The politics of participation

From Athens to e-democracy

Matt Qvortrup

• Publisher: Manchester University Press
• Year: 2013
• Print ISBN: 9780719076596
• eBook ISBN: 9781847796981
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Médias et arts de la scène
• Subtopic: Histoire et critique du cinéma

Is democracy in crisis? Not according to this book! In this fascinating study, Professor Qvortrup shows that citizens are engaged in politics like never before by voting in referendums and participating in demonstrations and other forms of 'low politics'.

Part I

Theoretical aspects of citizen politics

Democracy is what social scientists call a social construct. It is not a phenomenon which can be studied experimentally or in the way that phenomena are studied by the natural sciences. What then is democracy?

In chapter 1 I consider some of the problems involved in the study of so loosely defined a concept and phenomenon as ‘democracy’ in terms of the methods of political science. After a critical introduction to the subject – and a critique of the idea that popular government can be analysed in a scientific manner – I turn to an alternative, more humanist, approach to the study of politics.

As a social construct itself, politics has a history, and in one sense the debate about democracy is a dialogue with more than 2000 years of ongoing discussions of the subject. Chapter 2 presents an account of the history of citizen democracy, from ancient Greece to the present day, with an emphasis on political and philosophical ideas.

1

Understanding citizen politics: a methodological overview

Before beginning this analysis of the problems of political participation, it is necessary to briefly consider how we might study a phenomenon as complex and multifaceted as politics.

There is no simple answer to that question. David Hume, the eighteenth-century Scottish philosopher, inspired by Isaac Newton, suggested that ‘[p]olitics may be reduced to a science’ (Hume 1985), yet he failed to spell out what, if any, laws of politics obtained in his discipline. Political scientists of subsequent centuries, it seems, have not had much luck in their similar endeavours. Laws such as Robert Michels’s ‘iron law of oligarchy’ (Michels 1911) and Duverger’s ‘Law’ (according to which first-past-the-post electoral systems lead to two-party systems) are either trivially true (in the case of Michels) or have been falsified by actual events – thus, that Canada has more than two main parties falsifies Duverger’s ‘Law’, if it was intended to be a law in the first place. Indeed, it might be argued that the search for such ‘laws’ is altogether misplaced – and is even obsolete in the sciences themselves. As Hannah Arendt (1983, 61) has put it, the concept of laws in the social sciences and history was

always a metaphor borrowed from nature; and the fact is that this metaphor no longer convinces us because it has turned out that natural science can by no means be sure of an unchallengeable rule of law in nature.

Those who (still) entertain the thought that politics can – in due course – become a science are seemingly forced to agree with Karl Popper’s observation that politics is ‘yet to find its Newton or Galileo’ (1957, 1).

Keeping within scientific discourse, the science of politics (if it can be thus called), is characterised by being in a constant state of flux, with its competing paradigms, epistemologies and theoretical approaches. Political science, to use the terminology of philosopher of science Thomas S. Kuhn, is in a revolutionary period (see Polsby 1998, 199). According to Kuhn scientific disciplines can be divided into two phases: a revolutionary phase, where competing schools battle over the proper study of the discipline; and a normal phase, where there is universal agreement on an established paradigm and most work in the scholarly community is guided towards puzzle-solving, i.e. fitting in the last pieces of the jigsaw to establish a complete picture (1962, 36). During periods of normal science, the process of scholarly discovery is cumulative. And, while political science may not have made discoveries on a par with those of Kepler, Newton or Boyle, some argue that political science has made progress and that it has now established a ‘paradigm’.

Presenting a case for rational-choice theory – often defined as the use of micro-economic models in the study of politics –Shepsle and Bonchek have argued that political science may not yet be ‘rocket science’, but the use of sophisticated mathematical models means that politics can be studied using some of the same models that are applied by astrophysicists and chemists. As they put it:

The transformation of the study of politics from storytelling and anecdote swapping, first to thick description and history writing, then to systematic measurement, and more recently to explanation and analysis, constitutes a significant movement along the scientific trajectory (1997, 7).

Arguing in a similar vein, Almond (1996, 50–51) has opined:

If we were to model the history of political science in the form of a curve of scientific progress in the study of politics over the ages, it would probably begin in Greek political science, make some modest progress in the Roman centuries, not make much progress in the Middle Ages, rise a bit in the Renaissance and the Enlightenment, make some substantial gains in the 19th century, and then take off in solid growth in the 20th century … It [political science] is ‘progressive’ in the sense that it imputes the notion of improvement to the history of political studies, in the quantity of knowledge, and in quality in terms of both insight and rigor. With respect to insight, most colleagues would agree that Michael Waltzer (1983) has a better grasp of the concept of justice than does Plato, and with respect to rigor (and insight as well) Robert Dahl (1989) gives us a better theory of democracy than did Aristotle.

But can this view be justified? The view that Waltzer and Dahl knew more about justice and democracy than, respectively, Plato and Aristotle seems questionable, and is perhaps best repudiated by the prediction that more people in 200 years time will read Plato and Aristotle than Dahl and Waltzer.

The problem with Almond’s statement is that it assumes that in political science theoretical debates can be concluded with finality. This has not been the case in the past. Whereas theoretical physicists would waste time by delving into the finer points of Johannes Kepler and Tycho Brahe’s writings, and are well advised to concentrate on the most recent research, the reverse is true for political scientists. It is impossible to understand the debate about the politics of participation without being familiar with the great debates from Plato and onwards. Politics – like the arts – never takes place in a vacuum, is always historically conditioned, and constantly refers back to previous experiences and practices (see chapter 2).

Even if we focus on the empirical side of Almond’s argument it seems that he has a rather weak case with regard to what politics – qua a science – has in fact accomplished. In the 1960s, so-called structural functionalists and behaviourists (of which Almond was one) believed that various models of cybernetics and applied sociology provided insights on the political process that answered the fundamental questions. Today, these models are sometimes invoked, though they are not treated as veridical.

More recently, rational-choice theorists have developed theories that purport to demonstrate the possibility of predicting the outcome of elections using the models of economic forecasting (Lewis-Beck and Rice 1990). The problem with these models is twofold: they have been empirically falsified; and they are based on a relatively short period in time. The main objection against scientific models is, however, that they are based on an idea of unchangeable individuals. Homo sapiens – a species of individuals possessed of free will – do not conform to the rigid models of mathematics. This is not a novel insight – though it is an important one. Adam Smith rejected this idea of ‘the man of the system’ who seems to

imagine that he can arrange the different members of a great society with as much ease as the hand that arranges the different pieces upon a chess-board. He [the man of the system] does not consider that the pieces upon the chess board have no other principle of motion besides that which the hand impresses upon them; but that in the great chess-board of human society, every single piece has a principle of motion of its own, altogether different from that which the legislature might choose to impress upon it. (2002, 275)

To be sure, such problems might – conceivably – be remedied by using so-called dynamic mathematical models (Cooper 2004). Yet, while such models might be accurate, it is questionable that they reveal much about the actual motivations of the actors, in a way that is useful both to citizens and to practitioners.

Given that there is no paradigm of politics – and that such a paradigm seems to be an epistemological impossibility (cf. Smith’s discussion of the man of the system) – an alternative model needs to be developed.

The model proposed here is based on the premiss that we want to understand the political agents, i.e. why citizens get involved in participatory democracy. The fundamental assumption is this: politics is a cultural activity, which changes in response to numerous personal, social and cultural factors. To fully grasp the nature and significance of political events and phenomena, we must steep ourselves in the details in a process of what cultural anthropologist Clifford Geertz has called ‘thick description’. That political phenomenon is ‘something to which social events, behaviours, institutions, or processes can be causally attributed; it is a context, something within which they can be intelligibly – that is thickly – described’ (Geertz 1973, 14).

While the mathematical models might capture quantitative aspects of the political process – and are useful and interesting in that respect – they do not provide us with the full overview and with a deeper understanding. To understand the politics of participation (i.e. the subject of this book), it is certainly useful to consider statistical models and apply these (as will be done in chapters 3 and 4), but the use of quantitative models must always be a complement to an overall quest for a narrative grounded in cultural and practical developments. William James, the American pragmatist, made a case for this view suggesting that proper scholarly activity ‘ekes out the narrowness of personal experience by concepts which it finds useful but not sovereign; but it stays inside the flux of life expectantly, recording facts, not formulating laws’. (James 1948, 98).

In the present book, the aim is not, therefore, to develop an overall theory – or paradigm – of political participation, but rather to bring together different aspects of the phenomenon, which will be defined as ‘the politics of participation’ by bringing together different facts and sources of information. As French political scientist Raymond Aron argued this is so because in the ‘political order multiple causes determine events’, that is, ‘the destiny of a collectively is the result of multiple phenomena, external and internal to the group’ (1994, 57).

The process of studying politics must, consequently be attuned to this reality, which is why it is necessary to devise a method that acknowledges and takes into consideration the many interrelated levels of politics. To be able to study the political, it is imperative that we follow an approach akin to what has been called ‘the sociological imagination’, by C. Wright Mills in a book by that title. That is, to study political participation we must have the

capacity to shift to shift from one perspective to another – from the political to the psychological; from examination of a single family to comparative assessment of the national budgets of the world; from the theological school to the military establishment; from considerations of an oil industry to studies of contemporary poetry. It [the sociological imagination] is the capacity to range from the most impersonal and remote transformations to the most intimate features of the human self – and to see the relations between the two. (Mills 2002, 7).

To adopt this perspective does not imply that we abandon social science methods, such as the comparative method. Indeed, the comparative method contributes important insights. As Edmund Burke, the philosopher observed in A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and the Beautiful: ‘We ought to compare our subject with things of similar nature, and even of things of contrary nature; for discoveries may be, and often are made by the contrast, which would escape us on the single view’ (Burke 1998, 54).

In the case of political participation, examples from individual countries cannot stand alone, but must be put into perspective. Consequently, while this book is mainly based on analyses of participatory politics in a British context, it also contrasts findings from other similar countries in Europe, North America and Australia.

By contrasting and comparing cases we can get a sense of general tendencies and trends, but we cannot – and should not – expect to find general laws of political participation. Instead, what we can observe are patterns across cases.

Thus while I analyse patterns, and even introduce theories in chapters 3 and 4, the analysis of concrete phenomena in chapters 5 to 9 will be based on a method which deliberately avoids grand theory.

This might be criticised. What is the point of political science if it cannot even provide us with law-like formulations and recurrent patterns? The answer to this question is that politics is too complex a phenomenon to be subjected to a ‘scientific’ study. The study of politics, very much like detective work, is an endeavour which requires us to draw on many sources and clues, but always with the overall aim of finding a plot. To understand political events – like why governments decide to hold referendums (see chapter 8) or what determines the level of electoral turnout in elections (chapter 3) – we need to look for ‘certain fundamental concepts, which run like red threads through the whole’ (Arendt 2000, 112).

Positivist political science is often based on a rather crude imitation of the natural sciences. The phenomenological study of the subject (which concentrates on finding the ‘plot’), on the other hand, has a more illustrious philosophical pedigree, going all the way back to Aristotle.

In his Poetics, Aristotle saw it as the aim of literature to uncover the plot. The same is true for political science:

In writing his Odyssey he [Homer] did not put everything that happened to Odysseus … for it was not a matter of necessity … that either of these incidents should have led to other: on the contrary, he constructed the Odyssey round a single action (Aristotle 1965, 43).

That is, in analysing the concrete case we seek to understand the plot or logic that applies to this case, but not necessarily to other cases. We analyse political phenomena like we analyse a novel or a play! Hence, doing political science ‘is like trying to read (in the sense of “construct a reading of”) a manuscript – foreign, faded, full of ellipses, incoherencies, suspicious emendations, and tendentious commentaries, but written not in conventional graphs of sounds but in transient examples of shaped behaviour’ (Geertz 1973, 10).

In analysing political participation, we must (as I try to do in the final three chapters) use a verstehen (understanding) approach. This is one of the reasons why political science is a complicated subject to study, for, to invoke Hans-Georg Gadamer, political participation, being a cultural phenomenon, is often concerned with experiences that ‘lie outside science’, and is consequently concerned with experiences which ‘cannot be verified by the methodological means proper to science’ (Gadamer 2004, xxi).

While political science in Britain has traditionally been based on a ‘narratological approach’, this has rarely been made subject to detailed analysis (Page 1990; Qvortrup 2004). As British (and Australian) political scientists are being constantly challenged by positivist approaches (especially from North America), it is worth sketching an outline of a justification for adopting this approach.

Individuals do not readily engage in politics, and the politics of participation deals with those extraordinary situations when the ‘people’ – for a variety of reasons – do become engaged in political activities. Hence political participation is about more than reason and rationality: it is also about passion and engagement. To be sure, there may be certain things that often trigger mass protests, but the exact nature of political action is always an unknown. It is because of this that political deeds – by their very nature – can never be understood in terms of an overarching theory. This brings us back to contemporary political science, the problem with which is that it is based on what we might call the hypothesis of conformism, i.e. the view that individuals conform to the already established patterns. This view is especially pertinent in economics and statistics – the disciplines on which much recent political science – e.g. rational-choice theory – is based (Shepsle and Bonchek 1997).

Friedrich Nietzsche once observed – perhaps slightly tongue in cheek:

Statistics proves that there are laws in history. Yes, it proves how vulgar and disgustingly uniform the masses are. You should have kept statistics in Athens. Then you would have sensed the difference. The more inferior and unindividual the masses are, the more rigorous the statistical laws. (1995, 208)

Modern political science seems to positively endorse this ‘disgusting’ uniformity by insisting on looking for recurrent patterns even among events that are plainly unique, such as the East Germans’ demonstrations in front of the Berlin Wall in 1989. The result of this is that ‘everything distinct disappears and everything that is new and shocking is (not explained but) explained away either through drawing some analogies or reducing it to a previously known chain of causes and influences’ (Arendt 2000, 163).

This approach is fundamentally at odds with the models of political science developed by humanist thinkers like Aristotle and Machiavelli and their modern followers. To recapture those elements of political practice, Hannah Arendt has suggested that the Machiavellian concept of virtū provides a possible escape route. Virtū, according to Arendt, is

best rendered by ‘virtuosity’, that is, an excellence we attribute to the performing arts … where accomplishment lies in the performance itself …[The] virtuosoship of … virtū somehow reminds us of the fact … that the Greeks always used such metaphors as flute playing, dancing, healing, and seafaring to distinguish political from other activities, that is, they drew their analogies from those arts in which virtuosity of performance is decisive. (1983, 153)

In other words, ‘since all acting contains an element of virtuosity, and because virtuosity is an excellence we ascribe to the performing arts, po...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Contents
• List of illustrations
• Acknowledgements
• A note on the data
• Introduction
• Part I Theoretical aspects of citizen politics
• Part II Empirical foundations of citizen politics
• Part III Case studies in citizen democracy
• Conclusion: quo vadis democracy?
• References
• Index