Читать книгу Founding Acts - Serdar Tekin - Страница 7

Introduction

The Problem of Democratic Founding

… it would be well to examine the act by which a people is a people.

— Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Remember the night of February 11, 2011. More than a million demonstrators had been occupying the Tahrir Square in downtown Cairo for eighteen long days when Hosni Mubarak, Egypt’s longstanding president/dictator, finally gave in and stepped down. As the whole world was watching with intrigue, the Egyptian people enacted a revolution at a time and place that was perhaps least expected. The popular protest had begun a couple of weeks before Mubarak’s resignation, first in Tunisia, then in Egypt, spreading like wildfire and catching everyone by surprise. Those who spontaneously populated the Tahrir Square were ordinary men and women from all walks of life. They were nonviolent but full of indignation, fed up with decades of dictatorship, with police brutality and emergency laws, with poverty, unemployment, electoral fraud, and political corruption. The protesters voiced two clear demands from the outset: immediate resignation of the president/dictator and establishment of a democratic regime.

Although it took less than three weeks to end Mubarak’s thirty-year reign, the transition to democracy proved to be much harder. Perhaps this was not surprising in and of itself, but things went especially wrong in the process of constitution-making. Partisan imposition prevailed over collective deliberation, leading to new waves of strikes and protests, which eventually triggered a military coup. A politics of restoration is currently underway, and no one quite knows what it will take to set the country back on the track of democratization or how long this process will take. In the current situation and with the benefit of hindsight, it is not a moot speculation to say that things could have been drastically different if the constitution-making process had unfolded the right way. However, it did not, and the revolution was not succeeded by what Hannah Arendt called constitutio libertatis, the foundation of political freedom, or at least by a constitutional beginning which carries the promise thereof.¹

Questions abound. How does democracy get off the ground? How can the revolutionary “event” transform itself into a constitutional “form” without degenerating into dictatorship or into the turmoil of permanent revolution? What does it mean to begin the experiment of self-government in the right way? Is it possible, for instance, to begin democratically where there was no democracy before? What sort of constitution-making process would promote widespread legitimacy at moments of foundation? Such questions bring home to us the central problem addressed in this book: the problem of democratic founding.

The Importance of Founding Moments

This book is about the importance of founding moments for the project of constitutional democracy. Its basic thesis is quite simple: how constitutions are made (or their pedigree) is morally and politically as significant as what they are made of (or their content).² In making this claim, I take my point of departure from a twofold observation. On the one hand, all democratic constitutions feature “the people” as their author and ultimate source of legitimacy. The principle of popular sovereignty has been indispensable to the normative self-understanding of constitutional democratic regimes since the American and French Revolutions. There is no constitutional democracy without popular sovereignty, and we do not recognize a source of authority superior to the people. On the other hand, however, we live in a world characterized by an ever growing awareness of difference and plurality—a world where the notion of a sovereign people acting on one will and speaking in one voice is inevitably met with suspicion. According to its critics, more specifically, the idea of a unified people is implicated in a hegemonic vision of political community, a vision which is almost always imposed on a diverse population through less than salutary means.³

Such imposition was unmistakably at work in the Egyptian process of constitution-making. The Muslim Brotherhood took the majority vote as the single and authoritative voice of the people, thereby adopting a winner-take-all approach. But sweeping statements in the name of the people are inherently difference-blind. They tend to ignore diversity and heterogeneity, while at the same time fostering partial interests, particular conceptions of the good and dominant ways of life under the guise of cherished democratic ideals. What this means is that the “people themselves” are never “the people.” Lacking a single authoritative voice, they speak in a plurality of voices, and everyone wants to be heard, rightfully, in her own voice.

This leaves us with a pressing question: if the will of the people is the deep source of democratic legitimacy, but if the people speak only in a plurality of voices, then what do we make of constitutional claims of popular sovereignty? Again, every democratic constitution claims to embody the political form that citizens are in some sense supposed to have chosen for themselves. But in what sense, exactly? What is the sense in which the constitution is the expression or the embodiment of the people’s will? Or to put it the other way around, how can citizens regard themselves as the authors of the higher law which claims to speak on their behalf? When does a constitution really or genuinely speak for the people? And how does it come to live up to the principle of popular sovereignty in a plausibly nonfictive way? Such questions are no doubt among the fundamental questions of constitutional and democratic theory, but they are especially pertinent to our present condition where the voice of the people turns out to be irrevocably fragmented.

This book has grown from the hunch that founding moments bear a particular significance under the circumstances that I have just described. There is a longstanding tradition in modern political theory—a tradition extending from Thomas Hobbes to John Rawls—that subscribes to a “hypothetical” account of popular sovereignty in one way or another. In this view, popular sovereignty is meant to convey the basic normative insight that political power should be justified in terms of those general principles that everyone—in their collective capacity as “the people”—would consent to, had they been acting on good will and right reason. But if the voice of the people is fragmented, if everyone wants to speak and to be heard in her or his own voice, then no such abstract or pre-political agreement can be justifiably stipulated in advance, and constitutional claims of popular sovereignty can no longer exclusively or even primarily rest on this type of “hypothetical” argument. That is to say, conversely, a democratic constitution must have a strong foothold in what actual citizens have to say in their own voices about the form and principles of their own political organization. Hence the central thesis of this book: the process of constitution-making (how a constitution is made) is morally and politically as significant as the content of the constitution (or what it is made of). In other words, I argue that a democratic constitution is not only supposed to set up the institutions of self-government, but it is also supposed to be formed, as much as possible, democratically. Constitutional claims of popular sovereignty would lay claim to democratic legitimacy to the extent that citizens themselves take part in the process of constitution-making, thereby underwriting their constitution in a nonfictive sense.⁴

For reasons that will become clear in due course, I hold that deliberative democratic theory offers the most developed paradigm for exploring the complex nexus between constitutional claims of popular sovereignty and the practice of constitution-making in our pluralistic age.⁵ This being said, my argument moves away from a certain trend in deliberative democratic theory, a trend which dissolves actual political participants into an allegedly “subjectless” flow of communication. In a well-known statement of this position, for instance, Jürgen Habermas writes: “The ‘self’ of the self-organizing legal community disappears in the subjectless forms of communication that regulate the flow of discursive opinion- and will-formation in such a way that their fallible results enjoy the presumption of being reasonable. This is not to denounce the intuition connected with the idea of popular sovereignty but to interpret it intersubjectively.”⁶ While I agree that models of popular sovereignty subscribing to the notion of the people as a counterfactual macro-subject are no longer tenable, I doubt that a model centered around “subjectless forms of communication” is the sole or even the most plausible alternative. Rather, this book defends a deliberative politics of founding in which concrete forms of political agency play a pivotal role, and the constitution comes to have a toehold in the site of shared democratic experience created thereby. This is essential not only to the democratic legitimacy of a new constitution, I further argue, but also to the experiential sources of democratic peoplehood, of which some preliminary remarks are now in order.

The People in the Making

Throughout this book peoplehood comes into focus, primarily, in view of its relation to the normative foundations of constitutional democracy. But the issue of “the people” is prior to and broader than that.⁷ Take, for instance, Robert Dahl’s well placed question: “When does a collection of persons constitute an entity—a people’—entitled to govern itself democratically?”⁸ In view of the principle of popular sovereignty, a question of this sort indicates a limit condition. Although popular sovereignty presupposes the presence of the people as a “bounded community,” it cannot be brought to bear on its composition. After all, how could it be? When the controversy is about the boundaries of the relevant constituency, there indeed seems to be no coherent way of appealing to the people to resolve it. As Bernard Yack puts it: “Who belongs to ‘the people’ in 1848 Venice, 1955 Algeria, or 1999 Quebec? Inhabitants of Venice, Algeria, or Québec or all of the Austrians and Italians, Frenchmen and Arabs, Anglophones and Francophones who share the boundaries of larger states to which they belonged at the time? … You cannot answer such questions without, in effect, taking sides in the issue that you want to put before ‘the people.’”⁹

In one sense, of course, there is nothing surprising here. The normative principle that all legitimate power comes from the people does not—and more importantly, is not meant to—specify which concrete group of human beings should count as a distinct people entitled to self-government. Nonetheless, what determines the composition of the people as a bounded community is hardly irrelevant to the kind of normative claims characterizing the modern doctrine of popular sovereignty, given the fact that the doctrine affirms a voluntarist vision of political community, one that depends on choice and consent.¹⁰ This reveals a problem residing at the heart of the democratic state. While democracy requires a bounded community of sorts, a demos, which distinguishes between insiders and outsiders, the moral scope of a voluntarist conception of legitimacy extends to all human beings in principle, making room for the claims of non-citizens, and thereby inscribing an element of radical openness into the concept of the people.¹¹

The boundary problem involves a variety of issues (such as state-building, territorial borders, and immigration policies, to name a few) that it is not my purpose to explore here. Nonetheless, it is an important reminder of the fact that claims of peoplehood are contestable at every level of analysis. Hegel certainly did not overstate the point in 1821, when he remarked that “the people” is a “garbled notion.”¹² Notice that, alongside the boundary problem, “the people” of constitutional democracy is subject to a further and perhaps philosophically more salient ambiguity. It seems to indicate, as Margaret Canovan aptly observes, “two quite different things” at once: “On the one hand it refers to something collective, abstract, dignified and mysterious: an entity—‘the British people’ or ‘We, the people of the United States’—that has a continuous existence and history, transcending and outliving its individual members. On the other hand it also means those individual members themselves, a collection of ordinary, ever-changing people with their separate lives, interests and views.”¹³ This ambiguity brings home to us a fundamental (or, if you like, an ontological) question: what is a people? Is it an aggregate of individuals? Or should we rather think of it as a single whole, something like a corporate body? Or, perplexing as it may sound, both at once?

Arguably, much of the best scholarship in contemporary democratic theory would reject the static terms in which this question is posed. According to a variety of theorists working in different traditions, “the people” is neither a counterfactual macro-subject nor an amorphous multitude of individuals, but rather a practice, a doing, a political dynamic of sorts. In the second volume of his influential work, We the People, for instance, Bruce Ackerman writes that “for me, ‘the People’ is not the name of a superhuman being, but the name of an extended process of interaction between political elites and ordinary citizens.”¹⁴ From a quite different perspective (drawing on the work of Jacques Rancière), Jason Frank notes that “the people are a political claim, an act of political subjectification, not a pre-given, unified, or naturally bounded empirical entity.”¹⁵ In a somewhat similar fashion, Paulina Ochoa Espejo holds that “a people is always in the making and unmaking” because it is a “process, a series of events, rather than a collection of individuals.”¹⁶ In all these statements, despite the otherwise important differences among their authors, one finds an agency-centric conception of democratic peoplehood.¹⁷

This book adopts a similar approach. On the view to be defended here, what binds different people into “the people” is collective action, that is, the political experience of constructing life together. I intend to bring this basic insight to bear on the politics of constitution-making. Given the fundamental role that constitutions play—symbolically as well as institutionally, performatively as well as normatively—in the self-definition and self-understanding of the political community as a certain kind of “we,” I argue that the politics of constitution-making is at the same time a politics of people-making. Founding moments or constitutional episodes are crucial junctures where the fundamental questions of politics are brought back in for everyone to see and to discuss. In these “extraordinary”¹⁸ moments, the basic terms of the political association come to be (re)negotiated, and the given patterns of collective self-definition are publicly thematized, contested, and rearticulated. These are the stuff that claims of peoplehood are made of.

Alongside normative reasons about the democratic legitimacy of a new constitution, therefore, this book also highlights the importance of founding moments as experiments in democratic peoplehood. To be sure, this is not to say that claims of peoplehood can be decisively settled at any instance or that citizens should, once and for all, bind themselves into “the people” through an episodic act of constitution-making. Insofar as democratic politics is inherently open-ended, both the normative content of the constitution and the identity of the people are bound to remain contested.¹⁹ The point of the matter is rather that what occurs in the process of constitution-making would make a great deal of difference not only in terms of our relation to the constitution or its meaning to us as citizens, but also in terms of our self-understanding as a people in the making. Founding moments leave their imprint in the “stories of peoplehood”²⁰ we tell about ourselves.

The Paradox of Democratic Founding

Up to this point, I have outlined a twofold argument. It highlights the significance of founding moments, first, in terms of the democratic legitimacy of a new constitution, and secondly, in terms of the experiential sources of democratic peoplehood. Both claims are basically about why democratic theory should take an interest in the politics of founding. Yet, any attempt to defend the notion of democratic founding (and this is precisely what this book is meant to do) must address itself to a further question: how is it possible—or is it ever possible—to begin democratically, especially when there is no democracy before? In other words, can we bring democracy, paradoxical as it may seem, to bear on the making of the democratic constitution itself? Questions of this sort drive home to us a highly vexing problem, which has been recently flagged as “one of the most intractable issues in political theory,”²¹ namely, the paradox of democratic founding.

There is a sense in which, ever since Plato’s “noble lie,” the tradition of political philosophy has been aware of the fact that acts of foundation are inherently paradoxical. In the Republic, so as to introduce the psychological and cultural matrix of the “city in speech,” Plato resorts to a rhetorical device, a noble lie or a founding myth, because he realizes that the creation of an optimally just and rational city is subject to a vicious circle: such a city can only be brought about by certain kind of men and women, whose breeding and education, however, is the very task of the same city.²² In The Social Contract, Rousseau brings the same paradox to bear on the core democratic idea of self-legislation for the first time. For the people to act in their constituent capacity, i.e., as the collective author and creator of the constitution, they must be able to take a broader standpoint than the counsels of sheer self-interest and must place the common good at the center of their political considerations. And yet, Rousseau keenly observes, a collective capacity of this sort would only flourish in an already existing well-ordered society. It is by virtue of good laws that citizens are educated to take a principled standpoint and to attach themselves to the common good. Hence the outstanding question: how can the people carry out the first act of self-legislation, in fact the most important act of self-legislation, namely the making of the republican constitution, if the kind of moral and political capacities required to perform this act are to develop under an already functioning republican regime? For the people to underwrite their constitution “the effect would have to become the cause … and men would have to be prior to laws what they ought to become by means of them.”²³

To escape this vicious circle, Rousseau appeals to a “great lawgiver,” who is supposed to educate the people into the ethos of self-legislation. Yet, this means that the achievement of political autonomy remains contingent upon a heteronomous intervention in the Rousseauian republic. A rift seems to open up between the political origins of the republic and its normative foundations, between the way in which political community gets off the ground and the principles on which it is meant to rest. While the act of foundation, carried out through the heteronomous agency of the great lawgiver, invokes certain normative principles and creates the suitable conditions for their realization, it cannot be justified, strictly speaking, from the standpoint of those very principles.

Needless to say, Rousseau’s vision of political community integrated through a thick and substantive ethical consensus has considerably lost its normative purchase today. But the paradox of democratic founding is still with us—in two main forms, I think. For one, democratic constitution-making under conditions of diversity and plurality is itself a matter of ethos, though not in the same way envisioned by Rousseau. Citizens do not need to cohere around a particular conception of the good rooted in a single regime of republican ethos. Yet, if they are to construct “we the people” without erasing difference, they must still engage with one another in such a way as to build mutual trust and seek resolutions that are acceptable to all. This, in turn, requires a political culture of deliberation as well as certain forms of civic competence which are unlikely to have developed in societies where democracy is not already in practice. The kind of circularity that Rousseau so acutely diagnosed in The Social Contract is hard to miss in such transitional cases. South Africa had to face it in 1994, Egypt in 2012, but with tremendously different results.²⁴

Democratic constitution-making appears to be paradoxical in yet another way: law and democracy presuppose one another. Notice that a constitution is an instrument or medium of self-organization. Its task is to set up the enabling conditions of democratic will-formation such as laws, procedures, and institutions by means of which a multitude of citizens would come to make collective decisions as a people. But if this is so, then, how is it possible for the people to underwrite their constitution, given the fact that the enabling conditions of democratic will-formation are to be set up by the constitution itself? While the constitution rests on the people for its democratic legitimacy, the people—in a perfectly circular fashion—rest on the constitution for their democratic agency. Again, it seems that every act of foundation with a democratic claim is inevitably caught up in a vicious circle.

In both of these versions, the paradox of democratic founding is a recurrent theme in contemporary political theory. It has been stated and analyzed by a variety of theorists working in different traditions.²⁵ Despite the rich variety of interpretations, however, what runs like a red thread through these contemporary treatments is a skeptical gesture, according to which the idea of democratic founding is at best self-contradictory and hence theoretically unsustainable, and at worst a hegemonic fiction that conceals the arbitrary origins of political power.²⁶ Edmund Burke once commented that “there is a sacred veil to be drawn over the beginnings of all governments.”²⁷ Contemporary theorists prying into the paradox of democratic founding claim to draw aside this veil. Since the people themselves are never “the people” and hence unable to underwrite their constitution, we are told, the establishment of democratic autonomy is necessarily implicated in a heteronomous intervention, a moment of speaking in the name of a people that does not yet exist. As such, these theorists want to have us acknowledge the ways in which the making of the democratic constitution performatively contradicts the basic principles that it seeks to foster, and hence bring to our attention the crucial discrepancies between the normative foundations of constitutional democracy and its political origins.

A central agenda of this book is to engage in a critical dialogue with this “agonistic” line of interpretation. In doing so, my intention is not to dismiss the wide range of important issues that it brings to our attention. Viewed from an agonistic point of view, the paradox of founding is a potent motif that keeps us alert about the ways in which appeals to “the people” are inherently contestable, law may remain alien to its alleged authors, and the politics of founding may turn out to be a hegemonic enterprise which covers its own tracks. Without dismissing its merits, however, I argue that this line of interpretation is also prone to hypostatize the problem. What I mean by “hypostatization” is basically a strategy of problem statement, which directly transposes the formal or logical structure of the paradox onto the realm of political action.²⁸ An essentially political issue is thereby turned into a logical puzzle, an insurmountable aporia or impasse, which rules out the notion of democratic founding at its core.

Once the problem is hypostatized in this way, the paradox of democratic founding leaves us with a discomforting dichotomy between the “two bodies” of the people. On the one hand, we have the picture of an “amorphous multitude” incapable of any positive or constituent action whatsoever; on the other hand, we have the opposite picture of “the people” as a constitutionally organized corporate body capable of acting only in and through the institutional edifice of the state. This strikes me as a false dichotomy. There is a whole gray area extending between its poles, and the politics of democratic founding actually takes place in that gray area. If we are to reorient ourselves in this uncertain territory, we need to think about the people differently: neither as an amorphous multitude nor as a corporate body, but as a community of action in the making. And to do so, we also need a different vantage point, a different interpretive angle, from which to approach the paradox of democratic founding.

In this book, I propose to take the paradox under consideration as a heuristic problem. By “heuristic,” I mean two things at once, both of which are related to discovery and problem solving, though from different points of view. From the observer point of view (i.e., the perspective of the political theorist), a heuristic approach stands in opposition to an aporetic one. On this register, the basic idea I want to defend is that the paradox of democratic founding does not necessarily lead us into an impasse, but opens up to us a gray area, in which the conditions of democratic peoplehood are in the making. The heuristic task of the theorist is to discover and navigate this gray area.²⁹ From the participant point of view (i.e., the perspective of political actors), I suggest that the quest for democratic founding is best understood as a process of problem solving. Take for instance the question of how to remain under the law while at the same time making the higher law. Citizens and framers typically grapple with such questions at moments of foundation. Even if logically irresolvable, questions of this sort can be politically negotiated, and how they are negotiated would make all the difference in the world. To recapitulate, then, viewed as a heuristic problem, the paradox of founding does not rule out the possibility of a democratic act of foundation but rather invites us to investigate, doggedly and seriously, how to make sense of it.

Overview of the Chapters

In what follows, our inquiry begins with an observation about two central tenets of modern constitutionalism: first, the constitution is the product of a deliberate founding act, and second, it features the people as its author and ultimate source of legitimacy. Chapter 1 examines how these two motifs relate to each other. In contrast to a longstanding and influential tradition in modern and contemporary political thought, I argue that democratic theory can no longer heavily draw on the abstract notion of “the people,” which informs hypothetical conceptions of popular sovereignty. What this means is that constitutional claims of popular sovereignty cannot be clearly severed from the modus operandi of the founding act, and citizens themselves must be included in the process of constitution-making.

In Chapter 2, I take up the vexing question of whether a democratic act of constitution-making is conceptually possible. The chapter offers a survey of canonical and contemporary takes on the paradox of founding, beginning with Rousseau’s The Social Contract as well as the classical texts of the American and French Revolutions, and extending to the works of Jacques Derrida, William Connolly, Bonnie Honig, and Frank Michelman. But it also has a critical agenda, particularly with regard to the ways the paradox of founding is hypostatized in contemporary political theory. In contrast, I propose to take the paradox under consideration as a heuristic problem, one which allows us to think of the people neither as an amorphous multitude nor a corporate body, but as a community of action in the making.

The next two chapters are intended to pursue this possibility in the company of Rousseau and Arendt. In Chapter 3, I look at the complicated but often poorly analyzed relationship between the people and the lawgiver in Rousseau’s work. Inspired by his reflections on Corsica, I argue that it is not the lawgiver who calls forth the people but the other way around. That is to say, it is the collective agency of a people in the making that prepares the suitable conditions for legislation. Chapter 4 offers a close reading of Arendt’s Jewish writings, most of which were penned during the turbulent 1940s. Attending to the role of collective action in transforming and redefining “who we are,” these essays contain a rich reflection on the formation of the people in and through the shared experience of action, and especially the kind of world-building action oriented toward the creation of a “homeland.” Taken together, thus, these chapters are meant to move us beyond the dichotomy between the “two bodies” of the people and to reorient our thinking about the possibility of democratic founding.

Chapters 5 and 6 focus on the problem of legitimacy. The central question that I aim to address in these chapters is the following: if the people themselves are not and can never be “the people” in whose name democratic constitutions claim to speak, then, are we not supposed to conclude that there is an unavoidable moment of “performative force,” a moment of “original violence,” which impugns every act of foundation with a democratic intent? My short answer is: it depends. Acts of foundation with a democratic claim may indeed turn out to be hegemonic enterprises, concealing their own groundlessness. But there is no conceptual necessity here, and the process of constitution-making itself can become a legitimacy-generating praxis.

More specifically, engaging with Arendt’s On Revolution in Chapter 5, I suggest that the classical doctrine of constituent power, developed by Abbé Sieyès and later selectively appropriated by Carl Schmitt, cannot avoid the charge of foundational illegitimacy. This is why, at least in part, Arendt does not trace the legitimacy of a new constitution back to the allegedly united will of “the people” understood as a counterfactual macro-subject, but to the way and spirit in which the act of foundation is carried out. Based on a reconstructive reading of On Revolution, I argue that Arendt thereby points toward an account of constitution-making in which the question of “how” enjoys the place of pride, and that this is her most essential contribution to a theory of democratic founding.

Chapter 6 moves on to negotiate the problem of legitimacy from the standpoint of deliberative democratic theory in general, and in dialogue with Habermas in particular. A central tenet of deliberative democratic theory is that law and democracy belong together, or that they presuppose one another at a fundamental conceptual level. But is it possible to retain the interdependence of law and democracy at moments of foundation? How to exercise popular sovereignty in such a way as to create a new constitution while at the same time remaining “under the law”? I argue that deliberative democratic theory offers a fruitful paradigm to negotiate this question. More specifically, I will try to show that it is possible to envision the reciprocal establishment of legal authority and democratic legitimacy, step by step, in a series of back and forth movements—so that the interdependence of law and democracy are performatively retained and realized in the course of building a constitutional democratic regime.

In the Conclusion, I draw together the various strands of argument thus far made, and bring them to bear on broader issues at play in contemporary democratic theory. At the same time, however, these concluding reflections are meant to highlight the basic insight that has stimulated this book in the first place: the founding act of the people is not a fantasy of democratic idealism, but it is a living and action-orienting idea in transformation.