Six
Recent versions of nationalism seem to lend little credence to the liberal nationalist position offered in previous chapters. Witness the bloody struggles in Yugoslavia, the violent clashes between Sikhs and Hindus in India, and the frequent outbursts of ethnic hatred within and between the new republics of Eastern Europe. A cursory glance at the surrounding reality could easily lead to the conclusion that liberal nationalism is a rather esoteric approach.
Nevertheless, there is a long-standing though much denied, alliance between liberal and national ideas that might explain the inconsistencies pervading modern liberal theory: Why is citizenship in a liberal state more commonly a matter of birthright and kinship rather than choice? Why do liberals believe that individuals owe political loyalty to their own government—as long as it acts in reasonably just ways—rather than to the government that is demonstrably the most just of all? Why does the liberal welfare state distribute goods among its own citizens, while it largely ignores the needs of nonmembers? The answers to these questions direct us to the national values hidden in the liberal agenda.
The Restricted Scope of Distributive Justice
Questions about distributive justice play a central role in modern liberal theory. Yet, the fact that the liberal welfare state is necessarily predicated on certain “national beliefs” is often overlooked. Its conception of distributive justice is only meaningful in states that do not see themselves as voluntary associations but as ongoing and relatively closed communities whose members share a common fate. Within such communities, members develop mutual attachments that supply the moral justifications required for assuming mutual obligations, without which the idea of a “caring state” is unsustainable.
According to Sandel, the liberal welfare state is based on a paradox, that is, it pursues policies predicated on social care in a state based on individualistic values:
It is a striking feature of the [liberal] welfare state that it offers a powerful promise of individual rights, and also demands of its citizens a high degree of mutual engagement. But the image that attends the rights cannot sustain the engagement.1
Willingness to assume the burdens entailed by distributive justice, therefore, rests on an assumption that liberal theory cannot itself provide, namely, a feeling of relatedness to those with whom we share our assets, “some way of seeing ourselves as mutually indebted and morally engaged to begin with.”2 The “other” with whom we share the fruits and burdens of cooperation must be identifiable and familiar.
Liberal theory also fails to give a convincing account of another element crucial to the functioning of the welfare state, namely, the roots of social union, the social forces that keep society as a distinct, separate, and more significantly, a continuous framework. Rawls suggests that social unity and the allegiance of citizens to their common institutions are founded on an agreement regarding some guiding principles of justice.3 But this agreement is too thin, and is insufficient to ensure the continued existence of a closed community in which members care for each other’s welfare, as well as for the well-being of future generations.
A justification of inward-oriented distributive policies is dependent on the notion of communal ties and loyalties. Indeed, liberals have no choice but to presuppose the existence of such ties and “treat community as prior to justice and fairness in the sense that questions of justice and fairness are regarded as questions of what would be fair or just within a particular political community.”4 Although granting priority to the community and restricting distributive policies to members can hardly be considered a self-evident liberal tenet, there have been no serious attempts to justify this approach, and liberal philosophers have seldom addressed this issue. Rawls might seem to be deviating from this tendency when he claims that the last stage of our moral development is “the morality of principle.” After grasping the importance of acting fairly, we accept the rationality of the two principles and develop a desire to act justly. This desire commands us to adopt a moral behaviour that recognises no boundaries. Clearly, says Rawls, a sense of justice and a love of humankind are two closely related sentiments, largely defined by the same conception of justice: “If one of them seems natural and intelligible, so is the other.”5
But if the move from the morality of association to universal morality is so natural, why not advocate one global system of distributive justice? Why does the principle of equal respect and concern apply only within rather than across political frameworks?
Supported by an obscure use of terminology, Rawls’ theory of justice indeed appears to be universally applicable, while in fact it is not. A just society, Rawls argues, should adopt the following two principles:
Although the usage “for all” could be construed as pointing to a universal context, it nevertheless refers only to members. If, however, the “morality of principle” rests on a claim of universality, it is unclear how are we to justify the particularisation of distributive justice, or why we should give priority to the welfare of the “least advantaged members of our society” over that of starving children in Ethiopia.
Rawls does not justify the particularisation of distributive justice, but several arguments could be advanced in support of this view. For instance, it could be suggested that it is logical for the parties placed in the original position to adopt the principle that “charity begins at home.” As claimed in the previous chapter, contractarian arrangements inevitably lead to social egoism. Social egoism could be avoided if, and only if, the contract is made to include all human beings. Unless liberal theory can satisfactorily explain why a social contract should include only certain individuals while leaving others out, a global contract seems the only possible option, making “the life prospects of the globally least advantaged the primary standard for assessing our social institutions.”7 Rawls does not choose this option and prefers, like other liberal writers, to “start from what is and grope towards the ought.”8 The “is” in this case is a world divided into nation-states. But a coherent liberal theory should either endorse this world order and explain its virtues, or reject it and suggest ways of changing it. Accepting it without explaining it seems unjustified.
Another approach to the question of why distributive policies should only consider the needs of members is to argue that distributive justice apportions the fruits of social cooperation: Only those who have participated in one way or another in the production process deserve a share of the goods. But those most in need are frequently those who have not participated in the production process—the “worst off” could be unemployed, seriously handicapped, ill, drug addicts, minors, or old. It seems safe to assume that at least some of them have not contributed to the production of goods, yet most liberal philosophers would suggest that these very groups should be the first to benefit from welfare policies. Therefore, entitlement needs to be justified on grounds other than the contribution to the production of goods to be distributed.
The notion of “charity begins at home” could also be justified on instrumental grounds: In practical terms, we are simply better equipped to promote the welfare of the members of our own society, and these attempts should therefore be given priority. In and of itself, however, the instrumental argument cannot cancel the principle that we are still bound by a duty to attend first to the needs of those who, by some agreed global standard, are worst off. In fact, the instrumental argument merely suggests that, after we have classified “all” those in need, when “all” is defined as a global category, we should examine our ability to help them in terms of a costs and benefits estimate. Preferring members of our own society would only be justified if it could be proven that our ability to help them far exceeds our chances of helping nonmembers. The availability of modern technologies and of means of communication and transportation suggests that such cases are relatively few and far between. In the context of the present argument, what is even more significant is that liberal writers seldom offer this argument—the duty to help nonmembers is not ruled out due to specific difficulties, but is rarely raised at all.
The contractarian approach to distributive justice could pursue an altogether different line of argument to justify the idea that we owe special duties to the members of our own society. In a society based on contract, members could be said to enjoy special rights and duties by virtue of this contract. On this basis, we could claim that fellow citizens bestow and impose on each other reciprocal rights and duties.9 But if we indeed have a moral duty to help those who are worse off on a global scale, contracting among ourselves to overlook this duty and give priority to our own needs would be a strictly immoral act.
The notion of the morality of community developed in the previous chapter, sustained by the concept of the contextual individual, suggests a solution to this problem. The “others” whose welfare we ought to consider are those we care about, those who are relevant to our associative identity. Communal solidarity creates a feeling, or an illusion, of closeness and shared fate, which is a precondition of distributive justice. It endows particularistic relations with moral power, supporting the claim that “charity begins at home.” Moreover, the morality of community can serve as grounds for justifying the allocation of resources to the well-being of future generations, and to the study and preservation of the communal past. Consequently, the community-like nature of the nation-state is particularly well suited, and perhaps even necessary, to the notion of the liberal welfare state.
Terms of Membership
The terms of membership prevalent in liberal states reinforce the view of the state as more than contingent associations held together by a formal contract, which individuals can enter or leave at will. Two major issues involving terms of membership force liberals to resort to national ideas:
Surprisingly, liberal literature hardly deals with membership. It would appear that, on the basis of liberal premises, it is hard to say much about appropriate criteria for distinguishing between members and nonmembers. Barry indeed criticises individualist tradition for its neglect in developing criteria appropriate for the determination of membership in a state. The three traditional positions on this issue are so weak, he argues, as to be “a serious embarrassment to anyone sympathetic to the general individualist enterprise.” The first attitude is “simply a refusal to take the question seriously, [as] is Locke’s contract of association: people somehow got together to form a political society and this society then set up a particular form of government.”10 The contractarian tradition takes the existence of the group for granted. It can help us understand the type of social arrangements and moral principles agreed upon, but this explanation can only begin after individuals have gathered together in order to form a group. In itself it cannot, however, account for any of the principles leading to the creation of groups in the first place.11
Since the contractarian approach takes society as a given, the voluntary nature of membership becomes hypothetical. Rawls outlines the nature of this claim very clearly:
No society can, of course, be a scheme of cooperation which men enter voluntarily in a literal sense; each person finds himself placed at birth in some particular position in some particular society, and the nature of his position materially affects his life prospects. Yet a society satisfying the principles of justice as fairness comes as close as a society can to being a voluntary scheme, for it meets the principles which free and equal persons would assent to under circumstances that are fair. In this sense its members are autonomous and the obligations they recognize self-imposed.12
Accordingly, hypothetical voluntarism assumes that rational human beings who relate to their membership in society as a given, could be persuaded to agree to the terms of a social contract that will further their own interests. But can we also assume that they are likely to agree to their position as members? Taking this issue for granted might seem to imply that individuals do not care to which society they belong as long as it is governed by principles of justice. The importance of national identity, the effect of cultural membership on individual preferences, and the ability to become an equal member of a political unit, do not loom large in this type of argument.
The second approach Barry refers to is a purely instrumental one. It suggests that it is possible to specify in universal terms the interests that states exist to protect, and that appropriate state boundaries could be derived from these principles:
Boundaries in this view, are to be determined on a technical basis, and not with any reference to the desires of the inhabitants to be associated politically with some people and not others. Such theories are characteristic of market oriented economists whose only use of the state is as a remedy for “market failure.”13
But this technical view of the state obviously contradicts the voluntary nature of the association, and could not be acceptable to liberals.
The third approach to the issue of demarcation is predicated on notions of culture, communal identity, and self-determination. Barry points to the limitations inherent in this view:
If [self-determination] is put forward as a right of each individual, it hardly makes any sense, except as an alternative way of expressing the Lockean consent theory: and it breaks down in just the same way wherever there is a lack of agreement because some people want one boundary and the others want another—which is of course, the only context in which there is any problem in the first place.14
It seems that Barry dismisses this option far too quickly, however, because he confuses two separate questions: the justification for establishing a separate political entity on the one hand, and agreement on the territory this entity should occupy on the other. In some instances, the notion of self-determination is indeed not sufficient to solve territorial disputes. Obviously, if two groups are deeply attached to a particular territory for historical, national, and religious reasons, and they demand to realise their right to self-determination in the same territory, appeals to this right are not conducive to a solution, but they could be useful regarding a deeper type of demarcation. They can justify our respect for the wishes of a group to preserve its distinct nature by separating itself from all others. Why should we—Jews, Palestinians, Basques, or Irish—establish our own separate political entities? Because there is something distinct about us that we wish to preserve and the best, although not the only, way of doing this, is ensuring for ourselves a public sphere imprinted with our own cultural and political institutions.
Although a national group can preserve its uniqueness in ways other than the establishment of an independent state, states can only justify their separate existence on national grounds. State boundaries might be the result of wars, conquests, secessions or peace agreements. If there is no morally acceptable justification of these events, however, the integrity of these boundaries might be repeatedly questioned: If they are neither natural nor justified, why should they be respected? If the state is nothing but the product of a human contract, why not put this contract to a new test? Why not ask nonmembers to join in, and respect their wishes when they do? Liberal theory cannot give adequate answers to these questions. Modern states have, therefore, chosen to adopt national self-determination as their justifying principle, even when their members do not constitute a nation. This serves two purposes: It provides them with a principle of demarcation, and it strengthens the claim that members of the state share something more than coordinating institutions, something that evokes in them feelings of solidarity and fraternity. Terms of membership set by the liberal state thus reinforce the view of the state as a distinct historical community rather than as a voluntary association.
The Priority of Birthrights
Unlike natural communities, which are shaped by history and destiny, liberal associations are voluntary; individuals are free to join them or opt out of them at will. The liberal tradition views states as voluntary associations of this type, while relating to nations and ethnic groups as communities of fate.
But this is a false distinction, as states and nations belong to an intermediate category; strictly speaking, they are neither voluntary associations nor communities of fate. In the modern world, most individuals are born into a nation and a state, thus making membership in these associations a matter of destiny rather than choice. Nevertheless, although the usual way of acquiring membership in both the state and the nation is by birth, membership remains elective as long as individuals can join or leave.
Citizenship is indispensable for the well-being of modern individuals. Stateless persons are deprived of protection, lack civic and welfare rights, have no passport, and officially belong nowhere. Without a country, Mazzini tells his fellow Italians,
you have no name, token voice, nor rights, no admission in the fellowship of the peoples. You are the bastards of Humanity. Soldiers without a banner, Israelites among the nations, you will find neither faith nor protection; none will be sureties for you.15
Citizenship is therefore a primary good that all individuals deserve. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights states in Chapter 15 that “each person is entitled to citizenship.” But in which state? Are people entitled to acquire citizenship in any state of their choice? If states were strictly voluntary associations, the answer to this question would indeed be yes. So why is this not so?
All associations draw boundaries between members and nonmembers, and establish terms for acquiring and foregoing membership. These terms reflect the nature of the association and the way in which its members understand their mutual affiliations. If liberal states are seen as based on a covenant between free individuals who have contracted among themselves to create a political framework meant to defend their rights and serve their interests, it would seem reasonable to assume that membership will be granted to all those who actively consent to share in this covenant. Preference would then be given to those who are most committed to the agreed upon principles and ends, and who are best qualified to further the aims of the association. A liberal state resting on these assumptions would grant citizenship only to informed adults who actively request it, thereby expressing their willingness and consent.
Nevertheless, even though self-professedly voluntary associations, liberal states have preferred birthright over choice as a criterion of membership. For example, most liberal states automatically grant citizenship to their citizens’ descendants, even if the latter never visited their parents’ state and never explicitly declared a wish to become members of it. At the same time, outsiders who appreciate liberal values and wish to become members of a liberal state have to apply for membership and face the risk of rejection. Why not limit the right to obtain citizenship to those who actively ask for it? And why are not all applications considered on equal grounds? In fact, why place restrictions on membership at all? Instead, why not accept all those who wish to join?
Liberals could perhaps claim that restrictions on membership are a necessary condition for fulfilling the purposes of the association, claiming that a voluntary association may legitimately restrict membership in order not to harm the interests it was meant to protect. Suppose a group of individuals decides to establish a club for the purpose of playing bridge once a week. At the club there is room for only twenty tables; after accepting 500 members, the club rejects all further applications. It would seem unreasonable to suggest that members are morally obliged to agree to play only once a fortnight in order to enable others to join the club, as this would hinder the interests the association was established to serve.
Let us look at another example. A group joins together to create an operatic society. They decide to meet once a week to listen to operas. If an outsider committed to change the musical repertoire of the society were to request membership, she could justifiably be rejected on the grounds that the society was formed in order to foster a particular kind of activity, and members wish to preserve this aim.
But why do the existing members of a voluntary association have a right to exclude others who wish to join it? Is it morally right for them not to consult nonmembers, at least regarding decisions that significantly affect the latter’s future, such as terms of membership? These questions are even more significant when what is at stake is the right to acquire citizenship. Membership in a state differs in two major respects from membership in voluntary associations of the kind we mentioned. First, the allocation of rights and services in the modern world depends on membership in a state, turning the latter into a necessity. Second, in the case of a bridge club or an operatic society, those who are refused membership can easily create an alternative association, but new states are not so easily established. Is it then justified to refuse citizenship to certain individuals on the grounds that members desire to protect their interests—as in the case of the bridge club—or on the grounds that members desire to retain the particularistic nature of the association—as in the case of the operatic society?
A state can claim that it is justified in restricting membership on the grounds that it can only accommodate a limited number of members if it desires to serve their interests and provide them with a modicum of welfare. For example, it appears rational for risk-averse individuals placed behind the veil of ignorance to agree to let go of those wishing to leave, while restricting, or even banning altogether, the entrance of new members, unless they bring with them their own resources or can, in some way, contribute to the society at large and particularly to the welfare of those worse off. Consequently, we could reject requests of membership submitted by poor and unqualified individuals on the grounds that those members of society who are presently worst off are the most likely to be hurt by their immigration. Note, however, that when a society decides to allow entry only to those who might contribute to the welfare of those worst off, it is attending to the needs of its own members rather than to those of nonmembers. Such extreme restrictions on membership might seem exceedingly unfair, not least because those who make them are precisely those most likely to enjoy their outcome, but also because the resources that members distribute among themselves are often obtained through factors not directly contingent on them. These factors could include luck, strategic and geographic advantages, certain valuable resources, or worse still, the past exploitation or appropriation of others’ wealth, land, or manpower. Why should those who, by a stroke of luck or due to a historical process, are fortunate enough to belong to a prosperous society, continue to enjoy their good fortune without sharing it with others?
If demarcation can only be justified on contractarian grounds, and if we have no right to contract among ourselves to disregard the needs of others, then a consistent liberal argument should advocate the removal of restrictions on membership. All those who wish to become members should be accepted, irrespective of the possible deleterious effects of an influx of new members on the welfare of the present ones. If liberal theory is unable to justify a situation in which “noncitizens must depend upon the policy choices of citizens if they are to acquire rights on their own behalf,”16 it should advocate that barriers be pulled down and allow the market to control immigration.
A different situation emerges, however, when the state is not merely viewed as a gathering of individuals striving to improve their lot, but rather as a community struggling to preserve its distinctive character. Assuming that individuals have a right to preserve the uniqueness of their communal life, it would make sense to place some restrictions on membership and claim that we, who already belong, should do the choosing “in accordance with our own understanding of what membership means in our community and of what sort of a community we want to have.”17 This view of immigration laws, as designed to preserve the unique nature of the state, is the official policy of many nation-states. Hence, Turkey was ready to absorb Turkish refugees fleeing Bulgaria; Israel regards every Jew as a potential citizen; and before unification, West Germany granted automatic citizenship to East Germans or to anyone defined as part of German culture. It is worth noting that this national approach does not imply that members of affluent nation-states are free to disregard the needs of others who are not members of their nation, but only that we should differentiate between attending to the needs of nonmembers and accepting them as members.
Ackerman is one of the few liberal theorists who grapples with the problems raised by the concept of citizenship in a liberal state. He claims that liberal states should not be regarded as private clubs but as the arena of a public dialogue, so that “in an ideal theory all people who fulfill the dialogic and behavioral conditions have an unconditional right to demand recognition as full citizens of a liberal state.”18
Should the liberal state then open its borders to all those, but only to those, who are able to participate in the liberal dialogue? Ackerman thinks it should. The only qualification required for membership is the ability to participate in an intelligible way in the social dialogue of justification. However, in order “to be intelligible, one’s utterance must be translatable into a language comprehensible to other would-be participants. It is this chain that links the theory of citizenship to a theory of translation.”19 This definition is truly puzzling. It implies that, beyond an ability to understand the terms of participation, and beyond the willingness to take part in a liberal discourse, membership in a liberal state demands an ability to share in the ruling culture; it demands that members share certain cultural features that facilitate a deeper type of understanding.
Ackerman himself sustains this interpretation of his view in the following statement:
The relationship between the theory of translation and the theory of politics has, I think, been ignored in recent liberal writings. Indeed, one often gets the impression that only the “sciences” of human choice—like economics and decision theory—are central to the concerns of liberal political philosophy. And since I will also call upon such techniques at later stages in the argument, it is important to emphasize that we are lost without the sciences of culture as well as the sciences of choice.20
This passage would seem to suggest that, in order to engage in a fruitful dialogue, citizens of a liberal state must agree not only on the principles of their discourse, but must also share some sort of cultural and social background. Mill endorses a similar position when he argues that linguistic homogeneity is a necessary condition for democratic politics to work, since it is only through this homogeneity that citizens can take part in the same political debate.21 Unfortunately, these suggestions were never fully elaborated, and the cultural dimension of membership in a liberal state has remained practically unexplored.
It would appear then that there are two requirements for membership in a liberal state:
Prospective citizens must be able and willing to be members of this particular historical community, its past, its future, its forms of life and institutions. “In a community that values the autonomy and judgment of its members, this is obviously not a requirement of pure conformity. But it is a requirement of knowledge of the language and the culture.”22 A state that views itself as a community is justified in offering citizenship only to those committed to respect its communal values, collective history, and shared aspirations for a prosperous future.
But what if one is part of the culture but rejects the rules of the game? If the state were indeed an association based on contract as much as it is a community based on culture, it would be reasonable and justified for it to proclaim at the outset that those who do not intend to follow the “rules of the game” will fail to qualify as members. No contract, either public or private, should be signed with an individual or a party that, a priori, announces an intention to break it. Hence, a militant anarchist or a religious fundamentalist who openly declares an unwillingness to follow the agreed social code, should not be accepted as a member.
But here again we have an example of a liberal state following a communal rather than a contractarian approach. Suppose that someone who is a citizen of a state by birthright becomes a militant anarchist or a religious fundamentalist. Should the state consider withdrawing that person’s right to citizenship? Liberals would probably not agree with the suggestion that there could be circumstances under which the state would be justified in denying citizenship. Breaking the law deserves punishment, but in no case could a declaration of intention to break the law serve as grounds for withdrawing citizenship. The native anarchist would then remain a citizen while others, sharing his views but not born in the state, would fail to qualify for membership. In this case, birthright overpowers the most elementary terms of membership required by a contractarian theory. The notion of the state as a freely entered social contract is discarded in favour of feelings of kinship and belonging typical of community-like associations. In a community of this type, it would be natural for members to show more concern for self-perpetuation than for adherence to the rules of the game. Those born and educated within the state, who were trained to see it as their own, are therefore preferred as future members.
This discussion makes clear that the liberal assertion that “it seems best to regard the state as an association rather than a community” is misleading.23 Modern states, even liberal states, have adopted the conception of the nation-state, and therefore see themselves as communities rather than as associations based on contract. The perception of the state as a community will become even clearer when we turn to a discussion of political obligations. In line with the main argument of this chapter, the next section discusses the inevitable “nationalist assumption” behind the liberal conception of political obligations.
A Question of Obligation
This section applies the notion of associative obligations developed in the previous chapter to the political sphere. It is argued that the only way of justifying a central role for political obligations in liberal philosophy is to adopt the description of the liberal state as a community that generates a particular type of associative obligations, namely, political obligations.
The concept of political obligations has been widely discussed in liberal theory.24 Liberal philosophers define political obligations as obligations voluntarily assumed by free and rational agents, thereby implying consent and offering grounds for the legitimation of state authority. Nonetheless, political obligations in a liberal state are not assumed in as free and rational a process as is commonly argued. This process entails free and rational considerations as well as emotional and intuitive elements. Alongside national obligations, political obligations thus belong to the wider category of associative obligations, that is, obligations rooted in feelings of membership in a particular association. These obligations are generated by social associations that induce among their members feelings of membership and belonging, as well as the belief that the preservation of their society is a worthy endeavour. Members thus see themselves as partners engaged in a shared and ongoing effort, which generates mutual responsibilities and obligations, care for future generations, and respect for the communal past.
Dworkin indeed suggests that political obligations could count as associative obligations, but liberal philosophers have ignored this possibility for two main reasons:
First, communal obligations are widely thought to depend upon emotional bonds that presuppose that each member of the group has a personal acquaintance of all the others, which of course cannot be true in large political communities. Second, the idea of special communal responsibilities holding within a large, anonymous community smacks of nationalism, or even racism, both of which have been sources of very great suffering and injustice.25
The fear of nationalism, however justified, is hardly a reason to overlook the importance of a category of obligations which, according to Dworkin, most people believe themselves bound by. Although Dworkin clarifies the liberal reluctance to place political obligations under the rubric of associative ones, this is nonetheless a necessary step.
A political obligation is a requirement to support and maintain political institutions, obey the laws, participate in the political process, defend one’s country, and the like. The voluntaristic approach embodied in the liberal claim that political obligations are assumed by free, rational agents, runs into several difficulties.
In most of the literature on political obligations it is taken for granted that all citizens enjoy—or are burdened with—the same political obligations. One argument alone, however, cannot possibly serve to justify the assumption of political obligations by all the inhabitants of a liberal state.26 If explicit consent were the only possible basis for political obligations, then members of the state who do not actively declare their agreement should be released from political obligations. Since most of the population, or at least large segments of it, fail to express such explicit consent even through the minimal act of casting a vote during elections, it would appear that they have no political obligations. But the presence of large groups of citizens unencumbered by political obligations would cast doubts on the view of the state as a voluntary association whose authority is grounded on consent. Liberals must therefore find ways of dealing with the difficulties caused by the reluctance of most citizens to perform acts that could be taken as indications of their consent.
Tussman suggests that only those who have consciously agreed assume an obligation; all others—“non-consenting adult-citizens”—should be treated as minors who are governed without their consent. This argument bases the authority of the government on the consent of an active elite, and overlooks the fact that the silent majority did not explicitly consent to delegate its authority. Pitkin points out that this argument renders the notion of general consent irrelevant to the obligation to obey the government:
You are obligated to obey a government that is legitimate authority, whether you personally consented to it or not. If you have consented, you are obliged as a member; if not, as a child. . . We are all obliged to obey a government based on the consent of the aware elite, the true members, whether or not we have consented. A government is legitimate when those who are aware consent to it, and it then becomes legitimate for all its subjects.27
Pitkin’s criticism sheds light on the problems entailed by Tussman’s interpretation of the consent theory: Either obligations are restricted to a small elite, or most of the citizens must be treated paternalistically.
A second group of arguments suggests that political obligations should not be based on consent but on gratitude: Obligations are a way of paying the debts one owes the state, following the enjoyment of benefits and services one has received from it. But this is a very problematic basis for political obligations.
Let us examine these two options in the application of this approach. The first argues that, following the acceptance of certain services or goods and regardless of our awareness of what this acceptance implies, we assume obligations. According to the second, we can only assume an obligation if, before we receive certain goods or services, we are aware that accepting them entails an obligation. If I borrow a book from a fellow student while unaware that she takes this to imply that I thereby consent to help her with her studies, it can hardly be claimed that I have assumed an obligation to help her. But if, prior to my taking the book, she makes it clear that her condition for lending it to me is that I help her with her exams, then my accepting the book creates an obligation, even without an explicit promise. This obligation is based on consent to the terms of the exchange:
In the absence of consent, one might indeed claim that the enjoyment of certain social goods and benefits might provide a reason for supporting the state and enable others to enjoy its benefits too, but having a reason is different from having an obligation. If accepting goods or services from the state would automatically create obligations, there would be no voluntarily assumed political obligations—by the time one is capable of rationally considering one’s willingness to assume them, one would already be in debt for all the numerous goods and services already received. Disregarding the fact that these goods and services were usually accepted at a stage when we could neither reject them nor evaluate their meaning, renders the notion of freely assumed obligations meaningless. We are thereby deprived of our ability to reflect on, evaluate, and at times reject the obligations imposed on us by the mere fact that, from birth, we have enjoyed certain benefits from the state. But if receiving a benefit or accepting a service only creates obligations when accompanied by conscious consent, the benefit theory is reduced to the consent theory, and we are back to the initial problem.
This argument does not deny that gratitude can indeed influence the willingness to assume obligations, but rather suggests that gratitude, in and of itself, is not a conclusive and binding reason for doing so. Suppose state A sends special forces to save the survivors of a sinking ship, who are citizens of state B. It would be odd to claim that these survivors, who are probably very grateful to the state that saved them, now owe political obligations to state A rather than to state B. On its own then, the gratitude argument cannot be a basis for political obligations.
Another justification for assuming political obligations could rely on a normative evaluation of the political framework—given the moral obligation to support just institutions, if one regards a government as advancing justice then one has a moral obligation to support it. But these terms raise a new difficulty: “It is not so much your consent nor even the consent of the majority of the aware few in your society that obligates you. You do not consent to be obligated, but rather are obligated to consent if the government is just.”28 If the obligation to obey a just government is not a political obligation but a moral one, why do we owe political obligations to our own state unless it is ruled by the fairest of all governments? Consider the suggestion that we are bound to support or obey just, beneficial, fair, and efficient governments. The fact that we regard a state, any state, as worthy of support, is obviously relevant to the question of how we ought to act toward it. As this evaluation cannot be “particularised,” however, it cannot be used to sustain the notion of political obligations to a particular state, unless we compare different governments and obey the fairest of all.29 But this leaves open the most essential question related to political obligations: Why do I have obligations to my own state, assuming that it is reasonably just, but not to the fairest of all states? If we cannot answer this question by reference to the normative argument, then we must admit that the attempt to ground particular political obligations on universal, moral justifications has proven unsuccessful.
The process by which we assume political obligations to a particular state, our state, can only be understood in light of their nature as associative commitments, whose moral importance is derived from the notion of membership rather than from general moral duties. In what way does our membership in a specific state affect our moral ties with it and turn it into the object of our obligations?
The Associative Nature of ParticularPolitical Obligations
If the concept of political obligations is to become meaningful in the real world, it must address the following question: Do we have any reasons for assuming political obligations to our own state? We may feel we owe an obligation to a state where justice and fair play have attained perfection, but it would be hard to define this as a political one. By contrast, we might feel we owe a political obligation to our own state, which is not completely just. Having said that, the claim that we are free from assuming political obligations to a perfectly just state that is not ours clearly cannot imply that members of that state should be released from their political obligations, but only that justice, by itself, is not sufficient reason for assuming political obligations.
When seeking justifications for particular political obligations, the question cannot be addressed from the neutral standpoint of a detached self, but rather from the position of a contextual individual. Justifications for assuming political obligations must therefore be grounded, at least partly, on the way in which individuals understand their own social position. The fact that we are citizens of a particular state, however, is a necessary but not a sufficient condition for creating obligations. Citizenship is a formal concept, based on legal criteria rather than on feelings of membership, but formal attachments cannot, in and by themselves, sustain such obligations. If citizenship in a particular state could explain the nature of obligations owed to it, the discussion about consent would be meaningless.
We must differentiate here between the two aspects of membership described by the following two statements:
The second statement is the one that carries the thrust of the associative argument, suggesting that one is bound by obligations because one sees oneself as a member. Suppose that a child is born to Israeli parents living in the United States, and automatically acquires Israeli citizenship. The child may not even be aware of the fact that he carries Israeli citizenship, has never visited the country, and has no interest in it. His formal possession of Israeli citizenship is meaningless to him and cannot possibly generate any obligations. Similarly, people who are aware of their formal membership but have consciously rejected it cannot be presumed to be encumbered by obligations. If someone aquires, by birth, citizenship in a state he despises, his formal membership cannot serve as grounds for generating obligations to that state.
Associative obligations must therefore be based on some sense of belonging, on an active and conscious discovery of one’s position, and on an affirmation of this position. One may have acquired associative membership in a particular social group by birth rather than through voluntary choice, but unless one identifies with this membership, it cannot generate obligations. In this restricted sense, we could approach associative obligations as voluntarily assumed.
The assumption of associative obligations thus depends on feelings of belonging and identification with the association. The associative approach to political obligations thus suggests that individuals assume such obligations because they see the state as their state, its laws as their laws, and its government as their government. As Raz claims, it is mistaken to dismiss these views as a blind and groundless acceptance of authority. Individuals assume such obligations because they
identify with their society and hold themselves to be under an obligation to obey the law which they regard as expressing that attitude. This attitude is not consent. It is probably not something initiated by any specific act at any specific time. It is likely to be the product of a gradual process as lengthy as the process of acquiring a sense of belonging to a community and identifying with it.30
Although these obligations are acquired in the course of a socialisation process, they are “as valid as an obligation acquired through consent and for precisely the same reasons.”31
But the process of socialisation is relatively independent of the moral nature of the society. A sense of membership in a state is established well before individuals are able to make normative evaluations. Furthermore, it is possible to feel alienated from a just and moral society and develop a sense of membership in an unjust society, which is precisely what worries the liberal philosopher and leads him to rule out belonging as a criterion for political obligations.
Raz assumes that consent to obey the laws of an unjust government is not a morally appropriate expression of identification with one’s society.32 But what is the meaning of the phrase “morally appropriate expression of identification”? It seems as if Raz is arguing that it would be appropriate to identify only with morally virtuous societies, a claim that probably suits a liberal viewpoint but misses the essence of the associative thesis, which is that we are affiliated and therefore morally obligated, rather than morally obligated and only then affiliated.
It is now clear how the morality of community, by insisting on a relationship between membership and obligatins, has a bearing on the present argument. Let us consider the following case. An Israeli who is firmly committed to the existence of the state of Israel might view the Israeli occupation of the West Bank as an extremely immoral act. When called up for military service in the occupied territories he faces a moral dilemma, torn between his desire to act justly and his obligation to the state. Whatever his personal decision, the fact that he faces a dilemma suggests that, although aware of the state’s immoral policies, he still feels an associative obligation to it. He may in the end decide not to serve, but this would merely suggest that, when balanced against other obligations and against the particular circumstances of the case, particular associative obligations may be overridden by more general moral ones.
This example also illustrates the claim that feelings of belonging, on which associative obligations rely, emerge independently of the moral nature of the state. In fact, even members of groups who feel that they themselves have been wronged, such as members of deprived classes, or women, may still feel they have a reason to support the state that has mistreated them. As long as, despite their victimisation, they retain a feeling of belonging, they will feel obliged. This sheds light on the true essence of associative obligations: They are not grounded on consent, reciprocity, or gratitude, but rather on a feeling of belonging and connectedness.
Two conclusions can be drawn from this view of political obligations as a type of associative obligation. The first and most important is that individuals assume obligations to a state not only because it is effective as a mechanism of coordination and as a protector of their rights and interests, but rather because it serves as an object for their identification. They comply with its rules, support its institutions, and are willing to defend it to their death, because they see it as their own.
Second, if their state issues laws and policies they see as unjust, they will have to reflect and decide whether to obey them or not but, in so doing, the fact that they owe associative obligations to the state will be considered and weighed along with other arguments. Hence, the associative nature of political obligations does not imply unconditional obedience and loyalty to the state, but rather suggests that feelings generated by membership and identification play a central role in shaping one’s decision concerning obligations to a particular state.
Simmons claims that we should reject the requirement of singularity of ground, namely, the requirement that there be one and only one set of grounds for political obligations, as well as the demand of the “universality of political obligations over some range of persons (e.g., over all men, over all citizens of a particular state, etc.).”33
Four ways of assuming political obligations can be construed as the basis of this argument:
Feelings of belonging thus act as a preliminary condition, necessary but not sufficient for assuming justified political obligations. It is a preliminary condition because it emerges before the question of political obligations arises, and it is necessary because it provides a guideline as to which political framework is a relevant object of evaluation. It is insufficient, however, because it could lead one to assume political obligations to unjust states.
Acknowledging the associative aspect of political obligations may help explain why certain individuals develop obligations to a particular state without formal citizenship in it, on the basis of feelings of belonging, as is the case for members of diaspora groups. It can also help explain why members of national minorities, notwithstanding their formal citizenship in it, may feel alienated from a state and consequently released from any obligations to it. It is thus clear why the state has greater authority over certain individuals than over others.
The main advantage of the approach presented here is its ability to place normative evaluation within a context. It can explain why most of us assume, and rightly so, that our obligations are not to the state that is the most just of all, but to our own state, as long as it is reasonably just.
The associative nature of political obligations can explain why, in a world made up of nation-states perceived as playing not only a coordinating but also an expressive role, most citizens feel they owe their state obligations. Ironically then, the liberal notion that the legitimacy of a state’s authority is to be grounded on the consent of most, if not all citizens, can best be accomplished in the modern world of nation-states, a reality presenting liberals with a serious dilemma: They can either disregard associative ties as not important, thereby failing to explain why most individuals owe political obligations to their own states, although these states are less than perfectly just, or be forced to admit that associative obligations are morally significant, thereby supporting some version of the morality of community.
The perception of political obligations as associative reinforces the national view of the state as a locus of identification rather than as merely a formal mechanism for the just allocation of resources and the protection of rights.
It was argued that modern liberalism has incorporated certain national ideals, a development that has enabled it to retain its dominant position in a world of nation-states. By absorbing national concepts, liberalism has been able to take for granted the existence of states inhabited by specific populations, and discuss notions like distributive justice, consent, obligations, participation, and social responsibility in reference to this reality. Liberals were thereby able to circumvent such thorny issues as membership and immigration, as well as the more general question of how groups are structured. These moves have made modern liberal theory dependent on national ideals and a national world order, thus leaving liberals little choice. Except for some cosmopolitans and radical anarchists, nowadays most liberals are liberal nationalists.