the study of the politics of trauma in Haiti. To think of trauma in terms of recognition means to question the terms through which rights of protection (Butler 2009: 21) are claimed and recognized in the public arena. Wendy Brown (1995) discusses how the modern development of institutionalized forms of protection for groups or individuals recognized as victims may contribute to reifying the victim status inde¿ nitely, by representing them as powerless and in constant need of protection. (For a discussion, see James 2004.) The representation of victimhood is, in itself, a political technology (James 2004) and a form of power, since institutionalized dependency not only creates and reproduces more dependency, but also gives the ‘protector’ a window of opportunity to force its own rules of protection, including the power to decide on how and when there is a legitimate claim for victimhood (Brown 1995). The articulation between victimhood, trauma and identity is at the basis of what Petryna (2002) designates ‘biological citizenship’. Petryna (2002: 5–6) claims that biological pathologies have become domains of entitlements around which trauma victims mobilize claims for biomedical resources and human rights in general. When trauma is represented as a biological condition, this representation opens a window of opportunity for the fostering of ‘occult economies of suffering’, characterized by a biopolitical discourse that perpetuates cycles of inequality and exclusion (James 2004: 143). At the base of a political economy of trauma and of biological citizenship lies a form of biopolitical reasoning whose main objective is to perform, through the construction of knowledge, a calculus on the value of life (Petryna 2002: 6). This kind of biopolitical reasoning is fundamental for understanding how trauma is recognized and governed in Haiti. The ¿ eld of grassroots activism has been completely restructured by the perva- siveness of a neoliberal logic in which market demands determine supply. This

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 logic mirrors a neoliberal notion of empowerment that leads to the marketization of social identities and relations (Kamat 2003: 92). In order to access the humanitarian and development marketplace, and since they need funds to justify their existence, Haitian civil society organizations compete for the capacity to market trauma narratives and testimonies (James 2004, 2009; Kamat 2003; Author interview with Haiti expert, 13 October 2012). The recurrence of suffering in Haiti has actually created a particular relationship between Haitian civil society and Trauma as a technology of power 133 international donors, since both have contributed to the creation of a trauma- dependent economy based on the existence of a linkage between the dramatization of trauma and international assistance. Within this particular relationship, several civil society agents take on the role of trauma brokers, governing the way in which trauma is discursively argued (James 2004). The governance of trauma discourses in Haiti can be illustrated through the study of the limitations of recent attempts to institutionalize transitional justice procedures in the country. Following his restoration to power, President Aristide instituted the National Commission for Truth and Justice, the goal of which was to represent the truth of the human rights violations that occurred from 1991 to 1994. The creation of the Commission, which operated from April 1995 to February 1996, was a result of the political entrepreneurship of the inÀ uential Haitian diaspora communities residing in North America and the Caribbean. In October 1994, diaspora communities in Montreal promoted the International Tribunal on Rights on Haiti. The ¿ nal report of the Tribunal directly inspired Aristide’s decision to establish a Truth Commission in Haiti. Mainly as a result of a lack of political will and appropriate social capital and funding, the Commission did not succeed in giving an accurate account of the traumatic events that it was supposed to investigate and no real trauma reparation ever took place. The narrow scope of its mandate and the fact that no public hearings ever took place were additional factors that beset the Commission’s functioning (Freeman 2006; James 2009). However, the existence of the Commission allowed for the creation of a quantitative database that contains a detailed analysis of human rights violations, sorted by geographical areas and types of abuse. This bank of information was intended to be used by the Commission and by future juridical initiatives (Quinn 2003: 145). The institutionalization of the database was of crucial importance, insofar as it assured the credibility of trauma narratives and testimonies. The archives of testimony perform an important social role as privileged sites of memory (Quinn 2003). Owing to the shortcomings of the National Commission for Truth and Justice – speci¿ cally the fact that its workings ignored the existence of local grassroots organizations (Quinn 2003) – a group of Haitian women’s rights movements created the International Tribunal against Violence toward Haitian Women, which was supported by international organizations and the goal of which was to publicly hear testimonies of women’s trauma. Despite its intentions, the Tribunal was fraught with weaknesses: the ¿ rst was the partial nature of its mandate, since it speci¿ cally targeted human rights violations against women; a second concerned the selectivity of the narratives presented in public testimony and the uses of trauma narratives for purposes other than reparation – particularly status recognition (James 2009). As Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 James claims:

The capacity to demonstrate an institution’s accountability and competence through the vehicle of persuasive performances of violation was a means by which ‘local’ organizations sustained transnational aid À ows and developed new international humanitarian markets in the political economy of trauma. (James 2009: 111) 134 Maria Joao Ferreira The workings of the International Tribunal against Violence toward Haitian Women showed the existence of a competition for credibility, as well as for local and international support among human rights practitioners and organizations that take on the role of trauma brokers. Fears concerning donor fatigue have heightened such competition. Civil society organizations used the Tribunal as an arena for political recognition, demonstrating the complexities involved in transforming trauma narratives into a commodity that is produced and put forward as a means of attracting resources (James 2009). Haitian trauma politics depends, however, not only on the performative role of civil society organizations, but also on the performative function of the contemporary governmental apparatus. The last section of this chapter will explore the constitutive role of the Haitian political elite concerning the governance of trauma in Haiti.

Trauma and rule in the Haitian political aesthetic community Bodily violence has always been an essential element of the political economy of rule in Haiti. In fact, the tortured body of Haitians performs a symbolical role in the enactment of the Haitian aesthetic community (James 2004, 2009; Managhan 2012: 100). Haiti’s traumatic history has become a biocultural foundation for the establishment and reproduction of the Haitian collective identity. Trauma plays a role in the (re)constitution of political communities when it is used as an argument in the creation of the possibilities for sacred violence (Managhan 2012: 100). The production of trauma and the justi¿ cation of violence are achieved through the establishment of a threshold between quali¿ ed and non-quali¿ ed life, legitimate and illegitimate violence (Managhan 2012: 101). In this context, the way in which the Haitian political elite – namely, the newly elected President Michel Martelly – is trying to redraw the aesthetic borders (Managhan 2012) of the Haitian nation is very revealing of how trauma is an essential element of Haitian collective identity. I would particularly like to under- line the way in which sovereign decisions in Haiti have been accompanied by discursive practices that intend to justify the aesthetic content of such decisions. In fact, the language that materializes political discourse constitutes a type of ‘intellectual machinery’ that makes reality thinkable and opens it to political deliberations (Pissareva 2010: 10). Consequently, trauma politics takes on a special signi¿ cance for Haiti’s reconstruction. Given the troubled Haitian history, the political discourse of its ruling Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 elite is deeply inÀ uenced by trauma politics. Nationalist discourse dominated the electoral campaign that resulted in the election of Martelly. Haitian politicians discursively explored the deterioration of the image of international forces stationed in the country. Martelly turned the reinstitutionalization of Haitian armed forces into a fundamental issue of his campaign (Padgett 2011). The Haitian ruling elite is trying to reify the argument that Haitian vulnerability will be overcome only through the strengthening of the state apparatus and the reinforcement Trauma as a technology of power 135 of patriotic feelings, which involve not only the re-establishment of trust between the state and the population, but also the political exploitation of the mistrust between the population and foreign donors. An analysis of the public speeches of President Martelly (2011a, 2011b, 2011c) demonstrates that he constructs his political communication on two main pillars: the exaltation of the Haitian founding fathers – and of contemporary national symbols; and the appeal to national unity, reconciliation and reconstruction. Despite several appeals to international cooperation, the frequently securitarian discourse of President Martelly mirrors the widespread belief in Haiti that the government elite and international donors have bene¿ ted from Haitian trauma, exploiting it for their own bene¿ t (Padgett 2011). In his inaugural address, Martelly (2011a) declared: ‘For a long time we used the poverty of our country in order to develop our economy, many people used the misery of our country . . . this must stop.’ The presidential rhetoric aims to reify the argument in favour of the creation of Haitian autonomous armed forces, participation in regional security initiatives and the consequent withdrawal of the UN peacekeeping mission (Martelly 2011b, 2011d). In fact, the international media has been divulging information about the start of a recruitment process for the constitution of a military force with some 3,500 soldiers, which should be operational by 2014 (The Economist 2011). What is not yet public is how the Haitian government is going to ¿ nance the US$25 million needed to assemble such a force (Daniel 2011). The Haitian governmental elite is aware that the re-instauration of autonomous armed forces will require external funding, which will consequently entail an increased dependence on international donors. It is assumed that the new force will be endowed with benign military tasks, such as border patrolling or the keeping of public order. Such tasks collide with the tasks of police forces. It should be remembered that, in 2006, the Haitian police forces numbered 3,000 of¿ cers, for a total of 8 million inhabitants (Castor 2006: 113). The most serious question pertaining to the re-establishment of autonomous armed forces in Haiti, however, concerns the political control of the military bodies. One of the main tasks of the Haitian armed forces will be the creation of an intelligence unit, which brings to surface the fear of the return of the brutal status quo that characterized the territory during the Duvalier period. As Oscar Arias, 1987 Nobel Peace Prize Laureate, reminded Martelly in a letter that he wrote to the Haitian president in November 2011, armed forces have been revealed to be potential agents of instability for Central American countries (Daniel 2011). Arias wrote that the ¿ nancial resources that Martelly plans to spend on the re-establishment of Haitian armed forces would be better used in sectors such as education, health or public Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 infrastructure (Daniel 2011). The narratives developed by the Haitian political elite that try to allocate blame for past traumas and assert the legitimacy of the current political apparatus assume particular signi¿ cance. (For a discussion of blame allocation in the Haitian context, see Farmer 2006.) As put forward by Douglas (1994), the allocation of blame and the recognition of trust relations (‘who to blame’/‘who to trust’) are fundamental factors for the structuring of social communities, since they pre-date 136 Maria Joao Ferreira the identi¿ cation of the threats that social groups consider as possibly endangering their viability as independent communities. When a social group allocates blame and trust, it is moralizing its social universe in order to make it understandable. Aware that Haitian trauma comes from the rupture of trust resulting from decades of vulnerability concerning the ‘predatory’ state apparatus, Haitian political elites have to remoralize their social universe, allocating blame and trust. What is interesting to observe is the way in which Haitian political elites try to construct the identity of Haiti, reifying the same aesthetic elements associated with the colonial economies of bodily violence (James 2004) – namely, the strengthening of state apparatuses as opposed to the strengthening of civil society. What is at stake in the reconstitution of an autonomous Haitian army is the establishment of a threshold between legitimate and illegitimate violence (Managhan 2012). The governance and normalization of violence, and the calculated management of life (Foucault 1990) that allows the survival conditions for the human body to be determined, are at the core of the politics of trauma in Haiti. The politics of trauma developed by the Haitian political elite may be understood as resting at the intersection between blame and trust. President Martelly’s political discourse tries to manage the memory of the ‘predatory state’ through the devaluation of internal dissentions and the overvaluation of fracturing points with the international community. The existence of forces loyal to the regime of Jean-Claude Duvalier that publicly manifest their desire for the return of the dictator and who consider the re-instauration of autonomous armed forces as a means to attain such a goal illustrates the importance of trauma politics in Haiti. The public manifestation of Jean-Claude Duvalier’s supporters is staged in such a way as to disseminate terror amongst the population and force Haitians to relive their traumas (Desrameaux 2011). The return in January 2011 of the former dictator to Haiti should be understood as constituting a strategy of trauma management, the goal of which is to reconstitute the image of Jean-Claude Duvalier through the capitalization of the popular support that he still has in the territory. Representing Duvalier as a source of positive change for Haiti involves persuading Haitians to reinterpret the traumas of the ‘predatory state’ on behalf of the need for political stability. Such reinterpretation and representation are more easily accomplished by the country’s youth, for whom the memory of the Duvalier regime is vaguer. Aware of the complexities that trauma politics assumes in the Haitian context, Duvalier apologized to Haitians, recognizing their trauma (Desvarieux 2011). In addition to his patriotic discourse, the public policies of President Michel Martelly, especially the thorny question of double nationality (apparently sur- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 passed with the June 2012 revision of the Haitian Constitution), are also contributing to the implantation of a trauma, image and memory engineering operation directed by the Haitian political elite. It is noteworthy that Martelly has placed the second generation of personalities once related directly with the Duvalier regime in crucial governmental positions – namely, former prime minister Garry Conille, Josefa Gauthier, and Nicolas Duvalier, the son of Jean-Claude Duvalier. Martelly’s strategy aims to rebuild Haitian memory through a discourse that Trauma as a technology of power 137 minimizes internal dissentions even if that means overshadowing the periods of Haitian history during which the realities of the ‘predatory’ state were more brutal (Desrameaux 2011).

Concluding remarks In this chapter, I have discussed how the Haitian politics of trauma can be understood as technology of power. Discussing the Haitian politics of trauma as a technology of power may open a much-needed window of opportunity to deconstruct the founding causes of trauma commodi¿ cation in Haiti (Farmer 2010; James 2004) and critically question all forms of culturalist explanations for Haitian trauma. Trauma in Haiti is a political technology of power, since it is through trauma discourses that several political actors in Haiti compete for both material and immaterial resources (James 2004; Kamat 2003). Such competition is at the core of trauma governance and also trauma commodi¿ cation in the country. I have identi¿ ed two ruling apparatuses in Haiti that exercise power over Haitians through a calculated politics of trauma governance – namely, the NGO apparatus working in the country and the Haitian political elite. The emergence of an NGO development model in Haiti transformed Haitian trauma into a commodity (Edmonds 2012; Kamat 2003). When trauma is put forward as a commodity and as a rationale for entitlement, it immediately becomes inscribed as a technology of power, since it becomes a regime of practice through which political actors attain their goal (James 2004). In addition, Haitian political elites try to govern trauma by inÀ uencing, through their discourses and practices, what is to be known and what is to be done about Haitian trauma. A discursive strategy of trust and blame allocation (Douglas 1994; Farmer 2006) is, in this context, fundamental. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 9 Remembering and forgetting in Turkish identity and policymaking

Brent E. Sasley1

Introduction Headgear in Turkey has long been the site of heated dispute over Turkish identity and policy orientation. The fez and the headscarf have, over time, symbolized the history that certain actors want to remember or forget, and the identity and policies that memory recommends. Both have been widely considered to rep-resent the historical importance of Islam in Ottoman and Turkish society – that is, the memory of the role of Islam in the development of both. The fez was the distinctive oval-shaped, brimless and often tasselled hat fashionable for men in the Ottoman Empire during the nineteenth century. Yet when Mustafa Kemal Atatürk embarked on what he considered a process of modernization in Turkey in the 1920s, he banned it outright, asserting that it ‘sat on our heads as a sign of ignorance, of fanaticism, of hatred to progress and civilization’ (Atatürk 1963: 738). The headscarf, or hijab, is worn by some devout Muslim women around their hair and neck, leaving only their faces exposed. Banned in public places by the military government in the early 1980s, many Turks believe it is at the centre of an agenda to impose Islam on the population. Arguing that the ban discriminates against women in the workplace and education, the current Islamist government has been working to lift the ban since it was ¿ rst elected in 2002. With a majority in parliament, the government was able to remove it as part of a series of constitutional reforms in February 2008; four months later that change was annulled by the Constitutional Court. For Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdo÷an, whose wife wears the headscarf, it is simply ‘an expression of religious freedom’ (Spiegel Online International 2007). This chapter builds on what these items represent to explore how memories shape Turkish national identity, and prescribe particular domestic and foreign

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 policies. Maurice Halbwachs (1980) ¿ rst conceptualized the structure of collective memory. But as Yael Zerubavel (1995: 5) pointed out early on, he did not discuss how it is contested over, and shaped and reshaped, according to the needs of speci¿ c actors. In her examination of the reimagining of historical events in the Jewish past, Zerubavel demonstrates how early secular Zionists sought to interpret them in speci¿ c ways to inspire the assertion of Jewish rights to the Land of Israel (in British Mandatory Palestine) and to transform Jewish identity into a Hebrew Remembering/forgetting in Turkish identity 139 identity. Her argument demonstrates how groups actively struggle with each other over which events to remember, and the right to be the hegemonic interpreter of a given episode and to prescribe policies based on that interpretation. Groups have a choice between memories, and that choice is primarily determined by decision-makers who are in a position not only to advocate them, but also to translate them into speci¿ c group behaviours. Moreover, because it is a discursive project, the process of remembering is expected to change over time, either as conditions change or as new groups come to power to drive these processes. If ‘regular’ memories, such as the role of Islam in developing society, can shape policy, then traumatic memories have a particularly powerful ability to inÀ uence behaviour (Bell 2006; Brown-Golden and Bergo 2009; Olick 2003). This chapter seeks to expand the study of trauma, memory, identity and outcomes by exploring the manner in which actors adopt traumatic memories for the instrumental purposes of policymaking. The ¿ rst section introduces the international relations (IR) focus on collective trauma and identity formation. The second part builds the theoretical framework by tracing the process by which memories become social, which in turn are used for policymaking. This is an important step, since we want to avoid the rei¿ - cation of ‘social memories’, but to understand how they inÀ uence collective action. In the third segment, the case study is presented. Here, the chapter examines how the Treaty of Sèvres, after World War I, traumatized the Turkish collective. But this trauma could matter for the creation of a speci¿ c Turkish identity, and consequent policymaking, only when a particular subgroup was able to utilize its decision-making authority to impose not only its preferred memories on the group, but also the particular policies that these memories recommended. The conclusion continues with the Turkish case by looking at a more recent effort by decision-makers to emphasize other memories, and suggests some implications of the study.

Collective trauma Building on notions of grief (including shock and sadness), trauma is an intense reaction to an event. It is, by its nature, a wrenching, dislocating experience. Typically, studies of group trauma focus on large-scale incidents, including natural disasters, violent conÀ ict, genocide, experiences of refugeedom, terrorism and so on. Jenny Edkins (2003: 4) adds that trauma is also about trust within the social world. Actors have expectations of their place in the social world and how others will act toward them. When this trust is betrayed, the actor is traumatized. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 International relations scholars have developed a literature on the juncture of trauma studies and collective identity. To this end, they extrapolate from the notion of trauma as an emotional-conceptual framework for understanding and processing individual loss of some kind to broader processes at play within the group. Emma Hutchison (2010) has shown how the Bali bombings in 2002 created a sense of communal identity among Australians, despite the obvious fact that most Australians were not present at or directly affected by the bombings. 140 Brent E. Sasley Khaled Fattah and Karin Fierke (2009) similarly note the collective humiliation ‘remembered’ by Islamists in the Middle East (imposed by the West through the Crusades, colonialism, the establishment of Israel and the dispossession of the Palestinians, and American support for oppressive regimes). The erstwhile power of the Arab-Islamic empires was not only gone, but also violently disrupted by non-Muslim actors, engendering a communal sense of loss and anger. But collective memory, as Fierke (2006: 117) noted, has a ‘performative’ element to it as well, which leads to speci¿ c action. The IR literature on how traumatic memories matter for group behaviour is underdeveloped on this process, although some attention is now being paid to it (for example, Langenbacher and Shain 2010). To enhance our understanding of it, we need to do two things: construct careful conceptual frameworks that trace how memories and the emotions attached to them move from individuals to groups; and demonstrate how they work with more empirical studies. In particular, we need to think more directly about the political-strategic use of memories. Matt MacDonald (2010: 289) argues that, while the occurrence of a traumatic event is important, it is ‘the politics of the response to trauma’ that count even more. Traumatic experiences, he contends, provide ‘opportunities for strategic intervention to give (new) meaning to that experience or to fold it into existing narratives’. To demonstrate this, he highlights the different ideas of three Australian prime ministers regarding the meaning and potential use of the killing of thousands of Australian soldiers in the 1915 Gallipoli campaign – a traumatic event by any de¿ nition. One leader felt that it was nonsense to commemorate the event as a historical legacy, while another argued that it served as a foundational pillar for the Australian national community. A third prime minister speci¿ cally used the memory of the event to help to buttress his arguments for an Australian contribution to the interventions in Afghanistan and Iraq. Thus the speci¿ c manner in which trauma is remembered by the collective transforms the memory of the event into a political act, driving speci¿ c group behaviour in the present.

Social memories and group behaviour The dif¿ culty in tracing how individual memories become group memories (Olick 1999) is reÀ ected in the literature on emotions in IR more generally (Sasley 2011: 471). Because memories represent emotional reactions to speci¿ c events (we do not only remember an event; we also remember how it made us feel), it is useful to consider how the models used to determine individual- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 to-group emotional transference can also be used to explain how individuals’ memories can be studied as social memories. Intergroup emotions theory (IET) is a recent development in social psychology. This model sets out a four-stage process that traces how individual emotional reactions become group behaviour.2

1 In the ¿ rst stage, an individual’s explicit identi¿ cation with a given group is activated by a particular stimulus. In clinical experiments, this has ranged Remembering/forgetting in Turkish identity 141 from music, to photographs, to stories of fellow group members under attack from outsiders. Under this condition, individuals are not only members of the group (which is an objective position), but they also feel that they are part of it (which is more subjective). Because of this, events that impact on the group will provoke emotional reactions from individual members – even if they are not personally affected by the event. In such cases, it is the social (or collective) identity that matters, rather than the individual identity. 2 The second stage begins when group members appraise a particular development not as individual members of that group, but from the perspective of how an event impacts on the collective – regardless of whether or not they have any personal experience of the event. 3 The third phase starts with the generation of intergroup emotions. When individual members of a collective exhibit group emotions as per the second stage, they direct their emotional reactions outward to another group. This intergroup setting is highly contextual: a group’s emotional reaction derives from an intergroup stimulus. 4 The fourth stage results in speci¿ c group behaviour that is driven by the particular emotional reaction.

There are two key insights from IET for the argument here. First, it helps us to theorize about how memories become social in nature. Members of a group feel affected by events that they did not directly experience – including those that took place some time ago – prompting them to share in these group memories. Traumatic events will have greater resonance. Thus Turks still ‘remember’ the humiliation and insecurity generated by the dismemberment of the Ottoman Empire in the Treaty of Sèvres in the early twentieth century. Second, IET provides for a conscious effort to understand how social memories translate into group behaviour. In IR, this helps us to connect national memories to a state’s policies. Continuing with the above example, the ‘Sèvres syndrome’ has translated into an aggressive effort to remove Islam from the public sphere and to securitize perceived challenges to this effort. In foreign policy, it has led to a more aggressive stance against those who seemingly seek to repartition Turkey. Less developed is the connection between group memories, decision-makers’ memories and decisional outcomes. International relations does not have a good handle on this question, either: it assumes that actors – especially states – are unitary, in which case it is dif¿ cult to demonstrate social memories; or it focuses Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 on speci¿ c individuals or small subgroups within the larger collectivity, in which case we can only theorize about their memories without being able to study them as national memories. We need, then, to determine who makes the decisions within a group. These group leaders are as much a part of the collective as ordinary members, except that they have the authoritative and recognized ability to make decisions on the group’s behalf (Sasley 2011: 467–9; Weldes 1996). 142 Brent E. Sasley The importance of the key decision-makers becomes more obvious when we consider the fact that collective memories do not exist outside of human activity. They are not simply there, but must be constantly remembered in order to have meaning. Moreover, memories change over time, particularly when new groups come to power or external or domestic conditions change. Like memories, decisions are not simply made by the collective; certain actors within the group make those decisions and then promote them to the rest of the group, as well as to outgroups. By saying that social memories are ‘promoted’, what we are really referring to is a dual process of remembering and forgetting. Memories exist or change only through speci¿ c effort – a process that Bradford Vivian (2010: 10) has called ‘mnemonic reconstruction’. Forgetting does not mean the replacement of a memory with a blank space, for there are never blank spaces in collective memories: ‘Memory is distortion since memory is invariably and inevitably selective’ (Michael Schudson 2010: 1107, cited in Vinitzky-Seroussi and Teeger 2010). Forgetting is always accompanied by remembering: it is what is forgotten and what is remembered instead that must be determined through empirical analysis. In other words, memories – like emotions (Frank 1988; Petersen 2011) – are strategic tools for speci¿ c political and policy ends. At different times, some memories are remembered, while others are forgotten, and the decisions on this are made by particular group members who control the decision-making authority within the collective. Changed conditions facilitate new emphases on different memories, possibly even new memories. These ‘watershed moments’ (Zerubavel 2003: 321–3) are often adopted by memory-makers as clearly identi¿ ed and widely recognized events or developments. Because they are highly visible and carry an emotional appeal to many – likely a majority – of the national group, they are easily manipulated to provide some measure of unity to that group as the basis for group behaviour. The literature on the role of ideas and learning processes highlights the importance of such ‘formative events’ (Reiter 1996) in promoting a change in policy ideas (see Goldstein and Keohane 1993; Hall 1993), without using the speci¿ c language of memory. Typically, these events incorporate large-scale violence or war (especially military defeat) and major economic shocks. Walter Salant (1989) has demonstrated, for example, that the Great Depression undermined faith in the notion that market forces were enough on their own to maintain a healthy economy. This, combined with state involvement in the economy during World War II, pushed states to consider Keynesianism as a new monetary policy framework to run their economies. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 The instrumental application of ideas that form out of these types of event is ampli¿ ed as time passes. As events pass from real-time conditions into memory – and as external and domestic circumstances change – they become more open to different, even competing, interpretations. Even more, when these events are traumatic both in the sense of loss and in Edkins’ sense of breaking social trust, they become useful for decision-makers, since they are highly visible and matter to more group members. The close identi¿ cation by members with the group Remembering/forgetting in Turkish identity 143 prompts them to remember these past events as having had, and continuing to have, a great impact on the group. The more traumatic they are, the more likely these watershed moments are to cause, as Hansen-Magnusson explains in his contribution to this book, ‘existential crises’ that dislocate an actor’s identity from long-standing moorings or call into question existing policies, creating ‘emerging social, political, and ethical dilemmas’ (Vivian 2010: 9; see also Vinitzky-Seroussi and Teeger 2010). Having a similar role to ideas, memories become more powerful as building blocks of identity and policymaking the more traumatic they are. Again, war and violence are considered the most prominent memories (Edkins 2003).3 But traumatic memories are not suddenly remembered by the group. The traumatic event is ‘always there’, but it is not always remembered. The role of group leaders becomes more evident here. These actors, who speak for and to the group, take on the role of memory-makers as they re-emphasize, reinterpret and raise urgent contemporary implications of traumatic events. When, in June 1989, Serbian leader Slobodan Miloševiü gave a ¿ erce speech to promote Serbian nationalism, he explicitly tied modern Serbs to the armies that suffered a major defeat to the Ottomans at Kosovo’s Field of Blackbirds in 1389. Miloševiü utilized the trauma of that memory not only to invoke the spirit of modern- day Serbs, but also to argue that the Ottoman victory was a result of a divided and poor Serbian leadership, which in turn was used to exhort Serbs to support a strong, contemporary, united leadership. How memories are promoted or ignored is thus a necessary piece of the puzzle. Typically, we think of highly visible efforts such as war memorials, annual holidays, history books, educational curriculums, museums, public speeches and so on. But social memories are also promoted or forgotten through less visible means, particularly when speci¿ c groups control the levers of decision- making power. Language is critical to this process. We might draw on studies of autobiographical memory to understand how this works at the group level. This type of memory appears to develop in individuals in tandem with the development of the ability to speak. It has been found that humans tend to recall their earliest memories around ages 2–4, which coincides with the development of our linguistic skills (Draaisma 2004: ch. 2). The ability to ‘tell’ ourselves about our memories, and to describe what they mean, depends on our grasp of language. At the national level, rules, laws, public speeches and government orders all do this clearly. The use of narratives, and the laws and norms in which they are embedded, help us to trace the process by which memories are pushed onto the collective, maintained Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 and replaced. In the speci¿ c case that follows, one group – highly identi¿ ed with the broader collectivity – took control over the process of remembering and forgetting. It de¿ ned the meaning of these memories, taken from the watershed moment that altered the contours of Turkey’s international milieu, calling into question its previous national identity, and using it to prescribe a new set of domestic and foreign policies. 144 Brent E. Sasley The Treaty of Sèvres and Kemalist memories The Kemalists are the group of military of¿ cers, intelligence and security agents, judicial practitioners, political parties and bureaucratic of¿ cials who shared Mustafa Kemal’s vision for Turkey, and saw themselves as the guardians of that order. Their priority was to forget the role of Islam in the development of the empire and remember instead Turkey’s non-Islamic history.4 The Ottoman Empire was an Islamic empire. Ghazi warriors provided much of the initial military power for its expansion. In 1517, the sultan took the title of Caliph, making him the spiritual-religious ruler of the Muslim ummah (community). The ulama (religious establishment composed of teachers, prayer leaders, scholars and judges) played an important role in the administration of the empire (Yavuz 2003: 43–5). Particularly in the rural areas of Anatolia, Turks viewed Islam as providing them with a set of norms by which to live their private and communal lives. And despite the millet system, which allowed the largest religious communities to govern their own religious and sometimes domestic affairs, non-Muslims were considered second-class citizens, barred from military service and entry into the political elite. Islam was, then, embedded in the state’s identity and political structures. When the Ottomans joined the central powers at the beginning of World War I, the empire was already in a weakened military and economic condition (Lewis 2002: ch. 2). But the real trauma came at the end of the war. As with Germany, there was a sense among the victors that the empire deserved to be punished for bringing war to the world. There was also a commitment (however vague) to Wilsonian principles of self-determination for subject peoples, which was already being implemented throughout Europe with the break-up of the Austro- Hungarian and Russian empires. And the British and the French had already decided to partition the Middle East amongst themselves, while the British had made promises of independence or autonomy from the Ottomans to both the Zionists and the Arabs. Under these perceptions, in May 1919, the Greeks invaded Anatolia and captured Izmir, killing many of the residents and desecrating many mosques. By 1920, the post-war negotiations culminated in the Treaty of Sèvres. The Europeans all but forced the sultan to sign the pact, which formally dissolved the empire. Sèvres was harsh:

[It] stipulated that all its European territory except a small slice around Istanbul (occupied by the British) was to be cut away; all Arab lands removed;

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 the region around Izmir given to the Greeks; the eastern Anatolian provinces divided between an independent Armenia and a potentially independent Kurdistan; and ¿ nally large regions of south and southwest Anatolia granted to France and Italy to administer as spheres of inÀ uence. The Straits of Bosporus and the Dardanelles were demilitarized and administered not by the Turks but by a permanent Allied commission in Istanbul, and Anatolia was placed under the control of the Allied Financial Commission. (Carley 1996: 4) Remembering/forgetting in Turkish identity 145 The sultan was unhappy, but felt that he had no choice. But the future founder of modern Turkey was humiliated. Mustafa Kemal (later named Atatürk) and a handful of other military of¿ cers took control over a series of uprisings that had erupted across Anatolia against the treaty. In 1920, they convened at Ankara, calling themselves the Grand National Assembly (GNA) and the true representative body of Turks. The GNA formed an alternative government to the Ottoman one in Istanbul and elected Atatürk as its head. It then adopted the National Pact, which has been the basis of Turkish foreign policy ever since. The Pact renounced any territorial claims to the former Arab provinces, but af¿ rmed the right of full Turkish independence over the remaining portions of the empire, which included Anatolia and the Thracian area around Istanbul – both of which had been either removed completely from Ottoman sovereignty or put under European management. From their base in Ankara, the nationalist movement began a military campaign that eventually drove out the Greeks, Italians and British. It engaged in separate discussions with the Europeans, which led to the Treaty of Lausanne in July 1923. Lausanne replaced the Treaty of Sèvres and restored to Ottoman control all of what is today modern Turkey. The Republic of Turkey itself was of¿ cially founded three months later, in October, and Atatürk became its ¿ rst president. Most Turks were traumatized by the memory of the war and Sèvres. There was certainly an element of physical loss: hundreds of thousands of Turks were killed and wounded in the war, and in their subsequent invasion the Greeks committed atrocities against the residents of Izmir. The dismemberment of the empire was a form of biological trauma that destroyed the body of the Turkish nation. There was also a sense of betrayal by the world, through the severe punishment of Sèvres and the removal of decision-making authority – a hallmark of national independence in the modern state system. The Kemalists, led by Atatürk, reÀ ected this feeling. As witnesses to the deaths of Turkish soldiers (Atatürk himself was an of¿ cer in the 1915 Gallipoli campaign) and organizers of the movement to rectify the harm done to the Turkish nation, they were determined to use the moment to reconstruct the Turkish state and society. Not every member of the collective shared the same interpretations as the Kemalists. Some were uncomfortable with the complete break with the imperial past that Atatürk proposed. The ulama and many conservatives were opposed to the reduction of Islam’s inÀ uence on policymaking. But Atatürk’s preference prevailed because he dominated ¿ rst the resistance, and then the government. Given his widespread popularity (primarily a result of his military achievements Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 in World War I and his victories in the War of Independence) and his success in constructing the institutions of government, he was able to impose his will on the country, while the system he created was widely accepted as legitimate. When his successors came to power, they were recognized as having the authority to decide for the people. Building on the opening provided by the watershed moment of Sèvres, Atatürk set about reconstructing the Turkish state and society. As he saw it, a public form of 146 Brent E. Sasley Islam was the real problem. The trauma of the war and Sèvres had been imposed by the Europeans. But for Atatürk, Islam facilitated the trauma because it ‘oppressed’ and ‘stunted’ the Turks through its primitive and backward-looking mentality (Kinross 1964: 23). His goal and that of his supporters was to replace a public form of Islam with a hegemonic secularism, which, as one observer put it, would induce a ‘general state of amnesia which would lead to a process of estrangement of the people from some of their own cultural practices’ (Kadio÷lu 1996: 186). Instead of remembering the role of Islam in the creation and glories of the Ottoman state, Atatürk had the country remember the Turks’ pre-Islamic inheritances (Sasley 2010: 198). He elevated the Turkish peasant, for example, as the primordial spirit of the nation and therefore the pillar of the state.5 He used the process of mnemonic reconstruction to reorient modern Turkey toward the industrialized West, as the antithesis of an Islamic East. Remembering and forgetting is meaningless in the collective sense, and certainly for performative action, unless the process is enshrined in commemorative rituals that set boundaries for and prescribe collective action. But such rituals are more than highly visible events such as national holidays, museums and mau- soleums, or annual parades – all of which the Kemalists created. Since language is a critical medium by which we remember and forget, the phrasing of the laws that Atatürk instituted is relevant. The laws themselves set the boundaries of the collective memory by keeping certain memories in the public consciousness, while leaving others out. Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, Atatürk and the government systematically removed any trace of Islam from the country’s legal and political structures. The Caliphate, as the most visible and symbolic memory of the Islamic nature of the Ottoman Empire, was abolished, followed by the Ministry of Religious Affairs, Islamic schools and Islamic courts. Next, the fez, religious orders, and worship at Muslim shrines and tombs were outlawed. The use of language was important in other speci¿ c ways: The Islamic calendar was replaced with the Gregorian one; the Islamic law code was replaced with the Swiss civil code; and Arabic script – representing the language of Islam – was replaced with the Latin alphabet – representing the West. This, in turn, made it more dif¿ cult to read historical documents in their original Arabic – another explicit form of enforced forgetting. Language was used particularly carefully in the Constitution, written by Atatürk and revised by his successors.6 It was used to memorialize the meaning of the Turkish past, and to provide a cultural representation of its present and future. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 The trauma of Sèvres is evident throughout the Constitution in the ubiquitous references to the integrity and sacredness of the Turkish state and identity, and the criminalization – indeed, securitization – of challenges to either. Nowhere is Islam mentioned as providing any basis for the Turkish polity, its laws or its norms (although freedom to practise religion in personal matters is guaranteed). Instead, the secular nationalism of Atatürk is the foundation for the state and its society (Berkes 1964). Remembering/forgetting in Turkish identity 147 The Preamble notes that:

[N]o protection shall be accorded to an activity contrary to . . . the nationalism, principles, reforms and modernism of Atatürk and that, as required by the principle of secularism, there shall be no interference whatsoever by sacred religious feelings in state affairs and politics. (Preamble to the Constitution, Turkish GNA translation)

Article 1 pronounces the state as a Republic; article 2 stipulates that the state is secular and ‘loyal to the nationalism of Atatürk’; article 3 continues that ‘The Turkish state, with its territory and nation, is an indivisible entity’; article 4 stipulates that neither articles 1 nor 2 will be amended; article 6 states that ‘Sovereignty is vested fully and unconditionally in the nation’ (as opposed to Islam). Article 14, as reinforced by article 24, notes that:

None of the rights and freedoms embodied in the Constitution shall be exercised with the aim of violating the indivisible integrity of the state with its territory and nation, and endangering the existence of the democratic and secular order of the Turkish Republic. (Article 14, Constitution, Turkish GNA translation)

Articles dealing with freedom of science and the arts, and the press, also note that, despite such freedoms, nothing can infringe articles 1, 2, and 3 (although articles dealing with other freedoms similarly note that they can be restricted on the grounds of protecting Turkish identity and/or national security). Article 81, the oath sworn by members of the GNA, includes a vow that parliamentarians will ‘remain loyal to the . . . democratic and secular Republic, and to Atatürk’s principles and reforms’. Article 103, the oath of of¿ ce for the president, requires the safeguarding of ‘the principles of the secular Republic’. Finally, Article 174, ‘The Preservation of Reform Laws’, states: ‘No provision of the Constitution shall be construed or interpreted as rendering unconstitu- tional the Reform Laws indicated below, which aim to raise Turkish society above the level of contemporary civilisation and to safeguard the secular character of the Republic.’ The laws to which it refers are those mentioned earlier regarding the bans on Islam in the public sphere that Atatürk put in place at the beginning of the Republic. Memories cannot only be promoted in rituals or writing; they also need active Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 agents to make sure that the group remembers one thing, but forgets another. The Kemalists constructed a series of institutions around the Constitution and subsequent legislation, securitizing any effort to put Islam into the public sphere. This was a coerced forgetting of Islam’s contributions to the Ottoman state, since without being able to play a role in the public sphere – in education or in politics, through public displays of its symbols, and so on – the practice of Islam was relegated strictly to the private sphere. 148 Brent E. Sasley Observers have long remarked that the Kemalists were not as successful in forcing the population to forget Islam as they hoped (for example, Heyd 1968). But when thinking about social memories and their role in identity formation and policy formation, it can never be the case that all group members truly forget a particular event. By virtue of being social, collective memories mean those memories shared among the majority of the group; by being instrumental, they are represented more prominently than any others through formal platforms and sites, and form the of¿ cial memory-narrative of the group. However, that forgetting is not the same as erasure is important; in the case explored here, the fact that Turks in the rural areas continued to hold on to some notion of Islam’s importance allowed space for the Islamists, when they came to power, to assert the memory of Islam’s role in Ottoman history over the Kemalist role in Turkish history. But it does not diminish the hegemony of speci¿ c collective memories promoted over others at a given period. The most important Kemalist institution, responsible for maintaining the mnemonic structures built by Atatürk, was the Turkish Armed Forces (Türk SilahlÕ Kuvvetleri, or TSK). Its power was enhanced through the de¿ ning of national security threats as more than only the threat of attack from other states, but also as challenges from internal elements – particularly those that jeopardized the secular nature of the state and the unity of its identity. The latter was de¿ ned according to the National Pact, which constructed a single Turkish identity out of the ashes of the Ottoman identity and tied that identity to the speci¿ c borders of modern Turkey. In both cases, Kurdish demands for recognition of their differences from ethnic Turkish identity challenged these conceptualizations, raising the spectre of Sèvres and the partition of Turkey. Atatürk gave the military the speci¿ c role of securing (the Kemalist conception of) Turkish identity. He tied the military to the people by contending that ‘“[t]he Turkish nation . . . considers its army the guardian of its ideals”, and that “[o]ur Republic respects only the will of the people and the guidance of the military” ” (cited in Maniruzzaman 1987: 71). The TSK’s own website, under ‘History’, continues today with this intimate connection. It begins with Turkic rule in Central Asia, asserting that, from that time:

Turks . . . proved [to] the world that they were an army-nation. Turks had never considered [the] military to be a special profession because each Turkish man was thought to be born as a valiant warrior since the time of Turkish nations in Central Asia. . . . the idea that military mission was bestowed by God became the very principle of the Turkish nation. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 (TSK, ‘History’)7

As early as 1919, Atatürk called the army the ‘willing servant of the national will’, and put it on equal status with the civil administration in safeguarding ‘the independence of the State and the Nation’ (Atatürk 1963: 37). This principle is reÀ ected in article 35 of the Turkish Armed Forces Internal Service Law (1960), which speci¿ cally notes that it is the army’s duty to ‘safeguard and defend Turkish Remembering/forgetting in Turkish identity 149 territory and the Republic of Turkey as designated by the constitution’ (cited in Yavuz 2003: 245 – but note that, at the time of writing, the Turkish government is working to amend this article). After they were arrested in 2012 for their participation in separate coups against the civilian government, both General Çevik Bir and General Kenan Evren continued to insist that article 35 provided the legal and moral foundation for the TSK’s interventions (Today’s Zaman 2012). The organic connection to the Turkish people is borne out by survey evidence. Around the time of the fourth military coup (in 1997), polling data found the TSK was often the most trusted institution in the country. In December 1996, a survey found that 81.3 per cent of the public trusted the military; the ¿ gure was 78.8 per cent in January 1997 and 78.9 per cent in June 1999. In the words of Gareth Jenkins (2001: 12–14), the military embodied the very notion of ‘Turkishness’. The TSK’s guardianship role was entrenched in the National Security Council (Milli Güvenlik Konseyi, or MGK), created in the 1961 Constitution, after the ¿ rst military coup in 1960 (article 118 today). In this way, the military had a legal and constitutional basis for participating in decision-making. The MGK was then used to legitimate further interventions in politics. In addition to civilian members, the MGK was composed of the chief of staff and commanders of the army, navy, air force and gendarmerie. At ¿ rst, the TSK had advisory status only: the MGK’s decisions were classi¿ ed as ‘presentations’. In 1962, they became ‘recommendations’, and the word ‘assist’, used to describe its role in government, was removed (Harris 1988: 188; Özbudun 2000: 107–8). The MGK’s authority and ambit was expanded considerably in the 1982 Constitution. Military members outnumbered civilian members. In addition, the government was now required to give ‘priority consideration’ to its decisions. The MGK’s authority was further entrenched in the 1983 Law on the National Security Council. Article 2 de¿ ned national security as the constitutional order of the state (the principles outlined in the Preamble and articles 1–4 in the Constitution) and the integrity of the state (in territorial and ideological terms) (Özbudun 2000: 108). This identi¿ ed the army as the guardian of the Kemalist memories and structures of the state, not least because it had the authority to de¿ ne national security threats (Cizre 2003). The result, according to Jenkins (2001: 8), ‘is a system in which civilian authority is primary, rather than supreme, and where the military is able to prevent policy from straying outside speci¿ c parameters’. When the TSK grew alarmed that its conceptualization of Turkish identity and society were suf¿ ciently threatened, it drew on this institutional authority to intervene in politics directly. Twice it has overthrown the civilian government, directly taking it over (1960–61 Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 and 1980–83), and twice it has ousted the government in favour of another civilian administration through indirect means (1971 and 1997) (see Ahmad 1977; Hale 1994; Sasley 2012). In international affairs, Turkey engaged in a new foreign policy orientation. Where the Ottoman Empire had been involved in European politics to one degree or another for most of its existence, but not necessarily committed to Europe, Turkey was now, at the direction of the Kemalists, explicitly oriented toward 150 Brent E. Sasley Europe and the West. This was represented by Ankara’s involvement in the Korean War, entry into the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) (1952), application to join the European Economic Community (1963) and the subsequent close alliance with the United States. The trauma of Sèvres was remembered long after it occurred, both in the public statements of the Kemalists who governed the country after Atatürk was gone, and through the speci¿ c institutional structures and language used to delineate them. It constrained the Islamists who, in the period after 1991, ¿ rst emerged as serious contenders for power and then took over decision-making.

Concluding remarks The importance of traumatic watershed moments for opening up opportunities for subgroups to engage in alternate mnemonic reconstructions is further demonstrated by the emergence of the Islamist governments in 1996–97 and since 2002, during the period of reorientation following the end of the Cold War in 1991. The end of bipolarity did not impose a physical trauma on Turkey in the same way as the end of World War I did – but it did betray Turkey’s trust in its social world. Where Turkey was actively committed to a Western orientation and saw itself as an integral part of that world, the 1990s raised questions about these ties. In the West, the end of bipolarity raised questions – however brieÀ y – about the relevance of Turkey to the Western alliance. Turks themselves wondered whether they should continue to align themselves so closely with the West given the changes in the international system; an orientation to the Muslim and Arab worlds offered new opportunities, and a way in which to lessen dependence on the West (Sasley 2010: 199–203). Changes in Turkey’s domestic social and political structures also facilitated the emergence of the Islamists.8 Kemalism’s hegemony began to weaken as the public acceptance of Islam grew more widespread. The rise of an engaged business class more devout in its religious practices, the in¿ ghting among the secular political parties, the split among the Islamists into moderates and hardliners, and a general sense among the population that military involvement in politics was no longer as acceptable all contributed to the election of the Justice and Development Party (Adalet ve KalkÕnma Partisi, or AKP) in 2002 (Çarko÷lu 1998; White 2002; Yavuz 2003). In domestic policy, the Islamists have – as the case of the headscarf discussed at the start of the chapter indicates – sought to open the public sphere to the symbols and practices of Islam without penalty.9 Constitutional reform began Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 under secular governments, but the AKP has pushed harder for its implementation. Although the party is not directly focused on Islam, it is about broadening the capacity for personal freedoms within the public sphere, which has implications for the practice of Islam there – but also for Turkish identity and the memories that underlie it. In foreign policy, the Islamist memory of the Ottoman past recommended a return to Turkey’s pre-World War I orientation: to the East. The ¿ rst Islamist Remembering/forgetting in Turkish identity 151 prime minister, Necmettin Erbakan, actively ignored the West and sought out Muslim states: he advocated the importance of the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood and embraced Hamas, and sought closer military and economic ties with Iran and Iraq. His foreign visits were to Iran, Indonesia, Pakistan, Malaysia and Singapore, then Egypt, Libya and Nigeria. He also tried to establish the Muslim Eight, a bloc of eight developing Muslim states, to rival the G-8 (Robins 1997). The second Islamist government, led by Erdo÷an and the AKP, was less aggressive in its foreign policy toward the Muslim and Arab worlds, but no less interested. The ‘zero problems’ approach of Ahmet Davuto÷lu (a foreign policy adviser and then foreign minister) was designed to establish warmer relations with all of its neighbours, but particularly Syria and Iran, and especially in political, security and trade terms (Davuto÷lu 2010). This was partially accomplished at the expense of the close ties with Israel that had burgeoned in the mid-1990s as a result of Kemalist policy. The Islamists have not been as successful as the Kemalists. Certainly, this is at least partly because Kemalist memories have been so entrenched in the structures and norms of the state, and among the citizens, that they cannot be dislodged so easily. But it might also be because the end of the Cold War was simply not as traumatic as the Treaty of Sèvres, which has implications for the speci¿ c types of trauma relevant to memory-making. The Turkish case is both interesting and worthwhile from a comparative perspective. It might be too soon to say that the country has taken a 180° turn, but it is clear that the Kemalist identity is no longer hegemonic and is being altered by an Islamic identity. To remember one thing is to forget another: one memory is elevated as more important than others, ritualized in collective practice and used as the basis for a particular set of policies. This study thus ¿ ts into a small literature on Turkish memory-making (see Çinar 2001; Çolak 2006; Glyptis 2008; Özyürek 2007). But it enhances this approach by emphasizing the role of speci¿ c groups in taking control over mnemonic reconstruction for their own purposes, the manner by which they entrench their preferred memories in the polity, and the translation of such memories into domestic and foreign policies. The fact that two subgroups – the Kemalists and the Islamists – have struggled over time to assert the authority to remember on behalf of the Turkish collective indicates the importance of thinking about the process by which memories are either remembered or forgotten. Collective memories, the identities they create and the policies that they recommend can be stable, but they are not static. The argument also has implications for how we understand national identity. The post-structuralist notion that a state’s identity is always in a process of being Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 constructed or reconstructed, however slowly or infrequently (Hansen 2006), is demonstrated more clearly when we consider the role of traumatic memories as watershed moments tied to a process of remembering and forgetting. This, in turn, highlights the importance of power and agency in constructivist and post-structuralist analysis of identity (Aalberts and van Munster 2008; Checkel 2008). As different subgroups, each with its own conception of group identity, come to power and are recognized as having decision-making authority, 152 Brent E. Sasley they can remember different memories and use them to shape the national identity and governing institutions, and to prescribe speci¿ c domestic and foreign policies. Finally, one can think of several other potential cases to compare to the Turkish one. Other national units that seem like obvious cases because of the existence of watershed moments and the competition of domestic groups for control over the mnemonic process include Israel, Iraq, the former Soviet Republics, the former Yugoslavia, Spain and Quebec in Canada. Expanding the study of traumatic memories to other cases will help us to better understand the process of identity formation, as well as the speci¿ c process by which these memories shape group behaviour. This will facilitate the study of memories and their emotional components in the discipline, by demonstrating with greater rigour how and why memories do matter.

Notes 1 The author would like to thank Erica Resende and Dovile Budryte for bringing him into the project, and for their very helpful suggestions. Nava Löwenheim and Mira Sucharov also gave critical comments on an earlier draft of the chapter. 2 For overviews, see Seger et al. (2009), Smith and Mackie (2008), and Mackie et al. (2004). For a discussion on theoretical application of this model to IR, see Sasley (2011). This discussion of IET draws from that article. 3 Non-traumatic memories (e.g. the attainment of national independence) can also serve the same purpose: see Zerubavel (2003). This chapter focuses on the traumatic element of memory. 4 Of ¿ cially, Kemalism was composed of six ‘arrows’: republicanism, nationalism, populism, statism, secularism and reformism. At its broadest, Kemalism encompassed a Western orientation and a national identity composed only of the Turkish nation within its natural (as de¿ ned by the National Pact) borders. 5 Although, in practice, Atatürk felt that the peasants were not suited to governing (Kinross 1964: 392). 6 There were three: 1924, 1961, and 1982. Each incorporated elements of the previous ones. 7 See also Hale (1994: ch. 2) and Karakartal (1985). 8 Islamists are committed to bringing Islamic norms, laws and symbols directly into politics and the public arena (see Yavuz 2003: ch. 3). 9 For example, as a result of the constitutional amendments put in place beginning in the early 2000s and continued under the AKP, the MGK’s authority – and the TSK’s role within it – to decide priorities has been reduced. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 10 Memory, trauma and changing international norms The German Green Party’s struggle with violence and its concern for humanity

Hannes Hansen-Magnusson1

Introduction This contribution challenges the standard textbook knowledge that the study of international politics is about the relations between sovereign states; rather, the perspective taken here is that individuals and how they make sense of the world have a considerable impact on politics, including core concepts such as sovereignty. How individuals see the world is part of a process in which they interpret their role as individuals within the À ux of time.2 This process encompasses an active engagement with their past and a prospect for the future that might be inÀ uenced by their perception of times gone by. The role of memory as a practice of making sense of the past while developing an outlook for times to come is central to this undertaking. Trauma may affect memory by providing experiences of existential crises that require an intensi¿ ed engagement with past and future. ‘State’ and ‘sovereignty’ are concepts invented by humans to grasp particular political, juridical-administrative and social constellations. They are not the culmination of a Hegelian Weltgeist, but rather subject to change as part of the way in which people make sense of the world. The recent intervention in Libya, for instance, was conducted by North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) forces and justi¿ ed by reference to the Charter of the United Nations and a responsibility to protect (R2P) – a norm that holds an ethical imperative to intervene in certain cases of human suffering. While the legal reference to R2P was new, the intervention by NATO as such was not. During the 1990s, NATO intervened militarily in former Yugoslavia, thereby questioning the parameters

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 of norms and ‘normal’ state action in international politics. While the relation between those two interventions would warrant a chapter of its own, the focus in this contribution will lie in the historical precedent. Particularly intriguing in this regard is the question of how it was possible for Germany to commit itself to the engagement given that it was a cornerstone of its foreign policy not to get militarily involved outside the country. The change in policy is even more surprising considering that Germany was governed by 154 Hannes Hansen-Magnusson a coalition of Social Democrats and the Green Party. The argument advanced holds that it was an active engagement with memory that led to a reinterpretation of the past and a new ‘mission statement’ for the future in which a normative concern with humanity trumped an adherence to the norm of state sovereignty. This development is illustrated with particular reference to the Green Party and its position on German engagement in the Balkans. In this regard, the chapter conceptually addresses a blind spot in international relations (IR) with which other authors of this volume engage as well: the relationship between individual and group memories and interpretation processes, and the consequences for international politics (compare, for example, the chapter by Brent Sasley in this volume). The following section brieÀ y sketches the recent turn among some scholars of IR to pay attention to meaningful interaction processes in international politics. They stand apart from the mainstream that takes as given concepts such as ‘state’ and norms such as ‘sovereignty’. Instead, such concepts and norms are part of meaning-in-use of interaction processes. The chapter then moves on to introduce the concept of ‘topos’ as a conceptual tool with which such an approach can be methodologically advanced through insights from memory studies. Scholars dealing with memory have long addressed the question of how individuals and collectives make sense of the world, and ‘topos’ refers to an imagined space demarcated by intersecting arguments and meaningful practices. The case study that completes this chapter ties together these conceptual considerations. It focuses on the debate about the use of military force in Germany, with particular attention to the Green Party, in which the debate has been most prominent. The study follows the trajectory of the debate and traces incidents in which individual party members came to reconsider their position on the use of force. We shall see how an immediate confrontation with human suffering altered the contours of the topos and paved the way for a change in policy.

Norms research in international relations Given that this contribution builds on a hermeneutic approach to IR, it argues that research needs to move beyond the view that norms are natural occurrences in international politics that bear a direct impact on state behaviour. This demand is not original: different scholars have repeatedly argued since the early 1980s that the discipline needs to consider how historical processes and culture matter, and how non-state actors play a role in IR (Cox 1981; Kratochwil and Ruggie 1986; Lapid and Kratochwil 1996; Puchala 2003; Walker 1989). Building on what is known as Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 the linguistic, or sociological, turn (Guzzini 2000), such an approach helps us to get closer to an understanding of the tension between the norm of sovereignty and responsibility for humanity that was mentioned at the start of this chapter. But such an approach is still not the mainstream of the discipline. Most of the time, scholars treat norms that are codi¿ ed in treaties and conventions as ‘hard facts’, rather than social constructions. As one of the sources of international law, norms are part of treaties and conventions,3 which entail ‘collective expectations Memory, trauma and international norms 155 for the proper behaviour of actors with a given identity’ (Jepperson et al. 1996; Katzenstein 1996: 5). These ‘actors with a given identity’ are, of course, states, which bear strong anthropomorphic features (Neumann 2004; Wendt 2004). Based on the assumptions that either identities or the meaning of a norm are given, research considers how policies are implemented or complied with (Finnemore and Sikkink 1998; Risse 2000; Risse and Ropp 1999). By contrast, critical constructivist scholars take the sociological turn seriously and propose an alternative approach to norms. Generally speaking, they build on the view that scholars need to engage in reconstructing processes of meaning- in-use (Milliken 1999; Weldes and Saco 1996; Wiener 2009) – that is, the context in which a norm is used and its meaning is (temporarily at least) established. Such an approach holds that we need to focus on meaningful practices in global politics and actors’ associative connotations. Norms do not simply exist as black- and-white letters of laws or treaties and conventions. Text always requires active engagement through interpretation and somehow has to be put into practice (Alkoby 2008; Brunnée and Toope 2010; Wiener 2008). This means that the quality of fundamental norms such as sovereignty depends on ‘what actors make of them’ – that is, of a meaning-in-use at a given point in time (Havercroft 2012; Wiener and Puetter 2009). Meaning that is part of the practices of ‘use’ originates from a learning experience during which people obtain a certain ‘normative baggage’ that may play out more or less visibly in their ‘knowing how’ of day-today politics (Pouliot 2008; Wiener 2008). It is part of human nature to have a capacity to learn, and therefore to be able to understand the manuals that detail the conduct of bureaucracies, diplomatic affairs and suchlike (Howse and Teitel 2010; Klabbers 2006). Practices of interpretation by individuals and reiterated interaction processes contribute to making states and the components of international politics, such as sovereignty, appear to be entities with stable characteristics (Neumann 2002). What is neglected by most IR textbooks is that the concept of ‘state’ is an invention of early modern times, which developed over the course of centuries, as are the accompanying foundational norms of IR, such as sovereignty and non- intervention. ‘State’ initially referred to the possessions of a prince in the form of ‘estates’, and only obtained the necessary conceptual form to make it suitable for IR textbooks when law scholars declared it to be a legal entity marked by a territory in which it could exert authority over its population (Reinhard 1999: 15–16). Based on these three attributes, states exist only in light of cultural practices (Bevir and Rhodes 2010), not as objects as such (like stones or trees). A state is formed and re-formed in the course of meaningful interaction expressed in a myriad Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 patterns of thought, speech and deeds. Likewise, ‘sovereignty’, in its de¿ nition as a legal entity closely associated with the concept of ‘state’,4 has been naturalized into the conceptual vocabulary of IR scholars. Such naturalization might explain why scholars are sometimes puzzled to discover that sovereignty at the turn of century is no longer what it used to be (Jackson 2007; Walker 1989). This discussion prepares us for the example to which we will turn in the last part of the chapter: the underlying observation is that sovereignty is in clinch 156 Hannes Hansen-Magnusson with and violated in the name of humanitarian intervention. As Article 2–1 of the UN Charter states,5 the United Nations is ‘based on the principle of the sovereign equality of all its members’, which seems to be in contrast with the support of humanitarian intervention found elsewhere in the charter. Chapter IX of the Charter, which relates to economic and social cooperation, states that the UN shall promote ‘universal respect for, and observance of, human rights and fundamental freedoms for all’ (Article 55), and that ‘Members pledge themselves to take joint and separate action in co-operation with the Organization for the achievement’ of these aims (Article 56). Does this tension of legal principles in itself explain the break-up of the former Yugoslavia and the mushrooming of new states in its place? Surely not. If we want to understand how the break-up was possible and how other states got involved, we need to consider the whole picture – that is, how meaningful interaction contributed to this change. It matters how people interpret these norms and put them into practice. As the case study will illustrate with regard to Germany, a considerable shift took place during the 1990s. But before we go into detail, we need to clarify some of the concepts that allow us to analyse the development.

Memory and trauma: the topoi of politics In memory research, this phenomenon of socially constructed entities that are subject to constant revision has become known as ‘topos’. In IR, in which it has yet to become more prominent, ‘topos’ was ¿ rst used by Friedrich Kratochwil, but did not ¿ nd further re¿ nement through the scholarly community. Topos derives from the Greek for ‘place’ or ‘realm’ and, particularly in the plural form of ‘topoi’, connotes an (imagined) space that is characterized by intersecting practices. Knowledge plays a central role in the development of these spaces, referring to meaningful interaction based on individually held knowledge. Knowledge is to be broadly understood, however; it is not only a matter of conscious reÀ ection. Vincent Pouliot (2008) has characterized this particular form of knowledge as ‘knowing that’, in order to contrast it with the unreÀ ective ‘knowing how’, which stems from internalized, maybe even affective, understandings of a situation. It is a dimension of knowledge that is often overlooked by researchers.6 In this regard, knowledge bears a strong emotional component with which researchers of national, collective memory have been dealing for a while, and which increasingly assumes prominence in IR (see, for example, contributions in Bell 2006 and in this volume). Knowledge, which plays out as structures of meaning-in-use, forms a space of interaction. A topos is the de¿ ning aspect of Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 this space – which is, however, never entirely stabilized in terms of its contours. With regard to the exchange of arguments, Kratochwil (1989: 219–20) has attempted to de¿ ne topoi as ‘commonplaces [which not only] establish “starting- points” for arguments, but also locate the issue of a debate in a substantive set of common understandings that provide for the crucial connections within the structure of an argument’. Characterized as both ‘starting point’ as well as ‘location’, the concept points us to the inde¿ nite, ever-evolving nature of Memory, trauma and international norms 157 knowledge. While ‘starting point’ implies the potential of movement and change, ‘location’ refers to the static dimension of knowledge. Research on topos/ topoi can thus address the emergence, as well as the continuing application, of meaning-in-use as part of communicative encounters and customary practices. International relations has much to gain from the way in which alternative approaches to memory deal with meaningful interaction. Topos is close to what Pierre Nora (1984) has conceptualized as ‘realms of memory’, but it is an open- ended endeavour. Like the early approaches to norms research, early memory studies con¿ ned themselves to investigating how a particular object of study, such as the French or German nation, emerged. Yet we need to be careful to avoid what William Sewell (1996) has termed ‘teleological temporality’. Such research presents its object of study as a development from ‘less to more’. In that way, researchers ignore how their object of study undergoes signi¿ cant changes through practices of reinterpretation that are part of meaning- in-use. By contrast, if we understand ‘state’ and ‘sovereignty’ as topoi that only appear as stable entities, we can inquire into the manner in which they are socially constructed. The more reÀ exive approaches to memory studies provide the necessary conceptual tools. Scholars such as Aleida and Jan Assmann have alerted us to the importance of social interaction and the emergence of topoi, and also to the different ways in which topoi and interaction play out (Assmann 1999; Assmann 2006). They distinguish between different types of memory – for example, individual, social, cultural and political memory – which reÀ exively relate to each other. Individual and social memory, on the one hand, are marked by lived experience and embodied interaction. For instance, trauma and emotions, which other case studies in this volume pick up on, are individually experienced – but it is in social settings that one comes to terms with them. On the other hand, cultural and political memory are transgenerational and symbolically mediated. If we follow Aleida Assmann (2006), who makes such a distinction, the relationship between individual and collective memory unfolds as follows: the individual retains memories in the neural structures of his or her brain, sometimes actively, but most often in an unconscious manner – what we identi¿ ed previously as ‘knowing how’. Such memories become part of the normative baggage that matters in every interaction. Normative baggage can be activated through social communication, such as in the form of interaction practices, which can be remembered, or in terms of language, usually speech, which activates and verbalizes memories. Through this emphasis on interaction, we have moved on to a situation in Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 which social memory occurs. This second type of memory and the ¿ rst one are reÀ exively related. In social memory, interaction between individuals forms a topos, while the individuals involved add stocks of knowledge to their own memory. The relation between individual and social memory is one of embodied interaction, in which memory is ‘not a vessel of truth or a mirror of interests, but a process of constructing meaning’ (Müller 2002: 30). Social interaction constitutes a distinct topos of attitudes, values, hopes and fears that characterize 158 Hannes Hansen-Magnusson a particular phase in time. For this reason, Aleida Assmann (2006: 27) states that social memory is almost synonymous with a ‘generation’. In this regard, Assmann’s typology reveals a strong relation with face-to-face communities that is surpassed only in the third type – that is, in cultural memory. Cultural memory is expressed in symbols and material representations, which function as carriers of memory. It is marked by a degree of longevity that surpasses individual and social interaction. Examples of cultural memory are libraries and museums, but also monuments and rituals (Assmann 2006: 58). What has to be noted, though, is that cultural memory is a macro-phenomenon that exists merely in virtue of micro-level interaction (Coulter 2001; Langenbacher 2010). That is to say, without the support of the individual, cultural memory would be meaningless: it is, after all, social communication that forms the topological narratives that relate the memory’s components to each other. Without their meaning-in-use, memorials would amount to no more than a formation of stone or metal. This last aspect, which highlights the role of meaningful practices, is important for Aleida Assmann’s fourth concept: political memory. Political memory is marked by a tendency towards homogenization, mysti¿ cation and emotional charging. Although Assmann regards cultural and political memory as somehow distinct, it seems reasonable to move beyond her position and claim that all cultural memory is political. Regarding the longevity of culture, Assmann’s own examples make clear that cultural memory is not unchallenged. The building of monuments and museums is a selective process that is often marked by controversy, and which, historically, has reÀ ected power relations in society. As Bo Stråth (2005: 257) highlights: ‘What constitutes collective memory and which is consigned to collective oblivion, in other words, taboos and what we do not talk about, is a highly disputed question.’ Jenny Edkins (2003), who describes Washington as a cityscape of remembrance, supports this insight: who is remembered and how is a contentious issue. This issue ¿ nds architectural expression in memorials and its meaning is challenged in counter-memorials – highlighting a further aspect of cultural memory: that it is not just a top-down process. In being political, cultural memory ‘retrospectively produces a past while merely claiming to invoke it’ (Zehfuss 2007: xiii). How this matters for foreign policymaking and norms in international politics will now be illustrated. In summary, the interplay between individual and collective memory, speci¿ ed as social and cultural memory, revolves around topoi and expresses the situated- ness of actors in the À ux of time. Cultural and social memory form the context in which the individual is embedded, but it is the latter whose engagement in meaningful practices ensures that ‘culture’ obtains a degree of longevity. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017

Illustrating sovereignty as meaning-in-use The issue of longevity points us to a further commonality between memory and norms research. Memory, like norms, becomes visible in practice. But often, particularly in cultural memory, on the one hand, and treaties and conventions, on the other, memory and norms are externalized – that is, meaning is packaged Memory, trauma and international norms 159 in monuments, museums or cityscapes, but also in documents. These entities are central to topoi without being meaningful on their own. We need to reconstruct how people (literally) ‘make sense’ of them. In the case study that follows, we will reconstruct the relation between political memory in Germany with regard to the Holocaust and World War II, and the norms of sovereignty and humanitarian intervention. To illustrate the broader conceptual argument of this contribution, the focus is limited to the role of social movements of the 1960s and the Green Party, which formed part of the German government coalition at the time of the NATO intervention in Kosovo in 1999. The aim is not to provide a new account of what happened where, when and how, because this has been aptly done by others (Hansen 2006; Havercroft 2012; Lepard 2002; Wheeler 2002); rather, the emphasis will be on the interpretation of a responsibility towards humanity that stemmed from an active engagement with the past. In this regard, the case study further illustrates an aspect of German policymaking that other authors have highlighted as well – that is, that traumatic memories of World War II continue to matter (Berger 1997; Langenbacher 2005; Zehfuss 2007). These memories have become transgenerational, in Aleida Assmann’s sense, but the intention here is to go beyond the immediate realm of German politics and to illustrate how memory as an activity of ‘making sense’ can have an impact on IR. To illustrate the argument of this chapter, the case study relies on secondary sources about the social movement era of the Greens, as well as their trajectory as a party. In order to track the meaning-in-use that forms the topoi of sovereignty and non-intervention, the study also draws on publicly available sources. The following passages ¿ rst sketch the development of social movements in Germany since World War II. In the part titled ‘Founding the Greens’, particular emphasis is laid on those strands that signi¿ cantly contributed to the foundation of the Green Party in Germany – both in terms of ideas and the people involved. As the later section entitled ‘Green foreign policy during the 1990s’ shows, activists and their ‘normative baggage’ have become part of the cultural practices of the German state. With regard to NATO intervention in Kosovo, this has shaped Germany’s foreign policy (‘The responsibility to intervene’). It was an important, if only small, contribution to alter the contours of topoi of sovereignty and the norms of non-intervention.

Founding the Greens The Green Party (‘the Greens’) was formally established in 1980. It originated from social movement groupings that covered a wide spectrum of the political Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 agenda across Germany since the late 1950s. They were usually single-issue initiatives, which became increasingly active and visible during the following decade. Founding members of the Greens originated from a background in grassroots initiatives, as well as ecological movements, women’s rights and anti-nuclear campaigns. Some had already been active participants of the Easter Marches against nuclear armament and engaged in the student movements of the late 1960s. Others yet were regulars of the so-called ‘Club Voltaires’, local 160 Hannes Hansen-Magnusson community centres with a distinctly alternative cultural agenda that can be characterized as left-liberal (Hockenos 2008). While none of this amounted to an orchestrated network of agenda-setting, the action of various social movements was contextualized, on the one hand, by a change in lifestyle marked by the new lures of consumerism, and on the other, by a heightening political engagement with war and violence in the present, as well as the past. Discontent was expressed about what appeared to be an overly materialistic culture, forms of authoritarianism and patriarchy. Members of the student movements in particular questioned the role of their fathers’ generation during the Nazi regime (Jarausch 2006). All in all, it is possible to take as the unifying topos across this diverse set of agendas the title of one of Käthe Kollwitz’s drawings, ‘Never Again War’ (Zehfuss 2001). Against this background, the foundational consensus among a diverse set of members of the Green Party was a commitment to ecological reform (including opposition to any type of nuclear technology), social justice and grassroots democracy, as well as non-violence.7 This latter attribute played a major role in the campaign to overcome the separation into military blocs in a bipolar world order. During the early days of the party, the overall consensus among members of the Greens was that Germany should leave NATO before too long (Schnieder 1998: 88). In fact, once established, the party largely bene¿ ted from an inÀ ux of members of the peace movement who were discontent with the German government’s social democratic and liberal coalition owing to its support for the deployment of several hundred US missiles across Europe. Of these, around 200 Pershing II and Cruise missiles were to be stationed in Germany as part of NATO’s ‘double-track’ strategy, which was devised as a nuclear deterrent against a Soviet surplus of conventional forces. Green activists, among the most prominent of whom were Petra Kelly and former two-star general Gert Bastian, led rallies against this policy at which active engagement, the central topos of the 1960s, mattered profoundly. As Paul Hockenos summarizes:

The 1980s peace movement was led by a postwar generation that hadn’t personally experienced war (many hadn’t even experienced the 1960s) but appeared to have internalized the lessons of Germany’s recent past. They understood it as their moral imperative for Germans to stand up and oppose both their state and protector-mentor, the United States, on matters of military policy. Quite remarkably, much of the country’s younger generations, just four decades after Nazi rule and the Holocaust, seemed to be paci¿ sts with an intensely critical relationship to nationalism and an unÀ inching inclination to question authority. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 (Hockenos 2008: 164, emphasis added)

It is dif¿ cult to ¿ nd one common theme within the party, though, apart from a deep scepticism towards nuclear technology in its civilian and military guises, and the resentment of violence in terms of both interpersonal and international relations. As much as there was no uni¿ ed cultural memory within the party, it was also dif¿ cult to establish anything that could amount to a uni¿ ed topos of Memory, trauma and international norms 161 social memory. This impossibility stemmed from the fact that heated debates about the party’s policies intensi¿ ed as increasingly two opponent groups faced each other. The principled so-termed ‘fundies’ and the more pragmatic-leaning ‘realos’ would quarrel about almost anything from human rights issues to questions about the party’s structure, and would even hold separate meetings (Hockenos 2008: 215). During the process of German reuni¿ cation, however, widespread scepticism was shared among members about whether the uni¿ ed Germany might attempt to achieve a hegemonic position in Europe and revert to old-school nationalism (Probst 2007: 175). This position indicates how deeply rooted scepticism towards anything that appeared to be state-centric and power- oriented prevailed. As far as the party is concerned, this position ¿ lls part of the Greens’ cultural memory because it invokes the topos of Nazi Germany’s atrocities committed in the name of self-determination and sovereignty.

Green foreign policy during the 1990s In 1991 the ‘realo’ wing eventually carried the day and several prominent ‘fundies’ left the Greens. Yet, regarding foreign policymaking, there was nothing like an agreed-upon party line when the conÀ icts in Yugoslavia began. The commitment to have Germany withdraw from NATO was still part of the electoral programme of the 1994 election. Although it was dropped in 1998, the Greens decided not to contribute to peace-making by military means and an active engagement of the armed forces in conÀ icts during the 1998 electoral campaign, which eventually brought them into a coalition with the Social Democrats (Heinrich 2003: 28). Throughout the 1990s, though, the Balkan war and the need to ¿ nd a party position towards it brought the party under severe strain and close to breaking point (Probst 2007: 182). While the Greens, in concert with the Social Democrats and former German Democratic Republic (GDR) socialist party PDS, had vehemently opposed the participation of German military personnel after the 1990–91 Gulf War, the atrocities in the Balkans sparked a ¿ erce debate among members. It is telling and supportive of the argument advanced that the debate was no longer conducted among different wings of the party. Ultimately, the stance came down to individual decisions. Paul Hockenos, for instance, describes the personal dispute between the two (perhaps most prominent) ‘realo’-wing members, Daniel Cohn-Bendit and Joschka Fischer, during a televised debate in 1993. Across the party, members saw themselves confronted with a decision to choose between ‘never again war’ – that is, abstention from military intervention – and ‘never again Auschwitz’ – that is, aid in mass murder and ethnic cleansing by engagement Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 in continuous rounds of peace negotiations that did not bring about the intended result (Hockenos 2008: 235–6). While Fischer had opposed armed intervention in 1993, two years later his position had changed after Serbian forces had occupied the town of Srebrenica in July 1995 and massacred some 7,000 people. Fischer framed the event in terms of Germany’s Nazi past in a 12-page letter to the party dated 30 July 1995, which was also published in the newspaper Die Tageszeitung. He evokes the question: 162 Hannes Hansen-Magnusson Doesn’t the German left run the massive risk of tainting its soul when, regardless of the justi¿ cation, ultimately it looks away from this new fascism? What is to become of our non-violence when it bows to a kind of violence that takes human lives?8

The term ‘new fascism’, of course, is reminiscent of the topos that already marked the post-war generation’s stance during the 1960s. While his letter impressed some readers within the party and across Germany, the more hard-line paci¿ sts remained unconvinced. Prominent party of¿ cials – namely, Kerstin Müller, Claudia Roth and Jürgen Trittin – responded in another public letter, in which they accused Fischer of arguing that it was the duty of the United Nations to intervene.9 Further, the then speaker of the party, Ludger Volmer, suggested that Fischer take a gun and go to Sarajevo himself (Hockenos 2008: 247). As Winfried Nachtwei, one of the founding members of the Greens, recalls, the position advanced during a meeting of the delegates of regional sections stemmed from the fact that:

• ¿ rst, arguably not all non-violent means (including a petrol embargo) had been exhausted; • second, the use of German forces might lead to a normalization of out-of- territory missions for German foreign policy; and • third, the possibility that intervention may contribute to sparking further violence could not be ruled out.10

The last two arguments, in particular, are consistent with the ‘lessons learned’ from World War II. Nachtwei recalls that the Greens’ delegates in the Bundestag were split about the question of whether Germany should support NATO’s Stabilization Force (SFOR) contingent, which had a UN mandate to oversee the Dayton Agreement. Around 60 per cent of the delegates voted against intervention, but the support of the other 40 per cent was already seen as a positive result (Hockenos 2008: 249). Yet a more complete turnaround was facilitated about a year later. In October 1996, 18 delegates and high-ranking party of¿ cials travelled to Bosnia- Herzegovina to see and experience for themselves the impact and traces of the Balkan war. Nachtwei recalls:

Eventually we stood above Sarajevo and I later noted in my travel diary, ‘From the hillside above Serbian artillery, mortar shells and tanks were Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 ¿ ring into the city as they pleased. Sarajevo [lay] on a plate, defenselessly trapped – for three years. Here it took me: grief and shame. Joschka [Fischer] teases Kerstin [Müller, then the party’s spokeswoman of the members of parliament]: Surely customs of¿ cials would’ve been helpful here with their measurement sticks. [. . .] He later told me that he was ashamed to not have argued earlier for intervention. He would never let this happen again.’ In this moment I experienced with brain and heart what happened. I inevitably took Memory, trauma and international norms 163 on the perspective of the victims. This was the same for the others. Later we had an audience with the Catholic bishop of Banja Luca, Franjo Komarica. He had a word with us that even the sturdiest of politicians had tears in their eyes. He reproached us with the charge: ‘What have you allowed to happen in a part of Europe again.’ Because with the exception of Austria, the other European countries had not realized what had unfolded since the early 90s. They only did so once it was too late.11

The ¿ rst-hand experience of the traumas of war had the delegation’s members changing their outlook on the meaning of paci¿ sm. Nachtwei expresses how the experience and the bishop’s accusation resonated with their memory of Nazi atrocities, and their personal moral sense of obligation that stemmed from that period of German history. The journey, which was the ¿ rst of its kind by a German party delegation, likewise altered the party’s overall stance by means of the reports that were drafted subsequently. For himself, Nachtwei recalls that, ‘Never again must something like Srebrenica and Sarajevo happen under the auspices of European politics’. This statement is a ¿ rst indicator of a shifting position, a recon¿ guration of the ‘never again war’ topos. While it is possible to discern a guideline for future action that stems from the experience of the past, the path to achieve peace is no longer sought in exclusively peaceful ways. Nachtwei’s personal memory is readjusted in relation to a new context as it makes sense of events in Kosovo. As far as active engagement in military conÀ ict is concerned, he states:

The new insight for me was that paci¿ sm and non-violence have to face up to the problem of how to deal with extremely illegal violence. There is a responsibility to protect (Schutzverantwortung). This responsibility to protect only marginally resides with an individual or a group. But in the context of public co-responsibility (staatliche Mitverantwortung) one cannot evade this question. Thus, non-violence has to be framed in a different manner: non-violence becomes the ultimate aim. Yet, while working towards that aim, one is responsible for controlling or limiting violence, for a non- violent conÀ ict solution as well as for protection from illegal violence. Securing peace and the rule of law can necessitate the use of military force in extreme cases, within the framework of the UN Charter.12

The responsibility to intervene

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 While the visit to Bosnia and the subsequent discussion within the party had a considerable impact on the overall position towards military intervention, the issue was far from being settled. As the Balkan conÀ ict reignited in the Kosovo region during the summer of 1998, so did the debate over the use of force among the Greens. They were now part of a coalition government with the Social Democrats, whose leaders had also been active protesters against the NATO two-track decision of the 1980s. In the United States, the Clinton administration 164 Hannes Hansen-Magnusson considered the deployment of air strikes without the back-up of a UN resolution and requested support from its NATO allies to which soon-to-be Chancellor Schröder and Foreign Minister Fischer agreed, as did the majority of the members of parliament who were summoned for an extraordinary session by still-acting Chancellor Kohl. Although some delegates of the Greens and Social Democrats voted against the support, most were in favour. Despite the threat to use military force, the atrocities continued. Negotiations in the French town of Rambouillet produced no positive result; neither did a personal visit from Fischer to President Miloševiü of Serbia. On 24 March 1999, NATO began bombing targets in Serbia without a UN mandate. The contingent included aircraft from Germany, making it the country’s ¿ rst active participation in military operations for 44 years. Among the Greens, the ensuing discussion was a lot more heated than in other parties: ‘This was a bigger and more threatening crisis than any of the others the party had weathered over two decades’ (Hockenos 2008: 268). Critics saw the bombings as the beginning of a normalization of NATO deployment as a global police force to justify its existence after the end of the Cold War – a view that is supported by research that emphasized that NATO changed its overall set-up during the Balkan crisis to include humanitarian missions in addition to ‘standard’ military missions (Huysmans 2002). The Green Party held an extraordinary party convention to offer more than 800 delegates the opportunity to debate and vote on the matter of German involvement in the NATO bombings of Serbia. Again, the importance of memory and trauma came to the fore in the debate over the issue of whether non-violence, as a principle, should trump a decision for involvement. Yet, as in the case of the delegation’s visit to Bosnia in 1996, it is possible to detect a detachment from the sense of moral obligation stemming from the German past that requires one to not engage in war, on the one hand, and a personal sense of obligation that may be loosely related to that past, but which is dominated by a commitment to humanity. In the words of Ursula Eid, a Green member of the Bundestag:

The question we had to ask is whether the use of force is absolutely necessary in this case. Not: I’m against it because I’m a paci¿ st, because I’m German. Rather, what evidence speaks for the case that mass murder is happening or genocide imminent that could be prevented? That’s the question. This was a special case, under speci¿ c historical conditions, with no alternative. (Quoted in Hockenos 2008: 269) Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017

It seems that many members of the Greens felt like Eid. At the heated party convention, at the beginning of which Foreign Minister Fischer was hit by a paint-¿ lled balloon that broke his eardrum, delegate Sybille Haußmann supported the government’s policy, stating that she was proud to have a foreign minister from the Green Party and that he should remain in of¿ ce (Berliner Zeitung Memory, trauma and international norms 165 14 May 1999). Cynically, Foreign Minister Fischer is quoted as answering his critics by saying, ‘Here is a war-monger talking to you, while you would perhaps like to suggest Mister Miloševiü for the Nobel Peace Prize’ (Die Zeit 20 May 1999). Fischer’s friend and now member of the European Parliament, Daniel Cohn-Bendit, restated his long-held position that it would amount to perversion to risk the lives of people in Kosovo for the sake of retaining their identity as a party of peace (Berliner Zeitung 14 May 1999). These positions contrasted with those of the paci¿ st wing. Ulrich Cremer, for instance, accused his party of making a mistake of historic proportions, because it would be responsible for aggression towards Yugoslavia (Berliner Zeitung 14 May 1999). Yet his position was still different from that of Kerstin Müller, who had been a delegation member during the trip to Sarajevo. She is quoted as having a bad conscience, regardless of voting one way or the other (Berliner Zeitung 14 May 1999). Nevertheless, while she did not openly support the ‘realo’ position towards NATO engagement, she had come some way from her argument expressed in the letter that she had co-authored in response to Fischer in 1995, when she had condemned any form of violence. In the end, 58 per cent of the delegates (a majority of 444 votes to 318) voted in support of the intervention and in particular of Fischer’s position (Berliner Zeitung 14 May 1999). Fischer had previously had the foreign ministry draft a peace plan that would include Russian diplomats and which foresaw the involvement of a UN-led peacekeeping mission. The plan initiated a multilateral consultation between European, US and Russian envoys over the question of the post-war constellation in Kosovo, as well as negotiations with the Serbian leaders. NATO halted the airstrike on 10 June after Miloševiü had signed the agreement on the previous day – that is, after ten weeks of bombings. What is remarkable is that:

[I]t was the very parties that wrote paci¿ sm and a non-militaristic foreign policy on their banners . . . that dared to shake the republic loose from its Bonn origins and pursue a course that would have an even greater impact on Germany’s collective consciousness than their vaunted environmental and social reforms. (Henneke, quoted in Hockenos 2008: 273)

There was no resolution by the UN Security Council that mandated NATO with the use of force (Lepard 2002; Wheeler 2002). That means that the unilateral move by NATO to intervene was in breach of international law. In this way, Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 it altered the meaning-in-use of sovereign statehood in international politics, posing ethical questions about responsibility in the name of humanity and related questions of legitimate authority that would decide whether invention is justi¿ ed (Havercroft 2012). As justi¿ cations advanced by the government of Russia after its intervention in Georgia in 2008 indicate, the intervention created a precedent for future conduct. 166 Hannes Hansen-Magnusson Concluding remarks Meaning is central to politics. It is at the heart of the human interpretation of norms, such as sovereignty, and also impacts on state action in international politics. The case study illustrates how a re-evaluation of ‘lessons learned’ was conducive to a particular trajectory of politics in which a state’s sovereignty was no longer exclusively its own concern. The study does not seek to suggest the existence of a causal link between the visit of Green Party of¿ cials to Sarajevo and Banja Luca, on the one hand, and UN Resolution No. 1973 and NATO intervention in Libya, on the other. Nonetheless, it is worth highlighting how certain processes during the 1990s were constitutive of the wider context that facilitated establishing the use of force for humanitarian interventions. In this regard, the concept of topos allows us to capture how the maxim of ‘never again war’ was loosened in favour of one that valued a personal responsibility towards others’ well-being higher than paci¿ sm at all costs. Sovereignty was trumped by concern for humanity. Topos sets our focus on cultural practices that give rise to social phenomena such as ‘states’ and ‘norms’. As memory studies have shown, these practices need not be homogeneous. Often, they involve a ¿ erce contestation of what the world is or should look like (even among those who describe themselves as paci¿ sts). Topos thus allows researchers to address normative concerns, particularly those held by individuals and social groups. It would have been possible to broaden the view of the case study and to take into consideration other topoi – for example, in other parties or neighbouring states – but, given the restricted length of this contribution, that project is postponed for the moment. What topos does illustrate conceptually, however, is the insight that international politics is more than a mere pursuit of interests of security or wealth. As a more holistic approach than the mainstream of IR, it shows how individuals and groups struggle hard to make what they deem to be an ethical decision.

Notes 1 The author would like to thank Sassan Gholiagha and Maren Ho¿ us for valuable comments on a previous version of the chapter. 2 In hermeneutic terms, this is referred to as ‘being over time’ (Heidegger 2006), while that vantage point from which people are able to see in the world is circumscribed by a ‘horizon’ (Gadamer 2004 [1975]) that is able to expand and fuse during processes of interaction. The ‘fusion of horizon’ thus describes a transition of perspectives. 3 Sources of international law, as speci¿ ed in Art. 38 of the Statute of the International Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Court of Justice (ICJ), are treaties and conventions, and customs, as well as scholarly writings. See online at http://www.icj-cij.org/documents/index.php?p1=4&p2=2&p3=0 [accessed 14 April 2012]. 4 This connection shines through in John Ruggie’s de¿ nition of sovereignty as ‘the institutionalization of public authority within mutually exclusive jurisdictional domain’ (Ruggie 1986). 5 The Charter of the United Nations is available online at http://www.un.org/en/ documents/charter/ [accessed 11 March 2012]. Memory, trauma and international norms 167 6 We can only guess that the reason for this ignorance stems from the dif¿ cult operationalization of this type of knowledge. We encountered this problem earlier in the discussion of norms research: while some researchers assume the meaning of a norm as given, others increasingly question this approach and enquire into the processes through which meaning emerges. 7 This is not to say, though, that the overall outlook of the party was left-leaning and progressive, nor that these attributes were uncontested. Quite the contrary: the party included national conservatives and spiritual-minded naturalists, among others, and could only barely agree on this set of principles that provided ample room for interpretation (Hockenos 2008: 149; Probst 2007: 174). 8 The letter to the party is archived and publicly available online at http://www.gruene. de/fileadmin/user_upload/Dokumente/Grüne_Geschichte/JoschkaFischer_Die_ Katastrophe_in_Bosnien_und_die_Konsequenzen_fuer_unsere_Partei_1995.pdf [accessed 11 November 2011]. 9 The authors of the response played prominent roles during the time of the coalition with the Social Democrats and are still in the party’s top tier at the time of writing. The letter is also archived by the party and publicly available online at http://www.gruene.de/ ¿ leadmin/user_upload/Dokumente/Grüne_Geschichte/Wohin_fuehrt_die_Forderung_ nach_einer_militaerischen_InterventionspÀ icht_gegen_Voelkermord.pdf [accessed 13 November 2011]. 10 The interview is part of an archival project of the history of the Greens. It is available online at http://www.gruene.de/partei/30-gruene-jahre-30-gruene-geschichten/30- gruene-jahre-18-die-frage-der-militaerischen-gewalt.html [accessed 11 November 2011]. 11 See n. 10. 12 See n. 10. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 11 Travelling trauma Lithuanian transnational memory after World War II

Dovile Budryte1

Introduction There is a signi¿ cant body of literature exploring the transnational dimensions of Holocaust memory and its embodiments in various cultural contexts. For example, as hypothesized in a path-breaking work by Levy and Sznaider (2006), the emergence of transnational memory has been taking place under the conditions of globalization. The Holocaust is described as a decisive traumatic event that de¿ nes modernity; it is a pillar of memory that transcends ethnic and national boundaries. Assmann (2010) conceptualizes the Holocaust not only as a European historical memory (historical trauma), but also as a transnational memory, a universal norm and a global icon. MacDonald (2008) argues that the Holocaust is the ‘preeminent symbol of suffering’, and as such is used by various groups to communicate their memories and represent their traumatic history. This literature has offered valuable insights into the ways in which traumatic memory based on the Holocaust travels across national and ethnic borders. How- ever, little attention has been devoted to the creation of transnational memories based on traumatic events other than the Holocaust. When and how can traumas other than the Holocaust become a consolidating force for transnational memory communities? With these questions in mind, this chapter sets out to explore the creation of transnational traumatic memory based on the experiences of the deportations and political repression carried out in Lithuania under Soviet occupation in 1940–41 and 1945–53. It is divided into three parts.

• First, the chapter constructs a concise theoretical framework capturing various dimensions of transnational memory, identifying potential memory carriers and their roles. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 • Second, drawing on this framework, the study explores the creation of the genocide narrative by the Lithuanian diaspora in the West after World War II. • Third, it traces the transformation of this narrative after the end of the Cold War, explores the tensions between two transnational memories (the Holocaust and memory about Soviet crimes) and describes the transcultural emotional appeal of this transformed narrative. Travelling trauma 169 Transnational memory: its dimensions and carriers This chapter conceptualizes transnational memory as having two interrelated dimensions: political, which suggests that transnational memory can be envisioned as a ‘multi-actor commemoration ¿ eld’ (Bell 2009b: 352), inhabited by different political actors with their own visions of memory and their own memory agendas; and cultural, referring to the strength of the emotional appeal of the story underlying the memory communicated by the carriers of memory. An analysis of memory carriers – speci¿ cally, their actions, resources and agendas – allows us to capture the political dimension of transnational memory. Admittedly, it is much more challenging to analyse the most elusive, but nevertheless crucially important, aspect of transnational memory: the cultural dimension. Drawing on the experience of the Holocaust, Alexander (2009) constructed a theory of the cultural dimension of transnational memory, explaining the ways in which trauma obtains universal appeal. Highlighting the importance of social construction, he developed the concept of a ‘trauma-drama’. The creation of the ultimate ‘trauma-drama’ (the Holocaust) involved the personalization of victimhood (through books, ¿ lms and television shows). During this process, ‘the sense of moral culpability’ was extended beyond the Nazis – speci¿ cally, by implicating ordinary Germans in the crimes of the Holocaust (Goldhagen 1997: 44) – and thus allowed the audience to identify not only with the victims, but also with the perpetrators. Highlighting the individual level of the ‘trauma-drama’ helped to turn the Holocaust into a transnational memory and a global icon. Having acknowledged the existence of major traumas other than the Holocaust, Alexander wondered whether:

. . . the degree to which the cultural work that constructs these traumas, and responds to them, reaches beyond issues of national identity and sovereignty to the universalizing, supranational ethical imperatives increasingly associated with the ‘lessons of post-Holocaust morality’ in the West. (Alexander 2009: 69)

Given the enormity of the task (the extent of the cultural work), it appears that the creation of other internationally appealing ‘trauma-dramas’ should include a wide variety of actors – not only governments, but also the mass media, politically active individuals (including former victims), diasporas and international organizations. Which actors are likely to compete successfully in the global ‘marketplace of trauma’ and why? Which strategies are they likely to

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 employ? Several studies (Ballinger 1998; Jelin 2003) highlight the importance of the actions pursued by former victims in the construction of traumatic transnational memory. According to Jelin (2003), victims who have been directly affected by trauma have a privileged role in memory construction. Their stories are especially compelling, and their activities range from the search for international recognition of their claims, to the quest for reparations and the creation of memory 170 Dovile Budryte rituals (commemorations). Ballinger (1998) traces how the Hiroshima and Nagasaki experiences were constructed as transnational memory. The activities of survivors as a group ‘have helped to shape both the collective memory of the hibakusha [the survivors of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki] group and the more universal memory of Hiroshima’ (Ballinger 1998: 119). To tell their story and to obtain a wide audience, the survivors drew on ‘established metaphors and understandings’ (Ballinger 1998: 110). The survivors compared their traumatic experiences to ‘conventionalized images such as hell’ (Ballinger 1998: 110). The use of moving imagery, such as eyes, reÀ ected the survivors’ guilt and fear that ‘the dead are accusing them’ (Ballinger 1998: 115). The power of this image-centred memory was magni¿ ed through the publication of memoirs, the creation of literary works and mass media interventions. As argued by Dayan and Katz (2011), the role of the mass media (as a memory carrier) in shaping memory is likely to include:

1 the creation of electronic monuments; 2 endowing collective memory not only with substance, but also with a time frame (helping to organize personal and historical time); 3 the possibility of signalling the beginnings and ends of an era; 4 the capacity to edit and re-edit the existing collective memory; and 5 competing with the writing of history.

The ceremonials created by the mass media, according to Dayan and Katz, are extremely powerful: they have the capacity to electrify large audiences, going beyond national borders. Undoubtedly, mass media as a memory carrier possesses enormous power and the capacity to multiply the emotional currency of traumatic accounts. In addition, diasporas can serve (and have served) as powerful carriers of transnational memory. As argued by Langenbacher (2010), collective memory is crucially important for diasporic identities: it helps to establish a link between various diaspora communities and the homeland. Diasporas have the power to strengthen (and even to construct) the leading historical narratives in their state of origin (their ‘homeland’). Not only do they lend support (including ¿ nancial resources) to certain historical narratives about collective traumas, but they also lead campaigns to increase awareness about such traumas on the international level. The activism of the Armenian diaspora is a good example. As narrated by Langenbacher (2010), the Armenian diaspora in the West preserved the memory of the Armenian genocide during Soviet times and actively promoted Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 genocide discourse in post-Soviet Armenia. The diaspora was able to gain international recognition for this traumatic memory. The Armenian genocide has been recognized by several countries, most notably France, and there have been discussions about making the recognition of genocide a precondition for Turkey’s entry into the European Union. To gain a better understanding of how various transnational memory carriers function in a speci¿ c context, the following section explores attempts by the Travelling trauma 171 Lithuanian diaspora in the West to create a Lithuanian transnational memory after World War II.

The Lithuanian diaspora in the West and the genocide narrative In post-Soviet Lithuania, as in other former Soviet republics, the leading memory regime has revolved around memories of the Soviet past. After the disintegration of the Soviet Union, the collective trauma of the political repression experienced under Stalin (1940–41; 1945–53) became embedded in the national narrative and in state-supported carriers of memory, such as textbooks, museums and a research centre. I have analysed the processes related to the construction of historical memory at the national level elsewhere (Budryte 2004). In this chapter, my focus is on a less explored topic: attempts by the Lithuanian diaspora in the West to turn this traumatic experience into a transnational memory and the ensuing memory struggles. The transmission of transnational memory related to the Holocaust through the global Lithuanian Jewish diaspora has been explored by Malinauskaite (2012). Undoubtedly, 1940–41 and 1945–53 were among the most turbulent and painful periods in Lithuanian history. In addition to the ultimate trauma of World War II – the Holocaust, when at least 90 per cent of Lithuania’s Jews were murdered – there were other traumatic experiences, such as mass deportations to Siberia and other parts of the Soviet Union, the exodus of ethnic Germans to the Reich in 1940, migration to the West, and population exchanges between Poland and Lithuania in 1944–46. However, in the national meta-narrative and narrations of Lithuanian history among Lithuanians living abroad, the deportations and political repression carried out under Stalin and the war of resistance (which lasted until the 1950s) continue to play a major role. In 1940–41, during the ¿ rst Soviet occupation, at least 17,495 people were deported (including 5,124 children under the age of 16), and approximately 30,000 were subjected to political repression and torture (Anušauskas 2012). (According to the 1923 census, the Lithuanian population was then only 2,620,000.) It is dif¿ cult to estimate the number of people tortured or killed by the secret police (the KGB) in 1945–53 (Anušauskas 2012). However, there is plenty of evidence of the inhumane torture of resistance ¿ ghters and their supporters. For example, one common practice of the occupying power was to leave the bodies of resistance ¿ ghters in the middle of the town for ‘recognition’. Even the mothers of the killed could not ‘recognize’ their sons or daughters, because this meant Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 deportation to Siberia with the rest of their families. A large number of people – at least 118,000 – were deported to Siberia and other parts of the USSR in 1945–52 (Anušauskas 2012). The mass deportations and political repression were carried out to create an atmosphere of terror, to subdue the resistance movement and to promote the creation of kolkhozes (collective farms). This cursory depiction of the collective traumas experienced by Lithuania before and after World War II suggests that the potential exists for the 172 Dovile Budryte construction, in the words of Alexander (2009), of ‘trauma-dramas’ that transcend cultural and national borders. After World War II, the Lithuanian diaspora in the West started the construction of a ‘trauma-drama’ by introducing the vocabulary of ‘genocide’ to describe the deportations and political repression under Stalin. This was ¿ rst done by the politicians of the Lithuanian diaspora, who attempted to delegitimize the Soviet regime on the international level. In 1948 (prior to the signing of the Genocide Convention during the same year), Mykolas Krupaviþius, the leader of the Supreme Committee for the Liberation of Lithuania (an émigré political organization), together with other members of the Baltic diaspora, con- tacted the United Nations, arguing that Soviet actions in the occupied Baltic states constituted genocide. Because of the power of the USSR in the United Nations, their attempts did not lead to the desired result. Diaspora politicians, however, continued to issue similar declarations to the United Nations every year, citing the number of victims and the terror methods used (Anušauskas 2001). Political actions were followed by political publications. In 1949, Pelơkis published Genocide: Lithuania’s Threefold Tragedy. Written for a Western audience, the book uses copies of documents and photographs to describe the atrocities committed by the Nazis and the Soviets, accusing both regimes of committing crimes against humanity. Pelơkis (1949: 231) argued that the two regimes were equally destructive: ‘Both the Soviet and Nazi occupations were alike in that they equally planned to take forcible possession of the entire Baltic area for the prosecution of their respective ulterior designs.’ The Soviet genocide narrative was supported by estimates of those who were murdered, tortured and deported, and memoirs, letters and photographs taken in Soviet-occupied Lithuania that found their way to the West. In the early 1950s, similar accounts were released by Latvian and Estonian émigrés. Acting as ‘self-appointed missionaries of truth’ (Pollak, cited in Abou Assi 2010), the authors of these narratives tried to make their stories believable by using factual evidence and by making comparisons with the Holocaust. The genocide narrative continued into the 1980s, with the publication of Pajaujis-Javis’ Soviet Genocide in Lithuania (1980), in which the author depicts the life of deportees and the system of spying in camps. Like Pelơkis, Pajaujis- Javis equates the crimes of the Soviet regime with the crimes committed by the Nazis and equates Nazi extermination camps with Soviet prison camps: ‘Stalinist policy toward the prisoners of the slave labor camps was as simple as it was brutal: ¿ rst, to exploit their labor force to the utmost possibility, and then, when they are exhausted, to exterminate them’ (Pajaujis-Javis 1980: 155). Kerulis (1981) and Damušis (1988) strengthened the genocide discourse by attempting to estimate speci¿ c losses resulting from the Soviet (and Nazi, in the case of Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Damušis) occupations. Kerulis compiled a list with the names of people who had been deported to Siberia and other parts of the USSR. Damušis came up with his own estimates of the number of victims, referring to the political repression under Stalin as the ‘KBG genocide’. (Their estimates of the number of victims of the Soviet deportations varied between 350,000 and 800,000; the current estimate is more than 118,000, according to Anušauskas 2012.) These documentation efforts were strengthened by regular commemorations: each year, the Baltic American Travelling trauma 173 Freedom League and other émigré organizations organized demonstrations marking the Soviet deportations, which they described as the ‘Baltic Holocaust’. The attempts of the Lithuanian diaspora (especially in the United States) were part of a phenomenon described by Radzilowski (2009) as ‘ethnic anti- Communism’. Although American ethnic anti-communism has often been viewed ‘through simplistic and often cartoonish stereotypes’, and derided by many intellectuals and opinion makers, it is imprudent to deny its political inÀ uence, especially during the Cold War. Some of the most successful anti-communist organizations were the Assembly of Captive European Nations and the National Captive Nations Committee, both of which were founded by the members of ethnic communities in the United States. Ethnic anti-communist voters were a ‘critical grassroots constituency’ that forced US policymakers to pay attention to their foreign policy orientations (Radzilowski 2009). The members of ethnic communities in the United States were able to communicate their stories via Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, which was a relatively effective propaganda tool during the Cold War. In addition, during that same period, ethnic anti-communist communities were able to create one transnational trauma story, focusing on their ‘common’ experience of the brutalities perpetuated by the communist regimes.

The ‘crimes of communism’: transnational memory after the Cold War The re-creation of this transnational memory has continued even since the Cold War. Historical memory was at the core of the National Captive Nations Committee, which, in 1993, was authorized by Public Law (US Congress HR 3000) ‘to construct, maintain, and operate in the District of Columbia an appropriate international memorial to honor the victims of communism’ (Victims of Communism Memorial Foundation 2013). In Washington, DC, a monument, located at the intersection of Massachusetts Avenue and New Jersey Avenue, on Capitol Hill, was unveiled in 2007. It is a ‘Democracy Goddess’: a small replica of the statue created by Chinese students in Tiananmen Square in 1989.2 In addition to erecting the monument, the anti-communist organizations worked towards the creation of an online museum. In 2009, the Victims of Communism Memorial Foundation, an educational non-pro¿ t organization, launched the Global Museum on Communism on the Internet. This museum perpetuates anti-communist memory and includes national exhibits (including Lithuania) about the communist past.3 The content presented in this museum represents a continuation of the same conservative anti-communist narrative that was popular during the Cold War. It Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 attempts to document the suffering and condemn the communist regimes in the strongest possible words. In this context, the Soviet genocide narrative perpetuated by the Lithuanian diaspora in the West has become part of this broader transnational conservative anti-communist narrative. Although it is dif¿ cult to assess its impact on public consciousness in the West (the level of knowledge about the communist regimes remains very low), it played an important (albeit controversial) role when it was introduced in post-Soviet Lithuania during the 174 Dovile Budryte national revival period, contributing to the creation of competing discourses of victimhood. Undoubtedly, as discussed by numerous authors in the past (DoroƼenkova 2011; Ehin and Berg 2009; Onken 2007), this narrative has inÀ uenced tense Baltic–Russian relations and has become part of the battle of Russian–Baltic identity politics internationally. Russia’s refusal to acknowledge the crimes committed by the Soviet Union and to apologize for them has contributed to the perpetuation of this narrative of victimization by Baltic politicians and activists. The former victims and right-wing political parties – Lietuvos politiniǐ kaliniǐ ir tremtiniǐ sąjunga (Union of Political Prisoners and Deportees in Lithuania) and Tơvynơs sąjunga (Homeland Union) – have become the main carriers of discourse about the crimes committed under Stalin. These groups have embraced the term ‘genocide’ to describe the mass deportations and political repression, and became engaged in pressuring the international community to recognize their version of the past. In 2000, together with other non-governmental organizations (NGOs), the Union of Political Prisoners in Lithuania organized an ‘international congress to evaluate communist crimes’, which included former victims, historians, politicians and activists from 23 countries. The gathering attempted to cover a plethora of themes associated with the condemnation of communist crimes, ranging from experiences in the Gulags to the creation of post-communist ¿ lms. After its conclusion, the congress adopted a declaration stating the need to raise international awareness about the ‘massive losses experienced by the countries occupied by the communist regimes and their inhabitants’ (Anušauskas et al. 2002). In 2000, the tribunal received little public backing, especially from the left, and it was viewed by the left as a political scheme by the right to worsen Lithuanian– Russian relations (Avizienis 2004). However, working together with similar political forces from other former communist countries, the political parties on Lithuania’s right were able to attract international attention to their traumatic memory agenda. International organizations such as the Council of Europe and the European Union have become battlegrounds for struggles over a new European memory that tries to take both experiences – the Holocaust and communist crimes – into account. Thus, in 2008, the European Parliament adopted a resolution declaring 23 August (the day on which the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact was signed) as European Day of Remembrance for Victims of Stalinism and Nazism. This declaration was supported by the Organization for Security and Co-operation (OSCE) Parliamentary Assembly in 2009 in Vilnius, Lithuania. During the same year, the European Parliament (under a Czech presidency) led a public hearing on ‘European Conscience and Crimes of Totalitarian Communism’, the conclusions of which Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 called for the establishment of a Platform of European Memory and Conscience to increase awareness internationally about the crimes of totalitarian regimes. Mälksoo (2009) described these developments as the attempts of the ‘subalterns’ of Europe – primarily the Baltic states and Poland – to enlarge the collective memory of Europe by introducing the experiences of European ‘others’ (former communist states). This memory struggle focuses on the desire of the ‘subalterns’ to revise the leading narrative about World War II, focusing on the trials and Travelling trauma 175 suffering resulting not only from Nazi, but also from Soviet occupation. This struggle has involved resistance to their ‘traditionally liminal status’ in Europe and a desire for international recognition of the ‘genocide’ narrative. Domestically, in Lithuania, the proponents of the ‘genocide’ narrative have been quite successful since the early 1990s. The use of the term ‘genocide’ to describe the deportations and political repression under Stalin was embraced by the Lithuanian government, which in 1993 created a ‘Genocide Museum’ (focusing on the crimes committed under Stalin) and the Genocide and Resistance Research Centre of Lithuania to conduct research related to the genocides carried out by the former occupying powers (the USSR and Nazi Germany) in the territory of Lithuania from 1939 to 1990, and to conduct memory work related to the former resistance ¿ ghters and victims of genocide. Both institutions focused on the Soviet occupation (referring to the crimes committed under Stalin as genocide), but did not address Lithuanian crimes committed during the Holocaust. This led to criticism from the US Department of Justice Of¿ ce of Special Inves- tigations, some US and Israeli politicians, and international Jewish organizations such as B’nai B’rith International and the Simon Wiesenthal Center, all of which argued that Lithuania had failed to confront and acknowledge the involvement of Lithuanians in the Holocaust.

Tensions between traumatic memories Responding to this international pressure, in 1998, the Lithuanian government created the International Commission for the Evaluation of the Crimes of the Nazi and Soviet Occupation Regimes in Lithuania. It was expected that the Commission would promote international cooperation among historians and NGOs interested in memory, and develop transnational projects related to education and civil society building. The Commission had 15 members from various countries: Liudas Truska and Alfredas Bumblauskas, two well-respected Lithuanian historians; Lithuanian-American historian Saulius Sužiedơlis; Julius Šmulkštys (now deceased), an adviser to the Lithuanian president on Lithuanian– Jewish relations; Russian historian Jurij Afanasyev; German historian Joachim Tauber; Nicolas Lane of the American Jewish Committee; and Dan Mariaskin of B’nai B’rith International. The prominent Lithuanian politician Emanuelis Zingeris, representing the conservative Homeland Union/Lithuanian Christian Democrats coalition, chaired the Commission. However, as described by Suziedelis (2011), the work of the Commission was not easy. From the beginning, the Simon Wiesenthal Center and Jewish Holocaust Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 survivors criticized it for addressing both Soviet and Nazi crimes, implying that those crimes were comparable in number and viciousness. In contrast, conservative Lithuanian groups inside and outside the country reprimanded the Commission for its extensive focus on the Holocaust, which, in their view, downplayed the importance of communist crimes. Some of the members of the Commission sus- pended their membership, and the sub-commission exploring Nazi crimes stopped meeting in 2005. In August 2012, attempting to revive this institution, Dalia 176 Dovile Budryte Grybauskaitơ, president of Lithuania, issued a decree reinstating the Commission, and stating the intent ‘to distinguish between the crimes committed by the Soviet occupation regime and the Nazi occupation regime’ (Lietuvos Respublikos Prezidentas 2012). Internationally known historians, such as Norman M. Naimark and Timothy Snyder, were appointed to serve as the members of the Commission. Grybauskaitơ’s decree describes the two totalitarian regimes (the memorialization of which has led to numerous memory wars in post-Soviet Lithuania) as ‘the distinct, unprecedented nature and scale of the Holocaust; other crimes of the Nazi regime, and the devastating consequences of the Soviet occupation regime for the people of Lithuania’ (Lietuvos Respublikos Prezidentas 2012). Notably, the language of the decree does not use the term ‘genocide’ to describe the Soviet crimes, because the use of this term has provoked numerous debates and memory wars in the past. In addition, by including the phrase ‘unprecedented nature and scale of the Holocaust’, the decree tries to address the claims of ‘Holocaust obfuscation’ that were raised by the critics of the Commission. Dovid Katz, a Yiddish studies scholar who moved from Yale University to Vilnius in the 1990s, has been one of the most outspoken critics of what he calls the ‘Red–Brown commission’ and genocide discourse (using the term ‘genocide’ to describe the Soviet crimes). He argues:

Bold non-Jewish advocates of truth and reconciliation, individuals and NGOs alike, have recently been overwhelmed by a state-sponsored ‘Genocide Industry’ that promotes Holocaust obfuscation. This is not Holocaust denial but, rather, a ruse to confuse the issue and talk the Holocaust away in a new, cunning paradigm of ‘equal genocides’ [that is, the Soviet ‘genocide’ and the Nazi genocide—the Holocaust]. (Katz 2009: para. 3)

Katz is also very critical of the Prague Declaration on ‘European Conscience and Totalitarianism’ – a resolution adopted in 2008 during an international conference in the Senate of the Czech Parliament, which maintained that the communist crimes deserved the same condemnation as the Nazi crimes. According to him, the declaration was ‘cooked up’ in the Baltics and it was a prime example of ‘Holocaust obfuscation’. Similar objections have been expressed by representatives from the Simon Wiesenthal Center, a global NGO that focuses on ¿ ghting anti-Semitism worldwide and bringing Nazi war criminals to justice (Davoliǌtơ 2010). For example, Efraim Zuroff, the director of the Simon Wiesenthal Center, described the EU resolution as a ‘RedíBrown’ manifesto, Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 arguing that ‘[i]f communism equals fascism, then communism equals genocide. This would mean that Jews also were involved in genocide because among Jews there were many communists’ (cited in Davoliǌtơ 2010). A similar argument – the so-called ‘double genocide’ perspective (that is, the repressions carried out by the Soviets in 1940–41 constituting one genocide, and the killing of the Jews under the Nazis constituting the other) – was popular in Lithuania during the 1990s. Those who embraced this perspective argued that Travelling trauma 177 Lithuanian Jews actively participated in the political repression of Lithuanians, and that Lithuanians collaborated with the Germans and participated in the Holocaust as an act of revenge. However, it is clear that the repressions were organized by the Soviets, not Lithuanian Jews, and that Jews were the victims of both totalitarian regimes. One of the strongest criticisms of the ‘genocide’ paradigm was put forward by Tomas Venclova, a Lithuanian émigré and at the time of writing a professor at Yale, who in 1995 passionately argued against the overuse of the term ‘genocide’ to describe the Soviet occupation in post-Soviet Lithuania, and asserted that, in the case of Lithuania, only Jews experienced true genocide, understood as the killing of the people belonging to one group. It is erroneous to suggest, argued Venclova (1995), that there was an attempt by the Soviets to eliminate the Lithuanians ‘only because they were Lithuanians’. Furthermore, according to Venclova, the Lithuanians should treat the victory against fascism in 1945 as their own victory as well. (The leading historical narrative in post-Soviet Lithuania portrays the end of World War II as the beginning of another tragedy: occupation by the Soviet Union.) Two decades after Venclova’s argument, ‘genocide’ discourse is still alive and well in Lithuania, and outside its borders, although its public use has somewhat subsided as the memory entrepreneurs have started using the terms ‘communist crimes’ and ‘the crimes of totalitarian regimes’ instead of ‘genocide’.4 However, in 2010, Stalin’s Genocides, a book by Norman M. Naimark, a prominent scholar of traumatic history, in which he argues that Stalin’s mass killings should be classi¿ ed as ‘genocide’, gave ammunition to the users of the term ‘Soviet genocide’, and once again attracted scholarly and popular attention to the use of this term (Samuelson 2012). Snyder’s (2010) Europe between Hitler and Stalin played a similar role, strengthening the anti-communist conservative genocide narrative pioneered by the Lithuanian diaspora in the West after World War II. Does this narrative have enough emotional currency to become a persuasive ‘trauma-drama’ with a captivating and moving story appealing to ‘ordinary’ Europeans and to audiences outside of Europe?

The cultural reach of Lithuanian traumatic memory As pointed out by Jelin (2003) and Ballinger (1998), former victims can play a major role in constructing an appealing ‘trauma-drama’, and in creating its domestic and transnational appeal. Memoirs of the former victims can play Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 a major role in de-legitimatizing the oppressive regime and its use of power – especially if, as argued by Edkins (2003a: 52), the survivors can resist ‘the processes of medicalisation and depoliticisation’. The political and social changes in the USSR during Gorbachev’s perestroika (‘restructuring’) and glasnost (‘openness’) coincided with an avalanche of memoirs and testimonies by former deportees and political prisoners. At ¿ rst, these testimonies played the hugely important role of de-legitimatizing the 178 Dovile Budryte regime; later, they became the backbone of a new ‘¿ ghting and suffering’ memory regime, which embraced the ‘genocide’ paradigm and venerated anti- Soviet resistance ¿ ghters. In the words of Avizienis (2004: 504), ‘by articulating their degradation and suffering in narrative form, the memoirists tried to correct the historical record, seek historical justice, and make good on their duty to speak for those who did not survive to speak for themselves’. Some memoirs are powerful, captivating stories about human suffering and survival under intolerable conditions. Dalia Grinkeviþiǌtơ’s memoir, Lietuviai prie Laptevǐ jǌros [Lithuanians by the Laptev Sea] (2005), now an iconic work in Lithuanian literature, is a case in point. In this work, Grinkeviþiǌtơ writes about the experiences of the deportation of Lithuanians to the island of Tro¿ mosk in Siberia. In this ‘land of eternal cold’, the deportees have to build their own barracks and ¿ ght for their own survival. Human dignity, the trauma of exile, coping with hunger and the threat of death: these are the main themes that Grinkeviþiǌtơ explores in her memoir. Does this memoir (as well as others written by former deportees) have enough emotional currency to cross national borders and become part of transnational memory? As argued earlier in this chapter, the memoirs of deportees are important to the Lithuanian diaspora, especially in the West, many of whom (especially those who were forced to leave Lithuania during World War II) can identify with the experiences of forced migration depicted in the memoirs. (The ‘Eastern’ Lithuanian diaspora – those deported to the East – have, by and large, assimilated into the local culture or returned to Lithuania after Stalin’s death.) In the words of Avizienis:

By writing in Lithuanian, the memoirists af¿ rm their identity as Lithuanians, communicating with those who share the same language and recognize their cultural allusions. The act of reading can similarly be understood as expressing national identi¿ cation. These memoirs touch something very deep in the consciousness of Lithuanian readers; otherwise, they would not have subjected themselves to the arduous reading such texts require. (Avizienis 2004: 514)

As noted by Davoliǌtơ (2005), trauma narratives can be ‘inclusive of other- ness’; they can form trauma and memory communities across ethnic divides. When discussing Grinkeviþiǌtơ’s memoir, Davoliǌtơ argues that, given its preoccupation with universal themes and intense personal appeal, this book represents a perspective that is fundamentally different from ‘the irredentist, ethnocentric historical consciousness’ usually associated with deportee memoirs in Lithuania Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 (Davoliǌtơ 2005: 52). Grinkeviþiǌtơ’s memoir has been translated into English and German; however, it has not been able to attract broader international attention outside the global Lithuanian community. In contrast, Between Shades of Gray, a novel by Sepetys (2011), daughter of a Lithuanian refugee residing in the United States, has managed to cross ethnic and national borders, and has gained international recognition. In 2011, it became a New York Times bestseller. Sepetys conducted numerous interviews with survi- Travelling trauma 179 vors and her novel integrates their experiences into a moving narrative written for young audiences. The protagonist of the story is Lina, a 15-year-old girl who tells the story of a long journey to Siberia and her experiences in the Altai region. Full of tragic, graphic details, the book includes descriptions of separations of families, survival in crowded train cars, unbearable hunger, forced labour and humiliation. Like Grinkeviþiǌtơ’s memoir, Between Shades of Gray focuses on the individual and explores universal themes, such as pain, grief, love and pure evil. With its successful personalization of victimhood, the book ¿ ts Alexander’s (2009) formula for a successful ‘trauma-drama’ with universal appeal. According to Malinauskaite (2012), who has been exploring the cinematic memory of the Nazi and Soviet occupations in Lithuania, at least 16 ¿ lms have been made since the early 1990s that draw on the traumatic memory of the Soviet experience. Many of these ¿ lms, however, have not managed to resist the temptation of portraying the events simplistically, embracing an ‘us versus them’ dichotomy. One of them, Vienui Vieni [Utterly Alone] (dir. Jonas Vaitkus, 2004), tells the story of Juozas Lukša, a leading resistance ¿ ghter who was able to escape Soviet Lithuania in 1947, and who reached Sweden, France and West Germany, where he attempted to get political support for Lithuania’s armed resistance against the Soviets (albeit unsuccessfully). He decided to go back to Soviet-occupied Lithuania, leaving his wife Nijolơ behind. Lukša perished shortly after his return; however, the letters he wrote to his wife survived and became part of his historical legacy. In the words of Vơgelytơ (2011), the story of Lukša and his family (three out of four brothers died during the anti-Soviet partisan war) has become an ‘essential’ story in post-Soviet Lithuania about armed resistance. There is some evidence that, given the emotional appeal of Lukša’s story (its universal themes of love, separation and heroism, and the successful personalization of victimhood), it has the potential to cross ethnic and national lines. In 2011, Jonas Ohman, a Swedish documentary ¿ lmmaker, and a team of Americans – Valdas Sruoginis, Mark Johnston and Mark Ryan – released the ¿ lm The Invisible Front, which tells the story of the Lithuanian resistance movement to a Western audience using Lukša’s personal story. According to Ohman, the ‘transmission’ of history to the United States, the other two Baltic states (Latvia and Estonia), Poland and Russia has already started. Although the Lithuanian resistance movement is little known in the West, Ohman believes that Lukša’s story has enough emotional currency to attract a wider audience: ‘The ¿ lm is a mirror where a person (the viewer) sees himself/herself and looks for his/her own identity – character and worldview’ (Bernardinai 2012). Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 It remains to be seen whether Lithuanian traumatic memory continues to travel across ethnic and national borders, appealing to broader audiences. According to Tomsky (2011), traumas exist in a global marketplace dominated by the mass media. Thus, for a traumatic memory to gain international visibility, it is crucially important to obtain not only symbolic power, but also attention from the international mass media. In fact, it is dif¿ cult to underestimate the power that the international mass media has in representing, mediating and dramatizing trauma. 180 Dovile Budryte In the case of Lithuanian traumatic memory, such attention is still lacking, thus hindering the creation of a broad transnational memory community.

Concluding remarks Conceptualizing transnational memory as a dynamic, multilayered concept that transcends national borders, this chapter has attempted to explore one instance of transnational memory creation outside of the well-studied Holocaust paradigm. Drawing on Assmann and Conrad’s (2010) argument that it is currently impossible to study memory without taking the global into account, the chapter has explored various non-state actors – former victims, the Lithuanian diaspora, individuals – and international organizations that have participated in the construction of a traumatic Lithuanian memory that transcends national borders. Similar conceptualizations of memory as a mobile phenomenon have emerged in reaction to static memory models based on Nora’s (1984) lieux de mémoire imagery and a rejection of ‘the crystallization of memory within strictly nationalized contexts’ (Rapson 2012: 132). Among the various carriers of transnational memory examined in this chapter, the role of the Lithuanian diaspora deserves special mention. As shown in the case study, not only was the Lithuanian diaspora in the West able to insert its own version of Lithuanian traumatic memory into a broader framework of transnational anti-communist memory, but it also played an important role in creating a national meta-narrative during the period of Lithuanian democratic transition in the late 1980s and early 1990s. The second generation of the Lithuanian diaspora, which includes novelist Ruta Sepetys and ¿ lmmaker Valdas Sruoginis, has created new transnational memories in the post-memory period – the time when there are fewer and fewer survivors of trauma left, and the role of books and ¿ lms increases. The case study presented in this chapter points to numerous intersections between the political and cultural dimensions of transnational memory. The political dimension of transnational memory helps us to imagine transnational memory as a battle¿ eld in which various narratives with varying degrees of emotional appeal – the ones created by states and non-state actors – collide. The intersections of transnational memories about the Holocaust and the Lithuanian Soviet ‘genocide’ are a case in point. As theorized by Levy and Sznaider (2006), the introduction of transnational memory does affect the shaping of memories in local contexts. In the Lithuanian case, the collision of the Holocaust paradigm and the Soviet genocide discourse resulted in memory wars and competing victimhoods. These memory wars were internationalized when Lithuania, helped Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 by other post-communist states, was able to make its victimhood narrative visible on the European level. However, even when a trauma is embraced by enthusiastic and politically active memory carriers, its emotional currency and broad cultural appeal remain essential for the trauma’s survival in the post-memory age when, in the words of Hirsch (2012), the past is ‘passing into a history or a myth’. Travelling trauma 181 Notes 1 I would like to thank Violeta Davoliǌtơ, Anna M. Rulska-Kuthy and the participants of the International Symposium ‘Coming to Terms with the Traumatic Experience of the 1940s in the Baltic States’, organized by the Social Memory Research Center, University of Latvia, in October 2012, for their invaluable comments. 2 Lee Edwards and Ed Dobriansky, the authors of the monument, faced a big challenge: which image should be chosen to depict the crimes of a variety of communist regimes? A replica of the Berlin Wall, Gulag barracks, a killing ¿ eld in Cambodia, and boats used by Vietnamese and Cuban refugees, among others, were suggested. According to Global Museum on Communism (2011), the Democracy statue was selected because ‘(1) it called to mind the Tiananmen Square Massacre and the continuing oppression in the world’s largest country; (2) it was based on the Statue of Liberty in New York, reÀ ecting man’s indomitable desire to be free; and (3) it had become a global symbol of freedom and democracy with replicas in France, the United Kingdom, Nigeria, Taiwan, Canada, and San Francisco’s Chinatown’. 3 See http://www.globalmuseumoncommunism.org/ 4 See, e.g., Anušauskas’ The Path to the Anticommunist Tribunal 2000–2005 (2005), a collection of presentations delivered at an international conference in Vilnius in 2005 on the ¿ fth anniversary of the Anti-communist Congress. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 12 Coping with the Lost Revolution Memories of the 1970s and 1980s in Nicaragua

Marcos Farias Ferreira

Introduction In the introduction to Nation and Narration, Homi Bhabha (1990: 1) remarks that ‘[n]ations, like narratives, lose their origins in the myths of time and only fully realize their horizons in the mind’s eye’. Bhabha’s words have been inÀ uential in capturing the ambivalent and liminal nature of the nation as a system of cultural signi¿ cation and representation of social life. In contrast with the way in which historians perceive the nation as a feature of the modernity of societies, and by focusing on ambivalence and liminality, Bhabha insists instead on its transitional social ontology. Nation and Narration was published in 1990, the same year as the Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN) lost the elections in Nicaragua to a coalition of liberals, conservatives and leftist parties, thereby truncating the 1979 Sandinista revolution, along with the hopes of social change on a regional and global scale shared by many throughout Latin America. In this context, the emphasis on trauma can be a useful way in which to frame memories of a past that is still very present in the daily lives of Nicaraguans of different generations. Drawing on Hilary Francis (2012: 235), it is fundamental to stress that ‘[t]he question of how to represent trauma is pivotal to the culture of memory in many Latin American countries’. On a micro level of analysis, this chapter is about the idea of revolution: what it meant, and what it still means, for those who lived and fought it in the Nicaragua of the 1970s and 1980s. But it is also about coping with the disillusionment provoked by its abrupt end, and the trauma and loss of identity brought about by the closing of a new world that captured many people’s utopian zeal in Nicaragua and beyond. It is about the recomposed revolutionary passion by those who did not live it, who had not even been born in 1979, but who nevertheless Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 relate to the revolution as a social ontology of change again in the making since the FSLN took over in the 2006 elections. Ultimately, it is about the traumatic remembering of how old revolutionaries betrayed the revolution after 1990 in a series of strategic moves to control state assets, to take personal pro¿ t from it and to trade immunities in the judicial iron ¿ st that followed. Yet on a macro level of analysis – broadly that of social ontologies of change – this chapter is about how the idea of revolution relates to the idea of nation in the Latin American Coping with the Lost Revolution 183 context, with all of its ambivalence, liminality and transitionality, marked by what Octavio Paz (2004 [1993]: 352–3) identi¿ es as the dialectics of solitude: to wit, the violent break with the old world and the ¿ ght for a new one.

Testimonialismo, or the tradition of bearing witness I spent some time doing volunteer work and researching in Estelí in July and August of 2009, and again in 2010, but my story with Nicaragua actually started the year before in Arequipa, Peru. There, I met Gabriel Bier Gislason, with whom I worked in a primary school in the rural outskirts of the Peruvian city and who, one evening, enthusiastically said: ‘Man, you have to try Estelí!’ That was the ¿ rst time that I had heard about the diamond of Las Segovias and how its people still held onto its revolutionary credentials as a bastion of Sandinismo. I still remember Gabriel – ‘Gabito’, as I called him after García Márquez, in tribute to his own outstanding writing skills – telling me about his experience in Estelí just a few months before, and how people there were eager to sit and drink at a table, and to talk to strangers about their revolution and what they had been through in the 1970s and 1980s. Gabito’s rendering caught my imagination and I went to Estelí in July 2009, in part haunted by the voices of a revolution I knew so little about. I went back the following year and stayed once more with Edna Valenzuela – a home that provided me with the best Nicaraguan food and, more importantly, a direct bond with the voices of the revolution. While ¿ lming the docudrama Revolusión (dir. Ferreira, forthcoming), in July and August of 2010, I had the opportunity to listen to those voices: some in the form of statements and procla- mations that passers-by unexpectedly wanted to make to my camera; others in the form of daily chats in Edna Valenzuela’s bustling patio – a character in its own right in Revolusión and other experiment pieces on which I have been working; yet others in formal interviews. The ¿ lming of Revolusión was an opportunity to grasp the importance of testimony for the witnesses of the Nicaraguan revolution and how they coped with the traumatic 1990 electoral defeat, the ambiguities of Sandinismo, and the dynamics of solitude still engraved in the ambiguous FSLN political action in the 1990s and 2000s. As I would soon learn in Estelí, everyone there is a potential testimonialista and makes this trait a building block of their identity. Those who lived through the rise and fall of the revolution have traumatic stories to tell about the sufferings inÀ icted by the Somocista dictatorship before 1979, about the heroism of those who escaped to the mountains to ¿ ght it, about the utopian tone engraved in the social mobilization that followed the takeover, and materialized Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 in the National Literacy Crusade and the campaigns to increase production, about the war against the contras in the 1980s and how it opposed members of the same family, and about the hardships provoked by the US blockade and how its imperialist strategies held back the dream of a new, just society. On the other hand, many who did not live through it and are part of the younger generation make of it a critical legacy, and feel responsible for keeping it alive, passing it on to the future and ¿ ghting for the revolution in the context of the competitive 184 Marcos Farias Ferreira politics that characterizes Nicaragua nowadays. They are also bearers of testimonies, those passed on to them by relatives and fellow comrades, showing the same passion and turning those testimonies into a supernatural feat that fuels their political mobilization. What I witnessed in Estelí pays tribute to the testimonio tradition that became the most inÀ uential literary genre in Central America through the 1980s and which can be described as a narrative told in the ¿ rst person by the protagonist of signi¿ cant events. As Stephen Henighan (2007: 745) underlines:

The popularity of Testimonio during the 1970s and 1980s was a response to the urgency of Latin American politics, particularly the armed conÀ icts in Central America and the dictatorships in the Southern Cone, which made some writers impatient with the ambiguities of magic realism.

Verónica Rueda Estrada (2009: 150–1) emphasizes the way in which the revolution created its own testimonialista dynamics after 1979, parallel to the literacy campaign. At that time, a project for rescuing history was set up in which the members of the Germán Pomares Ordóñez brigade collected more than 7,000 oral testimonies from popular leaders engaged in the war against Somoza. Likewise, foreign researchers were also invited to conduct interviews with the FSLN leadership and foreigners who had fought in Nicaragua in the name of international solidarity. Concomitantly, the minister of culture and priest, Ernesto Cardenal, stimulated a series of social media through which the testimonialista tradition could be fed and strengthened: pictorial testimonies inÀ uenced by the primitivist paintings of Solentiname; cinematic testimonies, mainly documentaries on the insurrection struggles and revolution; musical testimonies serving as a basis for popular festivals and misas campesinas, open-air religious celebrations with revolutionary and propagandistic overtones; poetic testimonies in the Nicaraguan tradition started by Rubén Darío; and the more well-known literary testimonies. Beyond its literary guise, I would argue that testimonialismo in Nicaragua encapsulates more than the narrative of signi¿ cant life experiences; it also com- prises a certain oral proclamation of values and revolutionary lessons, and the passing from generation to generation of signi¿ cant life experiences. As justly referred to by John Beverly (2008: 581), ‘widely different sorts of narrative texts could in given circumstances function as testimonios: confession, court testimony, oral history, memory, autobiographical novel, chronicle, confession, life story, novela testimonio, “non¿ ction novel” (Truman Capote), or “literature of fact” Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 (Roque Dalton)’. In the urge to keep the revolution alive, life experiences are then conveyed as central for the rede¿ nition of the nation, and so testimonies become a way of narrating or inventing the nation. They become themselves the nation as narration, often with the stated mission of opening the (nation-)space for making the voices of the revolution, or the voices of the subaltern to Somocismo and US imperialism, or those of the forebears and their life experiences, heard. Coping with the Lost Revolution 185 I would argue that testimonialismo is closely connected to what Octavio Paz (2004 [1993]: 352) calls the speci¿ c Latin American conception of heroes, saints and redeemers, whose guts and sacri¿ ces are the crux of many testimonios and what they are meant to enliven. With Bhabha, I would also argue that the testimonial voices I set out to uncover in this chapter do assign new meanings and direction to the process of social change, and help us to understand from within what went wrong – the traumatic side of nations as social life:

These approaches are valuable in drawing our attention to those easily obscured, but highly signi¿ cant, recesses of the national culture from which alternative constituencies of peoples and oppositional analytic capacities may emerge – youth, the everyday, nostalgia, new ‘ethnicities’, new social movements, ‘the politics of difference’. (Bhabha 1990: 3)

History is what hurts In his Nobel address of 1982 – the year in which the US-backed counter-revolution in Nicaragua was set up with the support of the Argentinean military – Gabriel García Márquez (1987: 102) gave a picture of the continent as a homeland of ‘deluded men and historic women’, where gender, together with race and class, are crucial categories to explore the solitude of Latin America and the ambivalence of its national constructs. One year before, in a much-quoted text, Frederic Jameson (1981: 102) had justly underlined that ‘History is what hurts, it is what refuses desire and sets inexorable limits to the individual as well as collective praxis, which its “ruses” turn into grisly and ironic reversals of their overt intention’. What is crucial to consider at this point is that the social construction of national entities throughout the continent occurs in the context of a particular meaning of the American continent – of America – as revolutionary invention and utopia. Revolution is the very core of the ontology of America since Columbus, for as O’Gorman (1958: 135–6) underlines in his La Invención de América, it is the outcome of a complex ideological process whereby the lands encountered by Columbus were invested with the attribute of being the fourth part of the world on a par with Europe, Asia and Africa. As a new world, the lands encountered were not a replica of the old one, but a world in potentia, in the making and open to new visions, the very outcome of modernity’s unful¿ lled promises. Liberation becomes a powerful idea embodied in the new social ontology and it retains a double meaning, according to O’Gorman (1958: 159), in that ‘the Western man Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 frees himself from the old prison of his insular world and from the moral dependency of the Eurocentric tripartite hierarchy’. The revolutionary vision of the world brought about in the process of inventing America established itself by denouncing the old hierarchies – physical and moral/historical – and was therefore prone to defy the social and political conceptions springing from them. The Sandinista revolution of 1979 was de¿ nitely perceived by its actors as one embodiment of the inventive liberation that aimed at 186 Marcos Farias Ferreira calling off the unjust-cum-harmful social and political hierarchies of modern times and replacing them with new social ontologies. Revolution is such a social ontology, and would become the all-encompassing one for many ¿ ghting privilege and abuse inside and outside imperialism in the name of the true spirit of the nation. In this dialectics of solitude, to claim Octavio Paz and García Márquez’s own rendering of the continent, the break with the old world and the ¿ ght for a new one – the twofold motion of withdrawal and return – would manifest itself in a new inventory of ‘heroes, saints and redeemers’ (Paz 2004 [1993]: 352). As a social ontology of change, the Sandinista revolution was based on a universal programme of change – not just a local claim and aggravation – and therefore presented itself as a true idea, born of philosophy and science, the only one that could overcome the unjust Somocista social and political order, and US domination in Latin America. The source of the trauma that followed the defeat in the 1990 elections lies in the original ambiguity inscribed in all revolutions, as outlined by Octavio Paz (1999: 31): the fact that the Sandinista revolution was neither a true religion nor a true science. Defeat in the 1990 elections and the questionable practices conducted by FSLN leaders in the years that followed made many believers face up to the harsh truth: the Sandinista revolution had raised high hopes, but also big disillusions. Therefore, I would argue, the defeat in the 1990 elections was experienced by many in Nicaragua and beyond as a traumatic event of continental proportions, for it was perceived as subjugating the very revolutionary identity of Latin America in the making, as utopia denied.

A universal discourse of compañerismo It follows that testimonialismo in Nicaragua should be perceived as a social strategy meant to get into the deep recesses of the national culture as social life in the making, and to salvage the true and just nation from the trauma of the past. When facing what went wrong with the revolution and Sandinismo – disillusionment, but also the high expectations of human redemption that came with them – the act of remembering the death of those who fell in the name of a new society and the toil to make it real is a way in which to re-enact it in the mind’s eye, as it were. In his Nicaraguan journal, Brentlinger (1986) quotes Father Uriel Molina, stating that ‘Revolution is Resurrection’ and describing a sort of conversion to political struggle that he himself experienced after going to Masaya in 1979 to bury a young boy who was killed while running away from Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 the National Guard. Brentlinger (1986: 583) remembers the priest’s words: ‘They say I substitute the guerrillero for Christ, but what happens is I see Christ in them. No one has more love than he who gives his own life.’ To understand testimonios as a social strategy is, then, to understand them as discourse, how they work ideologically at the intersection of what Rorty (1985: 3) calls the desire for solidarity and the desire for objectivity. In this sense, the Nicaraguan testimonies articulate a crucial question of agency, intertwined with the very social aspirations Coping with the Lost Revolution 187 for change and national compañerismo, solidarity as camaraderie, embodied in the revolution. In Beverly’s (2008: 579) words, ‘testimonio obliges us to confront not only the subaltern as a (self-) represented victim, but also as the agent – in that very act of representation – of a transformative project that aspires to become hegemonic in its own right’. Although in this extract Beverly is not referring particularly to the revolutionary context in Nicaragua, his conception of testimony as a means rather than an end in itself is consistent with the hegemonic Sandinista political project set in motion after 1979, and the role that heroes, saints and redeemers have played in forging it. Adiós Muchachos: Una Memoria de la Revolución Sandinista was written by Sergio Ramírez (1999) at the end of the 1990s in the testimonialista genre that characterizes Hasta no verte, Jesús mío by Elena Poniatowska (1969), Los días de la selva by Mario Payeras (1980), La montaña es algo más que una inmensa estepa verde by Omar Cabezas (1982) and Me llamo Rigoberta Menchú y así me nació la conciencia, edited by Elisabeth Burgos-Debray (1982). Ramírez was one of the heroes of the Sandinista revolution, a member of the governing junta set up in July 1979 in Managua and elected vice-president of Nicaragua in the 1984 polls. He was again the FSLN candidate for the vice- presidency in the 1990 elections, upon which he gradually departed from the FSLN, at odds with his life companions, to found a new political party in 1995 and to reinterpret Sandinismo in the Movimiento Renovador Sandinista (MRS). As a man at the centre of the insurgency leadership since the mid-1970s and a crucial element of the Sandinista power structure in the 1980s, Ramírez’s is unquestionably one of the voices to which to listen. In the introduction to Adiós Muchachos, Ramírez sets the context and de¿ nes the legitimacy for his testimonio. Twenty years after the overthrow of the Somoza regime, his concerns are about the remembering and forgetting of the Sandinista revolution. Ramírez (1999: 13) purports to tell us about it as he lived it himself, not as he was told about it by others. In fact, oblivion is the main reason for this testimony, as it is for most; an unfair outcome, as Ramírez underlines, for in the ¿ nal rendering of the twentieth century the Sandinista revolution is still missing:

Because it was numbed and did not change history the way we thought it would, or because today it seems to many it was not worth it, like a commitment turning into a big frustration and formidable disappointment. Or because it was usurped. (Ramírez 1999: 14) Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017

In this brief quotation, we can ¿ nd all of the sources for the traumatic feelings about the 1979 revolution – to wit, that it did not change the world, that it was prematurely put to a halt, or that it was frustrated and ¿ nally usurped by its own vanguard in the years that followed the 1990 defeat. But the opening of Adiós Muchachos is meant to introduce the revolution to the readers in all of its glory and misery, as the author experienced it, and so ambivalence and liminality are 188 Marcos Farias Ferreira the key features that strike the reader from the very beginning of Ramírez’s testimonio. The high expectations stand out from the text when the author de¿ nes the Sandinista revolution as a shared utopia and how it embodied fundamental values for a generation, both in Nicaragua and the world at large, which lived, struggled and died for it, in circumstances analogous to those of the Spanish Civil War. In Ramírez’s view, this shared utopia was so powerful as to have changed the boundaries of international relations (IR) under the Cold War, for ‘when it became a focal point in the foreign policy of the United States during Reagan’s imperial presidency, it set up the immense world solidarity that helped defend David against Goliath’ (Ramírez 1999: 15). There was indeed a generation in Europe, but also in the United States, that looked up to Sandinismo as the true promise of a renewed and participative democracy, and, above all, of an authentic way in which to bring justice and social progress to Latin America, seeing in it the ¿ nal opportunity to redeem Allende’s broken dreams. For the FSLN leadership, this shared utopia should have a sweep- ing inÀ uence upon social relations, national culture and individual mindsets, so as to give rise to an ‘ambition of identity’, in the words of Ramírez, or to what Ernesto Cardenal (1983) called the Persona Nueva (‘New Person’). In identity terms, the profound change envisaged by the revolution, materially and spiritu- ally, implied the refurbishing both of the individual and of the nation around the core values of solidarity and cooperation. The New Person would have to be de¿ ned by the ethics of solidarity, taking the needs of others into account even before his or her own:

This new attitude is a form of camaraderie, and it has given birth to a new word that did not really exist previously in our vocabulary. This is the word compañero. Nor is this term any longer simply a word for us; it is a reality. Our society is now becoming one that is based on Compañerismo and this attitude has entailed a fundamental transformation of our country. (Cardenal 1983: 185–6)

Compañerismo was the basis of a new culture for Nicaragua that had national overtones, because it would ‘de¿ ne, develop, discover our national identity and our history’, and also universal overtones: ‘Like the French Revolution, which was not only French but also of worldwide importance, the Nicaraguan Revolution is not only of Nicaraguan but also of global importance’ (Cardenal 1980: 184). The FSLN leadership and intellectual vanguard conceived of the Sandinista revolution as something more than a local uprising; they lived it as a social movement Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 putting forward a universal programme for change.

The 1990 electoral defeat as trauma Another such voice is that of Gioconda Belli, the poet who was in charge of the Sandinista government’s relations with the foreign media. In her testimony about the morning after the defeat in the 1990 elections, Belli describes the Coping with the Lost Revolution 189 electoral defeat as an existential shock and equates it with the very shattering of the organic idea of the nation embodied in the revolution. The inconceivable end of the revolution had suddenly come, and with it the end of the true nation:

We had our backs curved. Our eyes showed restlessness, sorrow, disbelief. Deep circles in our grey faces. When I raised my eyes and looked at the remote city, it was appalling to feel in the greenness of the mountains that hostile emanation lifting up from my own land. The people had rejected us. I never thought I would have to live through that. (Belli 2001: 395)

Ramírez depicts the sense of disbelief shared by the FSLN leadership that day as sheer unreality. Eleven years after removing the Somocista political structure, the FSLN perceived the revolution and its own role in power as having consoli- dated a new hegemonic alliance between the people and the party leadership that had rendered the elections a mere formality, and had taken victory for granted. Coping with the electoral defeat had nothing to do with the way in which political parties and leaders react in the context of competitive politics, in terms of cycles of power and opposition. In his book, Ramírez describes a meeting with US President Jimmy Carter the very evening of the defeat, in Managua, before the electoral commission started making the results public. Carter, who was also at the end of his term, tried to comfort Daniel Ortega, the defeated president, by saying, ‘when I lost the elections, I thought it was the end of the world. But it was not the end of the world’ (Ramírez 1999: 280). For the FSLN, their followers and believers, it was indeed the end of a world. They had believed the revolution to be unstoppable, and even the war imposed on them by the US-backed counter-revolution had just strengthened the hegemonic alliance, along with the resolve to withstand all of the hardships and to build a just society. To have lost popular support was the hardest blow, only possible to cope with by summoning an aura of unreality:

Just like the triumph of the 1979 Revolution had created an unreal atmosphere in which we got bedazzled by the surprise and the relentless longing for the future, so too the 1990 defeat created a similar unreal atmosphere. Before, we did not want to believe we had won for fear of waking up. Now, we did not want to believe we had lost but we did want to wake up. (Ramírez 1999: 278)

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 As underlined in Adiós Muchachos, the FSLN had a vertical Leninist structure, forged by the burdens of war and the historical legacy of caudillismo. In its capacity as a revolutionary movement, it was not devised to take a place within a liberal political ecology, less so to become the opposition. The Sandinista conception of power was complex and at odds with it. It comprised the articulation of government, party, security forces and mass organizations that had the role of hegemonically institutionalizing the revolution. 190 Marcos Farias Ferreira In his testimonio, Ramírez is led to concede that the end of the 1980s sounded the death knell for high ideals and big chimeras. There is a traumatic tinge in the rendering when the author acknowledges that the end of his world and shared utopia meant ‘the shattering of the ¿ rst real model for change that the country has ever experienced, its ¿ rst chance for a tangible future’ (Ramírez 1999: 16). The shattering of the revolution and the insertion of Nicaragua into the neoliberal world of globalization marked, for many in the country and abroad, the end of a viable model of sovereignty and development according to the needs of local communities.

Utopian spaces and memorial cultures Walking through the streets of Estelí some 30 years after the revolution, it is still easy to apprehend the urge for change that inspired the uprising against Somocismo. After 1979, Estelí received a number of masters of mural painting who, in the name of international solidarity with the Nicaraguan revolution, moved to the town to help to organize the artistic mobilization of the Nicaraguan youth around the new values. Walking through the town today, murals painted by different generations of street artists de¿ nitely make an impression on the newcomer and steadily became the main feature of Estelí. Through murals and muralismo, the town remembers the revolution and what it stood for; it remembers its heroes, saints and redeemers, and through them the history that hurts, to draw on Jameson’s rede¿ nition of Lacan’s category. Murals in Nicaragua are a repository of the new nation that should have come with the revolution, a utopian space in which Ramírez’s ‘chance of a tangible future’ is re-enacted with every new brush of paint. With their murals, street painters reÀ ect upon the historical experiences of the country and their shortcomings – colonization, independence, dictatorship, revolution, liberal globalization – and dialectically project the revolutionary venture into the future. In his Nicaraguan journal, John Brentlinger (1986: 584) remembered a sermon by Father Uriel Molina in the course of which he pointed at a large, central mural in his church in Masaya representing the resurrection of Christ portrayed as a young boy combatant, saying: ‘This boy represents the martyrs of our people, those who had so much love they were able to give their lives. In this parish alone we had two hundred that died.’ When one walks around Estelí and talks to the local people, it is impossible not to sense the presence of utopia and revolutionary zeal. The street artists whom I interviewed in Estelí are a good example. I found them in their studios, among paintings of Che and the natural beauties of the Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Las Segovias region. There, Juan Moran and Deyling Borge lectured me about how their organization – the colectivo de muralistas David Alfaro Siqueiros – mobilizes the youth around the memory of the revolution, current social concerns and national values through the medium of street art. Most impressive was the way in which they talked about muralicidio, or ‘artistic terrorism’, to describe what, in their view, was the conscious policy of mural obliteration after 1990 by the Chamorro government: ‘It was as if they wanted to wipe out history, so that Coping with the Lost Revolution 191 the new generations could not know about their roots. [. . .] That was absurd; where there was a mural before they painted “Enjoy Coca Cola”’ (dir. Ferreira, forthcoming). As a matter of fact, the docudrama Revolusión tries to capture this revolutionary aura through a series of interviews with people from Estelí and a lengthy sympathetic gaze over their daily routines. After La Toma (dir. Ferreira 2011), which I ¿ lmed in the shanty towns around Estelí and which tells the story of the unruly occupation of private lands, in Revolusión the camera makes the acquaint- ance of people of different generations, who voice their opinions about the 1979 revolution, the shattering of utopia in 1990 and how its À ame still lives on in today’s Nicaragua. I interviewed Edna Valenzuela and Dorys Miranda in the same evening, in the former’s family house, taking advantage of the two women’s long friendship, and shared memories of war and revolution. A long-time member of different social movements, Dorys Miranda starts by characterizing resistance in Estelí in the late 1970s, and describing how rural and urban people in the region were mobilized to stand up to the National Guard, the oppressive Somocista police force. Living in Estelí at that time, Miranda recalls the three rounds of occupation led by the National Guard through 1978 and 1979, three successive wars in her words, and how the artillery and the air force completely destroyed the town, leaving a heavy toll of casualties among militant revolutionaries and civilians alike. Married at the age of 16, Miranda herself became a widow two months later when her husband was killed at the hands of the National Guard. Concerning resistance to the Somocista dictatorship, Valenzuela recounts the inÀ uence of ideas transmitted by her father and remembers listening to the speeches of Fidel Castro on Radio Habana in the family’s ranch outside Estelí whilst still a child. At the time of armed insurrection there, between September 1978 and July 1979, Valenzuela had moved to the island of Ometepe, where she took refuge with two sons and other members of the family. She recounts how her older brother and sisters remained in Estelí to engage with the Revolutionary Student Front (FER), and to join the guerrillas in the mountains at the ages of 16 and 17. She also recounts how her father was tortured by the National Guard when they found out that his ranch was an FSLN training camp, whereupon the camp was dismantled and the ranch burnt down. More than 30 years after these traumatic events, Valenzuela admits that those memories are still at the centre of family reunions, when each brother and sister goes through their war experience in a kind of healing exercise. In 2010, one of them wrote a text of memoirs; it was agreed that all of the others were to do the same and that they would eventually unite all of the texts in one testimonio family book about the insurrection. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Talking about the revolution and the kind of society that it set up after 1979, Valenzuela states that it makes her proud to be Nicaraguan and to belong to her family line. The crucial argument to her seems to be that those years ‘taught me to live a digni¿ ed life’ in spite of the economic dif¿ culties and the US-backed counter-revolutionary war. She goes on to describe the hardships of the 1980s in depth, including the scarce rations allocated by the government (rice, sugar and beans), and the long queues for soap and toilet paper, but does remark that 192 Marcos Farias Ferreira everyone, urban and rural populations, had access to essential goods, and that there were no children begging in the streets as there were in the 1990s and the 2000s: ‘I had no need for a pair of Adidas shoes, or Nikes, or Reeboks. I put on low quality garments and felt alright’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). Valenzuela goes on to remark on the different value system in the education and health services provided after 1979, and how they served the advancement of the Nicaraguan people. She stresses the opportunity that everyone had to be schooled and to get scholarships to study abroad, as well as the full government support of primary schools and health centres: ‘We never thought we could have something like that, but we eventually achieved it. They say it was a copy of the Cuban system; praised be to Cuba for what it provided us with then!’ On a different day, I accompanied Edna Valenzuela on a visit to her friend and former colleague, Mayra Espinales. The two women had worked together for several years in the 1980s in a child development centre (CDI), and had since then met only sporadically. I ¿ lmed the whole afternoon with my camcorder while Valenzuela and Espinales indulged in memories of long-forgotten colleagues and pupils, as well as comments about current politics in Nicaragua. One memory caught my attention and I used the footage in full in Revolusión because of its symbolism. Valenzuela, the director of the CDI at the time, recalls that she insis- tently tried to convince her assistants to vote for the FSLN in the 1990 elections, while Espinales and two other assistants, Norma and Melania, resisted: ‘Look Mayra, I still remember how wise my words were: “Muchachas, where are you going to end up?” In the cigar factories, I used to tell them. “Vote for the FSLN!” And that’s what happened’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). The deterioration after 1990 of most of the state social services that the Sandinistas had set up in the wake of the revolution meant, for a lot of people (mainly women), a retreat to the private sector – commonly, cigar factories in the Estelí area – with the concomitant outcome of sliding into poverty and developing health problems. I remembered these words every time I saw those women, packed like cattle in the rear of big trucks, exposed to the chilly evening air after sitting for long hours in the vicious atmosphere of the factories rolling tobacco leaves. In each face, I then started to see Norma and Melania – two women at the centre of a lost revolution. Back at Valenzuela’s, and when asked about the new society and new ideals of change embodied by the 1979 revolution, Miranda chooses to emphasize that the goal of social change mobilized the people in an authentic way and channelled everyone’s efforts towards the common good: ‘There was a common dream and a resolve to change’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). She recounts how people voluntarily worked overtime in different activities for the good of the revolution. She goes into Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 depth about the social engagement of young professionals and adolescents with the rural world, and the security of a nation menaced by the counter-revolutionary war after 1982. Through her words, the literacy and production campaigns take physical shape, for one learns what it really meant to individuals to engage in such voluntary work and national mobilization: ‘It made us grow up because we needed to adapt to the dif¿ culties of the rural world plus take direct responsibility in the social movements and their decisions’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). Suddenly, the two Coping with the Lost Revolution 193 women indulge in personal remembrances about those campaigns. Miranda was a teacher who worked overtime to train young professionals to go to remote places in the countryside, while Valenzuela recounts how her son, Edwin, aged 14, joined his schoolmates and teachers in the coffee harvest: ‘There was a ceremony in the park where we went to say goodbye to them, and the euphoria those boys showed was absolutely impressive!’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). Miranda’s memories then turn to the security needs posed by the new war and how civilians like herself had to put on the olive-coloured uniform to carry out a series of different military tasks in the mountains. She remembers the permanent mobilization of civilians, men and women, and the high price in human lives that Nicaragua had to pay during the civil war. On this subject, Valenzuela stresses how the dead were more than a family matter; ‘they were mourned by the whole people, who took to the streets shouting slogans and consoling the relatives. There were mothers who lost up to three boys. That was everybody’s grief’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). Going through the high toll of the counter-revolutionary war years makes the two women agree that military conscription (servicio militar patriótico) turned many people against the FSLN and was ultimately responsible for the 1990 electoral debacle. A mother herself, Valenzuela expresses this very clearly: ‘The FSLN had lost a lot of support by then. Many mothers just could not understand why their young boys had to ¿ ght and die’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). Eventually, Miranda acknowledges that the sorrow transcended the opposing ¿ ghting bands, that everyone lived through traumatic stories that marked them, which explain their subsequent political position and which still cut the nation in two. Asked about what the 1990 debacle meant for her, Valenzuela emphasized that there was personal and family and national grief, a moment of uncertainty when the old truths did not hold any more:

It was a shattered dream. I wanted my younger son to be raised like the others had been. . . . My son Edwin had gone to Odessa, in the Black Sea, to study a military career and I didn’t know what would become of him. (Ferreira, forthcoming)

Looking back at those years, Valenzuela admits that she feels today a profound sorrow to be the witness of how things have changed since February 1990. The bottom line for her seems to be the way in which people’s attitudes to each other have dramatically changed: ‘There was a lot of solidarity and brotherhood, everyone shared what they had. I just don’t know why we had to leave all that behind’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Whereas Edna Valenzuela and Dorys Miranda (as well as Mayra Espinales and Galo Muñóz) speak for the generation that lived through resistance and revolution, other characters in Revolusión were born after the 1980s and do not have direct memories of those years. This is the case of Yustian García, Jorge Luis Pineda, Juan Moran and Deyling Borge, members of different Sandinista youth organizations with whom I ¿ lmed in Estelí. This is the generation of many young men and women who feel the responsibility to speak for their forebears in the 194 Marcos Farias Ferreira testimonialista tradition, and to pass on their life experience and revolutionary zeal. Drawing on Hilary Francis (2012: 247) and her essay on the politics of memory in Nicaragua, it is important to stress that ‘this younger generation has been raised with revolutionary memory. Local resident Rafael Blandón explains that they “are Sandinistas because we have told them the history”’. Speaking about the revolution and its legacy in Nicaragua, all four share a frame of mind marked by the tension that opposes the heroism of insurrection and revolutionary deeds with the trauma of electoral defeat in 1990. In Francis’ (2012: 235) view, ‘an exclusive focus on trauma can obscure the persistence of other memorial cultures. In Nicaragua, for example, a pantheon of revolutionary heroes still dominates the memorial landscape’. Although I do not disagree with Francis on this subject, it is important not to forget the traumatic side of the life of those heroes and the way in which it inhabits the Nicaraguan national imagery – or what José Luis Rocha (2009) calls the real invented revolution based on the cultural production of the 1980s. The revolutionary discourse of the four Estelian young men I interviewed for Revolusión is marked by two fundamental heroes-turned-martyrs, and the way in which they lived and died. Their discursive strategies revolve around Augusto César Sandino and Leonel Rugama, their life example and the authorial phrases that marked their life and death, respectively ‘ø Patria libre o morir!’ (‘A free fatherland or death!’) and ‘ø Que se rinda tu madre!’ (‘Let your mother surrender!’). The ¿ rst was Sandino’s revolutionary motto in the war against US control of Nicaragua in the 1920s and 1930s, symbolically marking his assassination in 1934 at the hands of the US-sponsored National Guards. The second were the dying words of the revolutionary poet born in Estelí, and his response to the National Guards who had cornered him in a safe house and demanded his immediate surrender (15 January 1970). In the pantheon of revolutionary heroes and martyrs, Sandino and Rugama stand side by side with other guerrilleros and poets, such as Che Guevara and Ruben Darío, and through the sacri¿ ce of their own lives point towards the nation’s future. In my encounters with the four young Estelian men, ‘ø Patria libre o morir!’ and ‘ø Que se rinda tu madre!’ stand out as crucial lessons from the past, meant to forge the social ethics of the present. One evening, when I was ¿ lming a documentary presentation organized by the local company Vimao and the Maryland Institute College of Art at Casa de Cultura Leonel Rugama, in the centre of Estelí, I was approached by a young man who asked me if he could testify to my camera. His name was Jorge Luis Pineda. His uninterrupted 15-minute monologue is an exercise in revolutionary zeal, articulating the strug- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 gle against imperialism, the sacri¿ ce of all those who gave their life to build a free Nicaragua and the leading role of the founding fathers. Pineda’s monologue pays tribute to a nation that fertilized its soil with the red blood of martyrs and heroes: ‘If God exists at all they must be at His right side, because these human beings gave their life for the sake of equality.’ This becomes a testimonio in its own right, with the goal of ‘making sure the camera testi¿ es to the world that we in Nicaragua and Latin America won’t give an inch to imperialism and today say “ø Patria libre Coping with the Lost Revolution 195 o morir!”’ At the emotional height of his monologue, as if wanting to authenticate the redemptory powers of those martyrs, Pineda proclaims again and again: ‘Sandino never dies, Che Guevara never dies, Salvador Allende never dies, José Martí never dies’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). A crucial testimony in Revolusión is given by Galo Muñóz, an Ecuadorian in his 50s who decided to leave his country back in the 1970s and ¿ ght for the revolutionary ideal in Nicaragua. Muñóz starts by talking about his university years in Ecuador and his political background. At that time, he belonged to the Revolutionary Socialist Party and took part in a number of activities against the ‘fascist dictatorship and its terrorist policies, which violated human rights’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). Muñóz tells the camera how he got involved in a massive strike of 5,000 workers in a sugar plant for better wages and working conditions, ‘as they were living under poorer conditions than before the French Revolution’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). As a consequence of the 1978 strike, 500 workers were killed and Muñóz had to hide; he started working in underground newspapers as a journalist. As the persecution against underground organizations grew, Muñóz decided to leave Ecuador and seek refuge in Mexico, where he made contact with the movements struggling to bring revolution to Central America. Muñóz remembers that, despite the lack of visibility that those movements suffered at the time, exiles from all over Latin America mobilized and started working together in solidarity with the Nicaraguan people. Asked about why Nicaragua was able to attract so much attention, Muñóz explains that there was a perception that:

. . . the prospects for revolution there were much higher than anywhere else in Latin America and that the local political and military movement [the FSLN] was being successful in the mobilization of the people against one of the most sanguinary dictatorships in Latin America. (Ferreira, forthcoming)

In his narrative of how he left Mexico for Nicaragua by land as a member of the Simon Bolivar brigade, Muñóz describes the climate of revolutionary turmoil and quasi-civil war in Guatemala, El Salvador and Honduras, as well as the dangers of the journey as the brigade approached and entered Nicaragua besieged by the Honduran Guards. Considering the 1979 victory, Muñóz remembers how ideal- ized the revolution was by all those coming from Latin America, who, like him, risked their lives and saw it as a real prospect for change for the continent: ‘We used to say “What’s the importance of our lives vis-à-vis the new ideal?”’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). After 1979, Muñóz became very much involved in the Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 media campaigns in northern Nicaragua and the attempts to counter the US-backed system of propaganda via a complex of radio stations broadcasting from Honduras. He recounts how the propaganda against the revolution during the 1980s insisted on the danger of a Soviet communist takeover in Nicaragua, the persecution of the Catholic Church and the plundering of national resources on behalf of Cuba. It is most revealing what Muñóz has to say about the revolutionary process in the 1980s and how the FSLN leadership had to move in the direction of 196 Marcos Farias Ferreira free elections. The Social-Democratic movement in Europe was very sympathetic towards Sandinismo and several European governments are reported to have given it more than merely symbolic support. (Sergio Ramírez recounts how the Greek government was willing to supply arms, thereby incurring the wrath of the British prime minister Margaret Thatcher.) However, the price for that support was to abide by the laws of competitive politics, and so the FSLN had to organize elections in 1984 and 1990. Muñóz remembers that this did not seem to be a problem for the FSLN, because ‘we thought that if we had won the war we could also win the elections. Plus, we thought we had the people with us’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). He then recounts the circumstances of the 1990 defeat, and the symbolic construction of the opposition leader, Violeta Barrios de Chamorro, as a mother, directed against Daniel Ortega’s image as a warlord and his refusal to bring conscription to an end. Remembering the occasion of the massive FSLN meeting in Managua in early 1990, Muñóz recounts how people there were grateful for the shirts and caps handed over to them, but would nonetheless vote for Chamorro: ‘Gracias Danielito por la gorra y la camiseta, pero mi voto es por Doña Violeta’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). After the electoral defeat, many Latin Americans left Nicaragua, pushed out by the new government in its bid to get rid of all guerrilleros and terroristas. Muñóz tells how he was on the blacklist, about to be deported, but in the meantime arranged to marry one of Edna Valenzuela’s sisters, which meant that he could then opt for Nicaraguan nationality and stay. In his view, ‘it was too comfortable to leave by then. Why wouldn’t I want to stay and keep on helping in the process? It made sense to help through the war time but also after that, when everyone was leaving’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). Later in the 1990s, Muñóz did decide to leave Nicaragua, but a family tragedy interfered and made him stay. As I learned from Edna Valenzuela herself, her son Adiact had an accident and lost his right hand. Owing to the close relationship they had established, Valenzuela says, the Ecuadorian felt that he absolutely had to stay and support Adiact through his teenage years. By staying in Nicaragua, Muñóz became an increasingly detached observer of the political process, and very critical of the strategy and direction that the FSLN was taking. He voices his ¿ erce criticism of the FSLN’s responsibility in the 1990s piñata, the general bargaining involving liberal governments and the Sandinista opposition to share state assets through privatizations. And he is also very critical of the FSLN’s internal strategy and direction, adamant about the lack of democracy that has prevented the emergence of a viable alternative to Ortega after 30 years in leadership. Muñóz deplores the fact that Ortega stuck to power Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 and stiÀ ed in every possible way all attempts to replace him. Muñoz’s views about the role of the FSLN after 1990 are close to the perspective of a ‘betrayed revolution’ voiced by so many who defected from the party in the 1990s to set up new movements: ‘There is no revolutionary strategy in the FSLN anymore; it’s nothing but Social Democracy’ (Ferreira, forthcoming). He also laments the ambiguous strategy shown by Ortega in the international scene, siding with Chávez and the Bolivarian movement on the one side, but on the other being subservient to the Coping with the Lost Revolution 197 US-backed free trade strategy in Central America: ‘There’s a lot of manipulation. In the FSLN social base of support, there are still people who believe in the revolution, but it’s blind conviction. I don’t think it has any meaning anymore’ (Ferreira, forthcoming).

Concluding remarks The characters in Revolusión have been through the history that hurts, and have been taught by their forebears how the sacri¿ ce of the nation’s traumatic past is crucial to make sense of present-day political and social trends. In her recent essay about Nicaragua, Hilary Francis (2012: 235) underlines that ‘the elucidation of collective memory takes place on continually shifting ground, leaving scholars of memory with few collective certainties of their own’. In her view, nevertheless, it seems that one aspect appears constant: the emphasis on trauma as a way of framing the remembrance of things past. In this chapter, I seek to use this kind of frame to understand the way in which many Nicaraguans try to cope with their lost 1979 revolution and the shattering of utopia. The journey includes both the investigation of the idea of America based on founding Latin American literary works and the testimonies of different generations of Nicaraguans, along with their memories of the Sandinista revolution, to be able to assess the present-day relationship with utopia. In the end, this chapter is about social ontologies and the traumatic impact of thwarted political change in the Latin American context. It is about how the nation connects directly to the idea of revolution, and how the former’s ambivalence, liminality and transitionality is inscribed in a speci¿ c dialectic of solitude, a violent break with one world and ¿ ght for a new one, and a broader historical process that refuses desire and sets inexorable limits on both the individual and the collective praxis. Going back one last time to Ramírez’s testimonio, it is meaningful to recover his memory of the meeting with Claudia, the daughter of Idania Fernández, who left everything behind to ¿ ght with and die for the Sandinista revolution. Ramírez asks Claudia whether she thinks her mother’s sacri¿ ce was worth the pain. Here is her answer:

I would have done the same. . . . She did not give her life in vain. She did it because her heart told her so, because of her unsel¿ sh love that made her put the wellbeing of others before her own life. Outcomes don’t matter at all, only her ideal. Most of all in this age without ideals. (Ramírez 1999: 295) Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 13 Humanitarian witnesses and testimonies in arms control and disarmament A case study of the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC)

Ritu Mathur

Introduction A growing body of literature on ‘testimonial culture’ exists in international relations (IR) (Edkins 2003: 18) – but scarcely any attempt has been made to study the proliferation of humanitarian actors and their interventions as witnesses with testimonies in the ¿ eld of arms control and disarmament. The deployment of humanitarian witnesses and their testimonies to wage a struggle for arms control and disarmament is an interesting strategy that deserves careful consideration. It is a strategy that became increasingly visible in the last decade of the twentieth century. Several humanitarian actors, such as the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), Doctors without Borders (Médecins sans Frontières, or MSF), and Handicap International, have been at the forefront of deploying testimonies of victims in their struggle vis-à-vis nation states to ban the use of particular weapons, such as anti-personnel landmines, cluster munitions, small arms and light weapons (Williams et al. 2008). It is therefore interesting to pose the following questions: how are humanitarian witnesses and their testimonies deployed in the practices of arms control and disarmament; and what are the effects of these testimonies in the regulation and prohibition of weapons? In response to these questions, this chapter begins by, ¿ rst, brieÀ y con¿ guring how humanitarian witnesses and their testimonies are conceptualized as practices of testimonialization in arms control and disarmament. Second, it focuses particularly on the ICRC and its decisions to embrace Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 responsibility as a humanitarian witness with a testimony to regulate and prohibit weapons. Third, based on the experiences of the ICRC, this chapter provides insights into the effects of testimonialization practices on arms control and disarmament. This study argues that the ICRC has deliberately constituted itself as an ethical witness with a testimony that is carefully deployed to mobilize Humanitarian witnesses in arms control 199 nation states to regulate and prohibit the use of particular weapons. It is possible to identify four speci¿ c phases in the ICRC’s representation of itself as a witness with a testimony, and to explicate the contestations and resistances that a humanitarian witness experiences in regulating and prohibiting weapons. It argues that the practices of testimonialization empower the ICRC vis-à- vis nation states to make successful interventions, and constitute a humanitarian space in the ¿ eld of arms control and disarmament. However, the empowerment of the ICRC as an ethical witness has also generated dangerous possibilities of normalization in the deployment of testimonies to address the problem of weapons.

Testimonialization The concept of testimonialization helps us to investigate whether a witness with a testimony is complicit with the existing structures of power and authority, or whether it seeks to question the existing structures of power and authority. For this purpose, it is particularly interested in understanding how a humanitarian witness is constituted, how a humanitarian witness positions itself vis-à-vis nation states and victims, and what considerations are factored into its decisions to share its testimony publicly and to what effect. It is particularly interested in interrogating the representation of humanitarian actors as ethical/humanitarian witnesses with testimonies to address the problem of suffering endured by victims of the use of weapons. James Hatley (2000: 2–3) describes an ethical witness as one that responds to the suffering of victims. This response ‘exceeds any epistemological determination’ and is an ‘ethical involvement’ that demands acute attentiveness towards the ‘gravity of violence’ experienced by the victims. The ethical witness registers this suffering of the other ‘in the ¿ rst place not as an objective fact but as a subjective blow, a persecution, a trauma. The witness refuses to forget the weight of this blow, or the depth of the wound it inÀ icts’ (Hatley 2000: 2–3, emphasis added). It is this inability to forget the violence and suffering of victims that inces- santly traumatizes the witness. The experience of trauma also reveals the asymmetrical power relations enjoyed by sovereign nation states vis-à-vis the ethical witness and the victims whom it seeks to represent (Edkins 2003: 4). This trauma is further compounded as the ethical witness confronts the problem of embracing responsibility to ameliorate the suffering of the victims. It is this decision to embrace responsibility that is enacted in the form of testimony. Testimony of a witness: Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017

. . . bring(s) one into an immediate and compelling contact with those who have been degraded, suffocated, victimized. The text is the voice of one who would witness for the sake of another who remains voiceless even as he or she is witnessed. (Hatley 2000: 19–20) 200 Ritu Mathur As such, it is important to be attentive to the ‘tone’ of a testimony (Hatley 2000: 126–7). The tone of a testimony ‘can reveal one’s state of mind, the particular subtleties of one’s own sensibility . . . Tone always implies a struggle to be sincere (or to avoid sincerity)’ (Hatley 2000: 127). It is the tone of a testimony that can reveal ‘how emotions are bound up with the securing of social hierarchy’, which classi¿ es the problem of weapons as an area of hard politics regulated by nation states that cannot easily be addressed by the soft politics practices adopted by humanitarian actors (Ahmed 2004: 7). While a testimony represents ‘an imperative to speak, and a determination to ¿ nd ways of speaking that remain true to the trauma’, there is a danger that the choice of language serves to maintain the status quo (Edkins 2003: 15). Furthermore, there is a possibility of ‘textual indeterminacy’ in a testimony (Hatley 2000: 127). This can be a result of the position of the witness vis-à-vis the victims, and also because the testimony carries within it ‘the voices of the other and all the others’ (Hatley 2000: 127). These considerations of the imperative to speak on behalf of the victims, the location and tone adopted in relation to the victims, and the possibility of textual indeterminacy and complicity in the language as a product of the social order all test the truth in the testimony provided by an ethical witness. This generates an ‘ethical burden’ that demands careful consideration (Hatley 2000: 125). It demands an attentiveness to generate insights on whether the trauma experienced by the ethical witnesses and their testimonies genuinely challenge and resist the use of weapons by sovereign powers, or whether these are choreographed productions constituting a strategy of normalization of the trauma experienced by victims through the use of weapons (DeChaine 2005: 85). It is important to be attentive to these considerations in order to investigate whether humanitarian witnesses and their testimonies are complicit, or represent a form of resistance to sovereign powers in addressing the problem of weapons regulation and prohibition. Thus the concept of testimonialization con¿ gures a witness as an ethical entity experiencing a profound struggle to remain faithful towards victims. It captures the experience of trauma suffered by witnesses as it embraces the responsibility to provide a testimony on the suffering endured by victims. This testimony is deployed deliberately to generate resistance to the use of weapons. It is with this understanding of the concept of testimonialization that we now proceed to investigate how ICRC witnesses such as Henry Dunant and Dr Junod constituted themselves as witnesses, and testi¿ ed to the sufferings of victims of the use of weapons. It is this question of embracing responsibility that needs to be Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 underscored in studying how the ICRC has served as a witness with a testimony to address the problem of weapons.

Ethical witness The ICRC’s engagement with the problem of weapons can be traced back to Henry Dunant, an accidental witness to the Battle of Solferino fought between Humanitarian witnesses in arms control 201 Austria and France on 24 June 1859 (Dunant 1986). Dunant wrote and published his testimony in A Memory of Solferino.1 In recollecting his experiences on this battle¿ eld, Dunant describes himself in modest terms as ‘a mere tourist with no part whatever in this great conÀ ict’ between Austrian and Prussian forces, combining a total strength of 300,000 men armed with riÀ es and a 900-strong artillery, ¿ ghting relentlessly for 15 hours (Dunant 1986: 16). ‘To witness the moving scenes’ of this battle is, for Dunant, a ‘rare privilege’ that he is ‘resolved’ to describe in his testimony (Dunant 1986: 16). In his interpretation of Dunant’s testimony, Joseph Slaughter (2009: 103) suggests that, by describing himself as a mere tourist, a witness, Dunant is presenting himself as an ‘accidental paragon of humanitarian disinterestedness and indifference’. As a ‘surrogate witness’, Dunant successfully ‘triangulates the lines of affective force between audience and actors’ (Slaughter 2009: 102). The witness comes across as ‘both a participant in the apparent tragedy and a screen for projection of the audience’s pity and compassion’ (Slaughter 2009: 102). This humanitarian ¿ gure acts as a ‘conduit for our emotional investments in the scene of suffering’ and acts as a ‘surrogate on which to anchor our feelings of good- will towards the wounded’ (Slaughter 2009: 102). The testimony of Dunant as a humanitarian witness not only addresses the inhumanity of war, but also suggests ‘the affective disposition required to approach the wounded’ (Slaughter 2009: 1). Dunant’s testimony is an invitation ‘to project ourselves not into the position of the sufferer but into the position of the humanitarian, the subject position of one who already recognizes the human dignity of the wounded and attempts to relieve their suffering’ (Slaughter 2009: 102). The subject position of a humanitarian witness occupied by Dunant can be substituted by individuals or by improvised groups that share a feeling of brotherhood in the face of suffering irrespective of nationality. But the act of substitution is incomplete ‘due to the lack of a critical mass of trained relief workers to counterbalance the piles of dying soldiers’ (Slaughter 2009: 100). The humanitarian actor and his audience are interpreted by Joseph Slaughter as peers sharing the same sensibility of obligation towards alleviating the suffering of the victims. Slaughter suggests that this encourages a recognition that:

. . . the sense of ethical obligation perhaps develops not in response to another’s tragedy but as a sense of responsibility to the moral integrity of one’s own class of humanity. This is, at least in part, the affective relationship that the ¿ gure of the aid worker seems to activate in humanitarian Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 narratives. (Slaughter 2009: 103)

Dunant’s testimony, in which he positions himself as an ‘onlooker, standing on the hills around Castiglione’ observing this complex battle space of violence and suffering, provides a graphic description of the effectiveness of speci¿ c weapons used in war that inÀ ict painful injuries and mutilate victims (Dunant 1986: 22). 202 Ritu Mathur Dunant notes in detail the shape of artillery shells and bullets used in battle: ‘the French grape-shot was effective at prodigious ranges’, and ‘Everywhere men fell by thousands, with gaping wounds in limbs or bellies, riddled with bullets, mortally wounded by shot and shell of every kind’ (Dunant 1986: 20–2). Dunant acutely feels the suffering of the victims, which he describes in a sympathetic tone:

. . . poor fellows who had not only been hit by bullets or knocked down by shell splinters, but whose arms and legs had been broken by artillery wheels passing over them. The impact of a cylindrical bullet shatters bones into a thousand pieces, and wounds of this kind are always very serious. Shell splinters and conical bullets also cause agonizingly painful fractures, and often frightful internal injuries. (Dunant 1986: 44)

In a tone of anger and dismay, Dunant curses these ‘infernal machines that dis¿ gure the bodies and heads of the dead and dying indiscriminately’ (Dunant 1986: 98). But even in the midst of this anarchy and indiscriminate warfare, Dunant’s discerning testimony recalls particular injuries of victims that continue to trauma- tize him. He recalls the ‘revolting spectacle’ of a trooper of the African Light Infantry who lay silent and immobile: ‘Three bullets had struck him, one in the right side, one in the left shoulder, and the third in the right leg where it had remained’ (Dunant 1986: 67). Dunant hears the voice of:

. . . a Hungarian who never ceased to call out, begging for a doctor in heart- breaking Italian. A burst of grapeshot had ploughed his back which looked as if it had been furrowed with steel claws, laying bare a great area of red quiv- ering À esh. The rest of his swollen body was all black and green, and he could ¿ nd no comfortable position to sit or lie in. (Dunant 1986: 67)

Dunant (1986: 65) observes how this ‘spectacle’ of suffering takes its toll upon the morale of those trying to address it. In the face of this suffering, the local authorities and doctors ¿ nd themselves ‘absolutely incapable of dealing with the suffering’, and the volunteer helpers too cannot ‘bear to look upon suffering which they can do so little to relieve’ (Dunant 1986: 64). The innumerable victims fatigue the mind of Dunant, the witness, and he is compelled to represent them as dis- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 embodied ‘dead and dying’, and dehumanized ‘piles of bleeding corpses’ (Slaughter 2009: 98). Dunant’s mind is disturbed by the thought that ‘new and terrible methods of destruction are invented daily’, and that ‘the inventors of these instruments of destruction are applauded and encouraged in most of the great European states, which are engaged in an armament race’, making recourse to war an inevitable future prospect that cannot be avoided or ignored Humanitarian witnesses in arms control 203 (Dunant 1986: 116). These concerns are expressed in a voice that is fearful that, on the one hand:

. . . the new and frightful weapons of destruction, which are now at the disposal of the nations, seem destined to abridge the duration of future wars, it appears likely, on the other hand, that future battles will only become more and more murderous. (Dunant 1986: 128)

In confronting the horrors of the Battle of Solferino, Dunant experiences a sense of ‘desperate ¿ delity’ to testify to the violence and suffering of the victims because, within himself, he carries a feeling of guilt at his inability to address the suffering of the victims (Dunant 1986: 115). For three years after the Battle of Solferino, Dunant the witness is restless and his written testimony is a therapy that, in some measure, heals his wounded soul. Dunant’s personal suffering as a witness can be gauged from a letter written at the time when he was directly experiencing the suffering of the wounded on the battle¿ eld. In this letter, Dunant states:

I am writing from the battle¿ eld. There one cannot choose his impressions. . . . Every ¿ fteen minutes for three days, I have seen a human being die in unimaginable agonies . . . Pardon, but I am weeping continuously as I write. I must close. They are calling me. (Dunant 1986: 115)

Dunant’s testimony is a response to this call for assistance and redress demanded by the victims. The effect of the Battle of Solferino on Dunant is best summed up in Martin Gumpert’s observation that, for Dunant, ‘The cry of the victims must be silenced. Dunant took it up, he cried out with them, cried louder, until society was ready to redeem him by an act’ (Gumpert 1938: 60). Dunant’s powerful testimony found immediate resonance with fellow humanitarians in Geneva and abroad. It led to the founding of the ICRC, which, with the help of the Swiss Federal Government, convened an international congress in Geneva on 16 October 1863. At the meeting in Geneva on 23 October 1863, the problem of the development of weapons and the suffering inÀ icted by weapons was addressed by Dr Landa, a Spanish delegate. He observed that the discrepancy between the suffering of victims and the relief available on the battle¿ eld could be attributed to the growing lethality of weapons. In his words, ‘The true ground of the inadequacy is the disproportion between the development of the means of Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 protection and the means of destruction’ (Gumpert 1938: 129, emphasis added). But despite this concern expressed by Dunant and Landa to regulate and prohibit weapons, other delegates seemed content to secure the approval of the sovereigns to provide relief for the wounded on the battle¿ eld. These ten principles were codi¿ ed in the Geneva Convention of 1864. The gap between protection and destruction was to be ¿ lled by the constitution of voluntary relief societies to attend to victims. It is therefore possible to observe that, at this juncture in 204 Ritu Mathur the history of the ICRC, in order to gain of¿ cial recognition for their work, its members considered it essential to assiduously maintain ‘a proper distance . . . between the Red Cross on the one hand and international movements in favour of peace and disarmament on the other’ (Hutchison 1996: 150). Interestingly, despite their apparent disinterestedness in addressing the problem of disarmament, ICRC representatives shrewdly observed that, by recruiting volunteers to work as ‘Samaritans’ in the battle¿ eld, the ICRC could make a signi¿ cant contribution towards achieving disarmament (Hutchison 1996: 68). The ICRC strategy towards disarmament would be based on the testimonies provided by its delegates acting as witnesses in the battle¿ eld. To quote Moynier:

[B]y organizing succor for the wounded, in addressing fervent appeals in their favour to the various nations, in exciting pity by the relation of their miseries, and in laying bare, with a view to help our cause, the lamentable spectacle of a ¿ eld of a battle, in unveiling the terrible realities of war, and in proclaiming, in the name of charity, that which policy has often an interest to keep concealed, we shall do more for the disarmament of nations than those who have recourse to economic arguments or to the declamations of a sterile sentimentalism. (Hutchison 1996: 68, emphasis added)

This observation demonstrates a capacity for strategic thinking within the ICRC and a deferment of responsibility towards disarmament. The ICRC recognized that one of the strategic tools with which a humanitarian organization can address the problem of weapons is to deploy the testimonies of ¿ eld delegates. These testimonies, providing graphic details of injuries suffered by the victims of war, could position the ICRC as a moral entrepreneur participating in arms control and disarmament practices. This foresight and the use of chemical weapons in the First World War kept the ICRC from inde¿ nitely deferring the decision to embrace responsibility towards arms control and disarmament.

Living witness On 6 February 1918, the ICRC issued an appeal against the use of poisonous and asphyxiating gases in the First World War. This appeal is signi¿ cant, because it marks the ICRC’s very ¿ rst intervention in the problem of weapons. In this appeal, the ICRC deliberately describes itself as a ‘living witness’, championing the principle of humanity in war (ICRC Archives: CR 159-5, Carton box 150). As Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 a ‘living witness’, the ICRC declares:

The stretcher-bearers who, on the battle¿ elds, picked up combatants stricken by these gases, and even more, the nurses who tended them in hospital, are all unanimous in testifying to their terrible sufferings – sufferings more poignant to witness than even the most cruel wounds. (ICRC Archives: CR 159-5, Carton box 150, emphasis added) Humanitarian witnesses in arms control 205 It is on the basis of particular testimonies provided by its ‘stretcher-bearers’ and ‘nurses’ serving on the battle¿ elds of Europe that the ICRC claims its ‘voice’ is raised on behalf of witnesses that can testify to the suffering of victims from asphyxiating and poisonous gases. This represents a subtle shift from Dunant’s position as a direct witness recounting his own personal experiences on the battle¿ eld to the ICRC as witness representing other witnesses collectively. As a living witness, the ICRC forcefully declares, ‘We protest with all our might against such a method of waging war, which we can only term criminal’ (ICRC Archives: CR 159-5, Carton box 150). The ICRC’s stigmatization of the use of poisonous gases as criminal is further reinforced in the appeal by words such as ‘cruel’, ‘murderous’ and ‘barbaric’ to À esh out the inhumane character of this method of warfare (ICRC Archives: CR 159-5, Carton box 150). The ICRC anguishes over the suffering that this form of warfare inÀ icts on its victims and asserts that the use of poisonous gases brings shame, not honour, to the vic- torious. It mulls over the potential arms races that the use of these weapons will generate – especially the easy and cheap access to raw materials, facilitating the large-scale production of poisonous gases and projectiles that could then be used against enemy combatants and the ‘inoffensive population’ to inÀ ict greater suffering (ICRC Archives: CR 159-5, Carton box 150). The ICRC expresses this concern by observing that ‘a combatant in the face of an enemy who uses these gases is obliged to imitate him in spite of himself . . . This will mean a rivalry in a search for the most murderous and most cruel methods’ (ICRC Archives: CR 159-5, Carton box 150). The ICRC, as a living witness, expresses concern about ‘reprisals’ – ‘counter-attacks’ that could lead to the escalation and proliferation of this method of warfare (ICRC Archives: CR 159-5, Carton box 150). It argues that anyone trying to make this method of warfare crueller and contrary to the sentiments of humanity bears ‘a steadily increasing weight of responsibility’, and therefore appeals for a ban to be imposed on this barbaric method of warfare (ICRC Archives: CR 159-5, Carton box 150). But in addressing the question of responsibility, the ICRC is very careful. It grounds its appeal on the rubric of the laws of war. The ICRC’s appeal makes the case that the use of asphyxiating and poisonous gases is a violation of the Hague Laws, which prohibit the use of poison or poisoned arms and of weapons that cause superÀ uous injury. The ICRC argues that these conventions were constituted to mitigate the cruelties of warfare and that their violation would render war inhumane. It suggests that this problem could be addressed if an agreement on banning the use of poisonous gases were signed ‘under the Red Cross À ag’ in order to reinforce ‘the principles which inspired the Conventions of Geneva and The Hague’ Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 (ICRC Archives: CR 159-5, Carton box 150). These rhetorical efforts by the ICRC to confer a special status on the Red Cross symbol in addressing the problem of weapons, and its insistence on the principles of the laws of war, indicate an initial attempt to deploy the ‘language of war’ to make it ‘equivalent to force’ even as it seeks to resist the violence incurred by chemical weapons (Dawes 2002: 207). In crafting its appeal against the use of poisonous and asphyxiating gases, the living witness willingly offers its services to facilitate agreement among 206 Ritu Mathur governments. In offering its services, the ICRC is careful to note the relationship that it has carefully nurtured as a humanitarian organization working in tandem with sovereign nation states. In an obsequious tone, the ICRC reminds sovereign nation states of the special relationship that it enjoys with governments:

[W]e of the Red Cross, whose À ag is the emblem of that sentiment of humanity which, not so long ago, showed itself, even in the midst of battle, address ourselves in the ¿ rst instance to the Sovereigns, the Governments and the Generals, and afterwards to the peoples who are now ranged in conÀ ict with each other. (ICRC Archives: CR 159-5, Carton box 150, emphasis added)

Thus the text of the ICRC’s appeal gives primacy to the governments of nation states in addressing the problem of chemical weapons. Its appeal as a living witness against the use of poisonous and asphyxiating gases is an attempt to build upon the legacy of Dunant as a witness to the Battle of Solferino. It is an attempt to implement the strategic thinking that the ICRC should use witnesses’ testimonies from the ¿ eld to serve the cause of disarmament. At the same time, it makes a careful invocation of the need to develop the laws of war and the ability of the ICRC to exercise leadership in this endeavour, with the support of governments. The ICRC’s appeal to be seen as a living witness had different effects on its different audiences. It resonated powerfully with the public, which added its voice to that of the ICRC. It also struck a chord with governments that were debating the question of responsibility for violating the Hague Laws and deliberately focused attention on the threat posed by these weapons ‘to the whole population’ (ICRC Archives: CR 159-5, Cartoon Box 150). This facilitated an agreement on the Geneva Protocol of 1925 prohibiting the use of asphyxiating and poisonous gases. However, it is to be noted that the language of the Protocol explicitly stated that it was an agreement among the civilized countries and thereby implicitly enabled the Italians to use poisonous gases against the Abyssinians. The ICRC watched on in silence and refused to share the testimonies of its delegates with the enquiry commission established by the League of Nations (Baudendistel 2006). Any efforts by its delegates to voice a protest against this atrocity as witnesses were quickly silenced within the ICRC through practices of cultural codi¿ cation, mythologization and disappearance (Tal 1996). The practice of mythologization seeks to reduce traumatic events to ‘a set of contained and controlled narratives’ (Tal 1996: 6). It was under ICRC President Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Max Huber’s tutelage that the legacy of a living witness was transformed into a character akin to the biblical ¿ gure of the ‘Good Samaritan’. These practices of mythologization sought to reduce the trauma experienced by the ICRC delegates witnessing the use of chemical weapons in the Italian–Ethiopian war and other armed conÀ icts ‘to a set of standardized narratives (twice and thrice-told tales that come to represent “the story” of the trauma) turning it from a frightening and uncontrollable event into a contained and predictable narrative’ (Tal 1996: 6). Humanitarian witnesses in arms control 207 Max Huber’s invocation of the ‘Good Samaritan’ as the biblical, mythological ¿ gure that ICRC delegates were to emulate insists that:

The Samaritan makes no complaint against the thieves, or against the authorities for tolerating the evils of highway robbery; he has no word of reproach for those who had passed by before him and could have helped. Face to face with distress, action, not talk, is where one’s duty lies . . . There is nothing but the simple action, without words and without ado, as simple as the majes- tic answer with which Jesus meets the lawyer’s question, “And who is my neighbor?” (Huber 1945: 51, emphasis added)

But this observation is only Huber’s ingenious attempt to seal the testimonies of suffering witnessed by its delegates in a vow of silence. Max Huber asserts that while neutrality is the public principle of the ICRC, its unspoken and unwritten principle is ‘prudence’, which too demands its delegates’ silence and reticence (Huber 1945: 64). He asserts an ethics of ‘simpli¿ cation’ and ‘realism’ that makes it imperative for the ICRC to focus exclusively on its functions under the Geneva Conventions, and only then to consider any possibility of enlarging its ‘radius of action, by seeking out such tasks as would naturally arise out of a community of need rather than of nature’ (Huber 1945: 76). Describing the delegates of the ICRC as ‘severely realist’, Max Huber (1945: 45) proceeds to delineate the burden of responsibility that the actor experiences when he must choose between accepting and rejecting a course of ‘some bene¿ cial and much- needed action’. This burden of realism and simpli¿ cation generates a suffering within the actor that is expressed as ‘helplessness’, ‘torment’ and ‘saddest regret’ (Huber 1945: 69). But this feeling of vulnerability experienced by the delegate is also claimed to be a source of strength, because it enables the humanitarian actor to retain the con¿ dence of governments in situations of armed conÀ ict. These practices of mythologization, designed to transform the traumatized witnesses into good Samaritans who observe silence, are further reinforced by two internal policy statements that aim to standardize the arbitrary and ad hoc practices of the ICRC and its delegates who have witnessed violations of the laws of war into a consistent policy (Library & Archives Canada: File No. 842-BG-39). The purpose of the new instructions was to inform its delegates of the ‘limits of their authority’ (Library & Archives Canada: File No. 842-BG-39). They instructed their delegates not to be willing witnesses to any infractions of international humanitarian law. If they became unwilling witnesses, it was advised that they Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 immediately contact the headquarters and submit a con¿ dential report. It was clearly stated that delegates must exercise extreme discretion and were not at liberty to discuss the contents of the report without the permission of the ICRC. It was argued that should a delegate be ‘invited to verify violations of international law he must bear in mind that his mission is not to witness violations of the Conventions of Geneva or the Hague, or to investigate such’ (Library & Archives Canada: File No. 842-BG-39). But the ICRC as a ‘competent authority’ would 208 Ritu Mathur act as the ‘sole judge’ in determining whether a con¿ dential report submitted by a delegate was to be shared with any other party or not. These documents stipulated six conditions under which the ICRC would undertake an enquiry in case of violations (Library & Archives Canada: File No. 842- BG-39). These conditions are now part of the ICRC’s rhetorical arsenal on constituting an inquiry for the purposes of verifying violations of the laws of war, and it is the qualifying statement attached to the sixth condition that is worth quoting here in full. It states that ‘Investigations about violations regarding the law of war in general, particularly rules relative to the means used in war, could only enter into the activities of the CICR in very exceptional cases’ (Library & Archives Canada: File No. 842-BG-39, emphasis added). It is this qualifying statement that provides a key insight into the ICRC’s commitment to violations of international humanitarian law – especially the Hague Laws. These documents were sent by the ICRC to the national Red Cross, which shared them with government authorities, reassuring them of the predictability of the ICRC’s future course of action when it became witness to the use of weapons in war. These internal practices of mythologization and cultural codi¿ cation were further reinforced by practices of disappearance. One case in point was Sidney Brown, an ICRC delegate who witnessed the use of chemical weapons by the Italians against the Ethiopians. Brown’s efforts to resist the imposition of silence and his demand that the ICRC address this problem led to his quick dismissal from the organization (Baudendistel 2006). These practices put in place during the inter-war period served to regulate and constrain the burden of responsibility experienced by the ICRC towards victims, even as it sought to cultivate its public identity as a living witness to the use of weapons.

Warrior without weapons The testimonies of ICRC representatives Fritz Bil¿ nger and Marcel Junod from Hiroshima and Nagasaki immediately after the use of nuclear weapons tested the good Samaritan’s will to remain silent in the face of unprecedented human suffering. Junod’s testimony shows that his experience of victims’ pain and suffering could no longer be contained by President Max Huber’s dictum of being a good Samaritan. Junod (1951) describes himself as ‘Le Troisième Combatant’, translated into English as a ‘Warrior without Weapons’, but which would literally be translated as ‘The Third Combatant’. This description is endorsed and embellished by President Huber, who sees them as the ‘front line troops’ of the humanitarian organization (Junod 1951: Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 308, 310). This description of ICRC delegates as ‘the third combatant’ and ‘front line troops’ represents another subtle attempt to construct the identity of a witness with a testimony. The need for a new identity stemmed from the effort made by the organization to mobilize itself on a military scale in order to meet the challenges of the Second World War. It was an attempt to place itself on a par with the other actors in an international system that had experienced the hardships and sufferings of the Second World War. Humanitarian witnesses in arms control 209 Junod, as the warrior without weapons, recollects in precise detail the time and date of his À ight over Hiroshima at 12 o’clock on 8 September 1945. He writes:

We – my colleagues and I peered anxiously through the windows and witnessed a sight totally unlike anything we had ever seen before. The centre of the city was a sort of white patch, À attened and smooth like the palm of a hand. Nothing remained. (Junod 1951: 277)

This ominous observation made from an aircraft that À ew ‘over the city several times’ before landing is followed by an on-the-ground inspection, ‘walking slowly, through the dead city’, which enabled Junod to register in detail the effects of the blast, ¿ re and radioactivity on the infrastructure and the inhabitants (Junod 1982a: 277). In order to break the ‘monotony of the scene’ of devastation, to gain relief from ‘the same picture everywhere’ and to give further legitimacy to his description, Junod (1982a: 279) states with authority that ‘We were standing more or less above the very spot where the bomb had exploded’. Junod listened to other witnesses give their testimonies and, as he treated the victims, he observed that ‘each one of those human beings represented an in¿ nity of suffering. Those dis¿ gured masks would always retain the horror of what they had witnessed’ (Junod 1951: 299). Several of these victims suffered from third-degree burn injuries and there were approximately 30,000 injured in about 50 improvised hospitals. This was the tragic situation that Junod faced the day he visited Hiroshima, a month after the ¿ rst use of a single nuclear weapon. But the suffering of the victims soon became ‘cases’ of medical interest and scienti¿ c experimentation (Junod 1982a: 279). Junod was accompanied by Masao Tsuzuki, a professor at the Imperial University of Tokyo. Dr Tsuzuki’s medical survey of the victims at the very site of their destruction is repulsive to Junod and he describes this experience in the following words:

To listen to him one would have thought that we were in a giant laboratory, operating with thousands and thousands of human beings instead of guinea pigs, and it was in this spirit of passionate scienti¿ c interest that he showed us dissected members, histological cuts and tables of statistics drawn up according to his clinical and pathological anatomical investigations. (Junod 1951: 300)

On the other hand, Junod notes the ‘adamant’ attitude of the experts from the Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 American Technical Commission, comprising physicists and doctors, who, even as they surveyed the unyielding scene of death and destruction in Hiroshima, already concluded that ‘one month after the explosion of the atom bomb, the place was perfectly safe and there was no longer any danger of radioactivity for human beings’ (Junod 1982a: 278). The paucity of medical care, the lack of treatment for the victims, the charred remains and the carbonized bodies of victims – all blatantly evident – were not enough to persuade these experts to reach any 210 Ritu Mathur other conclusion. In Junod’s observations of the medical and technical experts from both sides, he reveals a sense of disturbance at the paralysis of sympathy, the hard-heartedness and the craftsman’s enthusiasm for his subject. The information provided by the Japanese and American experts, in conjunc- tion with his own personal observations as a medical expert on the clinical and biological symptoms observed amongst the victims, led Junod (1982b: 337) to describe the suffering of victims as ‘hiroshimitis’. ‘Hiroshimitis’ syndrome captures the effects of radiation on the victims. Junod claims to have seen many anatomical specimens showing the effects of radiation after autopsies had been performed on the victims (Junod 1982b: 339). He cautions that ‘the continuing radioactivity is a real danger for relief teams coming in from outside or leaving the shelters, because they may also be put out of action’, and concludes that ‘as things stand now, we are unequipped to provide any defence whatsoever’ (Junod 1982b: 344, emphasis added). As a traumatized witness who had repeatedly attended the victims of aerial bombardment, mustard gas and nuclear weapons in wars, Junod chafes and states peremptorily that:

For someone who was a witness, albeit one month later, of the dramatic consequences of this new weapon there is no doubt in his mind that the world today is faced with the choice of its continued existence or annihilation. (Junod 1982b: 344)

To avoid a recurrence of the ‘experience of the annihilation of thousands of human beings in appalling suffering’, Junod suggests that ‘we should cry out in alarm: Do the same for atomic energy as you did for poison gas. Ban its use in time of war, if the worst happens and war itself cannot be avoided’ (Junod 1982b: 344). But Junod’s testimonies that urged the ICRC to embrace directly the burden of responsibility towards nuclear disarmament were not disclosed to the public by the ICRC until several decades later. Nonetheless, the presence of these witnesses within the organization served as a constant reminder to address the problem of nuclear weapons. It was only on 5 April 1950 that the ICRC took the initiative, issuing a public appeal against the use of atomic weapons and non-directed missiles to the signa- tories of the Geneva Conventions of 1949 (ICRC 1950). The ICRC’s decision to issue this appeal was based on its failure to secure an agreement on the general protection of the civilian population under the revised Geneva Conventions in 1949. Nevertheless, the appeal issued by the ICRC, with its focus on the suffering Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 of the victims, received immediate publicity in leading newspapers across the globe. It was represented in the media as: ‘Red Cross Opens Drive to Outlaw Atomic Weapons’, ‘Red Cross Urges Atom Bomb Ban’ and ‘World Red Cross Appeals for Ban on Atom Warfare’ (ICRC Archives: CR 225-227). The ICRC’s initiative was interpreted as ‘the organization is prepared to act as a medium for bringing the powers together to reach an atomic truce – which the United Nations has so far failed to achieve’ (ICRC Archives: CR 225-227). It was suggested that Humanitarian witnesses in arms control 211 a favourable response to the ICRC’s appeal to governments would result in the government of Switzerland convening a diplomatic conference to address the problem of nuclear weapons. But at the same time, the possibility of such a conference stoked reservations and doubts, such as ‘UN Fears Erosion of Prestige’ (ICRC Archives: CR 225-227). The immediate reaction of the US government even before it received the appeal in writing from the ICRC was described in newspapers as ‘US Opposes Red Cross Plan for Atom Bomb’ and ‘US Brands Soviet Sole Bar on Atom’ (ICRC Archives: CR 225-227). This representation by the media served to polarize the position of the ICRC vis-à-vis the US government on the subject of nuclear weapons. US of¿ cials did not hesitate to denounce the ICRC’s initiative publicly on grounds that ‘[t]he Red Cross appeal made no speci¿ c proposals for enforcement of the atomic weapons ban’ and ‘the appropriate forum for the atomic energy negotiations, as approved by the General Assembly of the United Nations, is the forum of the six permanent members of the United Nations Atomic Energy Commission’ (ICRC Archives: CR 225-8). This reactionary response to the ICRC’s appeal persisted even as it tried to craft the Draft Rules for the Protection of the Civilian Population from the Dangers of Indiscriminate Warfare (ICRC Archives: CR 225-8). The ICRC was berated for not possessing the humility, requisite mandate, technical competence or expertise needed to address complex military matters, and because its efforts towards seeking a ban of particular weapons could therefore be construed as suggesting that the governments were ‘incompe- tent, insincere or unmindful of the humanitarian principles with which the Red Cross is concerned’ (ICRC Archives: BAG 051). This painful experience from courteous stone-walling to behind-the-scenes hectoring by nation states and their auxiliary Red Cross societies, which felt threatened by the humanitarian appeals issued by the ICRC, ultimately prompted a traumatized and exhausted ICRC to accept, with resignation and despair, the failure of its carefully prepared Draft Rules. However, these experiences enabled the humanitarian actor to learn the signi¿ cance of representing itself not simply as an ethical witness with a testimony on the use of particular weapons, but also as an expert witness, a self-appointed guardian of international humanitarian law – an alternative discourse to address the problems of regulating and prohibiting weapons.

Direct/expert witness It was as an expert guardian of international humanitarian law that the ICRC Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 advocated the development of the laws of war to regulate and prohibit the use of particular conventional weapons for several decades (Mathur 2012). The limited progress gained by these legalization initiatives compelled the ICRC to launch a public campaign proclaiming that ‘Landmines Must Be Stopped’ (Library & Archives Canada: ICBL Fonds R 11308, Box 2). In this public battle against the use of landmines, the ICRC reiterated its claim that ‘through its ¿ eld operations in conÀ ict zones on four continents’, the ICRC is ‘a direct witness to the 212 Ritu Mathur landmine carnage’ (Sommaruga 1996, emphasis added). ICRC President Cornelio Sommaruga argued that:

Our doctors and nurses every single day have to look into the eyes of children writhing in pain from a limb turned into a bloody tangle of blood, dirt, plastic bits, bone fragments and À esh. Eyes which ask us “why, why, why?” to which we have no answer. (Sommaruga 1996)

Despite this emotive appeal commanding the authority of a direct witness embracing the responsibility of disarmament, the publicity campaign launched by the ICRC carefully deployed testimonies of victims so as not to reveal ‘particular names, dates and places’ (ICRC 1978: 328). The identities of victims were revealed only in the form of general information pertaining to their ages, ¿ rst names and nationalities. The victims are typically a ‘Mozambican child’, a ‘Somali child’ and a ‘Cambodian grandfather’ (Library & Archives Canada: ICBL Fonds R 11308, Carton box 3). Sometimes, the victims are simply depicted as ‘the child, the soldier and the rice farmer’ (Library & Archives Canada: ICBL Fonds R 11308, Carton box 3). The cursory introduction to victims is followed by a brief passive narrative on feelings of pain, shame, bereavement – a composite of sufferings endured by the victims of landmines. It is claimed that pro¿ les of victims can be established from the ICRC database. The representative sam- pling from the catalogue of victims is used to further arguments, and to provide evidence on needs, constraints and strategy for assistance to mine victims. The testimonies expertly deployed by the ICRC in its publicity campaign helped to ‘stabilize’ the À uidity of practices generating and ameliorating suffering (Dauphinee 2007: 149). They served to mobilize ‘coherent narratives’ on the effects of mines on victims (Dauphinee 2007: 149). By exposing the ‘human face of a global tragedy’ in a calculated manner, the ICRC urged states to ‘face their responsibilities’ (Sommaruga 1996). The testimonies of victims revealed the suffering that they endured and served to transmit a sense of shame among nation states. But the arousal of shame is not enough: the response to shame is equally important. While urging nation states to accept responsibility, the question of political responsibility is marginalized by the ICRC, with its insistence that ‘There is no need to attribute responsibility. Mines have been produced and sold by some ¿ fty States from both north and south. They have been used indiscriminately in many others’ (Sommaruga 1995). This invocation of the principles of international humanitarian law, without attributing any particular responsibility, Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 facilitates a political compromise among nation states. It empowers the humanitarian actor’s demand for a humanitarian space in the ¿ eld of arms control and disarmament, and addresses the ethics of responsibility among nation states in minimalist terms. Under these circumstances, it is pertinent to argue that the ICRC is deliberately relying on a ‘techno-logic of the visual’ and ‘circulation of abject imagery’ to further its objective of securing a ban against the use of anti-personnel landmines Humanitarian witnesses in arms control 213 (Dauphinee 2007: 140). It is deliberately resorting to the representation of ‘the body in pain’ as an ‘aesthetic visual image, a symbolic icon that stands in for itself as the referent object of political violence’ to deliberately encourage particular forms of witnessing and responsibility (Dauphinee 2007: 140). These experiences of witnessing are ‘partial and imperfect’, because their intention is to provide a sense of reassurance for having identi¿ ed the ‘visible causes or expressions of pain’ with the weapon itself and not the agency that deploys it. It eludes, and even evacuates, the ‘speci¿ city of the interior experience of pain, and of the subject that experiences it’ (Dauphinee 2007: 142). These contemporary practices of testimonialization represent a distinct shift from Dunant’s testimony, which recalls the subjective experiences of particular victims. The present practices of testimonialization recognize the dif¿ culty of recounting the staggering number of particular experiences of victims, which con- found even statistical imagination and the dictum of prudence, asserting that the ‘ICRC says and shows what it does, but remains very circumspect as to what it sees and hears through its delegates’ (Modux 1978: 309). The ICRC’s decision to embrace responsibility towards the victims of landmines by demanding regulation and prohibition of these particular weapons is represented as apolitical. But this very practice of disavowal of politics is a political exercise to deliberately constitute a humanitarian space that will not only facilitate agreements to regulate and prohibit the use of a weapon, but also provide means for the rehabilitation of victims. The creation of this humanitarian space within which ethical witnesses can position themselves and articulate testimonies on the violence and suffering endured by victims through the use of weapons is a signi¿ cant achievement. But this should not detract attention from the disciplinary practices endured by ethical witnesses regarding nation states, and the dangerous potential for the proliferation of choreographed testimonies in the struggle for arms control and disarmament.

Concluding remarks This chapter has articulated the concept of testimonialization and traced how it has been creatively deployed by the ICRC as a witness with a testimony to address the problem of weapons from the late nineteenth century to the present. In this endeavour, the humanitarian actor has demonstrated the effectiveness of this strategy in several ways. First, practices of testimonialization have empowered the ICRC to strategically draw attention to itself time and again by representing itself as a ‘living witness’, a ‘good Samaritan’, a ‘warrior without weapons’ and a ‘direct witness’ with moral authority, intervening on behalf of victims suffering Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 from the effects of particular weapons. Second, the moral pathos and indignation expressed through practices of testimonialization have helped the ICRC to participate in and initiate dialogue on humanitarian terms with nation states on the regulation and prohibition of weapons. Third, the deployment of humanitarian testimonies in the form of public appeals generates disciplinary practices both within the ICRC and from nation 214 Ritu Mathur states that seek to constrain its power. The disciplinary practices of cultural codi¿ cication, mythologization, disappearance, mandate and expertise transform the ethical witness. Fourth, the transformation of the ICRC from an ethical witness with a testimony into a good Samaritan, observing silence, and further into an expert witness is appreciated by nation states as they recognize that the humanitarian actor is a participant in the realpolitik of arms control and disarmament. It makes the ICRC more acceptable to nation states as an intervening moral authority and a legal draftsman, preparing documents that facilitate arms control and disarmament negotiations. Fifth, a study of these practices of testimonializaton in the ¿ eld of arms control and disarmament induces a sense of normalization – a feeling of cynicism, pragmatism and complacency towards the suffering of victims. It is this sense of normalization that is dangerous because it fails to recognize that practices of testimonialization have been crafted in extremely dif¿ cult circumstances, and represent a force of resistance to the disciplinary power of nation states in the ¿ eld of arms control and disarmament. Finally, it is important to remember that, while practices of testimonialization are susceptible to instrumentalization, they are a signi¿ cant expression of the humanitarian actor’s freedom and solidarity with victims of the use of weapons.

Note 1 Henry Dunant is today known as the founding father of the ICRC. The exact publication of Dunant’s A Memory of Solferino is disputed. See P¿ ster (1962). Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 14 Memory and the politics of climate change Between climate justice and climate security

Pedro Fonseca

Introduction Among the explanations of the successive failures in climate change negotiations, it is evident that minor relevance has been attributed to the problem of memory. This chapter intends to examine the importance of memory in the politics of climate change by discussing how the discursive practices in climate change negotiations explicitly or implicitly argue over questions of memory. The articulation between memory and the politics of climate change is particularly relevant in the debates about climate justice and the principles of equity, and common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities, which have deeply inÀ uenced global climate negotiations. Recognizing the importance of memory in the climate change regime is especially signi¿ cant at a time when it is becoming clear that an agreement that meets the goals of climate security will require key developing countries to accept substantial legally binding reduction targets for their own greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions. This is especially challenging because developing countries have successively argued that climate change was caused by the richest countries, but that the poorest countries will suffer the worst consequences. According to the perspective of developing countries, developed states have a historical responsibility for the current concentrations of GHG in the atmosphere and should drastically reduce their emissions. Consequently, developing countries have condemned the growing calls for signi¿ cant reductions in their emissions. In fact, an effective climate agreement that ensures climate security will demand a new kind of relationship and reconciliation between developed and developing Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 countries. However, this new relationship is very unlikely unless climate negotiations address the problem of memory, which requires a renewed debate on the principles of equity, and common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities. 216 Pedro Fonseca Climate security: avoiding dangerous climate change The United Nations Conference on the Human Environment (known as the Stockholm Conference) held in 1972 represents an important milestone in the af¿ rmation of environmental issues in world politics. At the Stockholm Conference, climate change was still a marginal issue within the major environmental concerns. However, this situation gradually changed in the following years. In the 1970s and 1980s, the World Meteorological Organization (WMO) played an important role in putting climate change on scienti¿ c and policy agendas, particularly through the organization of several world conferences about the climate consequences of growing GHG emissions and growing atmospheric concentrations of these gases. The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), created in 1988, has contributed decisively to the growing recognition of climate change as one of the most important environmental problems. The IPCC led scienti¿ c study about the Earth’s climate system, and its work contributed to the adoption of the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) in 1992 and the Kyoto Protocol in 1997 (Chasek et al. 2006: 115–28; DeSombre 2007: 117–20; Mabey et al. 1997: 9–11; Roberts 2004: 51–3). The IPCC, emphasizing the increase in global average air and ocean temperatures, especially over the last decades, shrinking snow and ice masses, the rising global average sea level and increasingly frequent extreme weather events, has been arguing that the ongoing changes observed in climate patterns cannot be attributed to the natural cycles of our planet and that, for the ¿ rst time, human activities are having a decisive inÀ uence on the Earth’s climate patterns (Houghton 2009; Metz et al. 2007; Parry et al. 2007; Solomon et al. 2007). In its Fourth Assessment Report, the IPCC emphasizes:

Warming of the climate system is unequivocal, as is now evident from observations of increases in global average air and ocean temperatures, widespread melting of snow and ice, and rising global average sea level. . . . Most of the observed increase in global average temperatures since the mid- 20th century is very likely due to the observed increase in anthropogenic GHG concentrations. (Solomon et al. 2007: 5, 10)

The IPCC argues that many of the observed changes in climate patterns can be linked to the increase in GHG concentrations in the atmosphere, caused espe-

cially by the growing anthropogenic CO2 emissions since the Industrial Revolution.

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 The IPCC also estimates that about two-thirds of anthropogenic CO2 emissions since 1750 were caused by the burning of fossil fuels and the remaining third have come from land use changes (Solomon et al. 2007: 25). If GHG emissions continue to rise in the next decades, climate change will be more extreme and its consequences will be more dangerous (Parry et al. 2007). As the IPCC alerts, in this debate it is also important to note that GHGs ‘are chemically stable and persist in the atmosphere over time scales of a decade to centuries or longer, so that their Memory and the politics of climate change 217 emission has a long-term inÀ uence on climate’ (Solomon et al. 2007: 23–4). Consequently, climate change should be considered a long-term problem and some level of change in the Earth’s climate patterns can no longer be avoided (Solomon et al. 2007: 23–4). In the face of this reality, the avoidance of dangerous climate change in order to ensure climate security has gained prominence in political and scienti¿ c debates. The creation of future climate scenarios immediately raises the problem of de¿ ning the level at which climate change becomes dangerous. This is a debate that has sparked innumerable controversies. In fact, de¿ ning dangerous climate change is a complex task directly related to assessments of what risks are acceptable and what are unacceptable. Article 2 of the UNFCCC identi¿ es as its ultimate objective the stabilization of GHG concentrations in the atmosphere at a level that would prevent dangerous anthropogenic interference with the climate system. However, as the IPCC argues, de¿ ning dangerous interference with the climate system involves ethical, cultural, scienti¿ c, political and/or legal judgements (Metz et al. 2007: 99). As Hansen and colleagues point out:

The objective of the Framework Convention on Climate Change (United Nations 1992) is stabilization of greenhouse gas concentrations at a level avoiding dangerous human made interference with climate. The obvious question, what is the ‘dangerous’ greenhouse gas level, has received little research attention, perhaps because of inherent arbitrariness in any criteria for ‘dangerous’. (Hansen et al. 2007: 2306)

In the late 1980s, several groups of experts and institutions argued that the global average temperature should not rise more than 2°C (3.6°F) above pre-industrial levels. Beyond this limit, there would be a very high risk of grave damage to the Earth’s ecosystems (Metz et al. 2007: 99). This position was formally adopted in 1996 by the European Union (Hare 2009: 18). However, this perspective has been severely challenged (Tol 2007). Several developing countries that are highly vulnerable to climate change rapidly adopted a more restrictive position, arguing that a 2ºC rise in global average temperature above pre-industrial levels would lead to catastrophic changes that would undermine their economic, political and social stability, and in some cases even threaten their survival (Hare 2009: 18–19). Following this position, Greenpeace argued in 1997 that the global average temperature should not rise more than 1ºC (1.8ºF) above the pre-industrial level. Above this level, we would face rapid and unpredictable changes in Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 the Earth’s ecosystems, with high losses and damages (Hare 2007: vi). Despite these contentions, limiting the GHG concentration in the atmosphere to around

450 parts per million of CO2 in order to guarantee that the global average temperature will not rise more than 2ºC (3.6ºF) above pre-industrial levels, with the purpose of avoiding dangerous climate change and ensuring climate security, has been considered a major objective of the international climate change regime. The same position has been taken by the IPCC (Hare 2009: 19). 218 Pedro Fonseca The politics of climate change: the principle of common but differentiated responsibilities and claims for climate justice The ¿ rst international conference exclusively dedicated to climate change was held in 1988 in Toronto (hence is known as the Toronto Conference). More than 300 scientists and policymakers from 46 countries attended the conference in order to analyse the causes and risks of climate change, and to discuss ways in which to address the problem (WMO Conference 1988). The Toronto Conference statement (The Changing Atmosphere: Implications for Global Security) explored several issues that would characterize climate change debates over the following years. It warned that a change in the composition of the Earth’s atmosphere would affect global security, the world economy and the natural environment. Additionally, the statement argued that the increasing concentration of GHGs in the atmosphere would cause global warming, rising sea levels, changes in precipitation patterns and altered frequencies of climatic extremes. In terms of consequences, the Toronto Conference statement also argued that climate change would imperil human health and welfare, diminish food security, change the distribution and seasonal availabil- ity of fresh water resources, increase political instability and the potential for international conÀ ict, undermine the prospects of sustainable development and poverty reduction, and accelerate the extinction of the animal and plant species upon which humanity’s survival depends (WMO Conference 1988). The Toronto Conference statement also warned that if the countries did not quickly implement an action plan to address climate change, the worst consequences would become progressively more serious, and harder and more costly to reverse. In order to avoid the worst consequences of climate change, the Toronto

Conference considered as essential the stabilization of the CO2 concentration in the atmosphere. For this purpose, it estimated that it would be necessary reduce

CO2 emissions by more than 50 per cent from 1988 levels. As a starting point,

the statement proposed an initial goal of reducing CO2 emissions by approximately 20 per cent of 1988 levels by 2005 – a goal that would be achieved through heavy investments in alternative energy sources, and improvements in energy ef¿ ciency and conservation (WMO Conference 1988). At the ministerial conference on climate change held in Noordwijk in 1989, European countries, Canada, Australia and New Zealand defended the establishment of quanti¿ ed GHG emission reductions. However, this ambition was rejected by the United States, Japan and the Soviet Union, arguing that it would require very strict measures that did not take into account the different national circum-

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 stances. To the US, Japan and the Soviet Union, the efforts should focus on scienti¿ c research into climate change and the development of national strategies (Luterbacher and Sprinz 2001: 29). These early divergences were also visible in the negotiations that led to the adoption of the UNFCCC, negotiated in 1992 at the United Nations Conference on Environment and Development (the ‘Earth Summit’). At that moment, the European Community led the negotiation process, defending the Memory and the politics of climate change 219 creation of targets and timetables for GHG emission reductions. This objective was immediately rejected by the US and members of the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC). Countries such as China, India and Brazil also rejected this approach, fearing that it would threaten their economic growth prospects. As a result, the UNFCCC was signed without any mention of targets and timetables for GHG emission reductions – a feature generally seen as a major weakness (Luterbacher and Sprinz 2001: 31–4). The Kyoto Protocol, adopted in 1997, was an important milestone in climate change negotiations. In fact, for the ¿ rst time, the negotiations led to an agreement that created legally binding targets and timetables for GHG emission reductions. In the compromise adopted, the Annex B countries (developed countries and economies in transition) were to reduce their GHG emissions by an average of 5.2 per cent of 1990 levels over 2008–12. One of the main features of the Kyoto Protocol is that developing countries had no emission targets. Although considered a central element of the international climate change regime, the Kyoto Protocol, which entered into force in 2005, was strongly criticized (Posner and Weisbach 2010: 62–4). Among the criticisms was the fact that some countries that adopted the Kyoto Protocol failed to ful¿ l its objectives, as well as the accusation that the À exibility mechanisms identi¿ ed in the Protocol, such as emissions trading, the clean development mechanism and joint implementation, which intended to help the parties to ful¿ l their objectives, were used inef¿ ciently and even in an abusive or fraudulent manner (Schreuder 2009: 160; Sutter and Parreño 2007: 75–90; Tickell 2008: 35–6). Moreover, with the United States’ refusal to ratify the Kyoto Protocol, about 70 per cent of global GHG emissions recorded in 2006 were not subject to any targets or timetables. Additionally, the penalties for non-compliance with the Kyoto targets were extremely weak. Consequently, the Kyoto Protocol did not escape the charge of being a failed process (McGee and Taplin 2006: 174–5), and even the IPCC recognizes that the Kyoto regime was inadequate and insuf¿ cient to avoid dangerous climate change (Metz et al. 2007: 32). Indifferent to this political rhetoric and debate, global GHG emissions have

been rising very rapidly. In 2008, anthropogenic emissions of CO2, which is the most important GHG, grew to 40 per cent higher than 1990 levels. Additionally, the emissions growth rate has increased over recent years. A substantial part of emissions growth has come from developing countries – particularly China, currently the world’s largest emitter, and India. The debate about justice has been present since the beginning of climate negotiations. The principles of justice are particularly prominent in Article 3(1) Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 UNFCCC, which states:

The Parties should protect the climate system for the bene¿ t of present and future generations of humankind, on the basis of equity and in accordance with their common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities. Accordingly, the developed country Parties should take the lead in combating climate change and the adverse effects thereof. 220 Pedro Fonseca Article 3(1) UNFCCC has rapidly led to the claim by developing countries that developed countries have the obligation to bear the responsibilities and costs associated with climate change because they are richer, and have a greater capacity to deal with the problem (distributive justice), and also because their high historical and per capita emissions make them responsible for most of the GHGs present in the atmosphere, and therefore for climate change. Meanwhile, developing nations and the poorest countries, owing to their geographical location, their weak economic structure and their limited ability to respond to extreme weather events, are likely to suffer the worst consequences of climate change (corrective justice) (Houghton 2009: 253; Posner and Weisbach 2010: 100; Vanderheiden 2008: 56). The historical emissions argument has been particularly relevant in the climate justice debate. In this respect, the Human Development Report 2007/08 (UNDP 2007: 39–44) gave special relevance to the historical responsibility of climate change and emphasized the overexploitation of the Earth’s atmosphere by a minority of the world’s population. As the Report puts it:

[H]istoric responsibility for emissions rests heavily with the developed world. Rich countries dominate the overall emissions account. Collectively,

they account for about 7 out of every 10 tonnes of CO2 that have been emitted since the start of the industrial era. . . . These historic emissions matter on two counts. First, . . . cumulative past emissions drive today’s climate change. Second, the envelope for absorbing future emissions is a residual function of past emissions. In effect, the ecological ‘space’ available for future emissions is determined by past action. . . . Differences in the depth of carbon footprints are linked to the history of industrial development. But, they also reÀ ect the large ‘carbon debt’ accumulated by rich countries – a debt rooted in the over-exploitation of the Earth’s atmosphere. (UNDP 2007: 41, 44)

As Christoff (2010: 643) emphasizes, the interpretation by developing countries of the principle of common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities ‘has been ¿ rmly focused on the disproportionate historical exploitation of the atmospheric commons by the North as one foundation of its wealth and economic capacity, and therefore its responsibility to pay for the South’s adaptation costs’. This perspective of the problem is visible in the Kyoto Protocol, in which only developed countries and countries with economies in transition have targets and timetables for their GHG emissions. Additionally, developed countries have Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 the responsibility to transfer technology and funds to help developing countries to mitigate and adapt to climate change and promote sustainable development (Victor 2011: 73). The assessment of who will suffer the worst consequences of climate change is another relevant topic in the climate justice debate. The available studies show that, even considering that all regions in the world will suffer negative consequences arising from climate change, and despite the dif¿ culty of accurately Memory and the politics of climate change 221 characterizing and measuring their impacts, it is clear that developing countries and the poorest states of the world, especially those located in Asia and Africa, will suffer the worst consequences (Nordhaus and Boyer 2000; Parry et al. 2007: 48–63; Sullivan and Huntingford 2009: 3984–90; Yohe et al. 2006). In this regard, Posner and Weisbach (2010: 11) argue that the poorest countries tend to be located in warmer regions that will be most affected by climate change. Even in cases in which the risk is truly global, as exempli¿ ed by the possible rise in sea level that will affect all coastal regions of the globe, the vulnerability is very different because the capacity to mitigate the effects of sea level rises differs from country to country. In fact, as mentioned by Posner and Weisbach (2010: 11), the poorest countries are also those that have fewer resources with which to mitigate the negative effects of climate change and the economies of which are more dependent on agriculture, which, compared with other activities and economic sectors, will be particularly affected. The World Bank (IDA 2007: 1–44) also points out that the world’s poorest countries, especially those located in sub-Saharan Africa, South Asia and Southeast Asia, are the most vulnerable to climate change owing to their geographical location, low incomes, weak institutional capacity to develop policies for mitigation and adaptation to climate change and to extreme climate events, high population pressure, and large dependence on sectors highly exposed to climate change such agriculture. However, this dominant view on climate justice particularly emphasized by developing countries has also been subject to criticism and objections. Among the objections is the argument that accurate scienti¿ c knowledge about climate change caused by anthropogenic GHG emissions is a recent reality and that the IPCC itself was only created in 1988. Consequently, should the current generations of developed countries be held accountable for the acts of past generations taken at a historic moment when these actions (emissions) were not considered wrong, and it could not have been anticipated that they would harm other generations and communities? In the case of climate change, can we apply the principles of precaution and neglect in order to materialize guilt, and thus determine a penalty for bene¿ ciaries and compensation for victims? Considering that future generations will suffer the worst impacts of climate change caused by historical emissions of GHG, could the current generations claim compensation rights from generations that do not yet exist (Page 2006: 169–70; Posner and Weisbach 2010: 110–1; Vanderheiden 2008: 121)? In fact, the interpretation and implementation of the principle of common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities has generated signi¿ cant tensions in climate negotiations. As Christoff emphasizes: Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017

The interpretation of Common But Differentiated Responsibility (CBDR) by non-Annex 1 parties – championed by China, India and Brazil to de¿ ne their leadership of that bloc – has been ¿ rmly focused on the disproportionate historical exploitation of the atmospheric commons by the North as one foundation of its wealth and economic capacity, and therefore its responsibility to pay for the South’s adaptation costs. The US contested CBDR from the outset 222 Pedro Fonseca and used a narrow reading of Article 3.1 to refuse to ratify the Kyoto Protocol or, until recently, to articulate national targets and provide funding, until major developing countries adopt binding emissions targets. (Christoff 2010: 643)

Memory and the politics of climate change: implications for climate justice and climate security Memory, as ‘the process whereby faculty or impressions or events from the past are recollected and preserved’ (Bell 2006: 2), ‘plays a major role in determining the dynamics of individual and collective identity formation, which in turn shape both perceptions and political action’ (Bell 2006: 29). In fact, memory is a fundamental component of politics, and ‘history has been shaped and mobilized in order to justify current political projects whether in the name of political or ethnic self-determination, in the demand for justice, or to ground claims for the legitimacy of new regimes’ (Bell 2006: 6). In the relationship between memory and politics, Edkins (2006: 102) acknowledges that ‘memories can be used to further particular political and global political aims’, and also have th e capacity to exert a decisive inÀ uence on the actions and positions taken by the main actors in world politics. Moreover, appeals to collective memory serve to legitimize political positions (Müller 2002: 25–31). Thus memory is crucial to understanding the several aspects of world politics and is central to understanding the problem of justice (Bell 2006: 6, 23). Memory is particularly relevant when it comes to understanding the politics of climate change. In fact, climate negotiations have been characterized by an evident clash between developed countries (North) and developing countries (South). Still feeling the traumatic memories of poverty, underdevelopment, exclusion and, in some cases, colonialism, the environmental narrative developed by key developing countries, compounded by accusations of carbon colonialism and climate injustice (Bulkeley and Newell 2010: 29), is based on the dichotomy between the rich populations of the North and the poor populations of the South. In this sense, the idea that it is crucial to distinguish between the ‘survival’ emissions of the South and the ‘luxury’ emissions of the North deeply characterize the North–South conÀ ict in the politics of climate change (Bulkeley and Newell 2010: 29). This environmental narrative developed by southern countries in the dynamics of North–South relations, appealing to the memory and principles of justice, has been used by developing countries to claim the right to access to resources and conditions for their survival and development (Hurrell 2007: 235). Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Declaring that developed countries are historically responsible for the high GHG concentrations in the atmosphere today, that they have high per capita emissions that provided them with extraordinary levels of development and that the poorest countries will suffer the worst consequences, developing countries have argued that climate change is an issue of equity and justice, and that developed countries should drastically reduce their GHG emissions (Bulkeley and Newell 2010: 29; Meyer and Roser 2010: 229). Moreover, as a form of Memory and the politics of climate change 223 compensation, developed countries should transfer funds and technology to developing countries to help them to mitigate and adapt to climate change, and to promote sustainable development (Houghton 2009: 253; Hurrell 2007: 232). This framing of climate change is closely linked to the UNFCCC principle of common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities. In fact, Detraz and Betsill (2009: 310–11), by analysing several documents from the Conference of the Parties (COP) meetings for the UNFCCC, the Kyoto Protocol, various documents by the IPCC and the Stern report, conclude that, historically, the narrative used by developing countries tends to emphasize their vulnerability to climate change, arguing that industrialized nations must take responsibility and reduce their emissions. The UN Conference on Climate Change held in Copenhagen in December 2009 (the Copenhagen Conference) was expected to reach an agreement to replace the Kyoto Protocol after 2012. In fact, taking into consideration the available data about the evolution of global GHG emissions, at that moment it seemed clear that something fundamental had to change in the politics of climate change. In fact, it is important to emphasize that the emissions from the United States, European Union, Japan, Russia, Canada, China, India, Brazil and Indonesia represent over 70 per cent of current global GHG emissions to the atmosphere. Moreover, the International Energy Agency (IEA) (Birol 2010: 95–7) projection entitled New Policies Scenario has shown that developing countries (non-Annex I UNFCCC

parties) will be responsible for the majority of CO2 emission growth until 2030. In

the New Policies Scenario, 58 per cent of CO2 emission growth until 2035 comes from China alone (Birol 2010: 99). Given the GHG emission projections that show fast-growing emissions in several developing countries, in 2009 it was already clear that concentrating mandatory GHG emission reductions only in developed countries, even if this approach responded satisfactorily to the claims for climate justice, and the principle of common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities advocated for decades by developing countries, would very likely lead the world to high levels of GHG concentrations in the atmosphere, and fail to meet the UNFCCC goal of avoiding dangerous climate change and ensuring climate security. In this regard, Roberts and Parks (2010: 66) emphasize that a climate agreement without the participation of developing countries is of little value. The negotiations in Copenhagen were again deeply characterized by divisions between developed and developing countries. Considering that some developing countries, such as China and India, have recorded rapid growth in their GHG emissions and are already among the world’s largest GHG emitters, several devel- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 oped states argued that it would be environmentally dangerous if these countries were to continue without any target for their emissions (Nicoll 2010: 1–3). US President Barack Obama argued in his speech at the Copenhagen Conference that ‘all major economies must put forward decisive national actions that will reduce their emissions’ (Obama 2009). A similar appeal was made by the British prime minister, Gordon Brown, stating that ‘in recognition of their common but differentiated responsibilities, developing countries commit to nationally appropriate 224 Pedro Fonseca mitigation actions at their highest possible level of ambition, achieving a signi¿ cant reduction from business as usual’ (Brown 2009). However, taking into account the politics of climate change history, this is an extraordinary challenge because, as Victor (2011: 84) states, ‘governments of nearly all developing countries point to the deep unfairness in expecting poor countries to adopt possibly costly policies while other more basic human priorities are unmet’. In Copenhagen, developing countries again based their fundamental argument on the principle of common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities, and the historical responsibility of developed countries for climate change. Wen Jiabao, Premier of the State Council of the People’s Republic of China, invoking the historical responsibility of developed countries in climate change and emphasizing the differences in development, argued that ‘developing countries had the prime task of eradicating poverty and growing economy, but this should not be done along the old path of industrialization followed by developed countries and at the expense of resources and the environment’ (Cheng and Fan 2009). Wen Jiabao’s speech at the Copenhagen Conference, highlighting China’s actions to mitigate climate change and its projects for the future, perfectly illustrates how China frames the climate change negotiations (Jiabao 2009). Owing to the importance of Wen Jiabao’s speech, it is worth quoting it at some length:

The principle of ‘common but differentiated responsibilities’ represents the core and bedrock of international cooperation on climate change, and it must never be compromised. Developed countries account for 80% of the total global carbon dioxide emissions since the Industrial Revolution . . . then it is all too clear who should take the primary responsibility. Devel- oping countries only started industrialization a few decades ago and many of their people still live in abject poverty today. It is totally unjusti¿ ed to ask them to undertake emission reduction targets beyond their due obligations and capabilities in disregard of historical responsibilities, per capita emissions and different levels of development. Developed countries, which are already leading an afÀ uent life, still maintain a level of per capita emissions that is far higher than that of developing countries, and most of their emissions are attributed to consumption. In comparison, emissions from developing countries are primarily survival emissions and international transfer emissions. Action on climate change must be taken within the framework of sustainable development and should by no means compromise the efforts of developing countries to get rid of poverty and backwardness. Developed countries must take the lead in making deep quanti¿ ed emission cuts and Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 provide ¿ nancial and technological support to developing countries. This is an unshirkable moral responsibility as well as a legal obligation that they must ful¿ ll. (Jiabao 2009)

Similarly, Lula da Silva, president of Brazil in 2009, emphasizing his country’s efforts to ¿ ght climate change, also highlighted the principles of climate Memory and the politics of climate change 225 justice, historical responsibility and the income inequality between developed and developing countries (Silva 2009). Again, owing to the importance of Lula da Silva’s speech, it is worth quoting it at some length:

The money that will be put on the table is the payment of greenhouse gas emissions that were made over two centuries because they (developed countries) had the privilege of those countries that industrialized themselves ¿ rst. . . . [W]e would have to keep the principles that were adopted in the Kyoto protocol and to keep those principles in the Framework Convention because the truth of the matter is that we do have common responsibilities – but differentiated responsibilities. . . . I never forget that when I took of¿ ce in the year 2003, my commitment was to try to guarantee that each Brazilian could have breakfast in the morning, have lunch and have dinner. For the developed world, three meals is something of the past – something they achieved a long time ago – but for Africa, for Latin America for many Asian countries, this something still for the future. This is linked to the discussions that we are having here because it is not only about discussing climate change, we have to discuss development and opportunities for all countries. (Silva 2009)

The same arguments were used in Copenhagen by Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh. Again, it is worth quoting at some length:

[T]he vast majority of countries do not support any renegotiation or dilution of the principles and provisions of the UNFCCC, in particular, the principle of equity and common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities. . . . [I]t is clear that any agreement on climate change should respect the need for development and growth in developing countries. Equitable burden sharing should underlie any effective global climate change regime. Any new regime will have moral authority and credibility only if it acknowledges that every citizen of the globe has an equal entitlement to the global atmospheric space. . . . Each one of us gathered here today acknowledges that those worst affected by climate change are the least responsible for it. Whatever emerges from our negotiations must address this glaring injustice. (Singh 2009)

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 In his speech on behalf of the G77 + China in Copenhagen, Ali Na¿ e (2009) emphasized the main arguments of developing countries in climate negotiations, reaf¿ rming the principles of equity, and common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities. At the Conference, Ali Na¿ e said:

Our shared vision must reÀ ect the historical and current responsibility of developed countries for human-induced climate change, their resulting 226 Pedro Fonseca climate debt to developing countries, and establish the conditions needed for a fair and just sharing of the atmospheric resource. . . . It [our shared vision] recognizes and promotes the right to survival and to development, under equitable conditions, for present and future generations is a right of all countries and peoples, and that social and economic development and poverty eradication are the ¿ rst and overriding priorities of developing countries. (Ali Na¿ e 2009)

Near the end of the Copenhagen Conference, a meeting was held between the United States and Brazil, South Africa, India and China (known as the ‘BASIC Group’). The meeting resulted in a text known as the Copenhagen Accord, which makes no mention of targets or timetables for GHG emission reductions. Presented to the Conference, the Copenhagen Accord received opposition from Bolivia, Cuba, Nicaragua, Venezuela and Sudan because of the undemocratic process by which it was reached. Consequently, it was only ‘taken note’ of, and the Accord was left open to accession by the states (Mazo 2010: 121; Nicoll 2010: 1–3). Indeed, as Dimitrov (2010b: 796) argues, in Copenhagen the scale of the failure exceeded the worst expectations and the Copenhagen Accord represented no more than an attempt to mask the evident failure of the Conference. The reasons for this failure are related to the position of the US and Canada, countries that opposed the establishment of ambitious targets to reduce their emissions. On the opposite side were all of the other industrialized countries, which defended ambitious targets to reduce their emissions and proposed to transfer substantial ¿ nancial resources to developing countries in order to reach a global agreement. Meanwhile, countries such as China and India also prevented an ambitious agreement through their systematic blocking of more substantive proposals. Finally, countries that had previously demonstrated high commitment in climate negotiations, such the EU members and Japan, had minimal involvement in the decisive negotiations (Christoff 2010: 639; Posner and Weisbach 2010: 194). Thus, despite the decision about the package of ¿ nancial aid to help developing countries in the mitigation of and adaptation to climate change (Sandler and Kymer 2010: 146–8), the Copenhagen negotiation process ultimately ended without any mention of mandatory targets or timetables for GHG emission reductions (Christoff 2010: 639). The Copenhagen Accord stipulated that UNFCCC Annex I countries (developed countries) should submit their voluntary GHG emission reduction pledges for Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 2020 before 31 January 2010. For the ¿ rst time, non-Annex I countries (developing countries) should also submit their voluntary climate change mitigation pledges. In fact, analysing the mitigation targets submitted by the major GHG-emitting countries under the Copenhagen Accord, it is clear that they are less than required to avoid dangerous climate change and to ensure climate security (Birol 2010: 381–2; Climate Action Tracker 2010: 1–15; Dimitrov 2010a: 23–4; Roberts and Parks 2010: 70; UNEP 2012). Memory and the politics of climate change 227 In the major climate talks that followed the Copenhagen Conference, key developing countries emphasized in their discursive practices the main arguments on climate justice that characterized the last decades of climate negotiations. Among them were the following.

1 To reaf¿ rm equity, and common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities, as fundamental principles of the international climate change regime. 2 To highlight the historical responsibility of developed countries for climate change owing to their historical and high per capita emissions. However, it will be the developing and poorest countries that will suffer the worst consequences of climate change. Based on these arguments, developing countries emphasized that developed countries should take the lead in the ¿ ght against climate change and drastically reduce their emissions. Developed countries should raise funds and transfer technology in order to assist developing countries and the most vulnerable countries to mitigate and adapt to climate change. 3 To emphasize that the major challenges in developing countries are to reduce poverty, to ¿ ght energy poverty, and to promote economic and social development. 4 To report the profound injustice associated with growing calls for some developing countries also take on signi¿ cant reductions in their emissions. 5 To argue that developing countries have taken much more ambitious actions to mitigate climate change than developed countries. 6 To demand an agreement on a second commitment period under the Kyoto Protocol.

These arguments can be identi¿ ed in: the Cancun climate talks (COP16/CMP6), held in late 2010, in the Durban climate change conference (COP17/CMP7), held in late 2011; the Doha climate talks (COP18/CMP8), held in late 2012; and particularly the G77 + China statements (Al-Eryani 2010; D’Alotto 2011; Djacta 2012) and statements by China (Zhenhua 2010, 2011), India (Mehrishi 2012; Natarajan 2011; Ramesh 2010), Brazil (Teixeira 2010, 2011, 2012) and Indonesia (Witoelar 2010, 2012). These arguments can also be found in the joint declarations of the BASIC ministerial meeting on climate change (BASIC 2012a, 2012b, 2012c, 2012d, 2013). Given the available scienti¿ c data, the urgency of a new climate treaty with ambitious GHG emission reduction targets seems unquestionable if danger- Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 ous climate change is to be avoided and climate security ensured (Birol 2011: 40, 230–1). However, the latest talks have simply postponed decisive actions. At the Durban Conference (COP17/CMP7) held in late 2011, it was determined that new negotiations would begin in 2012 to conclude a global climate agreement by 2015 that would enter into force in 2020 (Morgan and Cameron 2011). Additionally, a second commitment period for the Kyoto Protocol was decided on, which enters into force in 2013 and runs until 2020. Nonetheless, 228 Pedro Fonseca the United States still refuses to participate in the Kyoto Protocol, while Canada, which failed to ful¿ l its targets in the ¿ rst commitment period of the Kyoto Protocol, announced that it will not participate in the second commitment period. The United Kingdom, despite considering the second commitment period of the Kyoto Protocol important, has highlighted the inadequacy of this approach, because ‘a second commitment period covering only the EU and two or three other developed countries would control less than 15 per cent of global emissions; some 85 per cent of global emissions would remain uncontrolled’ (UK 2011). As previously mentioned, a new climate agreement that meets the climate change challenge requires the involvement of all developed countries, but also the several fast-growing developing countries that are already among the world’s largest GHG emitters, such as China, India, Brazil and Indonesia. In fact, given the progress of GHG emissions in the last decade and the urgency of the problem, there is no space to defend a strategy based on the assumption that only developed countries have targets and timetables for GHG emission reductions (Garnaut et al. 2009: 104–5). ReÀ ecting on the problem, Stiglitz (2006: 175) emphasizes that it will take several decades for populous countries such as China and India to reach the per capita emission levels of the United States today. In fact, argues Stiglitz (2006: 175), in order to ensure climate security and to avoid dangerous climate change, key developing countries must commit to mitigation targets long before their per capita emissions or historical responsibility are similar to those of developed countries. This reality was highlighted by the European Union, which is admittedly one of the most committed actors in climate negotiations, taking positions that are more aligned with the concerns of developing countries. At the Durban climate talks, Connie Hedegaard, European Commissioner for Climate Action, said:

The Convention and the Kyoto Protocol continue to be the foundation of our international regime. A future regime needs to reÀ ect the reality of the new century, and the reality is that countries that were industrialized countries back in 1992 account for a rapidly decreasing share of emissions. Therefore, in order to tackle effectively the challenge in the 21st century all major economies need to commit. (Hedegaard 2011)

Analysing the politics of climate change history and dynamics, it is clear that an effective climate agreement that ensures climate security demands a new Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 relationship and reconciliation between developed and developing countries. However, this new relationship and reconciliation is very unlikely unless the climate change regime addresses the problem of memory, which is closely related to the climate justice debate and the claims of developing countries. In fact, it is crucial for there to be a renewed debate on the principles of equity, and common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities. Memory and the politics of climate change 229 Concluding remarks: a new relationship between developed and developing countries, and the conditions for reconciliation The recent ¿ nancial and sovereign debt crises, which have particularly affected the European Union, have been the Union’s primary concern over the last few years, and climate change has been marginalized in European policy agendas. However, in order to create a new relationship and to promote reconciliation between developed and developing countries in the international climate change regime, the EU needs to maintain a high level of ambition in climate talks. In fact, this is particularly important because the Union has taken the leading position in the international climate change regime over the last decades. The new relationship, and reconciliation between developed and developing countries, also demands a radical change in the US position. In fact, the United States has not rati¿ ed the Kyoto Protocol and has systematically refused to commit to targets that are consistent with its important historical responsibility, high per capita emissions and signi¿ cant scienti¿ c/economic capabilities. In fact, it is important to emphasize that, under the Copenhagen Accord, the US submitted a proposal to reduce its GHG emissions to 17 per cent below 2005 levels by 2020 – a value that is only about 3 per cent lower than its 1990 emission levels (Roberts and Parks 2010: 70). In fact, the United States’ refusal to agree to ambitious targets to reduce its GHG emissions, compounded by the fact that developed countries such as Canada have rati¿ ed the Kyoto Protocol, but failed to ful¿ l its objectives, are vital elements that have created major dif¿ culties in engaging key developing countries in ambitious climate change mitigation. As Schreuder (2009: 205) stresses, non-Annex I countries have argued that, ‘as long as Annex I countries fail to live up to their commitments under the UNFCCC and the Kyoto Protocol, there is no justi¿ cation for involving them in the post-Kyoto era’. Symptomatically, in the Copenhagen Conference, several developed countries proposed to ¿ nance voluntary climate change mitigation policies in developing countries. In exchange, developed countries requested the international veri¿ cation of these voluntary mitigation policies (Dimitrov 2010b: 807–8). However, the ¿ nance proposed had no impact on the negotiations. Countries such as Brazil, China and India tried to disqualify the ¿ nancial proposal, and refused the principle of international veri¿ cation, because it would threaten their freedom of economic development and sovereignty (Dimitrov 2010b: 817). The delegations of China and Venezuela, for example, argued that they did not want the developed

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 countries’ money, while several small islands reported that the big problem was their survival and not ¿ nancial aid, demanding that developed countries drastically reduce their GHG emissions (Dimitrov 2010b: 807–8). In the Copenhagen Conference, Brazilian President Lula da Silva stated that:

[T]he issue is not only the money. Some people think that only money would solve the problems. It did not solve the problems in the past, it will 230 Pedro Fonseca not solve the problems in the present, and even less it will solve the problems in the future. (Silva 2009)

As previously argued, in order to ensure climate security, the new relationship between developed and developing countries in climate talks must also be based on the idea that a new climate agreement needs not only the participation of all developed countries, but also that of the major developing countries and emerging economies. Additionally, as previously mentioned, invoking the principles of equity, and common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities, developing countries have always considered the demand made in climate talks that they reduce their GHG emissions to be an excellent example of environmental colonialism and climate injustice (Bulkeley and Newell 2010: 29). Faced with this dilemma, a new climate agreement will have to incorporate the essential requirements of developing countries about climate justice. This can be achieved through more stringent GHG emission reduction targets for developed countries than for developing countries, and differentiated emission reduction efforts for developing countries according to their level of development and income. Moreover, developed countries would have to transfer technology and mobilize signi¿ cant funds to ¿ nance climate mitigation and adaptation strategies in developing countries. In this way, it would be possible to ensure climate security, to respect the principles of equity, and common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities, to respond to developing countries’ demands for compensation, and to promote reconciliation between developed and developing countries in the climate change regime. Once these conditions have been ful¿ lled, the need for key developing countries to participate more actively in the international climate regime and to commit to reduction targets for their GHG emissions must not be seen by them as a punishment or an historical injustice. On the contrary, it should be seen positively as a reÀ ection of their growing importance in the world economy and global politics. In fact, the growing importance of countries such Brazil, China, India and Indonesia also requires them to take greater responsibility in the global commons management. Finally, taking on this responsibility should also be seen as an opportunity that could help to legitimize and strengthen their claims for greater representation in global governance structures and institutions. Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Bibliography

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References in italics indicate ¿ gures. 9/11 attacks 23, 24, 25–27, 59, 62, 71 Assembly of Captive European Nations 173 Aboriginal Australians 44, 46, 49–50, 59, Assmann, Aleida 5, 62, 157, 158, 168, 180 71–72 Assmann, Jan 62, 157 Absconder Apprehension Initiative 24 Association for Justice and Reconciliation accountability, in transitional justice (AJR), Guatemala 117 31–32 Atatürk, Mustafa Kemal 138, 145, accountability politics 38 146–149 Adorno, Theodore 78 atomic weapons 72, 170, 208–211 advocacy networks 37–38, 39 atonement, Jewish rituals 48–49, 51 Africa: US support of dictators 46; see Australia: Bali bombings (2002) 140; and also Rwanda; South Africa China 59–60; climate change 218; aid see international aid Gallipoli campaign (1915) 140; Stolen Alexander, Jeffrey C. 62, 169, 179 Generation 44, 46, 49–50, 59, 71–72; Ali Na¿ e, Na¿ e 225–226 support of East Timor 59 amnesties 110, 111, 115; vs prosecution Austria see Solferino, Battle of 33–34, 35 Avizienis, Jura 174, 178–179 Amnesty Committee (AC), South Africa Azerbaijan 64–65 110, 111 Amnesty International 35–36 Bali bombings (2002) 140 Anderson, Benedict 58 Balkan states 21, 25, 153–154, 162–166; Annan, Ko¿ 101–103 battle of Kosovo (1389) 22, 143 anti-colonial thinking 80 Ballinger, Pamela 169–170, 178 Anušauskas, Arvydas 171, 172, 173, 174 Baltic American Freedom League 173 apartheid see Truth and Reconciliation Baltic states 71, 171–173, 174–181 Commission (TRC), South Africa Barahona de Brito, Alexandra 31, 128 apologies 21, 32, 42–56; categories of Barrios de Chamorro, Violeta 196 44–47; performative nature 52–55, 54; Barta, Tony 46, 49–50 religious origins of 47–52 BASIC Group 226, 227

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Arab Spring 27–28 Bauman, Zygmunt 85 Arias, Oscar 135 Beck, Ulrich 85 Aristide, Jean-Bertrand 128–129, 130, 133 Belgium 24, 46 Armenia 21, 64–65, 170–171 Bell, Duncan 4, 46–47, 60, 62, 169, 222 arms control 198, 203–204; chemical Belli, Gioconda 188–189 weapons 204–206; landmines 211–213; Bengal famine (1770) 80–81 nuclear weapons 208–211 Betsill, Michele 223 Arnold, David 80–81 Beverly, John 184, 187 Arzu, Alvaro 110 Bhabha, Homi 182, 185 272 Index Bigo, Didier 97 climate change politics 89–90, 215–230; biological citizenship 132 climate justice 219–222, 223, 227, 230; biopolitics 105 climate security 216–217; common but Blitz spirit 78–79 differentiated responsibilities 215, Bosnia-Herzegovina 162, 163–164 219–222, 223; Copenhagen Conference bottom-up vs top-down approaches 35–36, 223–226, 229–230; Kyoto Protocol 216, 112–113 219, 220, 227–228, 229 Brandt, Willy 43, 53–55, 54 Clinton, Bill 44, 46, 129 Brazil 219, 224–225, 226, 228, 229 Club Voltaires 160 Brentlinger, John 186, 190 Cohn-Bendit, Daniel 162, 166 Britain see United Kingdom Cold War: effects of end 93, 94, 150, 152; Brown, Gordon 223–224 ethnic anti-communism during 173; US Brown, Sidney 208 identity during 25 Brown, Wendy 132 collective memory 3–4, 19–23, 138–139; Bukh, Alexander 68 and diasporic identities 170–171; and Bulkeley, Harriet 222 group behaviour 140–144, 148; and Burke, Edmund 81 individual memory 158; performative Bush Doctrine 59, 71 nature 140; Turkey 138, 141, 144–152; Buzan, Barry 95–97 see also transnational memory bystanders, and truth commissions 112, collective trauma 1, 139–140 116 colonial rule: and natural disasters 80–83; reluctance to apologize for 21–22; Cambodia 32 settler-colonial memories 66–67 Camus, Albert 85 commercial organizations, apologies by 44 Canada 44, 93; climate change 218, 226, Commission for Historical Clari¿ cation 228, 229 (CEH), Guatemala 110, 114–117 carbon dioxide emissions 216, 218, 219; commodi¿ cation of trauma 123, 127, 128 see also greenhouse gas (GHG) communicative memory 62 emissions communism 171–173, 174–180 Cardenal, Ernesto 184, 188 communities, and natural disasters 84–85, Carter, Jimmy 189 86–87 Caruth, Cathy 2, 3 compensation payments 32, 33, 45, 52; Catholic Church: apologies by Pope 44; climate change 221, 223, 230 Guatemala 110, 114–117 conÀ ict resolution, and transitional justice CEH see Commission for Historical 31 Clari¿ cation (CEH), Guatemala conÀ icts, and memory of trauma 64–65, Celermajer, Danielle 42, 43, 45, 46, 47–49, 66–68, 73 51, 53 Congo 70 certainty, sense of see ontological security connective memory 62 Césaire, Aimé 80 Conrad, Peter 104–105 Chapman, Audrey 112, 113 Conrad, Sebastian 5, 180 chemical weapons 204–206, 208 constructivism: human security 94–98; China 59–60, 73; climate change 219, 223, identity and foreign policy 57, 58–60; 224, 226, 228, 229; imperial 79 norms 155 cholera, Haiti 89 contemporary apologies 46

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 chosen traumas 22 contestation of memory 67–68, 71–73 Christianity: understanding of Copenhagen Accord 226, 229 reconciliation 113; see also Catholic Copenhagen Conference 223–226, Church 229–230 Christoff, Peter 220, 221–222, 226 Copenhagen School 95–97 cinema 179–180 coping strategies, natural disasters 84–85, civil society: Haiti 127–128, 129, 86–87 130–131, 132–133, 134; and transitional Coptic Christians, Egypt 27–28 justice 35–36, 37, 46 Council of Europe 174–175 Index 273 criminal prosecutions 31, 32, 33–34, 35, Espinales, Mayra 192 38; deterrent effect 39–41; Guatemala Estelí, Nicaragua 183, 190–197 110, 117 Estonia 71 Crusades, apologies for 44 ethical witnesses 199–204 cultural memory 62, 158, 159 Ethiopia 206, 208 Cunningham, Michael 44 ethnic anti-communism 173 customary justice 36 European Union 150, 171, 174–175; climate change 217, 218–219, 226, 228 Damodaran, Vinita 80–81 exclusionary trauma stories 64–68 Damušis, Adolfas 172–173 Darfur 69, 70 famines 80–82 Dauphinee, Elizabeth 212–213 Farmer, Paul 123, 126, 128, 132 Davoliǌtơ, Violeta 177, 179 Fattah, Khaled 140 Davuto÷lu, Ahmet 151 Fatton, Robert 124–125 Dayan, Daniel 170 Favier, Rene 75–76 Day Lewis, C. 80 fawn response 63, 68, 69 Dayton Agreement 163 fezzes 138, 147 de Klerk, F. W. 110, 111 Fierke, Karin 140 Democracy Goddess memorial 173 ¿ ght response 63, 64 deportations see Lithuania Finland 82 deterrence 39–41 First World War see World War I Detraz, Nicole 223 Fischer, Joschka 162–163, 165–166 diasporas: Armenian 170–171; Haitian À ight response 63, 71 129, 133; Irish 82; Jewish 65; foreign policymaking 4, 8, 57–73; and Lithuanian 171–173, 174, 178, 180 contestation of memory 71–73; German diffusion theory 38–39 Green Party 161–166; and image 57, Dimitrov, Radoslav 226, 229 58–60; and nature of trauma 64–68; disarmament see arms control structural constraints 69–71; Turkey 141 disciplinary normalization 98, 100–101 forgetting 53, 142, 146 Douglas, Mary 135–136 forgiveness 113 Dunant, Henry 200–203 Foucault, Michel 98, 105, 125–126, 136 Durban Conference (2011) 227 frameworks of memory 4 Durkheim, Emile 78 France 70, 170; see also Solferino, Battle Duvalier, Jean-Claude 128, 136 of dynastic rule, and natural disasters 79 Francis, Hilary 182, 194, 197 Dynes, Russell 76–77 freeze response 63, 68 Fritz, Charles 74, 78, 84 earthquakes: Haiti 88–89; Japan 74, FSLN see Sandinista National Liberation 86–87; Lisbon 76–77 Front (FSLN) Earth Summit (1992) 218 Fukushima power stations, Japan 87 East India Company 80–81 Furedi, Frank 84, 85, 87, 100 East Timor 32, 36, 46, 59 ecologism 78 Gaddis, John Lewis 58 Edkins, Jenny 1, 2, 3, 5, 59, 139, 143, 159, Gallipoli campaign (1915) 140, 146 178, 222 García Márquez, Gabriel 185, 186

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Egypt 27–28 gender-based violence 111, 112, 115, 133 Eid, Ursula 165 generations 61–62 Elizabeth II, Queen 44 Geneva Conventions 203, 210–211 Enlightenment 75, 76–77, 78 Geneva Protocol (1925) 206 entitlement, politics of 132 genocide: Armenia 21, 64–65, 170–171; environmentalism 78 Lithuanian narrative of 171–173, Erbakan, Necmettin 151 174–181; Namibia 21; see also Erdo÷an, Recep Tayyip 138, 151 Holocaust; Rwanda Erikson, Kai 85 Gerardi Conedera, Juan José 110, 116–117 274 Index Germany: apologies for Holocaust 43, Herera genocide, Namibia 21 53–55, 54, 60, 66; Green Party 154, hijabs 138 160–166; inclusionary trauma story 68; Hiroshima, Japan 72, 170, 208–210 reÀ exive identity 21; reparations to historical apologies 46 Israel 60, 66; Warsaw Ghetto uprising historical memory: and foreign 43, 53–55, 54 policymaking 64–71; and identity Gibbons, Luke 81, 82 60–62 Gibson, James 109, 111, 113 historicity 19 Giddens, Anthony 16, 19, 24–25, 85 Hockenos, Paul 160, 161, 162–163, Glissant, Édouard 126 165 global ¿ nancial crisis 44 Holocaust 1, 46; apology by Pope 44; globalization 19, 22 German apologies 43, 53–55, 54, 60, 66; Gorbachev, Mikhail 178 and German reÀ exive identity 21; Grand National Assembly (GNA), Turkey German reparations 60, 66; humanist 145, 147–148 responses 78; Israel’s response 64, Granet-Abisset, Anne-Marie 75–76 65–68; Lithuania 171, 175–177; Gray, Peter 81–82 obfuscation 176–177; transnational Graybill, Lyn 50–51 memory 168, 169; Warsaw Ghetto Great Depression 142 uprising 43, 53–55, 54 Greece 145 Homeland Union, Lithuania 174 greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions Hopf, Ted 57, 59 216–217; developed countries 220, 221, Horkheimer, Max 78 222, 229; developing countries 223, Howard, John 46, 49 228; reduction targets 215, 218–219, Huber, Max 206–207, 208 220, 226, 227, 230 Human Development Index 126 Green Party, Germany 154, 160–166 humanism 78–79 Greenpeace 217 humanitarian aid see international aid Grinkeviþiǌtơ, Dalia 178, 179 human rights trials see criminal Gros, Jean-Germain 128, 131 prosecutions group behaviour 139, 140–144, 148 Human Rights Violations Committee Grybauskaitơ, Dalia 176 (HRVC), South Africa 110, 111–112 Guatemala 109–110, 114–117 Human Rights Watch 35–36, 70, 129 Gumpert, Martin 203 human security 92, 93–98 Hurricane Katrina (2005) 85–86 Hague Laws 205, 206, 208 Hutchison, Emma 140 Haiti: civil society 127–128, 129, Hutchison, John F. 204 130–131, 132–133, 134; earthquake Huysmans, Jef 17, 18 (2010) 88–89; international NGOs 127, 128, 129, 130–131; levels of poverty ICC see International Criminal Court 126–127; politics of trauma 123–137; (ICC) re-establishment of armed forces 134, ICRC see International Committee of the 135, 136 Red Cross (ICRC) Halbwachs, Maurice 3, 138 ICTJ see International Center for Hamber, Brandon 109 Transitional Justice (ICTJ) Hansen, James 217 identity: and foreign policymaking 57,

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Hare, William 217 58–60; and historical memory 60–62; vs Harrison, Lawrence 124–125 material interests 59–60; and ontological Hatley, James 199–200 security 16, 18, 19, 20–23, 24–25; headscarves 138 Turkey 138, 141, 144–152; US health see mental health post-9/11 25–26 Health as a Bridge for Peace project IET see intergroup emotions theory (IET) 99–100 image see identity Hedegaard, Connie 228 images, power of 55 Henighan, Stephen 184 inclusionary trauma stories 68 Index 275 India: Bengal famine (1770) 80–81; Jack, Malcolm 76–77 climate change 219, 223, 225, 226, 228, James, C. L. R. 80 229; and Pakistan 73 James, Erica 123, 125, 126, 127, 128, 132, indigenous peoples: Aboriginal Australians 133–134, 136 44, 46, 49–50, 59, 71–72; Canada 44; Jameson, Frederic 185 Maoris 44; Maya 114, 117; and Japan: apologies for World War II 21, 44, settler-colonial memories 66–67 72, 73; climate change 218, 226; Indonesia: apologies by 46; Bali bombings earthquake and tsunami (2011) 74, (2002) 140; climate change 228; East 86–87; Hiroshima and Nagasaki 72, Timor 32, 36, 46, 59; Rawagedeh 170, 208–210; history textbooks 62, 68; massacre 44–45 inclusionary trauma story 68 information politics 38 Jelin, Elizabeth 9, 60–61, 169–170, 178 instrumentalism and identity 59–60 Jenkins, Gareth 149, 150 Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Jewish people 64, 65–68; atonement rituals Change (IPCC) 216–217, 219 48–49, 51; Lithuania 177; see also intergroup emotions theory (IET) Holocaust 140–141 Junod, Marcel 208–210 international aid 88–89, 98–99; Haiti 127, JustTruth 107, 108–110, 111–112, 128, 130–131 114–116, 117–118 International Center for Transitional Justice (ICTJ) 35, 36 Kagame, Paul 69–70 International Commission for the Kamat, Sangeeta 131, 132 Evaluation of the Crimes of the Nazi Karake, Karenzi 70 and Soviet Occupation Regimes in Kasteiner, Wulf 63 Lithuania 175–176 Katz, Dovid 176–177 International Committee of the Red Cross Katz, Elihu 170 (ICRC) 198–199, 203–214; chemical Keck, Margaret 38 weapons 204–206; landmines 211–213; ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ slogan 23 nuclear weapons 208–211; practice of Kemalists, Turkey 144, 146–150, 151, 152 mythologization 206–208 Kerulis, Leonardas 172 International Criminal Court (ICC) 32, 34, Kinnvall, Catarina 17, 19, 22 36, 70 knowledge 156–157 International Criminal Tribunals 32; for Korea 73 the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) 34; in Korean War 150 Rwanda (ICTR) 51 Kosovo 21, 25, 164–166; battle of (1389) International Energy Agency (IEA) 223 22, 143 international humanitarian law 207, 208, Kratochwil, Friedrich 154, 156, 157 211 Krause, Keith 93 International Monetary Fund (IMF) 130 Kristeva, Julia 1, 51–52 international political sociology 97–98 Krupaviþius, Mykolas 172 International Tribunal against Violence Kumar, Chetan 128–130 toward Haitian Women 133 Kurds 149 International Tribunal on Rights on Haiti Kustario, Lukas 45 133 Kyoto Protocol 216, 219, 220, 227–228, invisibility, trauma of 67–68 229

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Iran 66 Ireland 81–82 Laidi, Zaki 90 Isaacs, A. 114, 115, 116 Laing, R. D. 16 Islam, in Turkey 138, 146–148 landmines 211–213 Islamists 140, 150, 151–152 Langenbacher, Eric 170 Israel 60, 64, 65–68; see also Jewish language: and memory 143–144, 146–147; people at truth commissions 116 Italy 206, 208 Latin America 34, 35; see also Nicaragua Izmir, Turkey 145 Latvia 71 276 Index Lausanne, Treaty of 145 Molina, Uriel 186, 190 Lavalas, Haiti 128–129 monuments 158, 173 law, international humanitarian 207, 208, Mora, Alberto J. 26 211 Morgan, Roger 59 League of Nations 206 mortality, recognition of 3 Lederach, John Paul 108, 109 Mubarak, Hosni 27 leverage politics 38 Müller, Jan-Werner 5, 158, 222 Levi, Primo 78 Müller, Kerstin 162, 163, 166 Levy, Daniel 168 Munch, Edvard 11 Libya 153 Muñóz, Galo 195–197 Lisbon earthquake (1755) 76–77 Munro, Martin 123, 126 Lithuania 71, 171–173, 174–181 murals 190–191 Lucas García, Romeo 117 museums 158, 174 Lukša, Juozas 179–180 lustration 33 Nachtwei, Winfried 163–164 Nagasaki, Japan 72, 170, 208–210 McCain, John 26, 71 Naimark, Norman M. 176, 177 MacDonald, David B. 168 Nakba 67 MacDonald, Matt 140 Namibia 21 McEvoy, Kieran 36 National Captive Nations Committee 173 McGregor, Lorna 36 National Coalition for Haitian Refugees McSweeney, Bill 17, 18, 23 (NCHR) 129 Maguire, Robert 124, 127 National Commission for Truth and Malinauskaite, Gintare 171, 179 Justice, Haiti 133 Mälksoo, Maria 175 national identity see identity Managhan, Tina 134, 136 nationalism and ontological security Mandela, Winnie 111 23–24 Maoris 44 National Security Council, Turkey (MGK) Martelly, Michel 134–135, 136–137 149–150 mato oput 52 nationhood and trauma 20 Mayan people 114, 117 NATO see North Atlantic Treaty Mayer, Jane 26 Organization (NATO) media: as memory carrier 170, 180; South natural disasters 74–91; as acts of God Africa 110, 112, 113 75–76; as acts of man 78–79, 85, 87; as medicalization 104–105 acts of nature 76–78; colonial responses memory, de¿ ning 3–4, 61 80–83, 88–89; and politics 79–80, 83, memory carriers 169, 170, 171 87–91; resilience paradigm 86, 90–91 mental health: and natural disasters 84, 85; Nelson, Brendon 50 post-conÀ ict scenarios 92, 97, 99–101; Netherlands 44–45 securitization of 100–101; shell shock 1 Newell, Peter 222 MGK see National Security Council, New Zealand 44, 218 Turkey (MGK) NGOs see non-government organizations Middle East 144–145 (NGOs) migration, and nationalism 23–24 Nicaragua 182–197; testimonies 183–188, military coups: Haiti 129; Turkey 149, 150 190–197; trauma of electoral defeat

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Millennium Declaration 102 182–183, 188–190, 192, 193, 196 Miller, Peter 126 Nietzsche, Friedrich 53 Miloševiü, Slobodan 143, 165, 166 Nobles, Melissa 43, 45, 54 Minow, Martha 109, 110, 112, 114 non-government organizations (NGOs): Miranda, Dorys 191, 192–193 Haiti 127, 128, 129, 130–131; Mitchel, John 82 transitional justice 35–36 Mitzen, Jennifer 17, 18, 19, 92 Nora, Pierre 157, 180 mnemonic reconstruction 142, 146 normalization: disciplinary 98, 100–101; modernization, disasters of 77–78 of trauma 124–125, 127, 136 Index 277 normative pressures, deterrence effect Poland 171, 175; Warsaw Ghetto uprising 39–41 43, 53–55, 54 North Atlantic Treaty Organization political economy of trauma, Haiti 125, (NATO) 150, 153–154, 160–161, 163, 132, 133 164–165, 166 political leaders, apologies by 44, 45 Norway 93 political memory 158–159 nuclear accident, Japan (2011) 87 political trauma 1, 3 nuclear weapons 72, 170, 208–211 politics: and advocacy networks 38; biopolitics 105; of entitlement 132; of Obama, Barack 72, 85–86, 223 memory 31; and memory 222; and O’Donnell, Guillermo 34 natural disasters 79–80, 83, 87–91; of Of¿ ce of the High Commissioner for trauma in Haiti 123–137; see also Human Rights (OHCHR) 36 climate change politics O’Gorman, Edmundo 185 Pombal, Marquis of 76–77 Ohman, Jonas 180 Pope, apologies by 44 Olick, Jeffrey K. 3–4, 10 Portugal 76–77 Onken, Eva-Clarita 30–31 positive mental health 104, 105 ontological security 15–29, 92; and Posner, Eric 219, 220, 221, 226 international relations 17–19; theory post-trauma stress responses 63–64 15–17; understanding trauma through post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) 85, 19–28 87, 104 optimism see social optimism Pouliot, Vincent 155, 157 optimism, social 78–79, 83, 84–85 power balance, and transitional justice 38, oral historical traditions 62 39 Organization of the Petroleum Exporting power technologies 123, 125–126, 128, Countries (OPEC) 219 132 Ortega, Daniel 189, 196–197 Prague Declaration on European Orwell, George 71, 79 Conscience and Communism 176–177 Ottoman Empire 138, 141, 143, 144–145 prosecutions see criminal prosecutions psychological responses to trauma 63–64 paci¿ sm 161, 162 psychosocial dysfunction 85, 87 Pajaujis-Javis, Joseph 172 PTSD see post-traumatic stress disorder Pakistan 73 (PTSD) Palestine 66–68 punishments 32, 35; deterrent effect 39–41 pardons see amnesties Paris School 97–98 Quarantelli, E. L. 75 Parks, Bradley 223 Quinn, Joanna 36, 127, 128, 129, 133 Paz, Octavio 183, 185, 186 peace-building 98 R2P see responsibility to protect (R2P) peacekeeping missions: Darfur 69, 70; Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty 173 Haiti 89 Radzilowski, John 173 peace movement 161 Rai, Shirin 52–53 Pelơkis, K. 172 ‘rally round the À ag’ mentality 23 perpetrators, and truth commissions 111, Ramírez, Sergio 187–188, 189–190, 197 115, 116 Rawagedeh massacre, Indonesia 44–45

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 personal trauma 1 reconciliation 107–119; Guatemala 110, pessimism see social pessimism 114–117; national and individual pessimism, social 78, 83, 85 112–114, 117, 118–119; need for truth Petryna, Adriana 132 108; social 92, 97, 98–101, 106; South pictorial turn 55 Africa 35, 44, 46, 110–114 Pigott, Charles 81 Recovery of Historical Memory Project Pineda, Jorge Luis 194–195 (REMHI), Guatemala 110, 114–117 Pinochet, Augusto 34 Red Cross see International Committee of poisonous gas 204–206 the Red Cross (ICRC) 278 Index reÀ exivity 21, 24 settler-colonial historical memories 66–67 refugees 85, 98; Guatemala 114; Haitian Sèvres, Treaty of 141, 145–150 129 Sewell, William 157 Reid, Julian 90 shame 21, 24–25 religion: Christian understanding of shell shock 1 reconciliation 113; Islam in Turkey 138, Short, Clare 22 146–148; and natural disasters 75–76, Sierra Leone, criminal prosecutions 32 77; and origins of apology 47–52; and Sikkink, Kathryn 30, 38, 39–41 truth commissions 110, 113, 114–117 Silva, Luiz Inácio Lula da 224–225, religious apologies 42–43, 44, 48–49, 53 229–230 religious identities 19 Simon Wiesenthal Center 175, 176, 177 REMHI see Recovery of Historical Singh, Manmohan 225 Memory Project (REMHI), Guatemala Skey, Michael 23–24 Renan, Ernst 58 Slaughter, Joseph 201 reparations 32, 33, 35; to Israel 60, 66; see Smith, Dan 20 also compensation payments Snyder, Jack 34 resilience paradigm 86, 90–91 Snyder, Timothy 176, 178 responsibility to protect (R2P) 153 social change: Arab Spring 27–28; and restitution 32, 33; see also reparations globalization 19; and natural disasters restorative justice 34–35, 118 80, 82–83, 84–85, 90; and ontological retributive justice 32, 34–35 security 20, 23, 28–29 Ríos Montt, Efraín 117 social memory 157–158, 159; and group Roberts, J. Timmons 223 behaviour 140–144, 148; see also Rose, Nikolas 126 collective memory Ross, Fiona 109, 111, 112 social movements 18, 160–161 Rousseau, Jean Jacques 76, 77 social optimism 78–79, 83, 84–85 Rudd, Kevin 49–50 social pessimism 78, 83, 85 Rueda Estrada, Verónica 184 social reconciliation 92, 97, 98–101, 106 Rugama, Leonel 194 Solferino, Battle of 200–203 Rushton, Simon 103 Sommaruga, Cornelio 212 Russia 62, 71, 166, 174; see also Soviet sorry books 44 Union South Africa 109–110; climate change Rwanda 25, 36, 46; gacaca courts 50–51; 226; Truth and Reconciliation response to genocide 69–70 Commission (TRC) 35, 44, 46, 110–114 South Sudan 69 Salant, Walter 142 sovereignty: concept of 153; vs Sandinista National Liberation Front humanitarian intervention 154, 156, (FSLN) 182, 186, 187, 188, 189, 191, 159, 162–167 193, 195–196 Soviet Union: and Armenia 64; and Baltic Sandinista revolution see Nicaragua states 71, 171–173, 174–181; climate Sandino, Augusto César 194 change 218; contestation of memory 72 Schmitter, Philippe 34 Special Hearings on Women, South Africa Schreuder, Yda 229 112 Schudson, Michael 142 Srebrenica 162, 164 Schuller, Mark 124, 127, 130, 131 Stalin, Joseph 72, 171

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 Scream, The 11 state, concept of 153, 155–156 Second World War see World War II state apologies 44–45, 46 securitization 95–98; of mental health Steinbeck, John 84–85 100–105 Steinberg, Ted 88 self-determination 144–145 Stiglitz, Joseph 228 Sen, Amartya 88 Stockholm Conference (1972) 216 Sepetys, Ruta 179 Stolen Generation, Australia 44, 46, 49–50, Serb ethnic group 22, 143 59, 71–72 Serbia 162, 165, 166 Stolorow, Robert D. 2 Index 279 Stråth, Bo 158–159 TSK see Turkish Armed Forces (TSK) street artists 190–191 tsunamis, Japan (2011) 74, 86–87 strength, identities of 25–26 Turkey 138, 141, 144–152; and Armenian structuration theory 16 genocide 21, 64–65, 171 Sudan 69, 70 Turkish Armed Forces (TSK) 148–150 Sudan Peoples’ Liberation Movement Tutu, Desmond 113 (SPLM) 69 survivors: construction of transnational ubuntu 113 memory 169–170, 178–179; and truth Uganda 36, 52, 69 commissions 111–112, 115–116 UNDP see United Nations Development Suziedelis, Saulius 175, 176 Programme (UNDP) symbolic politics 38 UNFCCC see United Nations Framework Sznaider, Natan 168 Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) Teitel, Ruti 31 Union of Political Prisoners and Deportees temperature rise, global 217 in Lithuania 174 testimonialization 199–200, 213–214 United Kingdom: and American Civil War testimonies: Nicaragua 183–188, 190–197; 24; Bengal famine 80–81; Blitz spirit see also International Committee of the 78–79; climate change 228; Irish potato Red Cross (ICRC); truth commissions famine 81–82; ‘Keep Calm and Carry therapeutic communities 84–85 On’ slogan 23; and Kosovo 25; tomo gong 52 migration and nationalism 23–24; phone Tomsky, Terri 180 hacking scandal 44; shame over top-down vs bottom-up approaches 35–36, appeasement 25; shift to social 112–113 pessimism 83; and Zimbabwe 22 topos 156–159 United Nations: Charter 153, 156; Toronto Conference (1988) 218 Conference on Climate Change torture, deterrence 40, 41 223–226; Conference on Environment traditional justice 36 and Development 218; Conference on transitional justice 30–41; de¿ ning 30–32; the Human Environment 216; and Haiti impact of 39–41; key debates 33–36; 89, 130; Millennium Declaration 102; measures 32–33; reasons for adoption Of¿ ce of the High Commissioner for 37–39; see also truth commissions Human Rights (OHCHR) 36; transnational advocacy networks see securitization of mental health 101–103; advocacy networks and social reconciliation 92, 97, 98–101; transnational memory 168–181; cultural transitional justice 36; see also dimension 169–170, 178–180; Commission for Historical Clari¿ cation Holocaust 168, 169; Lithuanian (CEH), Guatemala narrative of genocide 171–173, 174–181 United Nations Development Programme trauma-dramas 169, 172, 178–180 (UNDP) 36, 93, 126, 220 traumatic events, de¿ ning 1–3 United Nations Framework Convention on TRC see Truth and Reconciliation Climate Change (UNFCCC) 216, 217, Commission (TRC), South Africa 218, 219–220, 223 Treaty of Lausanne 145 United States: 9/11 attacks 23, 24, 25–27, Treaty of Sèvres 141, 145–150 59, 62, 71; American Civil War 24;

Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017 trials see criminal prosecutions apologies by 44, 46; Bush Doctrine 59, truth 108; JustTruth 107, 108–110, 71; Chicago ¿ re (1871) 77; climate 111–112, 114–116, 117–118 change 218, 219, 226, 228, 229; Truth and Reconciliation Commission contestation of memory 71, 72; Gulf (TRC), South Africa 35, 44, 46, 110–114 Coast oil spill 44; and Haiti 88, truth commissions 32, 33, 35, 107–119; 129–130; Hurricane Katrina (2005) deterrent effect 39–40; Guatemala 110, 85–86; Iraq and Afghanistan wars 71; 114–117; Haiti 133; South Africa 35, 44, and Japan 72; memorial to victims of 46, 110–114 communism 173; missiles in Europe 280 Index 161; and Nicaragua 183, 188, 189, 195; Wendt, Alexander 58 nuclear disarmament 211; refugee policy Wen Jiabao 224 129; and Rwanda 25, 69, 70; shift to Wesley, John 76, 77 social pessimism 83; support of Armenia WHO see World Health Organization 64 (WHO) United States Agency for International Wilde, Jaap de 95–97 Development (USAID) 124, 130 Williams, Michael 93 women, and truth commissions 111, 112, Valenzuela, Edna 183, 191–193, 196 115, 133 van der Merwe, Hugo 112–113 Wood, Nancy 63 Venclova, Tomas 177 World Bank 221 Venezuela 229 World Health Organization (WHO) 92, 97, Verhofstadt, Guy 46 99–100, 101, 102–104, 105 victimhood 132 World Meteorological Organization 216 Victims of Communism Memorial World War I 1; Armenian genocide 21, Foundation 174 64–65; Belgium’s entry into 24; Victor, David 220, 224 chemical weapons 204–206; Gallipoli Vietnam Syndrome 71 campaign (1915) 140, 146; Ottoman Vietnam War 55, 83 Empire 141, 144–145 Vinjamuri, Leslie 34 World War II 1; British Blitz spirit 78–79; Virilio, Paul 90 Hiroshima and Nagasaki 72, 170, Vivian, Bradford 142, 143 208–210; Japanese apologies 21, 44, 72, Volkan, Vamik 22 73; UK shame over appeasement 25; see Voltaire 76 also Holocaust Worthington, Everett 108 Waever, Ole 95–97 Walker, Pete 63 Yom Kippur 48–49, 51 war neuroses 1 Yugoslavia 21, 34, 153, 156, 166; see also War on Terror 26 Kosovo; Serbia Warsaw Ghetto uprising (1943) 43, 53–55, 54 Zarakol, Ayse 17, 18–19, 20–22 watershed moments 142 Zehfuss, Maja 4, 59, 60, 68, 159, 160 weapons control see arms control Zerubavel, Yael 138–139, 142 Weber, Cynthia 58 Zimbabwe 22 Weisbach, David 219, 220, 221, 226 Zionism 65–66 wellness 100 Zuroff, Efraim 177 Downloaded by [University of Wisconsin - Madison] at 01:22 17 January 2017