Samuel Moyn from Communist to Muslim: European Human Rights
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Samuel Moyn From Communist to Muslim: European Human Rights, the Cold War, and Religious Liberty A series of decisions by the European Court of Human Rights in the era of the pan-European headscarf controversies has thrown open an important debate over the principle of religious freedom. The court, most recently in the spectac- ular decision of Lautsi v. Italy permitting cruci- fixes in Italian schools, adopts a forgiving atti- tude toward Christian symbols and practices but does not offer comparable protection to Muslim symbols and practices suppressed by state legisla- tion and administrative decisions.1 The renowned European devotion to a neutral state above con- tending religions seems to be more image than reality. Do the cases then reflect a Christian Islam- ophobia in the principled garb of secularism? Commentators sympathetic to the decisions see nothing wrong with the court or the European Convention of Human Rights norm of religious freedom. At worst, there is simply a mistake in the way the court applies the norm (see Decaux 2010). But a more thoroughgoing criticism insists that the decisions follow from a deeper and longer syndrome, and these more uncompromising crit- ics are right to resist ascribing the results to acci- dent alone. For both defenders and critics of the The South Atlantic Quarterly 113:1, Winter 2014 doi 10.1215/00382876-2390428 © 2014 Duke University Press 64 The South Atlantic Quarterly • Winter 2014 court’s mission to sustain a supranational human rights regime—indeed, to be in the vanguard of such regimes and thus a model for the world to emulate—much is at stake in deciding how to interpret the history of reli- gious freedom. Is it possible that it is poisoned at the root? This essay offers an alternative to both common answers, arguing instead that contemporary headscarf and related cases in the European Court draw not solely upon the exclusionary legacy of Western secularism but also upon the exclusionary legacy of Western hostility to secularism. One of the avatars of the con- temporary Muslim, whose practices are viewed as inimical by the court to democracy’s essentials, is the communist. In several of the cases, the European Court itself works with a histori- cal narrative of the rise of secularism close to that offered by John Rawls in his late “political liberalism.” In this story, the secular political space is the outcome of a bloody era of early modern religious warfare: What began with the nervous truce of a modus vivendi evolved into an overlapping consensus featuring not just peace but justice, too (Rawls 1993). In this narrative, reli- gious freedom is a long-term companion of the creation of a secular political space, in which a transcendent state rises above the attempt by sects to infuse public matters with private faith. That faith is protected in private on condi- tion of its staying there. Ironically, those skeptical of European secularism see the same tight relationship between religious freedom and secular poli- tics. They agree that the former became early allied to and swept up in the rise of the latter. But at least in one version of the critique of secularism, it is little more than orientalism in a new disguise (Anidjar 2006). More gener- ally, much critical writing about the cases treats the bias against Muslims in the European Court cases as entirely unsurprising, since it does not seem that easy to separate European secularism from the Christian legacy it ven- triloquizes. On this view, precisely because of religious freedom’s long-term links to the creation of a secular political space, it has proved discriminatory in practice (Danchin 2011). Yet other features of the history of religious freedom point in a very different direction than either the enthusiastic or the diagnostic account suggests. I believe that the early modern record of the principle of religious freedom implies as much; forsaking that background, this essay analyzes the era when religious freedom was internationalized through the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and Europeanized in the form of the Euro- pean Convention itself—finalized when the Cold War created new circum- stances for the ideological salience of religious freedom. In its earliest ori- gins, religious freedom was a device to continue the struggle for the true Moyn • From Communist to Muslim 65 Christianity, not to end that struggle. So in its mid-twentieth-century itera- tion, religious freedom was not part of a secularist enterprise, whether one defines it as the project of privatizing religious affiliation, creating a naked public square, or—as the critics hold—concealing the Christian faith behind the mask of neutrality. The notion of accidental Christian misuses of an entirely secular principle is thus misleading. On the contrary, religious free- dom was historically a principle that was most often intended to marginalize secularism. Indeed, it was as part of such a campaign that the European Convention in general and its Article 9 on religious freedom first appeared little more than a half century ago. Article 9 of the European Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms (1950) has two clauses. Announcing the principle of religious freedom, it begins by closely following the Univer- sal Declaration of Human Rights: “Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right includes freedom to change his religion or belief and freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief, in worship, teach- ing, practice and observance” (art. 9[1]).2 But the European Convention also assumes that, unlike the inviolable right to the sanctity of the internal forum of conscience, the right to manifest internal beliefs can be overridden: “Free- dom to manifest one’s religion or beliefs shall be subject only to such limita- tions as are prescribed by law and are necessary in a democratic society in the interests of public safety, for the protection of public order, health or mor- als, or the protection of the rights and freedoms of others” (art. 9[2]). Already before 9/11 the European Court—which had not really taken up Article 9’s promise of religious freedom until the 1990s—had shown itself willing to interpret that last provision in ways that treated Islam as a second-class religion not entitled to the same sort of consideration as the Christian faith.3 Since then, it has issued a series of decisions that grant European states wide latitude to ban Muslim symbols. In Dahlab v. Switzer- land, a schoolteacher who had converted from Christianity to Islam and began to wear a headscarf to work was told by authorities to choose between her headscarf and her job. A Swiss federal court held that public safety and order justified the administrative decision. But if Dahlab dealt with a teacher, allowing the court to emphasize the power of a role model in the classroom (though no student or parent had complained), Leyla Sahin v. Turkey, like Bel- gin Dogru v. France and a series of cases testing France’s famous 2004 law banning conspicuous religious symbols, concerned Muslim students. The most visible and discussed of these cases, Sahin, involved a medical student 66 The South Atlantic Quarterly • Winter 2014 who had worn the headscarf in her training in Vienna but was told she could not do so at her Turkish certification test. The Dogru court, following the Sahin ruling, emphasized “the State’s role as the neutral and impartial orga- niser of the exercise of various religions, faiths and beliefs.” The state’s ser- vice as secular arbiter above the fray, hard-won outcome of Reformation con- flict, remained “conducive to public order, religious harmony and tolerance in a democratic society” (para. 62). The court certainly did prominently refer to local interpretations and ingrained traditions (in France, Switzerland, and Turkey) of secularist political order. Invoking its well-known judge-made doctrine of “margin of appreciation”—a perennially controversial principle of deference to national policy—it found that these particular European countries might well have the latitude to forge especially stringent interpretations of secular space. But in doing so, the court also developed its own interpretation of what demo- cratic societies require, an interpretation that the headscarf offends. This “democratic minimum” analysis, I want to argue, proves to be a valuable clue to the legacy of history in the court’s cases.4 In this connection, consider Refah Partisi v. Turkey (2003), a decision declining to uphold the claims of Turkish applicants whose Islamist political party had been banned. Though already strongly implied in Dahlab, the later case made it even clearer that, in the court’s judgment, Muslim practices can be plausibly viewed as threats to a democratic minimum, justifying state abridgment of rights to mani- fest; and it was cited again in Sahin and Dogru for precisely that proposi- tion.5 This complementary element of Article 9 jurisprudence—in which the minimum “necessary in a democratic society” (art. 9[2]) does not protect the religious practices but allows for their suppression—turns out to be equally important to evaluating the legacy of history as the court’s deference to national policy below. For this conceptual basis on which the cases rest had nothing originally to do with religion in general or Islam in particular. Instead, its source lies in Cold War anxiety that secularist communism would topple Christian democracy. If so, the secularism of the European Court’s headscarf cases is at least partly a recent artifact, following from the collapse or even “death” of Christianity in living memory on the European continent (Brown 2009).