When residents of Washington, D.C., gathered in late 2003 to deliberate about budget priorities for the city, they followed a format that has become increasingly popular. Organizers of this Citizen Summit, the third in a series, had recruited a demographically representative group of 2,800 citizens and had gotten the Mayor’s commitment to include the summit’s recommendations in a citywide strategic plan. Seated at tables of twelve with a professional facilitator at each, participants traded ideas for reforming police-community relations, discussed the need for more senior housing, and debated with city officials about who should control the public schools.
Meanwhile, outside the Washington summit, sixty people with banners and a megaphone had gathered to protest the mayor’s policies on housing and education. “Fund schools, not a stadium,” one protester yelled when the mayor appeared, while others took up a chant: “Tony is a phony!” The mayor nevertheless invited the protestors to join the summit, and according to the Washington Post reporter who was covering the event, a few minutes later, some of them did.
The question for proponents of public deliberation is this: should the mayor have invited the protestors to join the forum? The question for students of social movements is this: should the protesters have accepted the invitation? The questions for both are these: In an era in which deliberative fora have proliferated, with citizens now routinely given the opportunity to make recommendations about policy, what is the relation between deliberation and protest? Should deliberation make protest unnecessary? Or does the institutionalization of deliberation make protest even more necessary?
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In the spring of 2013, as I was conducting a political ethnography and interviews with members of the Front National (FN) in the southeast of France, I had an extended conversation with Pauline (a pseudonym), an up and coming FN politician. The day I visited her in her home near Avignon, the shops in the town’s center were mostly shuttered, while North African immigrants sipped tea along the hot, dusty sidewalks.
Pauline encapsulates the new face of the Front National, a party conventionally described as belonging to the radical right. She is a fiercely intelligent and vivacious woman in her fifties born into a working class family, and has had a successful career as a schoolteacher and now as a school principal. She described to me at length her process of disaffection with the Socialist party and her transition to becoming an FN activist.
Given her class origins, she had taken for granted supporting the Socialists from birth. Yet, through her experiences working in the French national school system, and her sense that the “1968 generation” had destroyed it with its excessive political correctness, she found herself looking for something new. She underwent a surprise conversion to the FN after meeting Jean Marie Le Pen, the former FN leader, who quickly spotted her potential and recruited her into the party. Her deeper engagement with the party came when Marine Le Pen, Jean Marie Le Pen’s daughter, became party leader. Pauline strongly identifies with Marine, as she’s fondly called by her supporters. Like many other men and women FN activists I’ve spoken to, she sees Marine as a “modern woman” who understands the difficulties faced by French citizens far from the fashionable cafes of Paris.
Pauline’s story captures how disaffection with the traditional centrist parties in France and other parts of Europe is transforming into support for radical right parties. Hers is a tale of participation, discontent with mainstream politics, and the rerouting of participation into a passionate battle against liberal elitist politics.
It’s also a tale of how estrangement from institutional party politics has unintentionally merged with decades of feminist activism intended to increase women’s participation in political life. Embodying a change from “politics as usual,” women leaders and activists are seen as the new great hope. Since women have long been excluded from equal participation in institutional party politics and are a minority within France’s state elite, many FN supporters see them as inherently anti-establishment. Marine Le Pen plays the anti-establishment role to perfection, evoking love, admiration, and passion amongst her supporters, old and new.
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“Participation” is officially the buzzword of this political season.
During a recent address at my own university, Hillary Clinton called upon an auditorium full of college students to be the “participation generation.”
“Citizenship is a team sport,” she declared. “We can’t afford to leave anyone sitting on the bench. Everyone has to participate.”
And indeed, more and more seem to be. Over the past decade in the United States, ordinary citizens across the political spectrum have flocked to new participatory projects.
Highly visible efforts like the Occupy movement and the Tea Party are only the tip of the iceberg. Often out of sight, community organizers mobilize millions of Americans around the country, while residents of major cities are experimenting with new forms of public engagement, including participatory budgeting.
For the past several years, my fieldwork within a local Tea Party group and a progressive faith-based community organizing coalition has placed me at the center of this participation boom.
But I am also perched at its edge, where the participation of groups that are sometimes considered “bad” for democracy – like rightwing groups and religious groups – puts enthusiastic proclamations like “Everyone has to participate” to the test.
In the United States, calls for greater citizen participation are typically grounded in a vision of democracy as a process marked by openness and inclusion of all people – including people with whom one disagrees.
But this definition of democracy as a process exists in tension with a substantive vision of democracy as a particular kind of society rooted in particular values. And there is widespread disagreement (at least in the US) about what this good society should look like.
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Poster circulated on social media is one of a series titled: “How to overthrow the Dictatorship in Venezuela? Attack the system hitting it at its base.” The first sequence reads: “Civil disobedience: Carrying out guarimbas, Convoking marches, Demonstrating.” The second sequence “International Support: Record repression, Store information, Distribute massively”
That participation has been a central issue in the past fifteen years in Venezuela is well known. In electing Hugo Chávez in 1998 and rewriting the constitution in 1999 Venezuelans overwhelmingly supported a move from a model of democracy that restricted citizen participation to occasional trips to the polls to a model in which there would be a tighter, more robust engagement of state and society.
Of course this represented a rather late change in official structures of the state, running to catch up and accommodate the growth of citizen participation in multiple, non-state channels, in the 1980s and 90s, from street protest to popular religion.
And there is ample scholarly work on the many different participatory initiatives of the Chavez era, including communal councils, community radio and more recently the rise of the communes.
Less understood, however, is how fundamental issues of participation have been at play in the political opposition to the Chavez and now Maduro governments. Here I will focus on the ironies of participation involved in the cycle of protest that has, over the past four months, caused more than forty deaths, shaken the government of Nicolas Maduro and exposed the fault lines in Venezuela’s opposition movement.
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By Matthew Mahler
We are all political animals. A silly claim to be sure. At a time when rates of civic participation are hardly universal and opinions of elected leaders and of government, more generally, are at an all-time low it’s almost difficult to imagine a more fatuous declaration. And yet, I believe this senseless point is not only one worth considering but is also one that will help us think more clearly (and realistically) about the phenomenon of participation.
To understand the value of such a claim requires us to think a bit about the problem of intersubjectivity – that is, how it might be possible for two (or more) people who inevitably perceive the world from different perspectives to nonetheless sustain the presumption that theirs is a world in common with others. While we traditionally assume that the meaning of things is anchored in the very objectivity of things themselves or in the symbols that we use to represent those things to ourselves and to others, what Garfinkel, following Schutz, famously recognized, is that shared understandings are never exclusively a product of things themselves or of our representations of those things.
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By Gianpaolo Baiocchi and Ana Cláudia Teixeira
For some time this last June Brazil occupied the headlines for its own version of “Occupy,” when the Free Bus Pass Movement catalyzed a national wave of protests comparable to the global Occupy Movement and the Arab Spring. What began as a relatively small dispute over a bus-fare hike in São Paulo later escalated into mass protests involving millions of Brazilians around the country, mobilizing protestors in at least 140 cities. In city after city, police batons and tear gas were met with Facebook and Twitter, and by month’s end the country had come to a near stand-still as an amorphous movement made demands ranging from access to transportation and health to protests against lavish World Cup expenditures and campaign financing reform.
It was a self-described “horizontalist” and internally democratic movement led by young people independent from all political parties that lacked a clear agenda, ideology, or even specific proposals. The fares were reduced, the national government proposed some specific responses on items like healthcare, and an ambitious political reform was discussed for a moment before disappearing into congressional morass.
The amorphous movement—the “June Protests”—had repercussions in other sectors as well before it fizzled by year’s end. Anti-privatization protesters took to the streets in October to protest the privatization of oil, and at one point oil workers in 16 states across Brazil went on strike while bank-tellers forced the closure of some 12,000 bank branches in October. Meanwhile, the Movement Against Dams occupied the construction sites of two hydroelectric projects, while the Landless Workers Movement and Small Producers Movement mobilized national protests with a focus on food sovereignty. Public school teachers and their allies in several cities across the country staged militant strikes, at one point exchanging rocks with the police in Rio.
Together, these protests have occasioned a fair bit of rethinking about Brazilian democracy. Does police violence justify violence in response? What are the limits of civil discourse?
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What is cooptation? What is the meaning of being “co-opted”? The Oxford dictionary provides three meanings for co-opt, from which the noun cooptation is derived:
1. Appoint to membership of a committee or other body by invitation of the existing members
2. Divert to or use in a role different from the usual or original one
3. Adopt (an idea or policy) for one’s own use.
A number of scholars have increasingly grown uncomfortable with the term “cooptation.” If you do research or are interested in contemporary Latin American politics, you probably have noticed that the term is oftentimes used in reference to the participation of social movements in the governments emerging from the breakdown of the Washington Consensus.
From the CONAIE in Ecuador to the Community Councils in Venezuela, from the unemployed “piquetero” movements in Argentina to indigenous and peasant organizations in Bolivia, a number of social movements have been cooperating with government structures by working closely with state programs or its leaders have become members of Congress.
In other words, in the last fifteen years or so, the first meaning of the term “cooptation” seems to be accurate, in the sense that social movements, civil society organizations, and community networks have been appointed to the administration or have been recognized and admitted as members of a polity that was previously closed to them. Nevertheless, in everyday political parlance (and in several scholarly analyses) the second meaning of the term is the one that usually prevails.
Put differently, cooperation with the government and inclusion in the polity are seen as signs of social movements losing their transformative spirit, diluting their original promise of social change into a “reformist” agenda.
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Philip Lewin and Rebecca Hanson
The impetus to host an informal discussion regarding the promises and pitfalls of political participation was triggered by a presentation given by Gianpaolo Biaocchi at the Georgia Workshop on Culture, Power and History in November 2012 (organized and attended by Tim Gill, Rebecca Hanson, Pablo Lapegna, Philip Lewin, and David Smilde). During the workshop, a discussion emerged regarding how the value that researchers assign to participation seems to alternate between enchantment and disenchantment. For instance, while popular protest against the Washington Consensus led scholars to believe that participation could generate positive social change during the 1990s, many now hold a more guarded view of its promise.
As the discussion unfolded, we debated not only the limits of participation with respect to achieving social change, but also its darker underside. For example, we noted how rather than facilitating democratization, participation can accentuate the advantages of active minorities. We also discussed how participation sometimes weakens progressive institutions rather than shoring them up, and how the discourses associated with citizen participation are often used to promote a neoliberal withdrawal of the state.
The primary target of our discontent, however, involved the normative meanings that in our view had become attached to the idea of participation. Whether implicitly or explicitly, political sociologists tend to conceptualize participation in moral terms—as something that people should do and as a vehicle for achieving changes in the world that they should seek. We tend to assume that people want to participate in the political process, make decisions about governance, and that they are motivated by a genuine desire to effect positive change.
This understanding of participation, however, often reflects the normative dispositions of academics rather than an actually existing empirical reality. Given scholars’ inclination to study people who share their outlooks, those who choose not to participate are often overlooked and ignored in the literature.
These lines of discussion—and the success of Caroline Lee, Michael McQuarrie and Edward Walker’s Democratizing Inequalities conference in 2010—spawned the idea to stage an informal workshop on the study of political participation parallel to the upcoming American Sociological Association meetings in New York City. Participation Ain’t What it Used to Be was held at New York University’s Gallatin School on August 12, 2013. In this post we offer a summary of the lively debate that occurred as an invitation to continue the dialogue.
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The scholarly literature on participation tends toward extremes, and the extremes, it seems to us, are cyclical. Discussions of participation seem to go through waves of enchantment and disenchantment. Criticism is overtaken by enthusiasm, to be then overtaken by dismissal, and then perhaps rediscovery.
If we start with Pateman’s 1970 classic Participation and Democratic Theory, a glance at the titles at any number of stops along the way, from Putting the Last First (Chambers 1990), to Participation: The New Tyranny (Cooke and Kothari 2001), to Spaces for Change? (Coelho and Cornwall 2007) gives a sense of this movement. And in the literature as a whole (not necessarily in these books above) there are also the predictable small skirmishes at the edges about what generation a particular study belongs to, or who is the first to declare “fatigue” or to rediscover the previously forgotten.
We intend for this virtual conversation to build upon a wave of scholarship in the literature on participation that works from a perspective of empirical and normative interrogation. (The literature is vast and we do not pretend to provide a review of it here, but forthcoming collections by Lee, Mcquarrie, and Walker 2014, and Alvarez, Baiocchi, Rubin, Thayer and Lao provide a good orientation. See also Poletta 2013 for a useful recent review).
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