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TURUN YLIOPISTON JULKAISUJA ANNALES UNIVERSITATIS TURKUENSIS

SARJA - SER. B OSA - TOM. 336 HUMANIORA

HOW TO DO SECURITY WITH WORDS A Grammar of Securitisation in the People’s Republic of China

Juha A. Vuori TURUN YLIOPISTO UNIVERSITY OF TURKU Turku 2011

TURUN YLIOPISTON JULKAISUJA ANNALES UNIVERSITATIS TURKUENSIS

SARJA - SER. B OSA - TOM. 336 HUMANIORA

HOW TO DO SECURITY WITH WORDS A Grammar of Securitisation in the People’s Republic of China

Juha A. Vuori

ACADEMIC DISSERTATION To be presented, with the permission of the Faculty of Social Sciences of the University of Turku, for public examination in the Pub3 Auditorium, on September 10th, 2011, at 12 o’clock noon.

TURUN YLIOPISTO UNIVERSITY OF TURKU Turku 2011

TURUN YLIOPISTON JULKAISUJA ANNALES UNIVERSITATIS TURKUENSIS

SARJA - SER. B OSA - TOM. 336 HUMANIORA

HOW TO DO SECURITY WITH WORDS A Grammar of Securitisation in the People’s Republic of China

Juha A. Vuori

TURUN YLIOPISTO UNIVERSITY OF TURKU Turku 2011

From the Department of Political Science and Contemporary History Faculty of Social Sciences University of Turku, Finland Supervisors

Professor Harto Hakovirta (emeritus) Department of Political Science University of Turku, Finland

Professor Henri Vogt Department of Political Science and Contemporary History University of Turku, Finland Reviewed by

Professor, Director Ole Wæver Centre for Advanced Security Theory Department of Political Science University of Copenhagen, Denmark

Professor Pekka Korhonen Department of Social Sciences and Philosophy University of Jyväskylä, Finland Opponent

Professor, Director Ole Wæver Centre for Advanced Security Theory Department of Political Science University of Copenhagen, Denmark

The cover image is a partial reproduction of Enso, a Zen-painting by 東嶺圓慈 (Torei Enji, 1721-1792).

The main title is an homage to the published lecture series How to do Things with Words by John Langsham Austin Layout: Juha A. Vuori

ISBN 978-951-29-4700-3 (PRINT) ISBN 978-951-29-4701-0 (PDF) ISSN 0082-6987 Uniprint - Turku, Finland 2011

For Margarita

My life-partner-in-crime

Acknowledgements This study has been a long time coming. The number of people who have helped me along the way is far too great to be named individually here: my appreciation goes to all of you. I would however like to use this opportunity to acknowledge and praise some of you for your positive input in this process of becoming. First of all, my greatest thanks and appreciation go to my instructor, professor (emeritus) Harto Hakovirta, who has been a true inspiration and has shown the kind of academic excellence I can only hope to aspire to. I could not have had an instructor who would have fitted my scholarly temperament any better. Furthermore, the research seminar that he has guided has been one which has enabled us to delve into the very foundations of academic work and produce similarly insightful discussion and critique. The friendly and ‘hard-hitting’ milieu of the seminar has tempered my argumentation and reasoning way beyond what I could have achieved on my own. My enduring gratitude for their invaluable contribution to my work goes to: Kimmo Elo, Sanna Kuusjärvi, Susanna Perko, Kristi Raik, Tiina Salminen, and Risto Tikkanen; and Mika Harju-Seppänen, Hiski Haukkala, Sami Pirkkala, Riikka Purra, and Tiina Tarvainen. My acknowledgements also go to professor Henri Vogt, my second instructor, who helped put the finishing touches on the present study. His editorial input was of great value and is much appreciated. My thanks also go to Eero Palmujoki who spent a year in charge of the research seminar. As one of the examiners of my Licentiate thesis he presented important critical points, and his study of Vietnamese politics has been very informative as well. This is an excellent opportunity to acknowledge the long-term work of Marita Siika in maintaining and expanding the teaching and research on East-Asia at the University of Turku. She also provided me with some of the first opportunities for a young scholar to show his quality. In this conjunction I would also like to thank professor Joseph Y.S. Cheng for being a mentor and a provider of insight into Chinese politics already at the undergraduate level. Beyond my formative scholarly community, I would like to acknowledge the two external reviewers, professors Pekka Korhonen and Ole Wæver, whose insightful criticism informed the final adjustments of my reasoning and argumentation. I also greatly appreciate the critique by the anonymous referees who have commented on the articles this study builds on. I have engaged in collaborative academic work within the Critical Approaches to Security in Europe collective and the International Collaboratory for Critical Methods in Security Studies. My thanks go to these two communities of security scholars. My main collaborator has however been Lauri Paltemaa, with whom I have written several articles and co-authored a book. Our intellectual engagement has already lasted a decade, and I hope there are several more to come. Some of Lauri’s intellectual contributions are part of the baseline thought that underlies this study as well. I would like to single out a few colleagues who have contributed their precious time by reading the thesis or it’s drafts, commenting on papers, providing enlightening discussion or otherwise having a positive effect on my work. I am also lucky to call many of these people my friends: Raisa Asikainen, Thierry Balzacq, Richard Baum, Barry Buzan, i

Nis-Høyrup Christiansen, Linus Hagström, Laura Kauppinen, Timo Kivimäki, Karen Lund Petersen, Kirill Postoutenko, Elin Sæther, Michael Schoenhals, Tuomas Seppä, Holger Stritzel, Fred Vultee, Rob Walker, and Paul Whybrow. I have benefited from discussions at the Graduate School for Contemporary Asian Studies, first as a ‘shadow member’ during its first four-year run, and as a proper member for the first year of its second composition of PhD students. My thanks go to Gyamtso, Riikka-Leena Juntunen, Hanna Kaisti, Minna Lindstet, Outi Luova, Mikal Mattlin, Eevamaria Mielonen, Tuula Okkonen, Päivi Poukka, Juha Saunavaara, and Minna Valjakka. The present research process has been fortuitous in that is has allowed me to meet scholars from both Security Studies and China Studies communities. I would like to thank and acknowledge some of these people for being a benefit for this project and beyond, and for all the good times too: Pami Aalto, Claudia Aradau, Tarak Barkawi, Tuomas Forsberg, Xavier Guilleume, Lene Hansen, Jef Huysmans, Pertti Joenniemi, Matti Jutila, Kari Laitinen, Marko Lehti, Jarno Limnéll, Sami Moisio, Rens Van Munster, Can Mutlu, Andrew Neal, Matti Nojonen, Heikki Patomäki, Christian Perheentupa, Mark B. Salter, Rune Saugmann Andersen, Saara Särmä, Julia Trombetta, Unto Vesa, Sirpa Virta, Scott Watson, Michael C. Williams, and Yuan Jing-Dong. My thanks also go to Teemu Rantanen and Ville Sinkkonen, who have helped me with the pedantic mission of managing this study’s vast jungle of references. Despite the enlightened critique, comments, and suggestions from my esteemed colleagues and friends, all the errors and fallacies of the present study obiviously remain my own. During the research process, I have been able to enjoy the collegial society of two departments, which now form a single department of Political Science and Contemporary History. My appreciation goes to the entirety of these communities. I would particularly like to acknowledge Hannu Autto, Kaisa Herne, Pirjo Hiltunen, Markku Jokisipilä, Jorma Kalela, Antti Kaski, Jussi Kinnunen, Vesa Koskimaa, Auli Kultanen, Zeki Kütük, Kari Lehti, Rauli Mickelsson, Hannu Nurmi, Antti Pajala, Erkka Railo, Lauri Rapeli, Maija Setälä, Timo Soikkanen, Vesa-Matti Salomäki, Katri Tammelin, Juha Tähkämaa, and Matti Wiberg. While I conducted the present study, I have been a member of the board of the Nordic Association for China Studies, the European Association for China Studies, and the Finnish Peace Research Association, as well as the president of the Finnish International Studies Association and the editor-in-chief of Kosmopolis. My thanks go to all of these associations and colleagues I have worked with. A professional academic can easily become obsessed with study. My circle of friends has been of great value here: whether by discussing contemporary issues, sharing good meals, trying to stab me with a pointed stick, or by exploring popular, and not so popular forms of culture, you have allowed me to retain some semblance of sanity. Finally, I would like to thank Margarita Rosselló Ramón for her soulful support and patience. Spumante! A special praise also goes to my parents who trusted me enough to find my own way in life. Without you I would not be here. My gratitude also goes to my dear grandmothers.

In Turku, 11 August 2011, Juha A. Vuori

۞ The present study represents nearly a decade of research. The project was begun after office hours in early 2002, while I worked as a Planning Officer for the Finnish Virtual University project AsiaNet, at the Department of Contemporary History, University of Turku. I was able to procure funding for the project from the Emil Aaltonen Foundation in 2003. This funding allowed full-time work on the project from August 2003 until the end of 2005. During this period, I had a language study and field work stint in Beijing, at Renmin University, from the autumn of 2004 to the spring of 2005. From the start of 2006, the project continued while I worked as a Senior Assistant at the Department of Political Science, University of Turku. During this time, I benefited from giving three monthlong summer schools at the Nordic Centre of Fudan University in Shanghai 2007-2009. I conducted altogether six field trips to Beijing and Shanghai between 2004 and 2009, and attended 21 international conferences during the research process. I have received personal grants for this research from the Emil Aaltonen Foundation and the Finnish University Foundation of Turku. Research and conference travel has been funded by the Finnish Peace Research Association, the Finnish University Foundation of Turku, the International Convention of Asia Scholars 3, the Joel Toivola Foundation, the Kone Foundation, the Nordic Association of Chinese Studies, the Nordic Institute of Asian Studies, POLITU, and the University of Turku. My deepest gratitude for the support I have received.

While the present study is a research monograph and not a collection of research articles, there is a number of publications that the monograph benefits and builds on. These include:

Vuori, Juha A. 2003. Security as Justification: An Analysis of Deng Xiaoping’s Speech to the Martial Law Troops in Beijing on the Ninth of June 1989. Politologiske Studier 6, (2): 105-118. Paltemaa, Lauri, and Juha A. Vuori. 2006. How cheap is identity talk? A framework of identity frames and security discourse for the analysis of repression and legitimization of social movements in mainland China. Issues and Studies 42, (3): 47-86.

Vuori, Juha A. 2008a. Luomisen hurmaa? Konstruktivistinen tiede kansainvälisten suhteiden tutkimuksessa. In Tieteenteoriat ja kansainvälisten suhteiden oppialan kehitys, eds. Harto Hakovirta and Juha A. Vuori, 93-136. Turku: Department of Political Science, University of Turku. Vuori, Juha A. 2008b. Illocutionary logic and strands of securitisation: Applying the theory of securitisation to the study of non-democratic political orders. European Journal of International Relations 14, (1): 65-99.

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Vuori, Juha A. 2010. Religion Bites: Falungong, securitization/desecuritization in the People’s Republic of China. In Securitization Theory: How Security Problems Emerge and Dissolve, ed. Thierry Balzacq, 186-211. London: Routledge.

Contents Acknowledgements............................................................................................................................................i Contents..................................................................................................................................................................v Abbreviations and Acronyms....................................................................................................................viii Illustrations.........................................................................................................................................................ix 1. Introduction…………………………….………………………………..........................………..………….........1 1.1. The Theoretical Framework of the Study……………………………………....................…….........9 1.2. The Research Methods, Materials and the Case-Selection of the Study........…………....14 1.3. Introduction to the Empirical Cases………………………………………….………..........................23 1.3.1. Case I: The Beginning of the “Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution”….......................23 1.3.2. Case II: The “Counter-revolutionary Political Incident at Tiananmen Square” of 1976…………………….............................................…………………..……............………25 1.3.3. Case III: The “Counter-Revolutionary Rebellion” of 1989………...........................………26 1.3.4. Case IV: The Campaign Against the “Evil Cult” of the Falungong…..............…...............27 1.4. The Structure of the Study……………………………...........................…………...........………………28 PART I: The Theory of Securitisation and its Critical Development

2. The Metascience of a Constructionist Study……..........…………………………..….........……35 2.1. The Dialecticism of Social Constructionism……………..................……………..……..........……37 2.2. Points of Constructionism………………………………..........................…….....................……………40 2.3. Turtles All the Way Down? Ontological Levels and Social Constructionism..........……46 3. Dilemmas in Theory Development and Application……......………………………..........…58 3.1. Science, Knowledge, and their Progress ..…..................…………………………………...............59 3.1.1. Instrumentalism, Truth and the Limits of Scholarly Knowledge….................................62 3.1.2. Problems of Observation and Falsification…............................………………...........………....68 3.1.3. Difficulties of Estimating the Progress of Knowledge….......................………..............…...72 3.2. Travelling Theories and the Dilemmas of Conceptual Travel….........………………..….…..80 3.3. Culturalism and Evaluative Universalism………………..................………………….............……84 3.4. The Normative Dilemma of Writing Security for Emancipation…...................……………87 4. What is Security?.....................................................................................................................................93 5. Security Studies, the Copenhagen School, and Critical Approaches to Security in Europe.................................................................................................................................101 6. The Theory of Securitisation and its Critics……………………………………....................…106 6.1. Desecuritisation: Functions and Tactics…………………............…………………...............……115 6.1.1. Desecuritisation as a Termination of Social Facts………………….................................…116 6.1.2. Desecuritisation as a Political Tactic………………………............................................…….…119 6.1.2.1. Desecuritisation and the Justification of Resistance..............................................…….120 6.1.2.2. Desecuritisation as a Pre-Emptive Move………………………...........................................126 6.2. Perception, Securitisation, and Action – When is Securitisation Successful?..............................................................................................................................................128 6.2.1. Securitisation, Not Security, is a Speech Act…………….……………....................................132 v

6.2.2. The Appearance and Non-Appearance of Securitisation: Macrosecuritisation with Chinese Characteristics…………............................……………141 6.2.3. Security, Event, Context – The Post-Structurality of Securitisation Theory………….......................................……………………………………......……154 6.2.4. Carl Schmitt in Copenhagen and Beijing – the Concept of the Political and Securitisation Theory…………………………..................….….........…...166 6.3. Applying the Theory of Securitisation to the Study of Non-Democratic Political Orders……………………………………………………........................178 6.3.1. Varieties of Speech Act Theory………………………………………..............................................184 6.3.1.1. Speech Acts, Semantics, and Pragmatics……………….…...............................................…187 6.3.1.2. The Illocutionary Logic of Speech Acts……………………...............................................…188 6.3.2. Strands of Securitisation – Explicating the Concept of Securitisation for Conceptual Travel………………………………….........................................194 6.3.2.1. Securitisation for Raising an Issue onto the Agenda……...............................................196 6.3.2.2. Securitisation for Legitimating Future Acts………………....................................….....…201 6.3.2.3. Securitisation for Deterrence……………………………............................................................204 6.3.2.4. Securitisation for Control……………………………...........................................................….…208 6.3.2.5. Securitisation for Legitimating Past Acts……………….....................................................211 6.4. Conclusions for the Development of Securitisation Theory……………….........................216 PART II: Political Security in the People’s Republic of China

7. Securitisation in the Chinese Political Context…………………………………………..........223 7.1. Chinese Security Narratives…………………………..............................……….……........................224 7.1.1. Institutionalised Security in China…………………………….....................................................225 7.1.2. Official Chinese Foreign and Security Policy Narratives on Domestic and International Threats…………..........……………………………………………...............................228 7.2. The Chinese Political Order and Functional Actors in Securitisation Processes...............................................................................................................233 7.2.1. Totalitarianism and Post-Totalitarianism…………………..................................................…233 7.2.2. The Party-State………………………………......................................................…….........……………239 7.2.3. Functions of Propaganda………………………………….……........................................................241 7.2.4. The Media as a Functional Actor……………………………......................................................…243 7.2.5. The People’s Liberation Army as a Functional Actor…………….......................................246 8. Case I: The Beginning of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution…….....………248 8.1. The Historical and Socio-Political Context of the Beginning of the Cultural Revolution………………………………………………….......................................……..249 8.2. The Tactics of Political Singularisation and the Legitimisation of Rule-Breaking……………………………………………………….......................................….………253 8.3. The Securitisation Process…………………………………………………….......................................258 8.3.1. Lin Biao’s May 18 Speech to the Enlarged Session of the Politburo........................…261 8.3.2. Lin Biao’s October 25 Speech…….………………………….…....................................................264 8.3.3. Public Securitisation at the Start of the Cultural Revolution….……..............................267 8.4. Desecuritising the Targets of Securitisation – Managing Official History…............….269 8.5. Conclusions of Analysis: Justification of Exceptionality…………………………...................274 vi

9. Case II: The Counter-Revolutionary Political Incident at Tiananmen Square 1976…...…..................................................................................................277 9.1. The Historical and Socio-Political Context of the ‘Counter-Revolutionary Political Incident’………………………………………………………...............................................……278 9.2. The Radicals’ Tactics: Bad Elements and Revisionist Masterminds …….................…..283 9.3. The Securitisation Process…………………………………………….......................................………285 9.3.1. The Immediate Securitisation………………………………….......................................................285 9.3.2. Securitisation after the Incident……………….............................................................…………287 9.4. Desecuritisation of the ‘Incident’ – A Failure of the Politics of Securitisation…........292 9.5. Conclusions of Analysis: When Securitisation as Politics Fails……………..…................295 10. Case III: The Counter-Revolutionary Rebellion of 1989………………………......…....299 10.1. The Historical and Socio-Political Context of the Student Movement…..…...............301 10.2. Authorities’ Tactics: Divide and Rule…………………………....................................................304 10.3. The Securitisation Process………………………………………..........….........................................305 10.3.1. Initial Securitisation Moves………………………..……….........................................................305 10.3.2. The Watershed Editorial of April 26……………..……..........................................................308 10.3.3. The Declaration of Martial Law and the Use of Force….................................................311 10.3.4. Securitisation after June Fourth……………………………......................................................316 10.4. Resistance and Desecuritisation moves…………………………..............................................319 10.4.1. The Contested Nature of the Securitisation within the Leadership………..............320 10.4.2. Activist Identities and Desecuritisation……………….....................................................….324 10.4.3. The Activists’ Reverse-Securitisation of Their Adversaries.........................................327 10.4.4. Functional and Other Resisting Actors…………………...................................................…..329 10.5. Conclusions of Analysis: The Havoc of Contested Securitisation……….......................330 11. Case IV: The Evil Cult of Falungong……………………………………........................................334 11.1. The Historical and Socio-Political Context of the Rise of the Falungong...................335 11.2. Authorities’ Tactics to Delegitimise the Falungong.............................................................339 11.2.1. Falungong as a Threat to Socialism…………………...............................................................340 11.2.2. Defamation of Li Hongzhi and Separation from his Followers………………...…......342 11.2.3. “Practicing Falungong is Unpatriotic”……………..................................................................343 11.2.4. Falungong in Security Continuums………………...................................................................343 11.3. The Securitisation Process…………………………………………………........................................344 11.3.1. The Inner-Party Securitisation of Falungong………….......................................................345 11.3.2. The Public Securitisation of Falungong……………...……....................................................347 11.4. Resistance and Desecuritisation moves……………………………..........................................355 11.4.1. Falungong’s ‘Rightful Resistance’ – Desecuritisation Moves by Li Hongzhi.........355 11.4.2. Upping the Ante: Counter-Securitisation of the CCP and Jiang Zemin…................358 11.5. Conclusions of Analysis: Success and Sustained Resistance…………….........................362 12. Conclusions of the Study: Explicating Securitisation for Conceptual Travel…....................................................................................................................366 Bibliography....................................................................................................................................................377 Chinese Bibliography...................................................................................................................................412 vii

Abbreviations and Acronyms ABM-treaty ADB ASEAN APEC BWU CASE CCP CCP CC CCRG CMC CO2 COPRI CopS CR CSS CTBT ETIM FLG G8 GDR GWoT ICT IGO IPCC IR ISA ISS NATO NGO NPC NPT PLA PRC RSCT SCO SED UN UNFCC UNDP US

viii

Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty Asian Development Bank Association of Southeast Asian Nations Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation The Beijing Workers’ Union Critical Approaches to Security in Europe Chinese Communist Party Chinese Communist Party Central Committee Central Caucus Revolution Group Central Military Commission Carbon dioxide Conflict and Peace Research Institute (Copenhagen) Copenhagen School Cultural Revolution Critical Security Studies Comprehensive Test-Ban Treaty East Turkistan Islamic Movement Falungong Group of Eight German Demotic Republic Global War on Terror Information and Communication Technology Intergovernmental Organisation International Panel on Climate Change International Relations International Studies Association International Security Studies North Atlantic Treaty Organization Non-Governmental Organization National People’s Congress Non-Proliferation Treaty People’s Liberation Army People’s Republic of China Regional Security Complex Theory Shanghai Cooperation Organization Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands United Nations United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change United Nations Development Programme Unites States

Illustrations Figures 1: Popper’s tripartite ontology and acts of knowledge.

2: The relationship between Security Studies and other related fields of study for Baylis & Wirtz.

3 The relationship of Security Studies to other related fields of study for Betts. 4: The intellectual evolution of International Security Studies as presented by Buzan & Hansen.

5: The Structural Relations of Difference of Insecurity, Security, and Non-security. 6: The eight possible combinations vis-à-vis threat perception, securitisation (as legitimising future acts) and security action. 7: The increased extension of the explicated concept of securitisation that includes the five strands of securitisation.

Tables

1: The eight logically possible situations vis-à-vis threat perception, securitisation and security action. 2: The Five Strands of Securitisation.

Introduction

1. Introduction

Who are you? What do you want?

- Number Six

The present study strives to enhance our understanding of the political use of language by focusing on a very specific aspect of human interaction, namely, the social construction of security issues, and even more specifically, the “power politics of a concept” (Buzan et al. 1998, 32). What is investigated here is a set of techniques “concerned with exploiting the power of words to underpin or undermine the construction of our social world” (Skinner 2002, 5). This philosophical and theoretical engagement takes place in the empirical context of the People’s Republic of China (中华人民共和国, Zhōnghuá Rénmín Gònghéguó; PRC, China). The aim or purpose is to critically develop the theory of securitisation, originally introduced by Ole Wæver,1 and to illustrate how the explication2 of acts of securitisation through speech act logic increases the analytical reach of the framework through application to Chinese politics. The analysis of four empirical cases from the PRC – the beginning of the ‘Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution’, the ‘Counter-revolutionary Political Incident at Tiananmen Square’, the ‘Tiananmen Counter-revolutionary Rebellion’, and the ‘Evil Cult of Falungong’ – will deepen our understanding of how social groups and forms of behaviour, as well as ways of thinking are constructed as issues of security in a totalitarian (Mao-era) and, in Václav Havel’s (1992) terms, a post-totalitarian (post-Mao era) political order. This enhances the analytical scope of the theory of securitisation and thereby answers several calls for empirical studies of securitisation outside Europe and liberal democratic political orders. In so doing, this study demonstrates how the scope of the theory of securitisation can be expanded beyond its original formulation, without distortion or loss of its original applications. At the same time, it provides an analytical framework for research

Wæver (1989a) is the study that introduced the concept of securitisation and which Wæver’s other writings (Wæver 1989b; Wæver et al. 1993; Wæver 1995; Buzan et al. 1998; Wæver 2000a; Wæver 2004a; and Wæver 2008b for example) on the theory are based on. Wæver (1997a) compiles his views on security and securitisation while Buzan et al. (1998), Buzan & Wæver (2003), and Buzan & Wæver (2009) combine the theory of securitisation with Barry Buzan’s (e.g., 1983; 1991) work on multisectoral security and regional security complexes. For discussions on this ‘Copenhagen school’, see Huysmans (1998a), Hansen (2000), Williams (2003), Guzzini & Jung (2004a), Wæver (2003; 2004a), and CASE (2006). For an extensive bibliography on the Copenhagen School, see Guzzini & Jung (2004b). For various criticisms of the approach, see Chapter 6. below. 2 The idea of explicating is to clarify an unclear concept in a systematic and precise way (Carnap 1943). For Hempel (1952, 12): “conceptual explication attempts to specify the logical structure of given expressions.” 1

Introduction

that is crucial in order to understand the political use of language in the PRC. Despite its empirical China focus, this study is situated in the field of European critical3 approaches to security and its study.4 One of the frequent criticisms raised against this specific subfield of ‘International Security Studies’ (ISS) has been its narrow European focus (Walker 2007; Behnke 2007; Salter 2007). There has been a constant flow of articles and books that identify problems with the application of the framework of securitisation outside the European context, in which it was originally developed and applied (see e.g., Hansen 2000; Emmers 2003; Bubandt 2005; Caballero-Anthony & Emmers 2006; Kent 2006; Jackson 2006; Wilkinson 2007; Barthwal-Datta 2009).5 However, most of these critics have not provided solutions for how to deal with the issues they raise; most critics of the ‘Copenhagen School’ (CopS) approach have been satisfied to identify problems in the approach. The number of critiques without solutions reveals the need to refine the theory of securitisation, as well as the relevance of the aims of the present study. I shall claim here to have answers for some of the issues previous criticisms have identified. Through the explication of speech acts of securitisation I demonstrate how securitisation has political functions beyond the provision of legitimacy for ‘extraordinary measures’ and how securitisation may also happen after the fact.6 Indeed, there is no need for the

One of the issues debated in this field is the meaning of criticality. The c.a.s.e. collective (CASE 2006, 476) identifies a particular stance vis-à-vis taken-for-granted assumptions and categorisations of social reality as the important criterion of being critical: being critical means rigorous sceptical questioning, being reflexive, and breaking away from naturalised correspondences between things and words. This understanding of criticality is also applied in the present study, as it concurs with the emancipatory interest of knowledge (Habermas 2007; Vuori 2008a). Interestingly, Edward Said insisted that any critical intellectual endeavour has to begin by asking the questions: critical of what, for whom, and for which purpose (Duvall 2007, 85). Indeed, being critical also means being critical of one’s own practices and goals. Accordingly, some of the footnotes of the present study contain metanarratives which seek this path; hence the ethos of irony. 4 This field is quite comprehensively described in Wæver (2004a) and the Critical Approaches to Security in Europe Networked Manifesto (CASE 2006) (see also Buzan & Hansen 2009). For criticisms and discussion, see Walker (2007), Behnke (2007), Salter (2007), Sylvester (2007), CASE (2007), and Mutimer (2009).The European field can be described as consisting of the three ‘schools’ of Aberystwyth, Copenhagen and Paris, as well as post-modernist, post-structuralist, feminist and realist positions. For examples of critical scholarship beyond the ‘schools’ and even Europe, see for example Tickner (1992), Klein (1994), Campbell (1998), Der Derian (1995), Dillon (1996), Weldes et al. (1999), Constantinou (2000), Burke (2002) and Hansen (2006). For a study on the intellectual development and history of the entire field of ‘International Security Studies’, see Buzan & Hansen (2009). How the present study relates to this field is discussed in more detail in Chapter 5. below. The abbreviation CASE refers to the ‘critical schools’ of security studies developed in Europe while CSS (Critical Security Studies) refers to the Aberysthwyth school. The c.a.s.e. collective refers to the scholars of this collective work while critical security studies without capital letters refers to general critical approaches to security beyond the European ‘schools.’ The Copenhagen School is abbreviated as CopS, and International Security Studies as ISS while International Relations Theory is abbreviated as IR. As Buzan & Hansen (2009, 1) note, ISS works as an umbrella term that can bring together scholars working under different labels e.g., ‘international security’, ‘national security studies’, ‘security studies’, ‘strategic studies’ and even ‘war studies’ or ‘peace studies.’ ISS is one of the cores of IR, as also reflected by the stature of the journal International Security in the field of IR, and journals like Review of International Studies and European Journal of International Relations that have published important forays into the discussions of security and its study (at least from a European perspective). As Albrecht & Brauch (2008, 506) note, various reviewers have at times used international and national security, strategic, and war studies as synonyms, while others have taken security studies as broader and strategic or war studies as narrower fields of study. See Figures 2 and 3 in Chapter 5. for different ways to depict these overlaps and distinctions. 5 Even Wæver (2004a, 2) asks whether the CopS and other ‘European’ critical approaches to security can travel to other parts of the world in a helpful role. 6 Wæver (2004a, 9) emphasises that the real functions of the term ‘security’ are to be found where it is 3

Introduction

theory of securitisation to be restricted in its outlook when it is used to analyse security dynamics in socio-political contexts beyond European or American democracies, as some critics suggest (e.g., Jackson 2006; Wilkinson 2007; Barthwal-Datta 2009). Some of the debates among developers and appliers of the theory of securitisation have revolved around disagreements on the type of theory securitisation theory is or should be. This discussion has produced at least two sets of positions: that in which the theory is argued to be a constitutive or causal theory, and that in which the theory is argued to be a philosophical or sociological one.7 I engage these debates by starting from one of securitisation theory’s multidisciplinary roots, namely, language philosophy, and by then moving to linguistics in the form of cross-cultural pragmatics. The theory of securitisation is a prime example of the ‘linguistic turn’ in International Relations Theory.8 Since the identification of the linguistic turn in IR by the turn of the 1980s-1990s, there have been several other claimed ‘turns’ within the field. But before taking the theory of securitisation through the next twist in the road, it may be prudent to investigate its roots with more rigour than before. I consider the linguistic root of securitisation theory significant, and therefore take a systematic approach to investigate what this entails for securitisation theory as an application of speech act theory.9 There are several approaches to the theory of speech acts, but I focus on the intellectual ‘root’ that Wæver draws on the most i.e., John Langsham Austin, as well as Austin’s student John Rogers Searle, which is already suggested by the title of this study.10 There have been several rounds of debate on securitisation theory that have focused on different aspects of securitisation or its study.11 Some of these debates are more relevant

employed in political practice. 7 Another dimension is whether the focus should be on ‘internal’ or ‘external’ aspects of ‘acts of securitisation.’ This debate is discussed further in Chapter 6.3.3. below. 8 The term ‘linguistic turn’ is from Richard Rorty. See e.g., Onuf (1989) and Der Derian & Shapiro (1989) for early examples in IR, even though Onuf (1989, 43, 46) views his approach as part of an ‘ontological turn’ as it emphasises ‘deeds’ as its starting-point of ‘bounded constructivism.’ 9 Unlike Martin Hollis and Steve Smith (1991, 69), I believe that international relations theory has to grapple with the nature of language in some depth. 10 While the title of the present study refers to Austin’s published lecture-series How to do Things with Words, it has to be stated right away that speech act theory is actually not about words, or verbs, but about the ‘force’ of an utterance (Searle 1973). This means that rather than words, the present study deals with illocutionary force and how this aspect of human interaction and communication plays a part in the social construction of security, the aspect of International Relations theory similarly present in the main title. Austin (1975) obtained the term of force from Frege (e.g., 1977a; 1977b) for whom it, in addition to sense and denotation, was one of the basic components of sentence meaning. 11 The initial round was initiated by Bill McSweeney (1996; 1998; 1999) and it also provided the approach with the label Copenhagen School. Just as Richard K. Ashley’s (1984) critique of ‘Neorealism’ quite possibly contributed more to the strength of ‘neorealism’ than to its critique, McSweeney’s critical label proved to be rather fruitful for the intended target of criticism. The McSweeney debate (see Buzan & Wæver 1997 and Williams 1998 for replies to McSweeney) revolved around the concept of societal security and the CopS’s conceptualisation of society and identity. The second round of debate, i.e., the ‘Eriksson debate’ was on the normative aspects of security scholarships (Eriksson 1999a; 1999b; 2000; Goldman 1999; Wæver 1999; Williams 1999; Behnke 2000). A similar debate on the ethical and political role of scholarship was in the journal of International Relations and Development (Aradau 2004; Taureck 2006a; Behnke 2006; Alker 2006; Aradau 2006; Floyd 2007a; see also Wyn Jones 2005). There have also been discussions on the role of political theory vis-à-vis the theory of securitisation (e.g., Huysmans 1998a), and whether the spectacle of ‘high politics’ is the most relevant aspect of security, or whether the study of ‘security experts’, and techniques of power would be more appropriate (e.g., Bigo 2000; Huysmans 2006a). More recently there has been a discussion on the role of audiences and contexts (Balzacq 2005; Stritzel 2007; Salter 2008; Ciuta 2009; Léonard & Kaunert 2010), the applicability of the CopS’s understanding of speech acts (Hansen 2000; Balzacq 2005; Wilkinson 2007), the role of images in

Introduction

for the present study than others. Accordingly, I take a stand on the usefulness of the speech act approach to securitisation, and how this relates to issues such as ‘silence’ (Hansen 2000; Wilkinson 2007) and ‘images’ (Williams 2003; McDonald 2008a; Hansen 2011). I also contribute to debate on whether securitisation should be a constitutive or a causal theory, as well as the discussions on securitisation theory’s similarity to Carl Schmitt’s (1996; 2003) decisionism. The most important debates are however centred on the applicability of the securitisation framework to political orders beyond liberal democracy and Western Europe,12 and accordingly, the main theoretical contributions of this study affect and are most relevant for these debates. To shift the focus to the empirical realities of the PRC, we can note, in accordance with Michael Schoenhals (1992), that the analysis of speech acts is one of the best ways to comprehend the constitution of power structures in China. Despite such potential for fruitful research, this focus has been lacking in China Studies. This lack is even more striking in that there have been several studies which have dealt with the political use of language in the context of Chinese politics (e.g., Apter & Saich 1994). Many of these studies focus on propaganda, which has been an important tool to create a political lexicon which has defined and restricted political discourse (Starr 1973, 127-43). Schoenhals (1992) argues that this kind of formation of strictly defined official language has been the strongest means of political control in China. The government has issued, and still issues, official lists of ‘scientific’ formulations of phrases (Schoenhals 1991) which imply a close and rigid connection between the signifier and the signified (cf., Culler 1994). Through these lists, form and content have become one, which restricts language to ‘what is’ instead of ‘what could be’; the use of formalised language is a means for the deliberate formation of hegemonic discourses and a way to violently circ*mscribe rhetorical space and therefore the construction of social reality (cf., Laclau & Mouffe 2001).13 In the context of China, I propose that the theory of securitisation provides a framework to study the political language of security, suppression, and resistance. While there is a vast literature on social mobilisation and its suppression in China, much of this is biased with either a focus on the social movements, or on their suppression. In my view, the theory of securitisation is a means to deal with issues of suppression and resistance from securitisation (Williams 2003; Möller 2007; Möller 2008; McDonald 2008a; Hansen 2011; Vuori 2010a; 2011) as well as what kind of a theory securitisation theory should be and how it can be applied (Balzacq 2010a; 2010b; 2010c). These and other criticisms of the CopS approach will be discussed below in Chapter 6. 12 What is seen here as the common denominator of critical approaches to security in Europe is the problematisation of security, either as a practice, social field, concept, or a form of politics (cf., Wæver 2004a; CASE 2006). Even though the various approaches do not agree on what emancipation means, the normative goal of critical studies of security here is taken to be emancipation; While for CSS security is emancipation, here the idea of emancipation is closer to the approach of the CopS and some other approaches where the objective is closer to being emancipated from ‘security’, where politics as emergency is not necessarily seen as the most appropriate course of action. This however does not mean that the empirical focus of critical studies of security should, or has to be in Europe or liberal democracies. Populaces in authoritarian or totalitarian political systems also need and yearn for emancipation, perhaps even more so than people in liberal democracies. Critical studies of security should not set its normative objective as the premise that defines what kinds of political systems to study. If democracy is the normalcy aimed for, non-democracies are excluded. Yet, does liberal democracy equal emancipation? 13 Link (1992, 6-7) also identifies these ‘two Chinese languages’, where the bifurcation of the official formulations and the kind of language people use in informal situations encompasses content, style, vocabulary, and even grammar. Yet both of these languages are equally ‘real’: while one can be used to resist the other, both have real effects on real people; cf., Scott’s (1990) division of public and hidden transcripts.

Introduction

the point of view of both authorities and resisters within the same framework. Further, through the use of this framework of analysis, I shall indicate that China can be studied with the same approach as other societies and types of political orders, which opens avenues for comparative studies.14 In other words, China does not have to be studied as if it were sui generis.15 Beyond theory development and the opening up of options for comparative research on China, I shall also make empirical claims on the use of securitisation and desecuritisation moves in Chinese politics. I argue that ‘security’ can be used to legitimise political actions which run counter to the declared mores of political orders.16 This was the case in 1966 when Mao launched the Cultural Revolution, and again in 1989, when the government used military force against broad social protest initiated by students. Securitisation can also be used as a means of control or compulsion. I shall argue that this was the case in 1999 during the anti-Falungong campaign. While security arguments were also used here as a means of legitimacy, they also served the function to compel loyal citizens to stop the practice of Falungong. In addition to analysing the construction of official security realities, I shall also discuss the reactions of the ‘target’ of securitisation i.e., those assigned the quality of a threat. The focus here is on the interaction between securitising actors and the ‘targets’ of securitisation. While the meaning of security as contested and negotiated has been identified and emphasised by various constructionist approaches to the study of security (see e.g., McDonald 2008b, 64), these investigations are usually limited to how political leaders and domestic audiences negotiate the meaning of security, or to how various actors elaborate how ‘our’ values should be defined or how ‘we’ should act. In such discussions, the assumption of negotiation and contestation seems to focus on ‘us’ and ‘our’ security. These investigations do not focus on the interaction between the claimed ‘us’ and the claimed ‘threat’, or the ‘other.’ I believe that unravelling the interactions and engagements between the claimed ‘us’ and ‘them’, opens up a new avenue of investigation The study also contributes to the culturalism – universalism debate that is prevalent in China Studies. By using a theory that is based on a universalist premise (that all human languages are conventional realisations of certain universal constitutive rules) the research takes a step towards universalism. The theoretical framework used in the study still leaves a major role for the cultural conventions of securitisation. However; securitisation is not a purely linguistic phenomenon, it is dependent on conventional cultural practices. The study thus suggests a mixture of universalism and culturalism. By using a framework developed in Europe, the ‘double burden’ of interpreting foreign cultures to domestic and international audiences is somewhat relieved as the results are derived from a ‘familiar’ framework. At the same time, China is brought into a framework where it can be subjected to international comparison without conceptual stretching. 15 While some of the emphasis on the uniqueness of China within China Studies can be seen as a form of ‘orientalism’ (Said 1979), Chinese officials have at times engaged in a form of ‘self-orientalism’ themselves (Dai 2002, xiv). 16 Legitimacy here refers to reasons for the acceptance of something, which cannot be coerced; something legitimate thus means that it is morally accepted (Berg 1988, 20). Securitisation is one way to make policies morally acceptable, when without the label of security they would be considered as morally unacceptable, i.e., illegitimate. In Berg’s (1988, 22) categorisation of acceptance, categories d-h require moral acceptance and thereby equal legitimacy: a) Unreasoned acceptance, b) Reasoned, coerced acceptance, c) Reasoned, uncoerced, immoral acceptance, d) Moral acceptance despite moral disapproval, e) Moral acceptance based on moral indifference, f) Moral acceptance based on negative moral approval, g) Moral acceptance based on positive moral approval and h) Moral acceptance but non-moral rejection. For something to be morally accepted, i.e., legitimate, means that it has to be in accord with the norms or moral principles of those whose moral acceptance is in question. The continuance of the existence of something whose existence is considered as legitimate is a very powerful way of legitimising political action; if something is portrayed as ensuring the continued existence of something legitimate that is under threat, it is likely that the former something is also considered legitimate. 14

Introduction

for Securitisation Studies. While this kind of analysis is not possible in all of the cases investigated here, the Tiananmen and Falungong cases provide suitable opportunities to discuss this dynamic.17 This part of the study focuses on the struggle of interpretations between the securitisers and the groups being securitised. Such struggles contain desecuritising moves, reverse-securitisation, and counter-securitisation by the groups affected by the securitisation moves and labels enounced by the authorities. These kinds of ‘competitions’ are not only a feature of democratic political orders: securitisation moves can be contested and resisted even in non-democratic political orders.18 I will demonstrate how this occurred in 1989 and in the case of the Falungong, but my reasoning is that interpretations of history may themselves function as a form of desecuritisation, which I examine in the case of the Cultural Revolution. Furthermore, the 1976 ‘counter-revolutionary political incident at Tiananmen Square’ demonstrates how securitisation may not be successful even when a security status for an issue has been achieved. I shall therefore argue that the success or failure of securitisation should not be understood as only a mere felicitous achievement of speech acts vis-à-vis relevant audiences. The success or failure of securitisation is more broadly about the success or failure of the politics of securitisation. This is a question of whether or not the political move of securitisation has been beneficial to the securitising actor.19 In the case of 1976, even though an authoritative security status was achieved, in the end the politics of this move backfired on the party-factions that supported it. While there has been considerable theoretical debate around the concept of securitisation, its negative corollary, desecuritisation (i.e., the removal of the ‘security label’ and logic from issues), has remained ‘under-theorised’ (see e.g., Aradau 2003). Desecuritisation has largely been understood in terms of the deconstruction of collective identities in situations where relations between ‘friends’ and ‘enemies’ are constituted by existential threats (Roe 2004, 280) i.e., they are securitised.20 In my view, while it is possible to argue for desecuritisation explicitly, a ‘withering away’ (Behnke 2006, 65) may be a necessary condition for successful desecuritisation.21 The key question here is about whether or not

I focus in these discussions on an aspect of real securitisation processes that has not received much attention: the interaction between securitising actors and the ‘targets’ of securitisation. How do securitisation moves affect the inter-unit relations of securitising actors and the claimed threats present in securitisation moves? How do securitisation moves become part of the context of the subsequent stages of the process of securitisation and its possible contestation? How are securitisation and desecuritisation moves used to suppress social mobilisation or to resist its suppression? 18 Curley (2008, 28-29) discusses the possibilities of civil society and state bureaucracies to resist the securitisation moves of elites in various types of Asian political orders. In the terminology applied in the present study, activities such as bureaucracies that work against elite securitisation moves is termed contestation while resistance is reserved for actors who do not have any formal public authority. While contestation is an important aspect of studying ‘real’ securitisation processes, focusing on this still leaves out the interaction between securitising actors and threats (e.g., resistance to securitisation moves by the threat). 19 In a Habermasian (1984) vein, securitisation in this sense can be viewed as strategic action, even though some strands of securitisation require argumentation and genuine acceptance by various audiences. 20 Such a position has been criticised to represent and reinforce a realist view of security (see, for example, McDonald 2008a, 579–580). From this critical viewpoint, ‘security as emancipation’ (see, for example, Booth 2005, particularly Wyn Jones 2005) would be preferable to the negativity of security bound to threats that Buzan et al. (1998) highlight. Indeed, for Wæver (e.g., 1995; 2000a), desecuritisation is a process by which security issues lose their ‘securityness’ and are thereby no longer restrictive by nature, as there is no need to repel threats, but become ‘open’ in an Arendtian sense. 21 Jef Huysmans (1995, 65-67) has proposed three approaches for desecuritisation strategies: 1) the objectiv17

Introduction

security is an institutional fact that needs maintenance.22 Desecuritisation is approached here as one of the options to ‘contest’ and ‘resist’ securitisation moves, or the security status of already existant issues. Just as securitisation can be seen as a tactic in a politician’s ‘playbook’, desecuritisation can be seen as a countermove to these types of ‘plays.’ The cases studied here show how the various identity frames23 that social movements and authorities produce in their interactions can be seen as attempts to both legitimise and illegitimise social mobilisation and through security discourse. The combination of securitisation and identity frame theory24 can be used to analyse and conceptualise the interaction between social movements and authorities, which has been absent in prior studies on Chinese social mobilisation and its repression, even though there is otherwise extensive research on the subject. Similarly, in addition to its interactive features, resistance to securitisation has, thus far, not been one of the major focuses of Securitisation Studies, even though some of the earliest articles on securitisation by Ole Wæver (e.g., 1989b; 1995) specifically discussed the possibility and possible effects of failed securitisation.25 Foci in the literature have been those who can securitise, rather than those who can resist securitisation.26 The ‘targets’ of securitisation have also been absent from most analyses. This is an oversight this study aims to remedy. Indeed, examining securitisation processes as an interaction between the securitising actor(s) and the target(s) of securitisation(s) may advance understanding of who (securitising actors) can securitise (political moves via speech acts) which issues (threats), for whom (referent objects), why (perlocutionary intentions), with what kinds of effects (interunit relations), and under what conditions (facilitation/ impediment factors) (cf., Buzan, Wæver & de Wilde 1998, 32). As such, these are the core questions of the research programme of Securitisation Studies.27 With these general objectives in mind, the present study has engaged a variety of problems and questions. A major problem that needed clarification has been how to infer poist strategy, 2) the constructivist strategy, and 3) the deconstructivist strategy. 22 Searle (1995, 43): as long as people continue to recognise X as to have the status function of Y, the institutional fact is maintained. 23 Frames are here understood as interpretive schemata that simplify and condense “the world out there by selectively punctuating and encoding objects, situations, events, experiences, and sequences of actions in one’s past” (Snow & Benford 1992, 137). For security analysis that utilises frame theory, see Eriksson (2001a; 2001b) and Bendrath et al. (2007). 24 Paltemaa & Vuori (2006); see Chapter 6.1.2. below. 25 Failed securitisation has recently received more attention; see for example Mak (2006); Salter (2008; 2009); Stritzel (2009); Ruzicka (2009); Vuori (2005; 2010a). 26 The reasoning here is that, especially in non-democratic settings such as the PRC, securitisation and desecuritisation provide a logic for legitimising suppression and resistance respectively, while the vocabulary of both of these is drawn from the resonant values, myths, laws, and proclamations of the authorities. As an attempt to raise the cost of resistance, authorities resort to framing activists with identities that make them appear as a threat to certain referent objects which are usually some valuable goals of the regime. Activists then attempt to desecuritise their movement by invoking identities that are aligned with these same values and framing their activities as conducive to them, rather than as threats. The necessity of responding to the issue of security is forced on activists and becomes a prime constraint on their identity framings. 27 For Wæver (2008b, 582), the task of Securitisation Studies is not to settle the question of ‘what is security’, but to empirically study “who manages to securitise what under what conditions and how,” and “what are the effects of this, […] [h]ow does the politics of a given issue change when it shifts from being a normal political issue to becoming ascribed the urgency, priority and drama of ‘a matter of security.’” Further, “national security is […] social in the sense of being constituted intersubjectively in a specific field, and it should not be measured against some real or true yardstick of ‘security’ derived from (contemporary) domestic society” (Wæver 1995, 51).

Introduction

litical functions from political speech in general and in ‘security speech’ in particular. In more specific terms, this issue is about the identification of a ‘security modality’ (Hansen 2000, 296) or a ‘security rationale’ (Huysmans 2006a, 147) in a sample of discourse, in the absence of ‘security words’. The key problem then is to discern how security can be achieved with words. Beyond such general methodological issues, of interest is to investigate how securitisation functions in non-democracies, and outside the ‘West’. A key methodological problem to solve here is how to shift from one socio-political context to another, without stretching the concept of securitisation. Beyond such general problems that relate to both language theory as well as the study of concepts, securitisation has generally been viewed as a means to bypass the ‘normal’ rules of the political process (see for example Wæver 1995 and Buzan et al. 1998), which has often led to a ‘democratic bias’ in the theory: normal politics easily translates as the democratic process. Of interest here is to investigate the role of securitisation in political systems where there is no democratic process to move issues away from. In other words, to study the utility of security issues, when they are not used to legitimise decisions and policies that go beyond democratic decision-making. The above problems have to be solved in order to apply securitisation theory to the study of Chinese politics. These research problems are discussed in this study through four empirical examples from the People’s Republic of China. All of the selected cases have been subjected to the following set of questions, which have worked to guide and structure the analysis, as well as to make it systematic:28 How is the issue constructed as a matter of security (speech act analysis)? What is the threat? What is the referent object of security? Who frames something as an issue of security / who or what is the securitising actor? Who or what is the audience of securitisation? Who or what are the functional actors (actors influencing securitisation without being referent objects or securitising actors)? What are the facilitation and impediment factors in the processes of securitisation? How do secu-

Similar sets of questions have been suggested by other appliers of the securitisation framework. Curley & Wong (2008b, 5-6) asked a set of seven questions from the authors of their edited volume (Curley & Wong 2008a): 1) Issue area: What is the issue under threat, and what/who is posing an existential threat? Is there consensus among various actors on the threat posed? 2) Securitising actors: Who are the main securitising actors? In the case of governmental representatives, which branches of bureaucracies have interests to securitise/desecuritise the issue? What other actors are involved? 3) Security concept: What type of security concept is being used to identify a referent object? What is the interaction and power balance of possible contending security concepts in the securitisation process? 4) Process: What is the process by which speech acts are used to identify threats? Who or what are ‘speaking’ security? What are the politics of threat identification? Is the focus on speech acts sufficient or should other forms of political communication be considered (e.g., persuasion via images)? 5) Outcome I: Has securitisation actually taken place? What indicators can be used to identify the outcome of securitisation? What resistance is there to securitisation, and what/who is active? What is the overall outcome: success, failure, uncertain, unintended consequences and/or mixed evidence? 6) Outcome II (impact of the threat): What impact has the securitisation (or securitising move) had on the handling of the threat? Are calls to invoke national or military security conducive or undesirable to solving the issue? What are the potential downsides of securitisation? 7) Conditions affecting securitisation: How does the nature of the issue area and its linkages, the role of powerful actors, the domestic political system, and international norms affect the process of securitisation? Ciuta (2009, 317) proposes a set of five questions for identifying relevant dimensions that can reveal how security is constructed in context: 1) How are threats constructed; which issues become threats? Are pre-existing threats attached to referent objects; what is the role of actors’ histories, identities, and strategic myths? 2) How does something become a referent object of security? 3) How are securitisation actors constructed? 4) How are security measures constructed? 5) What does security mean? 28

Introduction

ritisation moves affect the inter-unit relations of securitising actors and the claimed threats present in securitisation moves? How do securitisation moves become part of the context of the subsequent stages of the process of securitisation and its possible contestation or resistance? More specifically, how are securitisation and desecuritisation moves used to suppress social mobilisation or to resist its suppression? Finally, how successful were the politics of securitisation/desecuritisation?

While the present study is not a historical narrative of securitisation in China, even in the political sector, the case studies have been used to obtain some sense of the political use of security over the longer term. Many scholars who study Chinese politics have argued that there has been a qualitative change in the nature of the Chinese political order. Some argue, for example, that while Mao’s China was totalitarian, post-Mao China with its various reforms and openings up has become authoritarian, or that it is moving towards the eventual ‘teleological’ goal of democratisation. Others, however, see China as still totalitarian or post-totalitarian, which entails that the Chinese political order is something beyond mere authoritarian autocratic rule. Of interest here is: what can the case studies situated in three leadership eras of the PRC tell us about the type of the Chinese political order? Has the use of security in the identification of enemies altered? To combine these two issues: do the case studies reveal continuities or changes in terms of the core values of the Chinese political order and the way asymmetric concepts are used in Chinese politics?

1.1. The Theoretical Framework of the Study

Even though considered for a long time merely an offshoot of International Relations – and a conservative and policy oriented one at that – ‘Security Studies’ has been identified as the source of some of the most vibrant theoretical discussions in the field of IR (Huysmans 1998a; Eriksson 2001a; Williams 2003). One of the most notable parties in this discussion has been the Copenhagen School with the theory of securitisation as perhaps the most interesting and controversial contribution. Securitisation theory has been broadly embraced and it can already be considered an extensive research programme that covers a variety of topics (Wæver 2003).29 The research programme allows scholars to approach security issues from several angles that range from philosophy and ethics to the sociology of security practices.30 The core of the research programme (in the vein of Imre Lakatos [1970]) is the premise that security is an intersubjective and self-referential practice, achieved through speech acts. 31 This Lakatos’s (1970) notion of research programmes is more befitting here than Larry Laudan’s (1977) notion of research traditions. In the field of IR, the label of research traditions is stuck to approaches such as realism, liberalism, Marxism, neorealism, neoliberal institutionalism, constructivism, postmodernism, and feminism (see e.g., Reus-Smit and Snidal 2008). For examples of IR approaches discussed through Lakatos’ notion, see Vasquez (1997), and Elman and Elman (2002). 30 CASE (2006) displays how approaches near the Copenhagen School can study similar or related issues from other angles. 31 The core of securitisation theory is often presented by both Wæver (1995, 55) and his critics as the phrase: “security can be considered as a speech act.” In my view this is, however, not entirely accurate: security is not a speech act, but securitisation is. It would be more precise to express the CopS’s idea by noting that security issues are constructed or labelled through securitisation speech acts. Although many threats, referent objects 29

Introduction

leading idea brings disparate approaches to security and securitisation together (see e.g., Balzacq 2010b). The different approaches can be seen to form the research programme’s secondary hypotheses which can be adjusted or dismissed, in accordance with empirical anomalies, without compromising the core assumption of the programme; the core contains the most basic assumptions, while the ‘auxiliary hypotheses’ are used to apply the theory to specific cases. The theory of securitisation forms the theoretical framework for the present study. This approach does not take security as a given necessity, but sees it as an intersubjective construction. By drawing on constructionist language theory, securitisation is considered to be about the power politics of a concept, that of security. According to this view, the construction of security issues does not make it necessary to have ‘objective threats’, but intersubjective ones. Issues can be saddled with ‘security’ implications irrespective of whether there is a ‘real’ threat or not, yet issues have to be labelled for them to have the status function of ‘security.’ Murray Edelman (1972, 69) already noted that many threats claimed by state administrations are actually intangible in that the reality of the threat is itself unverifiable and a subject of dispute. The CopS’s understanding of the social construction of security concurs with this observation. For Edelman (ibid., 71), only intangible threats allow polarising role-taking, which permits exaggeration and the justification of unfavourable policy choices. If the claimed threat is clearly observable, tangible and undergoes systematic scrutiny, perceptions of its character and the techniques required to deal with it, converge. This would make the political use of threats more difficult, which may be why intangible threats may be preferable to definite, tangible examples of threats. Indeed, the labels ‘real’ securitisation processes offer, work towards providing legitimacy for the political actions the actor enunciating these concerns is trying to achieve.32 This approach and understanding does not deny that many issues on the security agenda have to do with the existence of referent objects, but deals more with problems that follow from the possibility to construct almost any issue to be of an issue of ‘national security.’33 The framework thus supplements other ways of studying security34 through a problematisation of the concept and practices of security. When viewed more specifically than Edelman’s (1972) general observation of the symbolic uses of politics, securitisation is revealed to be an illocutionary speech act (Austin 1975; Searle & Vanderveken 1985), where an existential threat is ‘produced’ in rela-

and means of repelling threats are based on ‘brute reality’, security is a socially constructed, intersubjective and self-referential practice (Buzan et al. 1998, 24, 31), the important criterion being the “securityness of security” (Wæver 1997a, 24). This means that security itself is not a speech act. For Wæver (1997a, 14), security signifies (X counts as Y in context C [Searle 1969, 35]) the presence of an existential threat and adequate measures for dealing with it (while insecurity signifies the presence of a security problem without the means of handling it). Securitisation on the other hand is a complex speech act, which has a key role in the social construction of the status function of security; ‘security’ follows from the perlocutionary effects of this constellation of elementary speech acts. I shall elaborate on this argument in Chapter 6.3.1. below. 32 See Chapter 6.3.1. on how securitisation relates to theories of action. 33 For example Upadhyaya (2006, 17) has observed a tendency in Asian post-colonial states to hoist “the spectre of external threat” through securitising speech acts; this caters well to domestic constituencies in terms of electoral gains. In post-colonial states the state itself may well be a site of contestation among various social groups, and the political and military constellations may find it expedient to see ‘enemy aliens’ threatening to disrupt the territorial integrity of the state (Alagappa 1998). 34 See for example Baylis et al. (2007), Collins (2007), Williams (2008a), and Buzan & Hansen (2009) on prevalent contemporary approaches to the study of security.

Introduction

tion to a referent object; an act of securitisation is to classify an issue as an existential threat which requires drastic measures.35 If securitisation is ‘successful’, legitimacy or some other perlocutionary effect sought by the enunciator created through the widening social process, that consists of increased and possibly escalated instances of acts of securitisation, or securitisation moves, enables the speaker to ‘break the rules’ that normally constrict behaviour and policies. This allows the question to shift into an area of ‘special politics’ – the politics of utmost priority.36 In a way, the theory of securitisation describes the frame, script, plot or grammar of security (see Chapter 6.) – the way we have learned to understand what security is and what is security, as well as how something becomes security. Securitisation describes the process of creation of the social fact of security, but the script or plot of security contains further elements. The script of security entails priority and utmost importance. A schema or prototype of security has six variables: a securitising actor, a referent object, a threat, an audience, facilitating conditions, and functional actors. Within the framework of securitisation, security is understood as a ‘structured field of practices’ (Buzan et al. 1998, 31; Bigo 2000; Wæver 2000a; Williams 2003; Huysmans 2002; Balzacq 2005; cf., Bourdieu 1991) where some people and collective actors are more privileged to speak and construct security issues than others. These securitising actors securitise issues by claiming/declaring the existence of something – the referent object – to be threatened. Relationships among subjects are not equal or symmetrical. The chance of successful securitisation is highly dependent on the position, or the sociopolitical capital,37 of the actor who is attempting to securitise a target. Since security reality is intersubjective, a securitising move is an attempt as no person is guaranteed the ability to force others to accept a claim of the necessity for security action (Wæver 1995). Buzan (2008, 553): “Securitization is when something is successfully constructed as an existential threat to a valued referent object, and that construction is then used to support exceptional measures in response”; Wæver (2008b, 582): “Securitization is the discursive and political process through which an intersubjective understanding is constructed within a political community to treat something as an existential threat to a valued referent object, and to enable a call for urgent and exceptional measures to deal with the threat.” 36 The logic is that if ‘a’ claims all of ‘A’ to be threatened by ‘B’, this is generally accepted as valid and powerful and ‘a’ gains acceptance for doing ‘X.’ If we take Matti Wiberg’s (1988, 65) definition of legitimacy: “some political entity X has political legitimacy in relation to some actors or criteria Y judged by Z to do acts A at the time t on grounds G,” as a basis, we can say that the acts A of the securitising actor X, that would normally be judged as non-legitimate in relation to criteria Y at the time t by Z, are considered legitimate in relation to the criteria Y at the time t by Z on grounds G. Thus, the perlocutionary effect of securitisation in its original conceptualisation is political legitimacy; securitisation legitimates action otherwise deemed non-legitimate. See Chapter 6.4.2. on other possible political functions securitisation may serve. 37 The notion of socio-political capital refers here to the various assets people engaged in political activities can draw on to garner support for their views and suggestions. Such assets include formal positions, social networks, as well as the possibility to deploy symbols and frames. Such symbols and frames are viewed here as repositories of symbolic capital (e.g., prestige, honour, attention), which can be used to wield symbolic power, and to commit symbolic violence. This kind of a view on social assests is mainly influenced by Bourdieu (1977; 1991). The notion of socio-political capital is closely connected with other concepts, such as practice, habitus, and field. For Bourdieu (1984, 101), the relationship between habitus, social capital and practice, can be symbolically represented as: “([habitus] + [capital]) + field = practice.” Here, ‘habitus’ is “a set of dispositions which incline agents to act and react in certain ways” (Thompson 1991, 12), i.e., habitalised conduct of life, ‘capital’ is the distribution of resources, and ‘field’ is analogous to a game with a structured space of positions where actors play as enabled by their capital and habitus. A practice then is how the various positions, dispositions and resources are played out. Different fields demand different kinds of habitus and capital. From this point of view, security can be seen to form its own ‘cultural field’ (Williams 2007c, 40). 35

Introduction

Despite this, security is a structured field in which some actors are placed in positions of power by virtue of their accepted voices of security. Indeed, some sectors of security politics even have institutions, the authority of which is required to bring about a security reality.38 In China, for example, the Communist party (中国共产党, Zhōngguó gòngchǎndǎng; CCP) has authoritative positions from which official security issues are phrased. The paramount leader has a key role in the ‘trickle down effect’ of official propaganda and also a major role in the construction of security issues. For Buzan et al. (1998, 23) securitisation raises an issue into the special domain of security, where issues are no longer debated as political questions, but dealt with in ways that may violate existing legal or social rules in an expedient way. Acts of securitisation bring together, or even constitute, both actors and objects.39 Securitising actors are “actors who securitise issues by declaring something – a referent object – existentially threatened” (ibid., 36). Referent objects are “things that are seen to be existentially threatened and that they have a legitimate claim to survival” (ibid.). Other relevant ‘variables’ in processes of securitisation include functional actors who “affect the dynamics of a sector [w]ithout being the referent object or the actor calling for security on behalf of the referent object” (ibid.), and facilitating/impeding conditions which “are the conditions under which the speech act works, in contrast to cases in which the act misfires or is abused” (ibid., 32). These conditions fall into two categories: “1) the internal, linguisticgrammatical – to follow the rules of the act, and 2) the external, contextual and social – to hold a position from which the act can be made” (ibid., 32-33). More specifically, the referent object of security is something that is considered to deserve a continued existence, while its existence is claimed/declared to be under threat (Buzan et al. 1998, 36; see also Wæver 2008b, 582). The issue of the ‘proper referents’ of security is the aspect of security that has been the focus of the ‘widening debate’ that was especially prevalent in ISS during the 1980s and 1990s.40 Even though societies differ in assessments of what is generally considered necessary to survive, the referent object of security in the political sector has traditionally been the state. The CopS framework contains other sectors, but in the present study the focus is on the political sector: it is assumed to provide the greatest contrast among types of political order, and thus is the only sector considered here. Who ‘speaks’ security is especially relevant for the construction of security issues. Even though securitising actors are usually governments, politicians, bureaucrats, lobbyists, or pressure groups, they usually speak of security on behalf of some larger communi The original CopS framework contains five sectors of security i.e., military, political, societal, environmental, economic. Laustsen & Wæver (2000) proposed the addition of a religious sector and Wæver (2008b) also discusses the possibility of considering gender and ‘functional’ security as sectors as well. Beyond the ‘core’ of the CopS, Nissenbaum & Hansen (2009) have promoted the addition of ‘cybersecurity’ as its own sector of security. 39 As Huysmans (2006a, 49) notes, to frame something as a danger is not only just about the identification of urgent threats to referent objects, it is also a politically constitutive act that ‘asserts and reproduces the unity of the political community’ it is being voiced in or in the name of. Securitisation is not only about attempts to defend the autonomy and existence of a referent object from threats, it is also a ‘mode of carving out a place of one’s own’ in the world; it is about reproduction of the referent object itself. 40 Despite this debate, the role of the referent object in regard to the audience has not been the subject of much theoretical discussion. Can Mutlu (2011) suggests that the referent should have an ‘a priori affective relation to the audience’ in order for a securitising move to be successful. 38

Introduction

ty e.g., the state or nation.41 Thus, it is not as informative to consider the actual individual who articulates the speech act, but the collective she claims to represent as the securitising actor. This is rather challenging, because unlike with referent objects, speech acts of securitisation are not always self-defining in terms of who or what speaks. Securitising actors in the political sector are, however, relatively institutionalised and thereby well defined, when compared to other sectors of security. States by definition have authoritative leaders, of which governments generally are those which formally articulate security on behalf of the state. The audience(s) of securitisation(s) are those the securitising actor attempts to convince to accept the security nature of an issue. Indeed, for Buzan et al. (1998) the audience has to be convinced, in order for the securitisation move to be successful. From this point of view, as securitisation is an intersubjective practice, the perlocutionary effects of securitisation acts are what should be used to estimate the success or failure of securitisation, by which audiences have major roles in processes of securitisation.42 The empirical estimation of legitimacy is a very tricky prospect, and thereby the study of only the perlocutionary effects of certain securitisation acts is not enough: the estimation of the success of a certain policy requires socio-political analysis beyond speech act theory. Such an analysis is made even more difficult because just as the issue of who speaks is pertinent to identify securitising actors, the audience is similarly not as clear as it may at first seem. There may be plural audiences, and various types of acts of securitisation require or work with different audiences. For Pierre Bourdieu (1991, 72-75), performative utterances are effects of symbolic domination. The power of different speakers depends on their symbolic capital i.e., the recognition they receive from a group. This symbolic capital, be it institutionalised or informal, can only function if there is a convergence of social conditions, distinct from the linguistic logic of discourse. Appropriate senders and receivers have to be present in the social situation (cf., Austin 1975). For Bourdieu, speech acts are acts of institution, and they are inseparable from the existence of the institution that defines the conditions, which have to be fulfilled for the ‘magic’ of the words to operate.43 For Bourdieu then, the conditions of felicity are social conditions; the real source of the magic of performative utterances lies in the ‘mystery of ministry’, where the representative embodies physically the constituted body of the aggregate of individuals. The framework of securitisation directs our attention to how issues of security are ‘made’ in social fields of practice. While features of the contexts of such processes of construction are important for empirical investigations, instances of speech acts of securitisation constitute the point of departure for analysis. This sets limits for what the approach can be used to study. What is of interest here is ‘intersubjective text’ in that the theory of De Wilde (2008) divides securitising actors into public and private actors, which accordingly have different formal positions from which they can claim to be speaking on behalf of something. 42 It is important to note here that while the audience has a key role in regard to the success and failure of the illocutionary act of securitisation, the illocutionary aspect is of great import: in illocution the move is made towards a ‘status transformation’ towards ‘security’, and irrespective of the success and failure of such a move, it already can have a bearing on the social situation. This issue is discussed in more detail in Chapter 6.2.3. 43 As Habermas (1984) however notes, some speech acts are more formal and institutionalised than others. Habermas himself is interested in speech acts that are unfettered by institutions and strategic goals; he is interested in speech acts that allow communicative action, while, for him, institutionalised speech acts are more often about strategic action. 41

Introduction

securitisation does not allow access to ‘other minds’ or to the ‘real’ motives of political speakers. It does, however, allow the analysis of what securitisation ‘does’ in such texts; the theory of securitisation allows the analysis of how a text reasons, and thereby what it means. While we cannot know what someone meant by producing, or indeed why someone elected to produce, an utterance, we can use the theory of securitisation to infer what such an utterance does conventionally and thereby what it means conventionally. While something can be intended as a reassurance, it can also be received as a threat; yet both of these possibilities can be inferred from the speech act. As was already suggested above, the language philosophical or linguistic root of securitisation theory is taken seriously in this study and the foundations of the approach are sought along it. Therefore, the focus here is on certain aspects of processes of securitisation: instead of branching out into multiple aspects (e.g., political spectacles, technocratic fields of power, political theory and techniques of government; cf., Huysmans 2006a), the focus here is principally on speech acts.44 While working along this root of the framework has its limitations, making the roots of the approach stronger also makes its trunk more solid, and this actually facilitates the branching out of the approach into other directions. Furthermore, such a strengthening of this root makes it possible to plant the approach into foreign soil.

1.2. The Research Methods, Materials and the Case-Selection of the Study

In Max Weber’s (1994) terms, research is only interested in a part of the (significant) reality of infinitely complex phenomena. The part of reality under analysis in the present study is the use of security arguments in specific cases. Case studies have long been stereotyped as “a weak sibling among social science methods,” as they are considered to provide a poor basis for scientific generalisation (or just to have poor external validity) (Yin 1994, xiii). This kind of prejudice against case studies confuses case studies with survey research, where samples are used to generalise into a larger population, and where generalisation is based on statistical methods. Yin (1994) contends that case studies, like scientific experiments, attempt to generalise a particular set of observed results into a broader theory and not to a broader population, as in survey research. The goal is not to enumerate sample frequencies (‘statistical generalisation’) but to expand and generalise theories (‘analytic generalisation’). In analytic generalisation, a previously developed theory is used as a template to analyse and compare the empirical results of case studies. If two or more cases are shown to support the same theory, replication will be claimed. According to Eckstein (1975) and George & Bennett (2004), the analysis of crucial cases45 is the most appropriate way to construct or develop theory. As critical theory development is one of the purposes of the present study, cases beyond the usual scope of the application of the theory of securitisation are subjected to standardised, general questions, Political spectacles can be on a massive or majestic scale, which emphasises the difference between the mundanity of everyday life, and the importance of the political ritual. Artificial settings facilitate an audience’s concentration on suggestions, connotations, emotions and authority (Edelman 1972, 96). The symbolic setting of the political act guides the emotional response of the audience, and can have important facilitation or impediment influences on the perlocutionary effect of the illocutionary political act. 45 Although observation cannot tell us whether something is ’true’ or not, broadening the study of empirical cases may have the pragmatic effect of convincing if various test or studies dispute or fail to dispute the claims presented. 44

Introduction

the aim of which is to make the research ‘structured and focused.’ In Lijphart’s (1971) classic categorisation of case studies, the research fits into both theory-confirming/ infirming and interpretative categories. In other words, the cases are instrumental for theory development. In addition to expanding the extension of the theory of securitisation, by proposition of further ‘strands’ of securitisation beyond the original formulation of Wæver (1989a; 1995), this study develops a method to analyse the constitution of securitisation moves. This method is explicitly based on speech act analysis, and builds on the logical analysis of speech acts (Searle 1969; Searle & Vanderveken 1985). While Wæver’s theory of securitisation is based on speech act theory, the majority of empirical studies done within the framework have not relied on speech act analysis as such (Balzacq 2010a, 60). I argue that the explication of securitisation via speech act logic, provides clarity for various other means to analyse processes of securitisation (see Balzacq 2010b for various methods to study securitisation). The starting-point for securitisation analysis here, is the constitution of securitisation moves. That the analysis of such moves is based on illocutionary logic (Searle & Vanderveken 1985; see Chapter 6.4.1.2.) does not, however, imply that the linguistic rules of speech acts are entirely determinant, or that the study of securitisation should only focus on linguistic analysis. The research methods applied in the study combine both linguistic and socio-political analysis that are necessary to understand the performative of securitisation in real situations and contexts. The method of inquiry is based on pragmatics (the study of the ways in which meaning is derived from the interaction of utterances, with the contexts in which they are used) and not purely on semantics (the study of meaning) or universal linguistic rules. By departing from cross-cultural pragmatics in this way, the present study rests between the poles of current debates, which revolve around whether securitisation should be a constitutive or causal theory and around whether a philosophical or a sociological approach to the study of securitisation is more appropriate (e.g., Balzacq 2005; 2010a; 2010b; 2010c; Stritzel 2007). The argument here is that a linguistic or a sociological approach to the study of actually occurred acts of securitisation cannot replace one or the other. Instead, they should be seen as complementary. Norman Fairclough (1992, 72-73) has put forward a similar argument with his three dimensional, textually oriented approach to discourse analysis. His goal was to bring together textual and linguistic analysis, analysis of social practices and structures, and the analysis of commonsense social procedures. For Fairclough, all of these analytical traditions are indispensable for textually oriented discourse analysis. For securitisation analysis, the most relevant social practices, structures and procedures are, by nature, socio-political. Here, the sociological aspects of securitisation are based or built on linguistic aspects: I reason that just as the sociological study of conversation should be developed from a basis of illocutionary linguistics (Wierzbicka 1991, 254), the sociological study of securitisation should similarly have a linguistic founding. I believe that such a linguistic foundation for securitisation theory allows it to be used in cross-cultural investigations. In this way, moving to historical, social and political contexts beyond the original application of securitisation theory, means that care must be taken not to ‘stretch’ the original concepts (cf., Sartori 1970). Moving from one social 15

Introduction

context to another, or use of cross-cultural comparisons, requires a culture-independent descriptive framework. In order to study different ‘cultures’ in their culture-specific features, both a universal perspective and a culture-independent analytical framework are required.46 To avoid the distorting effect of the assumption that our concepts are culturefree analytical tools, a near universal perspective from within one’s own culture must be sought to develop a framework of near universal human concepts that will be accessible to most specific languages. The cultural specificity of our analytical concepts cannot be escaped, yet at the same token, a distant culture cannot be understood ‘in its terms’ without, at the same time, understanding it ‘in our own’ too. Illocutionary logic provides a meta-language to undertake cross-cultural studies of securitisation: it can be used to decompose illocutionary forces and thus avoid the anglocentrism of supposing universalities from the use of the English language. Acts of securitisation may not be achieved, or indeed manifested, in all societies or languages, but illocutionary logic can be used as a tool in the empirical study of whether illocutionary acts of securitisation do occur in specific situations, in any social context.47 Thus, even though security means different things to different societies, as the core fears of any group or nation are unique and relate to vulnerabilities and historical experiences (Wæver 1989b, 301), the social constitution of security can be studied with illocutionary logic, since human utterances universally exhibit ‘force.’ Which particular forces are universal or near universal, though, is a question for empirical linguistics, not securitisation studies.48 Nevertheless, illocutionary logic provides a means to describe illocutionary forces encoded into different languages, as well as specific utterances, in considerable detail (when necessary) and to compare these forces both intra- and inter-linguistically. The linguistic comparison of acts of securitisation provides a basis to undertake crosscultural comparisons of processes of securitisation; a broader categorisation of securitisation49 allows movement beyond the European and liberal democratic political context in studies of securitisation. As well as a semantic language that is in essence independent of any particular language or culture and that is accessible and open to interpretation through any language (Wierzbicka 1991, 6-9). 47 While thanking, requiring, and ordering may be ‘folk-taxonomies’ (Wierzbicka 1991, 151-153), illocutionary logic does not deal with illocutionary verbs like Austin (1975) did, but with illocutionary force instead. While criticising Searle (1975) of anglocentrism, Wierzbicka (1991, 196) herself uses the idea of ‘directives’ to display a cross-cultural practice; “the point is that orders, commands, and requests have something in common” (ibid., 200), i.e., they are ‘directives’ in terms of their illocutionary force (Searle & Vanderveken 1985). While illocutionary verbs may be based on culture-dependent ‘folk-taxonomies’, illocutionary logic is an artificial language that describes illocutionary forces in an abstract way which suffices for the tasks of the present study. 48 �� Languages are self-contained systems (unlike texts, which are intertextual) and no words or constructions can have absolute equivalents in different languages. But as soon as we abandon the notion of absolute equivalents and universals, we may be able to find partial equivalents and ‘partial universals.’ Even though two languages do not have identical networks of relationships of signs, we can expect to find some correspondences between the networks of relationships of two different languages. (Wierzbicka 1991, 10.) We should also not confuse illocutionary verbs with illocutionary forces; verbs are language specific, but illocutionary forces may have broader universality across languages than certain verbs. While Wierzbicka (1991, 8) develops a ‘natural semantic metalanguage’ consisting of some 20 lexical universals (Pronouns: I, you, someone, something; Determiners: this, the same, two, all; Classifiers: kind of, part of; Adjectives: good, bad; Verbs: want, don’t want, say, think, know, do, happen; Modals: can, if/imagine; Place/ Time: place, time, after [before], above [under]; Linkers: like, because), the present study does not require a metalanguage that would cover all possible forms of interaction: illocutionary logic is a sufficient tool to analyse securitisation speech acts. 49 See Chapter 6.4.2. below. 46

Introduction

While illocutionary logic provides the means to study the ‘grammar’, or necessary culture-independent meta-language for the cross-cultural study of securitisation processes, identity frame theory is used here to decipher the specific ‘vocabulary’, the situated pools of resonant values (Stritzel 2007), or the heuristic artefacts (Balzacq 2010a; 2010c) of the empirical case under investigation. In a way, while illocutionary logic is used to study the “langue” of securitisation, frame theory helps us to study the “parole” of the cases investigated here (cf., Culler 1994). The ‘grammatical’ models50 of securitisation are used to identify relevant texts and discourse samples for analysis; as Wæver (2004a, 9) notes, it is necessary to be able to discern and separate security issues from non-security issues. Once the relevant discourse samples have been identified, collected and analysed with speech act analysis, it can be determined whether or not a securitisation discourse is present. Thereafter discourse samples can be analysed further by socio-linguistic means. Finally, the analysis can be broadened into the historically situated socio-political contexts beyond the specific samples of discourse.51 The way to study securitisation here is to examine discourse which has actually occurred through a ‘lens of security’ (Buzan et al. 1998). In practise, this means analysis of texts to identify the rhetorical structures that define security and the rhetorical and other means of facilitating the various securitisation speech acts. The relevant arguments of these texts are deconstructed using speech act analysis and the securitisation framework. This analysis aids comprehension of the basis to the legitimacy of the arguments, the referent objects, threats and other aspects, that are relevant to the social construction of security. This is a means of getting to the bare bones of security arguments and thereby emphasise the argumentative nature of security claims. No issue is one of security by ‘nature.’ As Norman Fairclough (1992, 225) notes, there is no general blueprint for how to undertake discourse analysis.52 This becomes evident on realisation that there is no com It has to be kept in mind that no grammar is complete, and that grammars are abstract models. This works in tune with the instrumentalist take on science applied in the present study: the study is conducted ‘as if’ there were such a thing as ‘securitisation.’ 51 Wæver (2005, 39-40) describes a model for doing discourse analysis which consists of synchronic and diachronic components. The synchronic component comprises of developing a structural model consisting of contexts, actors, and years. The diachronic component moves through time with the actors to see if the structures shape action and how the structures are modified and reproduced. While the synchronic component focuses on internal relationships of structures and agents as instances of discourse, the diachronic component treats these as external and interactive. This also means that the second aspect of the analysis requires the study of actors and processes beyond specific discourse samples. This distinction has been used at least since Saussure’s sign theory. Reinhart Koselleck’s (2004a) ‘Begriffsgeschichte’ also combines diachronic and synchronic aspects. For Koselleck (Tribe 2004, xiv-xv) concepts’ meanings involve their placements in hierarchies of meaning: varying concepts can play various roles in complex networks of semantic change. Here, basic diachronic perspectives are similarly supplemented with synchronic insights. 52 As Wæver (2005, 41) notes, one has to ask how texts argue, not what they say. For him, discourse analysis has to be limited to public aspects of texts (Wæver 2001, 26-27): “Discourse analysis works on public texts. It does not try to get to the thoughts or motives of the actors, their hidden intentions or secret plans. […] What interests us is neither what individual decision makers really believe, not what are shared beliefs among a population, but which codes are used when actors relate to each other.” Such an approach to discourse analysis often receives criticism that belittles ‘rhetoric’: politicians’ talk is often presented as ‘mere’ rhetoric, or even worse, as ‘mere constructions’, implying that people’s ‘real’ motives remain hidden. Wæver (2005, 35) however argues that working with public text should be turned into a strength rather than a weakness: texts both allow and disallow possibilities; structures both enable and restrict. The types of criticism that would prefer to get at speakers’ ‘real’ motives would require a causal theory of securitisation. Wæver 50

Introduction

mon agreement on what ‘discourse’ means. Different uses of the concept of discourse, discourse theory, and discourse analysis have to be distinguished. Some types of analysis focus on different discursive forms used in communication (e.g., Brown & Yule 1983), while the discourse analysis practised by Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe (2001) and Slavoj Žižek (2002a) for example, conceptualise discourses as broader totalities; their aim is to unveil some local truths by questioning ideological horizons, which deny the contingency of criteria for truth and falsehood (cf., Torfing 2003). Two further options for ‘discourse’ are provided by Michel Foucault. In his ‘archeological’ works (e.g., Foucault 1970; 1972), Foucault views discourse analysis as concerned with the analysis of ‘statements.’ For Foucault, such analysis of language does not replace other types of analysis. As Fairclough (1992, 40) argues, this understanding of discourse has the consequence that discourse analysis should not be equated with linguistic analysis: Foucault was interested in systems of rules that make certain statements at various times, places and institutions possible, yet not others.53 This deeply structuralist position shifted somewhat in Foucault’s works (e.g., 1979a; 2007) which emphasised systems of power and the management of populations through ‘techniques of power.’54 Both of Foucault’s insights influenced Fairclough (1992, 56-57) in developing his textually oriented discourse analysis, which takes into account three dimensions, viz. analysis of text, analysis of discourse processes of text production and interpretation, and analysis of the discursive ‘event’ in terms of its social conditions and effects on various levels. We should thus separate discourse as communication above the sentence from discourse as knowledge-power nexuses. Indeed, there are numerous ways to approach discourse and thereby various approaches to the study of discourse. While speech act theory is the main theoretical focus here, there are other possibilities to approach human interaction, even in terms of communication. While securitisation i.e., the social construction of security issues, is the form of social practice centred on here, a variety of traditions of thought influences the way it is studied. Speech act theory and discourse analysis, as guided by a multidisciplinary amalgam of approaches including International Relations theory, Securitisation theory, political theory and linguistics, is the method used to analyse this form of social practice in the PRC. This kind of focus on the constitution and the political and social functions of securitisation sets limits on

(2007a) is however post-structuralist in his understanding of politics as an openness, also in terms of surpluses of meaning. For him, securitisation is a constitutive theory. It is about how issues are constituted as issues of security. He similarly argues for the study of securitisation within text. Scholars should look for transcendental signifieds, the centre of discourses featuring securitisation. In his Derrida-inspired approach, it is not possible to define or reach a ‘genuine’ context of the text, as texts always have a surplus of meaning and thereby always retain a possibility of reinterpretation. In my view it makes sense to separate the type of constitutive moments Wæver is interested in from the politics of securitisation that a certain sample of discourse is part of. Analysing the politics of securitisation requires different methods from the analysis of securitisation discourse as discourse. We also have to recognise the difference between the analytical possibilities of reading text, and the ‘realities’ of political practices; that Jacques Derrida could never ascertain Nietzsche’s intentions or motives, does not necessarily mean that Nietzsche would not have had intentions and motivations in some particular context, which may have been quite relevant for the intentions and motivations in question. 53 Foucauldian discourse analysis deals with logical spaces, with systems that define something as possible (Wæver 2005, 36). 54 For example security is modulated for Foucault (2007, 4-6) in three stages, namely those of the legal or judicial mechanism, the disciplinary mechanism, and the mechanism of the apparatus (dispositif).

Introduction

which aspects of language, discourse and social contexts and structures are of interest and relevance to this study.55 This influences both case-selection and the selection of relevant corpuses for analysis. All such selections entail limits for the kinds of claims that can be made here. Similar limits are already set by the theoretical approach applied. The empirical arguments here are about: how security is constituted in the political sector in the PRC, what ‘security’ has meant for the CCP, how ‘security’ has been used politically and what the socio-political context has been in the moves studied here. Case-selection had a significant impact on the types of data that were deemed relevant for this study, and on the corpuses of discourse samples that were used, as well as the types of supplementary data collected. As the intention of case studies is not to draw generalisations on a population, but to engage in ‘analytical generalisation’ (Yin 1994, 10, 30-32), the number of cases can be relatively low. For this study, the number of cases was limited to four, which is a standard in case study research. The cases under scrutiny were selected through a reading of the official history of the Communist Party of China.56 This was the basis for the mental map or model that guided the initial entries into the available data. The intention was to investigate cases that together would cover a relatively long period of time, and that would allow the examination of ‘success’ and ‘failure’ in the ‘politics of security’ in China. The main criterion for the selection of a case was that it had had major, ‘visible’ political outcomes discernible from official history writing and academic scholarship.57 The cases that were selected represent ideological threats articulated by the party-leadership and include A) the beginning of the ‘Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution’ (1966), B) the ‘Counter-revolutionary Political Incident at Tiananmen Square’ (1976), C) the ‘Tiananmen Counter-revolutionary Rebellion’ (1989) and D) the ‘Evil Cult of Falungong’ (1999). These cases provide instances from three major leadership eras of the PRC, as well as examples of both the ‘success’ and ‘failure’ of the politics of securitisation. This allows the analysis of continuity and change in the ‘grammar’ of securitisation, through the framework utilised in the research: the study of speech acts and language in a more general sense are important tools to identify conceptual changes at certain moments, or over periods of time (Brauch 2008b, 67; cf., Skinner 2002 and Wæver 2008a, 100). As the objective of the present study is not to reconstruct history, but to deconstruct arguments in history, documentary collections already published were used to form the corpuses of discourse samples; the intent was not to ‘find new sources’, but to utilise documentary collections and the historical research of other scholars.58 Indeed, there is The observations of Chinese politics conducted here are theory-laden indeed (cf., Hanson 1958). For official CCP histories, see for example CCP CC (1991) and Hu (1994); for academic histories of and an introduction to Chinese politics see for example Baum (1996), MacFarquhar (1974; 1983; 1997), Dietrich (1998), Starr (2001), Lieberthal (2004), Dutton (2005), MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008), and Paltemaa & Vuori (forthcoming). 57 �� See Chapter 6.2. below on the problems of using political effects as a criterion for ‘successful’ securitisation. 58 �� The Cultural Revolution Database accessed at Lund university provided documents on the Cultural Revolution. T�� he documentary collections of James T. Myers et al. provided material on the Cultural Revolution and its aftermath, including the 1976 Tiananmen incident: Myers et al. (1986) is a collection of documents on the Cultural Revolution until the year 1969; Myers et al. (1989) is a collection of documents from the Ninth Party Congress to the death of Mao; Myers et al. (1995a) is a collection of documents from the death of Mao to the fall of Hua Guofeng; Myers et al. (1995b) is a collection of documents from the fall of Hua Guofeng to the Twelfth 55 56

Introduction

also value in discovering new ways to view old theories and facts.59 Accordingly, all the sources utilised in this research are either ‘open’ or have been already published elsewhere. Thus, this study does not contain any new revelations of previously unknown archival or documentary data; beyond its theoretical development, the empirical value of this study is in the new theoretical interpretations of events and arguments in Chinese politics. Thereby, the majority of the empirical material analysed in the study is either public and official, or published leaks of confidential documents, or a published form of counter-discourse.60 In the initial stages of the research process, sources translated into English were used to detect relevant discourse samples. Chinese versions of these samples were then analysed within the framework. In later stages of the process (as my language skills had developed), Chinese sources without English translations were also utilised.61 In these latter cases, ‘official’ or ‘authoritative’ translations in English (e.g., translations provided by the CCP or the Falungong) have been sought, although it has not been successful for all samples.62 The discourse samples are not statistically representative of some populations of discourse; the present study uses case studies to show how the explicated framework of securitisation can be used to study types of processes that the original model could not deal with. This approach is also justified in that the theory of securitisation is concerned with the constitution of security issues and not how ‘security’ has been produced causally in specific instances. The kinds of materials used here include speeches, canonised ideological texts, newspaper editorials and articles, central documents (中发, zhōngfā), film and news reports,

Party Congress. 两次天安门事件 (1989) puts together and compares documents from the 1976 and the 1989 Tiananmen ‘incidents.’ Hook et al. (1976) also contains contemporary accounts of the 1976 events. Oksenberg et al. (1990) presents the ‘basic documents’ of the 1989 case, while Nathan et al. (2001) contains a more comprehensive collection of documents on it; 張良 (2001a; 2001b) contain even more documents in Chinese. Han & Hua (1990) is a collection of various forms of student discourses during the spring of 1989. Yu & Harrison (1990) similarly contains texts from students, but also from workers and some military personnel. Zhao (2009) provides Zhao Ziyang’s ‘memoirs’ of the events and the party-politics involved. 北京之春 (2001) and Zong (2002) contain material on the initial handling of the Falungong issue within the premier leadership. Beyond leaked inner-party documents, there have been several official publications focusing on the anti-FLG campaign (e.g., 不是“ 真善忍”而是真残忍 2001). Most of Li Hongzhi’s texts have been published on the Falungong’s websites. Source gathering missions, mainly focusing on Chinese newspapers were conducted to China in order to supplement published collections. The人民日报 (Rénmín rìbào) database at the National Library of China provided material for all of the cases studied here. 59 I owe this formulation to Hiski Haukkala. 60 This naturally rules out the types of ’private’ or undocumented discourses that may have worked against the official narratives analysed here. 61 Published speeches, collections of official material, published leaked documents as well as various databases (e.g., Renmin Ribao database at the National Library and the Cultural Revolution Documentary Database at Lund University) were used to locate relevant discourse samples. 62 Philosophers and theorists of translation tell us that ‘translation is impossible.’ Indeed, languages are unique systems of difference, and thereby it is difficult and quite often impossible to find ‘absolute equivalents’ between two such systems. But once we stop to look for absolute equivalents, we realise that translation occurs all the time and that translation creates something new. For points of view on issues of translation, see for example Benjamin (1999a), Schleiermacher (2007), Derrida (2007), and Berman (2007). As the intended main audience of this study is in the field of IR and ISS, the use of English is justified in the presentation of the analysis. The use of translation is also justified in that the unit of analysis here is illocutionary force and not rhetorical style or conceptual space.

Introduction

and other relevant documents. The texts chosen should be and are central in the sense that a securitisation discourse materialises in them.63 Due to the way Chinese politics and the construction of political realities in China work, these types of authoritative texts indeed are the most relevant empirical source for this study.64 The discourse samples used were categorised into several ‘genres’ e.g., party circular, meeting minute, editorial, speech, open letter, protest poster.65 A relevant aspect of the discourse samples are their intertextual chains (Fairclough 1992, 232-233). How is the sample connected to other texts and how does this facilitate, or impede, the possible aspect of securitisation evident in it? How does the sample draw on culturally resonant ideas, cognitive maps, or precontracts? What kinds of signs are there of the assumed audience(s) in the sample? Is it possible to determine who consumed the sample and ‘who’ is speaking in the sample? What kinds of systems of knowledge and beliefs are evident in the sample? What about social relations and social identities (selves and others)? These aspects of the discourse samples were then related to the framework of securitisation theory. Securitisation is viewed here as one way asymmetric concepts (Koselleck 2004b, 155-157) are used in politics. Of interest here is also how identity frames are used to legitimise mobilisation and its suppression. Security language is one means of framing, that activates certain perceptions and possibly responses to the issues and identities being framed (cf., Huysmans 2006a, 24). Securitisation is an aspect of a sample of discourse or text: even those texts identified as constituting securitisation moves have other relevant aspects to them and there are many methods to analyse text and discourse. What securitisation theory brings to this analysis is the means to identify something as a securitisation move or as the maintenance of a security discourse. The textual analysis of securitisation has to then be related to the political context, where theories of politics and models of political orders become relevant as well as the capabilities and capacities of both agents and structures (e.g., by utilising Bourdieu’s field theory). Securitisation moves can have various political functions66 and effects that may depend on the political order they are performed in. Similarly, securitisation is only one tactic among others as regards social mobilisation and its suppression. The analysis of text through the securitisation framework can be used to deem whether or not a securitisation discourse is manifest in it or not (value 0 or value -1/1). The success or failure of securitisation moves requires analysis of the political and social context beyond the specific text (value 1 or value -1) e.g., opinion polls, demonstrations and shifts in inter-unit reactions. Assessing the success of the politics involved necessitates the deployment of even further methods of analysis. This is also suggested by Regional Security Complex Theory (Buzan et al. 1998; Buzan & Wæver 2003): whether or not something is securitised is first used to deem whether a security complex ‘exists’ or not. After the

See Chapter 6.3. on how securitisation discourses may also not appear in texts, and what this entails for the theory. 64 For example the zhōngfā (中发), or Central Documents were the most authoritative bureaucratic means of informing the party apparatus of Mao’s major policies and decisions (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 19). 65 Relevant questions posed about discourse samples were: Is there an obvious way of characterising the sample overall (in terms of genre)? Does the sample draw on more than one genre? What activity types, styles, or discourses does the sample draw on? Is the discourse sample conventional in its interdiscursive properties? (Fairclough 1992, 232.) 66 My reasoning is that speech act analysis can be used to infer some of these. 63

Introduction

identification of a complex, other means are used to assess it. If securitisation theory can be combined or connected to regional security complex theory, in this way, I reason that securitisation theory can be combined to other analytical or theoretical frameworks too.67 Indeed, the theory of securitisation is not a theory of everything, but rather a constitutive theory of how issues receive the status-function of security. This is something that some critics of the approach seem to have overlooked; they seem to try to insert all relevant aspects of politics into the theory of securitisation. In my view, a better approach would be to see securitisation theory as a useful entry-point for a variety of studies that deal with broader fields of human action. The question should be: what can the study of securitisation offer for, say, debates on political theory or the study of persuasion, legitimisation, and social mobilisation, rather than the other way around. By focusing on speech acts, other aspects of communication were omitted from the analysis here. For example, various rhetorical means of influence and hegemonic language styles, not to mention issues of intonation in actual speech situations, were excluded from the analysis.68 Rather, the illocutionary forces of utterances as part of the social construction of security issues, is the point of interest here. This creates biases as to what is considered relevant,69 but this is an aspect of all scholarship: the ‘wild’, as such, cannot be analysed but usually only those specimens that can be stopped and transported are analysed (Certeau 1988). Studies done within the framework of the Copenhagen School have mainly concentrated on the middle levels of securitisation where states (or other egotistically collective political actors) often construct their securitisation against each other (Buzan & Wæver 2009).70 While a brief look at China’s alignment within the contemporary and prevalent ‘macrosecuritisation’71 discourses is taken in Chapter 6.3.2. below, the research here focuses on the political sector of security in the PRC i.e., the security of the Communist Party of China. This is done under the assumption that it will provide the greatest variance to the context of liberal-democratic political orders from which the theory was originally developed.72 The limitation of the research focus on the political sector also underlines For examples of previous combinations of securitisation theory, see Buzan et al. (1998) and Buzan and Wæver (2003) with RSCT, Eriksson (2001a), Paltemaa and Vuori (2006), Vuori (2010b), and Vultee (2010) with frame theory, Vuori (2004; 2007) with models of totalitarianism, Limnéll (2009) and Léonard & Kaunert (2010) with agenda setting theory, and Hayes (2009) with democratic peace theory. 68 Li Peng used both body language and intonation quite effectively in his speech (see e.g., Tiananmen – 20 Jahre Nach den Massacre, directed by Shi Ming and Thomas Weidenbach 2009, Längengrad Filmproduction), much more so than George W. Bush who securitised terrorism while playing golf (Fahrenheit 9/11, directed by Michael Moore 2004, Fellowship Adventure Group). While interesting and important aspects of ‘real’ securitisation processes, they are gladly left for future study here. 69 One of the most evident biases of securitisation studies in general is the study of ‘successful securitisation.’ While the cases studied here exemplify the success and failure of the politics of securitisation, an examination of China’s positioning in prevalent global level security discourse reveals that there is also ‘silence’ regarding certain possible issues where there could be, and elsewhere indeed are visible securitisation moves. 70 Emmers (2003; 2004), Emmers et al. (2008), and Haacke & Williams (2008) however study securitisation in regional organisations. 71 Buzan and Wæver (2009; see also Buzan 2006 and 2008) have termed the overarching conflicts that structure international security macrosecuritisations. In a macrosecuritisation a higher order securitisation embeds itself in a way that aligns and ranks more parochial securitisations ‘beneath’ it. In these instances separate securitisations are bound together into durable sets. The most powerful macrosecuritisations will impose a hierarchy on lower levels (cf., overlay in Regional Security Complex Theory) but macrosecuritisation may also simply group and tie other securitisations together without necessarily outranking them. 72 “European security between 1960 and 1990, the period of change and détente, which provided the frame67

Introduction

that the present study, as research in general, is only interested in a part of the (significant) reality of infinitely complex phenomena, namely security arguments prevalent in the People’s Republic of China. The intention of the present study is not to make generalisations about a population (the totality of Chinese security arguments) but to refute or support assumptions derived from the theory of securitisation.

1.3. Introduction to the Empirical Cases

The main contributions the present study aims for are theoretical and methodological: I contend that the refined model of securitisation developed in the ensuing chapters advances the research programme of Securitisation Studies. The analytical power of the refined model of securitisation is demonstrated through four case studies in the context of the PRC, which indeed produces results that would not have been possible with the original model. Thereby, the cases also provide empirical insights and new vantage points for understanding Chinese politics – a central sub-aim of this study. The cases analysed here represent various leadership eras of the PRC, and thereby allow the identification of possible transformations and consistencies in how something becomes an issue of security in the political sector of security in the PRC.73 The study of speech acts and language in a more general sense are important tools to identify conceptual changes at certain moments, or over periods of time (Brauch 2008b, 67; cf., Skinner 2002 and Wæver 2008a, 100). These cases also represent some of the most recognised political crises in Chinese contemporary history. This suggests that if security language is used in the PRC in political crises, the cases studied here should be prime candidates to discover discourses and narratives that contain the kinds of speech acts that are assumed to construct issues as issues of security. These cases are also among the most ‘spectacular’ in China, and thereby are assumed to deal with issues nearest to the raw core of the political order.74 1.3.1. Case I: The Beginning of the “Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution”

The first case analysed here is perhaps the most tumultuous political process in the PRC, namely the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution (无产阶级文化大革命, wúchǎnjiējí wénhuà dàgémìng). There have been many interpretations on the origins of and the reasons for the Cultural Revolution (CR). Some see it purely as a power struggle between Mao and other leading figures of the premier leadership, while others view it as a genuine ideological struggle on the direction of the PRC. Whatever variation or combination of motives Mao may have had to launch the Cultural Revolution, it was a means to deal with even the highest party cadres in a way that reinforced factional divisions and competition. Indeed, work for developing the speech act interpretation of security” (Wæver 1995, 58). 73 While the present study is not one of conceptual history, à la Quentin Skinner (e.g., 2002) or Reinhart Koselleck (e.g., 2004a), in my view, the theory of securitisation as explicated in the present study can work as a tool for studies that deal with the history of concepts, in this case the history of constructing threats and the concepts that are operated in such processes. 74 While bureaucratic practices and interests are assumed here to change gradually and incrementally, the kinds of spectacular ‘events’ as the ones studied here are assumed to most likely break through bureaucratic politicking and show the greatest amount of continuity or the most radical breaks with past practices and principles. For the tasks presented for the present study, such spectacular instances are the most interesting.

Introduction

I am not interested in what Mao’s ‘real’ motives were, nor do I claim to present an explanation for why he elected to pursue the line of politics he did. Instead, the focus here is his tactics in pursuing his politics and especially how securitisation discourses played a part in these. Of interest is also how national security was woven into the political fabric that became the Cultural Revolution. Mao was the moving force behind the scenes, but ‘Mao’s comrade in arms’, Lin Biao, was the formal securitising actor in the initial stages of launching the Revolution. He claimed that China was under a severe counter-revolutionary threat in 1966 (林彪 1966): “Today, coup d’états have turned into a general mood. Coups have become a common practice in the world.” For Lin, success at this critical junction was to prevent a counter-revolutionary coup: “This is the utmost essence, the crux of the issue. [...] If we do not direct our actions according to the needs of the revolution, it will inevitably lead to great errors, it will inevitably lead to defeat.” Such claims of an acute threat of a coup were integral to the legitimisation of the ‘putsch’ Mao organised within the top leadership of the CCP, whereby he effectively abolished the system of collective leadership. Political power was seemingly transferred to the streets when Mao declared that “it is justified to rebel against the reactionaries” (Mao 1974a, 260), and called on the Red Guards to “bombard the headquarters” (毛泽东 1966) and remove the counter-revolutionaries from the party. During the Cultural Revolution, Mao gave the People’s Liberation Army (人民解放军, Rénmín Jiěfàngjūn; PLA) a major role in first taking over government offices and enterprises and later in suppressing the Red Guards. Mao used the argument of fighting against foreign and domestic threats to take hold of supreme power. Hundreds of thousands of people were sent to the countryside and harassed as class-enemies or other undesirables. Even the ‘number two’ of the Party, Liu Shaoqi, died in prison after Mao labelled him as a counter-revolutionary. The Cultural Revolution is the Chinese paragon of ‘exceptional’ politics justified with the threat and subsequently necessary eradication of inner enemies. The Cultural Revolution had drastic effects on Chinese society and individual people. Political persecution rose to unparalled heights at all levels of society extending from grass-roots to the highest echelons of the party. Over a hundred million people were involved in the mass-campaigns of the revolution, while some 75 percent of the full or alternate members of the Eighth Central Committee had come under suspicion of being ‘counter-revolutionaries’ or some other form of ‘traitor’ (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 298; MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 273). The case study on the Cultural Revolution begins my investigation of how specific but grand scale or ‘spectacular’ security issues have been constituted in the political sector of security in the PRC. Of interest here is what ‘security’ meant for the CCP in the late 1960s, how ‘security’ was used politically, and what the socio-political context was like in the moves studied here. The set of heuristic questions presented above can be operationalised for this case as follows: How did the securitisation of counter-revolutionaries within the party come about in 1966? What functions can be inferred from specific securitisation moves in this process? What appeared to be the political functions that the general politics of securitisation served? What were the effects of securitisation, and how successful can it be deemed to have been? Was the securitisation contested or resisted? What were the dynamics of possible desecuritisation processes? And finally, more spe24

Introduction

cifically, how did securitisation moves affect the inter-unit relations of securitising actors and the threats claimed to be present? 1.3.2. Case II: The “Counter-revolutionary Political Incident at Tiananmen Square” of 1976

The second case coincided with inner-party conflict and preparation for leadership change. In the early 1970s, the excesses of the Cultural Revolution and the humiliation that even high level party cadres had been subjected to, had eroded the authority of both the party and Mao himself. The vilification of Liu Shaoqi and the defection of Lin Biao added to this general long-term development in attitudes. This distal context, combined with the proximate context of the death of the respected premier Zhou Enlai in January 1976, resulted in unprecedented autonomous social mobilisation in major Chinese cities. Mass campaigns and the search for inner enemies was nothing new in the People’s Republic, but the 1976 ‘counter-revolutionary incident at Tiananmen Square’ (反革命天安门事件, fǎngémìng Tiān’ānmén shìjiàn) was not a top-down organised movement but an uncoordinated social movement, the unfolding of which could not be predicted. The grievances expressed through the mourning for Zhou came to a head during the Qingming (清明, Qīngmíng) festival in early April 1976. Thousands of Beijing residents brought wreaths and poems to the Monument of the People’s Heroes. These were shows of respect for Zhou, whilst this was officially forbidden, and attacks on Jiang Qing, Mao’s wife, and other leading radicals within the Politburo. After the Politburo decided to remove the wreaths from the Monument, the residents became agitated and even destroyed property including security-vehicles. The demonstration that effectively fought against the leftist faction, was suppressed by using force and branded as counter-revolutionary, a threat to the national security of the PRC (人民日报 8.4.1976a): “A small handful of class enemies used the Qingming festival’s mourning of premier Zhou as a pretense for creating a counter-revolutionary political incident in a premeditated, organised and planned manner.” The nature of the political order was claimed to be at stake (ibid.): “By directing their spearhead at our great leader Chairman Mao and the Party Central Committee headed by Chairman Mao, and lauding Deng Xiaoping’s counter-revolutionary revisionist line, these counter-revolutionaries further laid bare their criminal aim to practise revisionism and restore capitalism in China.” The radical faction of Jiang Qing used the securitisation of this incident to remove Deng Xiaoping from the Politburo. However, this ‘success’ was short-lived as the premier Hua Guofeng arrested the leading radicals soon after Mao’s death in September 1976. In the struggle for power that followed, Deng was able to use the unpopularity of the verdict of the 1976 ‘incident’ to increase his own support. In 1978, along with the rehabilitation of the vast majority of ‘counter-revolutionaries’ convicted in the 1957 AntiRightists Campaign, the incident of 1976 was deemed “completely revolutionary” (人民日报 21.12.1978) i.e., its nature as an issue of national security was desecuritised. It has even been integrated into the myth of the Chinese revolution. The analysis of the securitisation of activities on Tiananmen Square in 1976 and their subsequent desecuritisation is used here to investigate how securitisation arguments become part of Chinese authorities’ responses to challenges to their hegemony. Beyond 25

Introduction

this general question (and with which the other cases selected here deal with too), of particular interest here is how and why the politics of securitisation can fail in China. The following heuristic questions can thus be operationalised: How did the securitisation of the ‘Incident’ come about in 1976? What functions can be inferred from specific securitisation moves in this process? What appeared to be the political functions that the general politics of securitisation served? How did securitisation moves become part of the context of the subsequent stages of the process of securitisation, and its possible contestation, resistance, and eventual desecuritisation? More specifically, how did securitisation moves affect the inter-unit relations of securitising actors and the claimed threats present in securitisation moves? What were the effects of securitisation, and how successful can it be deemed to have been? Overall, what were the dynamics of the desecuritisation processes? 1.3.3. Case III: The “Counter-Revolutionary Rebellion” of 1989

The third case deals with the culmination of Chinese student activism of the 1980s. The reform period that had begun in 1978, had not shared out its benefits in Chinese society evenly and students and intellectuals were concerned about their future and the corruption that seemed to be chronic in the CCP. The continuation of economic reforms was under threat from leftist conservatives, while many proponents of the economic reforms advocated reform of the political system too. The sudden death of the previously deposed reformist CCP general secretary Hu Yaobang provided a chance to protest. The authorities’ initial tolerance of the mourning cum protest gave the students a political opportunity to widen their activities, which then spread quickly from the campuses to Tiananmen Square in Beijing and to other cities and provinces. The student movement protesting at Tiananmen Square was labelled a ‘counter-revolutionary rebellion’ (反革命暴乱, fǎngémìng bàoluàn) in a public process from a Renmin ribao75 (人民日報; People’s Daily) editorial (26.4.1989) to Deng Xiaoping’s (邓小平 2004 [1989]) speech after a violent crackdown. The process coincided with inner-party conflict, as the liberal and conservative factions of General Secretary Zhao Ziyang and Premier Li Peng were engaged in a power struggle over Deng Xiaoping’s legacy. The international media that were covering the historic visit of the Soviet premier brought the events in Beijing to the center of focus around the world. The protests lasted for some two months and eventually involved millions of people. The authorities, split in a factional struggle, sent mixed messages on the government’s stance. While the authorities missed some initial opportunities to curb the enthusiasm of the students, the crux of the whole issue between the protestors and the authorities became the April 26 Renmin ribao editorial, where the activities of the students were labeled as ‘turmoil’, which implied a threat to national security: “This is a well planned plot […] to confuse the people and to throw the country into turmoil […] its real aim is to reject the Chinese Communist Party and the socialist system at the most fundamental level. […] This is a most serious political struggle that concerns the whole Party and nation.” Renmin ribao is the official paper of the Communist Party and the most circulated daily in China with a circulation of three million in 2006. It has been the arena where many political campaigns have been launched and proper and improper political and social behaviour defined. 75

Introduction

The 1989 clampdown was legitimised through national security and the salvation of China under the leadership of the CCP. These themes have remained the basis for the CCP to legitimise its rule even in the post-Deng era: for the post-1989 premier leader Jiang Zemin, the CCP is the party of national salvation which ensures the survival of the Chinese nation-state in a globalising world (江泽民 1998, 408-409). This clampdown practically froze political reform. Zhao Ziyang, a liberal leader, was removed from power and the conservatives gained the upper hand. This did not last long, however, as Deng Xiaoping put the country back onto its course of modernisation and opening up. While there has been a multitude of studies which have dealt with the events of 1989, especially from the point of view of the student movement and the various ways they performed and acted during the spring of 1989, the focus here is on the role security arguments played on both sides of the struggle. Thereby, the set of heuristic questions for this case is as follows: How was the student movement constructed as an issue of national security? What functions can be inferred from specific securitisation moves? What seemed to be the political functions the politics of securitisation served? Was the securitisation contested or resisted? More specifically, how did securitisation moves affect the inter-unit relations of securitising actors and the claimed threats present in securitisation moves? How did securitisation moves become part of the context of the subsequent stages of the process of securitisation and its contestation and resistance? How were securitisation and desecuritisation moves used to suppress social mobilisation or to resist its suppression? What were the results of securitisation, its contestation or resistance, and how successful have they been? 1.3.4. Case IV: The Campaign Against the “Evil Cult” of the Falungong

The fourth case examines a threat discourse that does not concern counter-revolutionaries and, thereby, reflects continued change in Chinese society. The 1980s was a decade of a crisis of faith for Chinese socialism. The last decades of the Mao-era had reduced the authority of party administrators and moreover, the loosening of socialist moral standards, along with Deng Xiaoping’s economic reforms, increased cynicism towards the party. This led many people to search for a new spirituality from qigong (气功, qìgōng),76 especially as the party had, to an extent, loosened its control on religious practice. In the early 1990s, even the party supported the practice of qigong, which was seen as an apolitical activity, together with other aspects of traditional health care that became part of ‘Chinese traditional medicine’ that the party promoted. Indeed, the Chinese origin of qigong fit well with the calls for patriotism and nationalism that the party emphasised. Other sources of qigong’s appeal had included firstly the failure of the health-care system which left poor elderly people seeking alternative ways to maintain their health, secondly the negative effects of a modernising society, which led to resistance against modern ideas and modernity, and thirdly, new opportunities to build solidarity networks when, for example, those of the work-unit were lost. Li Hongzhi, who introduced a new qigong-system called Falungong (法轮功, Fǎlúngōng; Qigong means the cultivation of qi- or cosmic energy, and is a general label for various styles of breathing exercises that often include esoteric beliefs. 76

Introduction

FLG) or Falun Dafa77 in 1992, was the master of the qigong-group which claimed to be the largest in China. The problem with Li’s doctrine was that it included semi-religious elements, and that Falungong adherents began to protest the gradual suppression of its practice more and more spectacularly. As the popularity of the FLG began to rise, its religious and ethical aspects received more attention. In 1996, Li’s main work, Zhuan Falun ( 转法轮; Turning the Law-Wheel) was banned and there were investigations into the FLG as operating ‘illegal religious activities’ and of being a ‘heterodox cult’ in 1997 and 1998 respectively. Concomitantly, the FLG seemed to become more and more bold in its own campaign against such bans and the negative representation of the doctrine. The water margin of tolerance was reached on April 25 1999, when some ten thousand FLG practitioners were seeking the attention of political elites by protesting near the leadership compound of the CCP. In the context of international and domestic crises, and in a time when Jiang Zemin was preparing to canonise his political legacy, the party deemed the Falungong a serious concern “involving the fundamental belief of the communists, the fundamental ideological foundation of the entire nation, and the fate of our Party and state” (人民日报 23.7.1999c), while the activities and teachings of Falungong had “seriously endangered the general mood of society, endangered social stability, and endangered the overall political situation” (ibid.). The anti-FLG campaign resulted in the largest series of arrests since 1989 and maltreatment, even torture, of captive practitioners has been reported (Schechter 2001; Chang 2004; Ownby 2008). The active phase of the campaign (1999-2001) brought the Falungong to the world headlines. While relevant for the proximate and distal context of the securitisation of Falungong, the interest here is not mainly on what the FLG is about, or why it became as popular as it did. The investigation here focuses on how the Falungong came to be constructed as an issue of national security in China. The operationalised heuristic questions include: How did the process come about; what functions can be inferred from the specific securitisation moves; and what appeared to be those political functions that the general politics of securitisation served? Was securitisation contested or resisted, and more specifically, how did securitisation moves affect the inter-unit relations of securitising actors and the articulated threats present in securitisation moves? Further, how did securitisation moves become part of the context of the subsequent stages of the process of securitisation and its contestation and resistance? How were securitisation and desecuritisation moves used to suppress social mobilisation, or to resist its suppression? What were the results of securitisation, its contestation or resistance, and how successful were they?

1.4. The Structure of the Study

This study is divided into two parts, the first of which deals with theoretical issues. It begins with chapters on meta-theoretical problems and dilemmas of undertaking social science scholarship based on social constructionism, and those that theory-development confronts. The first chapter deals with various points of contention that have been preva-

Fǎlúngōng (法轮功) literally means law-wheel cultivation, or law-wheel qigong, while Fǎlún dàfǎ (法轮大法), the other name used by the FLG means the great law of the law-wheel. Falungong is usually written Falun Gong in English, but the direct pinyin transliteration of Falungong is used here. 77

Introduction

lent between social constructionist and more mainstream positions concerning ontology and epistemology. The approach to social constructionism that this study is built on is derived from the sociology of knowledge of Berger & Luckmann (1994) and the philosophy of John R. Searle (1995). In this chapter, my position is navigated through the various grades and points of social constructionism as identified by Ian Hacking (1999). What a social constructionist position entails as regards issues of ontology is also discussed. Overall, the study is conducted from an instrumentalist stance as regards science, truth and realism. The second chapter contends that a fallibilistic position on knowledge claims is both compatible with instrumentalism and middle-ground between naive empiricism and radical relativism within the philosophy of science. Issues such as observation, falsification and theory development are entered into here. These are linked to questions of how the progress of science and knowledge can be estimated. Such discussions inform my position of how knowledge can be produced in a scholarly work based on social constructionism, and how research can be argued to progress the general tasks set for groups of scholarly works. I then turn to various dilemmas present in theory development and the application of theory. The issue of conceptual stretching and theory travel is the first focus of interest here. While scholars want to test their assumptions in various contexts in order to strengthen the explanatory potential of their theories, they have to be careful not to stretch their concepts too far beyond the initial application of the concepts they use. Another problem with moving to social, political and historical contexts beyond the scholar’s or the theory’s ‘own’ is the issue of culturalism and evaluative universalism. Discussions of orientalising tendencies have been prevalent in post-colonial studies, China Studies included. I present my own viewpoint on how these issues affect the application of ‘foreign’ theories and concepts and how the kinds of dilemmas this raises may be transcended. Another dilemma considered in this chapter is that of the ‘normative dilemma’ of writing security for emancipation: if the normative intention is to be critical, or work against the naturalising assumptions of ‘security arguments’, how can a scholar deal with the dilemma of possibly constituting, or even reifying, issues of security by analysing them? After such metatheoretical issues, the first part moves on to deal with the theoretical framework, with a focus on theory development which I view to be the study’s main contribution. Chapter 4 presents a brief intellectual history of ‘security’ (as it is most commonly presented) as the conceptual basis of contemporary International Security Studies. Chapter 5 moves to situate the present study within the field of International Security Studies in general and critical approaches to the study of security in particular. Security is viewed here as a socially constructed practice and the focus is on ‘how security is made’ through socio-linguistic practices. The approach applied and developed here centres our attention on the power politics of a concept. This stance is critical, yet it remains at the level of unmasking: my reasoning is, along with the Copenhagen School, that a student of security issues cannot state what ‘real’ security is, without thereby making a political statement. Chapter 6 presents the theory of securitisation as well as the main criticisms that it has encountered and that are relevant for the tasks set in this study. The argument is that some of these criticisms are fundamental disagreements, while others identify anomalies that the original formulation of the ‘theory’ cannot deal with. This is where the theoreti29

Introduction

cal development presented in the study provides an answer: the explication of securitisation speech acts shows that there can be securitisation acts with various functions, and that by developing a more nuanced set of models for securitisation speech acts, the new formulation allows the incorporation of the initial formulation, together with the anomalies that the model could not previously account for. The introduction of the formulation and the relevant elements of the theory of securitisation as presented by the leading figures of the ‘Copenhagen School’, is followed by sub-chapters that discuss the various types of criticism raised over the approach in general, or certain aspects or even details of it. These debates begin with the introduction of the concept of desecuritisation and the criticism this has aroused. The position taken here on this undertheorised corollary of securitisation is one where desecuritisation is viewed as a counter-move to securitisation, as if they were part of a game. I contend that the combination of securitisation theory and identity frame theory can be used to analyse social mobilisation, its suppression, and resistance within the same framework. The argument that desecuritisation can be viewed as a termination of social facts, when securitisation is part of a process to constitute such facts is also presented. The issue of criteria for the success or failure of securitisation has attracted much debate. I focus here on the issue of when securitisation can be deemed as either having taken place, or been successful. My reasoning is that securitisation – and not security – should be considered a speech act. What such a view entails for the success and failure of securitisation is then examined. I posit that the perceptions of threats, securitisation and security action are logically, and at times also practically, separate. This is why studies of securitisation should begin from securitisation moves. Based on this reasoning, my argument is that security action alone cannot be a sufficient criterion for the success or failure of securitisation. Another point of contention here is the problematic issue of ‘silence’ for the theory. In my view, the possibility of silence is actually advantageous for the theory as a theory – as it provides it with an explanatory potential. This position is exemplified by demonstrating how securitisation discourses that are in place in some political contexts, can be nonexistent in others, which is achieved through the examination of the four macrosecuritisation discourses Buzan & Wæver (2009) have ‘postulated’ in the context of the PRC. Yet another critical discussion of the theory of securitisation has revolved around the issue of structure and agency, which also connects closely to debates on what kind of a theory securitisation ‘theory’ is or should be. Various critics have emphasised different aspects of the context of securitisation processes in a sociological vein, while the original formulations of the theory were closer to a post-structuralist position that emphasised the performativity and creativity of speech acts. I reason for a middle-way between these positions, and show how the illocutionary aspect of securitisation is important in order for analysts to be able to infer political functions, even meaning from ‘security speech.’ The numerous calls to include images in the analysis of securitisation and the social construction of security issues are also relevant here. My reasoning in respect of this critical debate is that while images and symbols can facilitate, or impede, securitisation moves, it is difficult to fathom how images, without anchorage, could bring about securitisation that would not have been institutionalised previously. The issue of structure and agency, and the ‘event’ of securitisation have raised concern 30

Introduction

due to seeming similarities with Carl Schmitt’s decisionism. Whereas Schmitt’s (1996) “political” can be seen as one way to wield asymmetric political concepts, my reasoning is that the theory of securitisation does not equate Schmitt’s political. This sub-chapter also presents a Daoist double reading on sovereignty and deciding, which opens up the vitalist foundation of Schmitt’s metaphysical approach. After the differences between securitisation theory and Schmitt’s political have been established, I proceed to present my argument for why securitisation theory is more fortuitous in the study of Chinese politics than the political is. Another batch of criticisms of the theory of securitisation has identified problems and anomalies through studies that have applied the approach to political orders beyond liberal democracy and Euro-America. After presenting the various criticisms of and anomalies in previous research, I use illocutionary logic to explicate acts of securitisation and posit how various ‘strands’ of securitisation can have different political functions. My argument is that the illocutionary analysis of actually occurred speech can be used to infer the political functions of security speech in specific instances. Each explication of the five strands of securitisation is illustrated with an empirical example. The final sub-chapter of the theoretical part of the study presents the conclusions of the theoretical discussion for the theory of securitisation. The second part of this study deals with the empirical analysis of actually occurred speech and securitisation processes in the People’s Republic of China. This part contains a chapter that outlines the socio-political and historical contexts that are relevant for the analysis of the four case studies selected. Here, issues of studying securitisation in the Chinese political context are engaged by discussing Chinese security narratives. Some institutionalised master signifiers of security as well as a brief historical contextualisation of official security narratives are introduced. Discussion progresses on to the foundations of the Chinese political order and its totalitarian and post-totalitarian features which are also relevant to investigate in order to see how security issues are constructed. The partystate and particular functional actors within it are also presented. Each of the four case studies that follow presents a brief socio-historical context for the process of securitisation and outlines some of the tactics involved in them. This is followed by a more detailed analysis of the securitisation processes and specific speech acts evident in them. An analysis of possible contestation of and resistance to such securitisation moves is then examined, as well as the possible desecuritisation of the issue. The case studies are followed by the conclusions that draw the study to an end.

Part I: The Theory of Securitisation and its Critical Development

Acknowledgements Chapter 2. builds on an earlier and shorter Finnish version of “Luomisen hurmaa? Konstruktivistinen tiede kansainvälisten suhteiden tutkimuksessa”, published in Harto Hakovirta & Juha A. Vuori (eds.) Tieteenteoriat ja kansainvälisten suhteiden oppialan kehitys. Kairauksia – avauksia – koeviljelmiä, Acta politica Aboensia A2 (Turku: Department of Political Science, University of Turku, 2008): 93-136. Chapter 6.1.2.1. reuses some text from “How Cheap is Identity Talk? A Framework of Identity Frames and Security Discourse for the Analysis of Repression and Legitimization of Social Movements in Mainland China” (2006), Issues and Studies 42, (3): 47–86.

Chapter 6.3.2. builds on earlier and shorter versions of “Security as Justification: An Analysis of Deng Xiaoping’s Speech to the Martial Law Troops in Beijing on the Ninth of June 1989” (2003), Politologiske Studier – Kina, 6, (2): 105-118, and “Illocutionary Logic and Strands of Securitisation – Applying the Theory of Securitisation to the Study of NonDemocratic Political Orders” (2008), European Journal of International Relations 14, (1): 65-99.

Chapter 2

2. The Metascience of a Constructionist Study

Before me things created were none, save things Eternal, and eternal I endure. All hope abandon ye who enter here.

- Gate to Hell

The aim here is to study the social construction of security. However, ‘social constructivism’ is a label that is given or subscribed to a wide variety of topics, and there has been considerable confusion as regards the methods, commitments and even the research agenda of the nebulous group of (labelled or self-professed) constructivist scholars within the field of International Relations (IR). The heterogeneity of this group has partly contributed to constructivism being ill-defined in IR: constructivism, constructionism and constitutiveness are used by different scholars to describe different things.1 Further confusion arises from the contradictory epistemological and ontological commitments of different scholars. Even the understanding of language differs from one constructivist scholar to the other – even in the field of critical studies of security: some focus on speech acts (e.g., Buzan et al. 1998), some on social fields (e.g., Bigo 1994), some on symbolic interactionism (e.g., Balzacq 2005) while others (e.g., Hansen 2006) emphasise the performativity of language in a post-structuralist vein. These are all valid reasons for why one should make explicit what social constructionism is envisaged to entail, both epistemologically and ontologically: every piece of research makes ontological and epistemological commitments, be they unwitting or explicit.2 Perceptively, Peter Winch (2008, 3) has noted that any worthwhile study of society, will concomitantly be philosophical in character. In a similar vein, Alexander Wendt (1999) has suggested that all scientists have to ‘do ontology’, whether this is explicit or not.3 For example Nicholas Onuf (1989, 1) uses the terms ‘construct’ and ‘constitute’ interchangeably, in addition to often referring to co-constitution. Wendt (1998) criticises especially the use of the last term as confusing. Constructivism is the term and label used in most IR studies that focus on the social construction of various issues, even though social constructionism would be more befitting to most of the approaches in terms of sociological terminology. In this study, social constructionism is mainly used, but constructivism is, by convention, the label used for ‘constructivist IR studies.’ 2 Ontology refers here to the world and its structure outside language. The ontology of a situation on its own is ‘dead’: for it to have meaning in human society, it has to be embedded through social reality into the function its form has. In this vein, Itkonen (1997, 1-3) argues that the relationship between language and the world is asymmetrical: language depicts the world and the world becomes depicted, but not the other way around. This is analogous to the use of any instrument: instruments are always directed at something, which defines their function. 3 Robert Cox (1986) argues that one cannot do research without explicitly or implicitly defining the basis on 1

Chapter 2

Indeed, social constructionism is not a theory of international relations, but an ontological or meta-theory of how subjective meanings are transformed into intersubjective facts that appear to be as real as the observable material world around us. Thus, social constructionism is interested in how human action produces a world which consists of objects and entities. As in all social sciences, this interest eventually leads to questions about ‘human nature’ and the nature of the world (Chomsky 2006; Chomsky & Foucault 2006). Unlike the two most traditionally dominant camps of IR theory, namely Political Realism and Idealism that view human nature as either inherently ‘good’ or ‘bad’, a constructionist is concerned with innate human abilities and capabilities e.g., the ability to learn languages and the drive to be social. The effects of these kinds of understandings will be viewed here in the formation of scholarly knowledge in general, and in the study of International Relations in particular. The entry of social constructionism into the field of IR has raised a great deal of debate. One of the most famous of these took place between John Mearsheimer (1994/1995; 1995) and Alexander Wendt (1995). In this debate, Mearsheimer positioned ‘rationalist’ and ‘critical’ approaches as a continuation of the debate between realism and idealism in IR.4 He argued that Political Realism and the various critical approaches had fundamental differences both in their epistemological and ontological understandings. While realists take the world as objective and knowable, for Mearsheimer, critical approaches represented the possibility of endless interpretation. Similarly, he argued that critical approaches have a ‘relativist’ epistemology and an ‘idealist’ ontology, whereas realist theories emphasise that state behaviour is largely determined by material structures. In his reply, Wendt (1995) argued that Mearsheimer had an anachronistic view of the philosophy of science. For Wendt, ‘constructivist’ approaches are still committed to objective knowledge, even though the empiricist basis for this knowledge is in question. The strict separation of the subject and object in scholarship represents a naïve positivist epistemology, which is hardly subscribed to by anyone engaged in the field of contemporary philosophy of science.5 Thus, for Wendt, rather than repeat the idealist versus realist debate, the issue between Political Realism and ‘critical approaches’ was about differences in epistemology. The Mearsheimer-Wendt debate was, however, about more than a disagreement on epistemology. This becomes apparent in Mearsheimer’s (1995, 92) reply to Wendt, where Mearsheimer seems to suggest that ‘critical approaches’ cannot guarantee that they would not turn into politically irresponsible hegemonic discourses similar to fascism. For Williams (2005, 151), this reveals the connection of Mearsheimer’s Political Realism to cognitive liberalism.6 Due to the common intellectual roots of Political which the research is built. It seems that in most cases this is done implicitly. Yet a scholar should be able to reflect on the foundations of her knowledge claims in addition to providing descriptions, explanations, and predictions on her topic. For Cox, there are then two aspects of scholarship: reflection (the analysis of intentions and foundations of knowledge) and the interpretation and modelling of the factual world (see also Wendt 1991). 4 Lapid (1989) had already continued the lineage of identifying ‘great debates’ within IR by naming the third debate. 5 The main agreed-upon principles of modern logical positivism can be summarised into three theses: 1) a statement that cannot be verified by sensory perception is meaningless or nonsense, 2) science should be reducible to statements on directly observable facts, and 3) science is based on methodological monism (Raatikainen, 2004, 24). 6 Williams (2005, 151) shows how Mearsheimer transpires to be the kind of ’idealist’ he claims to criticise: if Mearsheimer’s position was a positivist theory of the objective dynamics of international security, these

Chapter 2

Realism and constructionism (Williams 2005; 2007a), such a strict opposition between the two approaches would be misleading.7 In order to break free from the understanding of human nature of reified rationalist social science and rational choice theory, we have to ‘do some constructionist ontology.’

2.1. The Dialecticism of Social Constructionism

One of the prominent issues in the Mearsheimer-Wendt debate was the role of material and ideational factors in international relations and its study. The question constructionist IR has to answer is: how does the transition or transformation from material to ideational and social facts occur? The issue of how subjective meanings are transformed into intersubjective and objective reality was one of the major interests of Berger and Luckmann (1994) in their work on the sociology of knowledge. They argued that our experience of reality – our sense of reality as other, as independent of us – is the result of processes and activities which they aptly called ‘social construction.’8 Further, they were interested in how the everyday commonsense experiences are constructed socially. Berger and Luckmann were not IR scholars, but wrote their treatise as a reaction to the dominance of structural-functionalist approaches in the sociology of the 1960s (Aittola & Raskila 1994). They argued that approaches that only promoted holism or individualism could not fully explain or understand the realities of individual people and society.9 For them, the relationship between the individual and society was dialectical: the individual is both the producer and the product of the same reality.10 The structures of society have

dynamics should be independent from the theories that seek to explain them. Therefore changing explanatory theories should not affect the dynamics and thereby also not be more or less responsible on the level of practice. But if Mearsheimer concurs that theories of Political Realism are practices that can influence actual policy, then his criticism of the causal insignificance of ideational factors becomes untenable. This issue deals with how independent and non-constitutive human-developed theories are of the realities they claim to enlighten. In most segments of the natural sciences, the realities that are studied are taken as independent from human theorising of them, yet the diametrically opposite seems to be the case in fields of study such as literature. Onuf (1989, 15-16) argues that the social sciences fall somewhere in between these two extreme poles. The problem with Mearsheimer is that he, like much of the mainstream in the field, sees IR as operating like a natural science, in that IR should correspond to an operative paradigm (cf., Onuf 1989, 16). 7 See also Wyn Jones (1999), Scheuerman (2008), Cozette (2008), and Behr & Heath (2009). 8 Their work has been seen as a descendant of phenomenology. They explicitly note the work of the Viennese social theorist, Alfred Schutz (1953; 1954) , whose roots lie with Edmund Husserl and Max Weber and who popularised Husserl’s ‘Lebenswelt’ approach to the English speaking world (Onuf 1989, 53-54), as a major source of inspiration. Schutz’s ’principle of adequacy’, or the necessity of social sciences utilising the understandings and concepts of its objects of study can also be seen in Hans Morgenthau’s (2006) views of what the study of international relations should be like. 9 Berger and Luckmann (1994, 209) highlighted the problem that was prevalent in much of structuralist sociology: even though scholars who utilise a purely structural approach in their studies are initially satisfied with those structures having a merely heuristic function, eventually they tend to understand their own conceptual constructions as similar to laws of nature. This seems to have happened to many ’followers’ of Waltz (Onuf 2009; Wæver 2009). Already Hedley Bull (1969, 31) identified a similar problem with proponents of the ‘scientific approach’ to IR: “he easily slips into a dogmatism that empirical generalisation does not allow, attributing to the model a connection with reality it does not have.” 10 Giddens’ (e.g., 1984) theory of ’structuration’ makes the same argument in a much more elaborate way. The core idea of structuration is that social reality is formed by structures that exist in the memory of social agents. Structures both limit the options of action and are a resource for action. Structures are independent from individual agents in that if they are prevalent they cannot be wished away by individual agents. At the

Chapter 2

been constructed by individuals, and thus society and its structures can only be maintained by human action. Successful scholarship will take this dialectic into account. For Berger and Luckmann, such a dialectic comes about through three ‘moments’, viz. externalisation, objectification and internalisation. In the first ‘moment’ the individual externalises meanings into the natural environment and society. As a result of the innate instability of the human organism, it has to construct its own social environments. The externalisation of meanings thus becomes habitual and institutionalised and thus brings about predictability to human action and behaviour. This leads to the second ‘moment’, namely the objectification of the externalised social reality, or in its extreme form, the reification of the objectified social reality.11 As a result, the world of social institutions becomes indisputable. Even though openness vis-à-vis the world and its meanings is a feature of the biological composition of the human species, its members must constantly adapt to social structures and conditions. When the externalised and objectified social reality becomes reified, the dialectic between the individual and the construction of society seems to be lost; a reified world becomes inhuman. Reification turns human institutions, even bureaucracies, into apparent permanents, thereby concealing their human and social origins. Also institutions then appear as indisputable and objective, as if they were something beyond human creations (Berger & Luckmann 1994, 103). Institutions become part of the reality beyond the individual, but then retain their existence whether individuals desire this or not (ibid., 73). Nevertheless, no matter how objective social realities may appear to be, ontologically they have no other basis than the human action which created them. The third ‘moment’ for Berger and Luckmann (1994) is the internalisation of the objectified world, which reconnects the externalised social reality back into the individual consciousness. The process whereby this happens is aptly called socialisation: the individual is imbued with structures of meaning and readiness to take part in the social dialectic to perpetuate the process of constructing social reality. The individual is not born with a ready-made society; the individual has an innate drive for sociality and the ability to learn language (or some other systematic structure of symbols).12 When an individual develops in an environment that reciprocates both in terms of providing social

same time, structures are completely dependent on agents as the means of reproduction and maintained through their repetition in routinised social processes. Should this repetition cease, so would the structures, similarly cease to exist. This kind of approach allows for both the constraining function of structures in the case of individuals, as well as for the change in structures both as a result of conscious efforts, and unintended consequences. 11 According to Theodor Adorno (Horkheimer & Adorno 2002) all reification is forgetting. Roland Barthes (1977, 165) presents a similar idea with his concept of myth: “Myth consists in turning culture into nature or, at least, the social, the cultural, the ideological, the historical into the ‘natural.’” As with reification, with becoming ‘myths’, things lose the memory of them once being ‘made’. Dereification, the dismantling of reifications, or the revealing of the human origin of institutions can be seen as a motive behind Jürgen Habermas’s (2007) emancipatory interest of knowledge, Ludwig Wittgenstein’s (1999a) ‘linguistic misunderstandings’, as well as Pierre Bourdieu’s (Bourdieu & Wacquant 1995, 74) dismantling of doxa: in a reified world, meaning is no longer understood as producing the world we live in but as reflecting “the true nature of things” (Berger & Luckmann 1994, 104). For Berger and Luckmann (1994, 106), the investigation of reification is important as it provides an antidote for the reificatory tendencies of sociological and theoretical thinking. Indeed, this was one of the insights that motivated the initiation of the present research project. 12 Markku Koivusalo (2001, 95) puts the principle succinctly: human beings are genetically predisposed at birth with the ability to acquire any human language, and any phonemes that they contain, yet human beings are not genetically predisposed to learn any specific historical language, culture, or meaning, which are only received as an external inheritance.

Chapter 2

interaction and a system of symbols, the individual becomes a part of human society.13 Internalisation is both the foundation to understand the behaviour of other individuals, and to experience the world as a meaningful social reality. As a result of successful internalisation, the individual not only comprehends the single actions or momentary subjective states of other individuals, but also ‘understands’ the world they and others inhabit. Eventually the individual comes to realise that the world does not comprise only of herself and the other individuals she has perceived: the individual thus develops a concept of the ‘general other.’14 Berger and Luckmann were not the only scholars to have emphasised dialecticism as the answer to the agent-structure problem.15 Noam Chomsky and Michel Foucault (2006), for example, approached the issue of creativity from two sides of the ‘mountain’ in their debate on human nature. At the end they were in agreement: human creativity is made possible by the individual, but certain things can only become ‘possible’ through society and its structures. For Chomsky (2006, 132), scientific creativity is dependent on both the innate creative ability of the human mind, as well as social and intellectual conditions. Similarly to both Berger and Luckmann and Chomsky, many critics of the Neo-neosynthesis (Wæver 1996; 1997b) in IR have emphasised the problem of the overestimation of the effects of structures in IR theory. The appropriateness of dialectic approaches is evident, for example, in Richard Ashley’s (1984, 249) views on theoretically oriented research. For him, all research that strives towards theoreticism is positivist by nature. This does not mean, however, that we should simply reject this type of reasoning, but that the positivist, objectifying moment should become the target of continuous practical criticism. Although the main focus of Berger and Luckmann was on the interaction between subjective meaning and objectified social reality, they also discussed the relationship of the human organism and human society. The nature of humans as biological organisms affects all of the stages in the construction of human realities. But the relation between the human organism and its society works both ways: once constructed, human society will also affect human organisms. The dialectic relationship is not only limited to subjective consciousness and social reality, but also represents the relationship of the biological and the social. On the one hand, a human being is a body, but on the other, that body is also used to do various things, including speech acts;16 a person will often perceive herself as a Children who have been deprived of human contact and interaction do not develop language or social capabilities in the manner that children who have human contact and interaction do. While such children may eventually gain these skills when exposed to human interaction, there seems to be a “cut-off age” for learning a full range of adult-level language use. (Trask 1999, 179-181.) 14 For Wittgenstein (1999a), the object is the internalisation of a large group of forms of life and language games, which form the Weltbild that render the world comprehensible and functionable. Whilst for Habermas (2007), interests of knowledge are the basis of rationality of scientific knowledge, from a Wittgensteinian (1999a; Winch 2008) point of view, they can be taken as three sets of rules for the language game or form of life of science and scholarship. 15 For debates and discussion of the agent-structure problem in IR, see Wendt (1987; 1999), Hollis & Smith (1991), Carlsnaes (1992), Buzan (1995), and Wight (2006). For social constructionism, neither agents nor structures take precedence, but rather have a dialectical relationship. 16 Bodies and physicality are part of all speech acts, be they accomplished through speaking, writing, hand signals, images or any other system of symbols and meaning. It is important to keep in mind that what speech act theory – and thereby also securitisation theory – is about, is not words, or verbs, but illocutionary force. These forces may be brought about by words and utterances, but other forms of interaction (e.g., silent physical 13

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creature who uses her body to do things, a person does not necessarily, exclusively, identify herself as consisting merely of her body,17 but also of her consciousness and social identity i.e., both the physical and social aspect is present in most human activities. The dialectic of ‘nature’ and ‘society’ is evident in both the human organism and society setting limitations on one another. Society and its circ*mstances can enhance the living conditions of human organisms, but social conditions can also maim and kill.18 In the end, society even guides and moulds the biological tendencies of the human organism. For Berger and Luckmann (1994, 206), the task of the human organism is to construct realities and exist in them along with others. These realities become dominant and define the world for the individual. The physical limits of this world may well be set by ‘nature’, but once the world is objectified and internalised, it also begins to have its own effects on ‘nature.’ Thus, the dialectic of nature and social reality moulds and remoulds the human organism; in this dialectic, humans produce social reality, ergo themselves.

2.2. Points of Constructionism

Since social constructionism is a meta-level theory, it is not surprising that many fields of study have adopted this kind of an approach to how knowledge is produced in human interaction. Indeed, in a survey of the field of social constructionism, Ian Hacking (1999) lists some sixty-odd titles that have been described as socially constructed, inclusive of such matters as: authorship, brotherhood, the child viewer of television, danger, emotions, facts, gender, illness, knowledge, literacy, nature, oral history, postmodernism, quarks, serial homicide, technological systems, urban schooling, vital statistics, youth homelessness, zulu nationalism, deafness, mind, panic, the eighties, and extraordinary science. In the field of IR there has also been a large body of titles based on constructionism of one stripe or another. The topics of social construction differ somewhat here as well: anarchy (Wendt 1992; 1999), nationalism (Hall 1998), post-Soviet international political reality (Matz 2001), rules (Onuf 1989), state sovereignty (Biersteker and Weber 1996), Western action in Bosnia (Fierke 1996), and, of course, security (Buzan et al. 1998). As can be gauged from this by no means exhaustive list of matters viewed as socially constructed in recent scholarly literature, the topics are remarkably heterogeneous: reality, truth, facts and knowledge are accompanied by people, inanimate objects, states, actions, events, experiences and an assortment of other things. What, then, might all these objects of interest have in common? Hacking (1999, 5) suggests that we should not “ask for the meaning” but, rather, “ask what’s the point?”19

presence) may at times also achieve perlocutionary effects. This point becomes important when various criticisms of the CopS are examined below. 17 This is one of the problems of the spread of biometric means of identification: people want to have identities beyond their physical existence (Lyon 2007). 18 An important point of Galtung’s (1990) concepts of structural and cultural violence. 19 Habermas’s (2007) interests of knowledge in a way also asks for the ‘point’ of scholarly endeavours.

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Hacking (1999, 6) maintains that social constructionists contemplating ‘X’ usually work against the status quo and tend to hold that:

X need not have existed, nor need be at all as it is. X, or X as it is at present, is not determined by the nature of things; it is not inevitable.20

Hacking (1999, 6) further notes that social constructionists tend to urge that:

X is quite bad as it is. We would be much better off, if X were done away with or at least radically transformed.

Hacking (1999, 12) also formulates a zero-clause for the approach of typical constructionists: In the present state of affairs, X is taken for granted, indeed, X appears to be inevitable.

Furthermore, Hacking argues that the basis for the other clauses, “0)”, is what constructionists take for granted, “1)” is what constructionists ‘hold’, while “2)” and “3)” are what constructionists ‘urge.’ Beyond this general argument-structure of social constructionist studies, Hacking (1999, 19-21) divides constructionist approaches into six types in accordance with what ‘the point’ of each approach is claimed to be: A) historical i.e., someone presents a history of X, which has been constructed in the course of social processes, B) ironic i.e., X is taken to be an inevitable part of the world of our conceptual architecture, but which could have been quite different; X though has become permanent, as it forms an integral part of our thought, which would be futile to attempt to alter, even though it may gradually change; thereby X is highly contingent as a product of social forces and history and cannot be avoided as an integral part of the universe we inhabit, C) reformist i.e., after the realisation that X is not necessarily inevitable, aspects of it should be changed since it is negative but still necessary in that we cannot live without it, D) unmasking i.e., ideas should be unmasked to demonstrate their ‘extra-theoretical function’ which will strip them of their ‘practical effectiveness’ and their misleading appeal or authority,21 E) rebellious i.e., while unmasking is an intellectual affair and not necessarily reformist, those who actively maintain (1), (2), and (3) can then be considered rebellious on X, and lastly F) revolutionary i.e., an activist who moves beyond the world of ideas and endeavours to change the world in respect of X. When his schema of the points of social constructionist studies is applied to the critical study of security, a very familiar narrative unfolds (cf., Krause & Williams 1997 and CASE 2006): There is a presupposition (cf., “0” above) that: (national) security seems an inevitable categorisation in this day and age. The constructionist scholar, critical of se André Kukla (2000, 2) notes that by saying: “’X is constructed’ entails that X is not inevitable,” Hacking presents us with a necessary condition for the validity of constructionist claims. 21 This avenue of thought follows Karl Mannheim’s (1952; 1954; 1997) idea of ‘the unmasking turn of the mind’, which does not aim to refute ideas, but rather to undermine them via exposure of the function they serve. 20

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curity (concepts, practices, or studies) will argue (“1”): Not at all. National security need not have ever been conceptualised as a distinct kind of entity. What seems like a sensible classification to us when we think about the activities of states and politicians is ‘forced’ upon its adherents and opponents, in part as a result of political interests. Thus, it can be argued that (“2”) this category, concept, or practice is not an especially positive one. Perhaps it could be suggested (“3”) that the world would be better off without it. Talk of (national) security is not exactly false, but it uses an inapt idea. It presupposes that there are coherent objects, threats and referent objects (cf., Wæver 1997a). True, we can collect data on military spending and manoeuvres, diplomacy, the economy, and other indicators of national power. These are however not very meaningful data: they are artefacts of a construction that we would be better off without, according to the social constructionist, who is critical, rebellious or even revolutionary in regard to security. Constructionist scholars in the field of ISS could further argue that ‘national security’ is a potent metaphor, as it has the ability to instantly conceal its use as a metaphor: once an issue is labelled, it should not be further questioned, even by a policymaker. Which label sticks to which issue has less to do with the intrinsic merits of the issue than with the networks and other resources of power of interested parties wishing to attach these labels. Once we have the phrase, the label, the audience becomes convinced that there is a definite kind of thing: national security. This becomes reified and reproduced, as do the artefacts of its construction. Some politicians start to conceive of their activities as national security, a special kind of politics – as opposed to the usual kind – and start to interact with other domestic and international politicians and officials, but now no longer regarded as just politicians, but rather as agents of national security. Further, since politicians are self-aware creatures (or so they would seem to claim) they may then become not only politicians who deal with national security, but rather, in their own conceptualisations, agents of national security. Such species of politician can be well aware of theories on national security and its agents, so that they can adapt to, react against, or reject them.22 As such, researchers of security should keep this in mind i.e., that their studies may alter the ‘species’ of national-security-politicians, even, possibly, affect which issues may be considered issues on national security. The interpretation or understanding of what this kind of ‘critical’ entails is largely dependent on the intellectual temperament of individual scholars. The manifesto of the c.a.s.e. collective (CASE 2006) implicitly exhibits the problem of the various ‘points’ of constructionism as identified by Hacking. A challenge for this group of critical scholars of security is that they do not agree on how willing they are to take part in critical political agendas, and whether their objective is the achievement of ‘real security’, ‘normal politics’ instead of ‘security politics’, or to become freed from the concept and practices of ‘security’ itself. The c.a.s.e. collective seems to be so convinced by social constructionism that it does not appear to be necessary to discuss this meta-theoretical approach in their manifesto.23 As such, these critical scholars of security appear to be of like mind with other ‘critical’ This kind of ‘double hermeneutics’ (Giddens 1984, 284; Ciuta 2009, 322) has relevance for the ‘normative dilemma of writing security’ (see Chapter 3.4. below). 23 Although I have been a participant in the collective since 2006, I was not involved in the writing of the manifesto. 22

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scholars in other fields of scholarship. More ‘conservative’ scholars who favour ‘normal science’ are more frequently critical of constructionism (and particularly post-structuralism) (see e.g., Sokal & Bricmont 1998 and Sokal 2008), while more radical ‘paradigm busters’ tend to congregate around constructionist or some even more ‘radical’ approaches. While most critical approaches to security seek some sort of liberation, the differing ‘points’ of such critical studies are confounded by the lack of a common understanding of what ‘emancipation’ means in IR in general, but also within this field in particular.24 For some, emancipation from some form of oppression always leads to other forms of oppression.25 For others, emancipation is an attainable state of affairs. Both of these understandings, however, essentially connect emancipation with power and the possibilities of its just use and application. Research aimed at the emancipatory interest of knowledge (Habermas 2007; Vuori 2008a), seeks to produce criticism and knowledge that dismantles or undermines structures of power and oppression of one form or another. Thereby, emancipatory research strives for a better society. While emancipation can be about the release from power-relations that are considered unjust, perhaps the most characteristic mode of emancipatory research is the dismantlement of unconscious or ‘naturalised’ structural limits or impediments. The objective of this type of research may be to demonstrate how a phenomenon or practice that was considered self-evident or natural, is actually arbitrary and contingent.26 Critique and reflection are the key means to achieve this. The aim of deconstruction can, for example, be viewed in this way: for Derrida (e.g., 2003) deconstruction through double reading was a prerequisite to make an ethical intervention into human practices. Giorgio Agamben (e.g., 2005, 88) also has similar objectives in unmasking the ‘fiction’ of the unity of law and life, which opens up a space and possibility for ‘politics.’27

�� See for example Booth (2007, 111). For Habermas (2007, 310), emancipation is about expressing “ideologically frozen relations of dependence that can in principle be transformed.” As Onuf (1989, 274) notes, this entails that critical social science and emancipation are the means to an end. 25 This kind of circular criticism raises an issue for scholars who like to speak ‘security’ on behalf of muzzled groups or groups of people who do not have a ‘voice’: acting as a vanguard or speaking on behalf of someone is paternalistic. Further, scholars whose task is to speak truth to power, should also speak truth to the power of the powerless. Indeed, how would the power of the powerless be more virtuous that the power of the powerful once the powerless become the powerful (consider the revolutions accomplished in the name of the proletariat in the USSR and the PRC)? It is difficult to agree with Foucault (Chomsky & Foucault 2006) that the proletariat would be justified in using violence as a form of revenge on the bourgeoisie after a revolution. In the same debate with Chomsky, Foucault notes that the oppressed also fabricate masks and weapons in order to achieve their power ends. These should be unmasked as well. 26 For Gramsci (1971), hegemony is social and political power that is derived from a populace’s ‘spontaneous consent’, which is given due to intellectual and moral authority. Hegemony is exercised through power (coercion and consent), rather than through force (arms). Of key importance, is cultural hegemony in the form of various agents and arenas such as the media, organised religion, schools and popular arts. Imposed from above, these influence subordinate states/classes/groups to accept the hegemon’s (foreign, external) values, which posit the subordinate’s position as natural and inevitable. The ruling class constitutes social reality with its ideology that also limits alternatives. Laclau & Mouffe (2001) refined Gramsci’s definition of hegemony as a discursive strategy of combining discrete principles of thought (from different intellectual systems) into a coherent ideology, thereby avoiding some of the problems of essentialism that were evident in Gramsci’s understanding of class for example. For an application of Gramsci to IR, see Gill (1993). 27 For Agamben (2005, 88), “purity never lies at the origin,” and therefore unmasking ‘fictions’ only allows new conditions for origins. This means that ‘emancipation’ merely opens up a possibility for something new; it is not a revelation of something ‘authentic’ or ‘pure.’ The task set for philosophy by Wittgenstein comes close to such understandings; for Wittgenstein, this task was to clear up linguistic misunderstandings i.e., to dispel perplexities that arise from the misuse of language and 24

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For the ‘Aberystwyth School of Critical Security Studies’ (Wæver 2004a; CASE 2006) the task for security studies is the emancipation of the individual.28 Scholars such as Ken Booth (e.g., 2005; 2007) and Richard Wyn Jones (e.g., 1999) who have been influenced by the Frankfurt School of Critical Theory, emphasise that the military and state centric, zero-sum understanding of security should be replaced by a concept of security that centres on communities and individual emancipation. For them, emancipation equals security. This is in contrast to other critical approaches, which aim for emancipation from the concept and practices of security. This normative disagreement is largely due to different approaches to normality and normativity, for, as is noted in CASE (2006, 455), attempts at theoretically ‘unmaking’ securitisation lead to an engagement with twofold understandings of ‘normal politics’: politics as normality and politics as normativity. Here the normative push towards desecuritisation of the CopS can be seen as a preference for politics of normality,29 while the normative push towards emancipation of CSS can be seen as a politics of normativity.30 These different notions of normality and normativity create tensions among critical approaches to the study of security. Beyond such issues of the varying ‘points’ of constructionist studies, Hacking (1999) brings up important points of contention, or ‘sticking points’, between constructionists and non-constructionists in the field of the philosophy of science. The first of these ‘sticking points’ is contingency. Constructionists tend to suggest that science need not have followed the course that it has followed. Similarly, the development of IR theory has not followed some preordained path: IR theories could have been very different and they could have been developed in a different order. According to this view, the routes and exits of the highway of science and scholarship are underdetermined. The second sticking point is nominalism, on which constructionists tend to maintain that the world does not have an inherent structure that is discovered, but that what we believe to be facts is a consequence of the ways in which we represent the world. Scholars do not discover the structure of the world as it is: our views on the structures and content of the world may vary regardless of the actual changes or non-changes of the world. The third sticking point is the question of stability, or internal versus external explanations of stability. Unlike ‘scientists’ who take the stability of theories as a sign of compelling evidence, constructionists often argue that theoretical stability can also be the result of factors outside the theories themselves, such as the power of academic ‘gatekeepers.’ For example the success of the various strands of ‘neorealism’ may not be fully explained by the explanatory power of these approaches vis-à-vis an objective reality, but a more thorough explanation requires an examination of the practices of academia. The methods thus “to show the fly the way out of the fly-bottle” (1999a, § 309). 28 The main contributions of this approach to security studies include Krause & Williams (1996; 1997), Krause (1998), Wyn Jones (1999), and Booth (1991; 2005; 2007). For applications to the Asian context, see Burke & McDonald (2007). 29 As Ciuta (2009, 313) notes, while ‘normal politics’ is important for the CopS, as it is on the other side of the threshold of securitisation, they do not define either ‘normal politics’ or ‘normality’; for the CopS, what counts as normal or exceptional is different in different contexts. For Wæver (2004a, 10), the aim of desecuritisation is the movement of issues away from a threat-defence sequence into the ‘ordinary public sphere’ (or the economy, or religion as religion, or whatever mechanism); desecuritisation can be viewed as an attempt at ‘retrieving the normality of politics’ (CASE 2006, 455). 30 The security-power-normality of CopS is replaced in CSS with security-emancipation-normativity (CASE 2006, 456).

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in which dissertations are evaluated, publications approved, positions filled and resources divided may have a relevant effect of the stability of some approaches. Each of these sticking points, which are logically independent from each other, is a basis for disagreement between constructionists and non-constructionists within the philosophy of science. These sticking points are not, however, based on binary positions, but form continuums. In regard to this study, in terms of these continuums, the question is whether it is inevitable that (national) security is how it is, and whether the study of (national) security has inevitably had to follow the path it has formed. Here my own position is clearly constructionist, since security is taken to mean different things to different societies at different times, as the vulnerabilities and historical experiences undergo change (and security has not always been the dominant concept for the types of problems it is used to organise today). The debates over how to study security have also not followed an inevitable path. Regarding the issue of nominalism: does the world itself have an inherent structure of which security is a part? Do threats arise naturally from the material capabilities of sovereign states in a world of self-help? Is the object of security the state, and can the security dilemma not be transcended? Again, I lean towards the constructionist end of the continuum, as concepts of ‘security’ are social constructs dependent on history, culture, communication and ideology and, thus, not an inevitable part of a world structure beyond human influence. There is, however, a physical basis for many social constructions (beyond all human thought requiring an organic human brain), which, logically, is often precursory to social constructions. As regards stability, ‘vulgar realists’ maintain that, for at least 700 years, there has been ceaseless repetition of state competition for power in a world of suspicion and insecurity, some arguing that such features go all the way back to the beginning of recorded history. Transhistorical laws transcend situations and reveal the constants of power politics and insecurity. Thus, questions here are: is the stability of this belief a result of the merits of the theory, and does the stability of this belief provide evidence for its merit? Or, alternatively, is the stability a result of factors outside the theory and argument e.g., politics? What is the position on this sticking point? Security dilemmas have been around for a long time. Yet, historical accounts deny any ‘laws of history.’ The stability of utilitarian beliefs can also be accounted for by scholarly politics, both in terms of funding, tenure and refereeing practices. To transcend the security dilemma is also logically possible, and it has indeed happened in some parts of the international system. On this sticking point, my register thus reaches the ‘maximum’ level. We now have a total position31 on the level of constructionism on the three sticking points between constructionists and non-constructionists. But where would this study register on the scale from historical to revolutionary constructionism? In Jürgen Habermas’s categorisation of the interests of knowledge, this study would fall under the category of emancipation. In Ian Hacking’s terminology, it might be characterised as an effort towards unmasking security arguments in a Mannheimian manner. Although not all issues of security are deceitful, security arguments are extremely strong political tools, and thus one must exhibit extreme sensitivity to them. In Mao Zedong’s and Deng This ‘score’ is, of course, not chiselled in stone, but quite malleable with the help of contemporary information technology, i.e., it is fallibilistic and open. 31

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Xiaoping’s (1995) words we should “emancipate the mind and seek truth from facts,” also in respect of security issues.32

2.3. Turtles All the Way Down? Ontological Levels and Social Constructionism

Beyond the ‘sticking points’ identified by Hacking (1999), one of the critiques levelled against constructionism is the claim that it denies materialist ontology. Such claims present constructionism as leading to the denial of ‘brute’ and material reality,33 due to the reasoning that people can manage reality only through language and social constructions.34 Such criticisms, then, raise the question: is reality social constructions

In his struggle with Hua Guofeng, Deng successfully attributed the notion to Mao who had presented it at Yan’an, during the war with Japan (Hughes 2006, 12). See Kauppinen (2006, 29) on the issue of the temporalisation and alteration of the meaning of such “formulated ideas.” 33 At this point, it must be noted that when the works of the most frequent targets of criticism in the field of ‘radical constructionism’ are read, much of the criticism turns out to be poking at straw men. For example, Barnes & Bloor (1982) make their arguments about the social construction of scientific knowledge, not about the ‘referents’ of that knowledge. Similarly, Pickering (1984), who studied the social construction of scientific knowledge of quarks, did not argue that what are referred to as ‘quarks’ in the English language, were socially constructed and so would not have existed before their conceptualisation. Elsewhere he argues (Pickering 1995) that ‘the world resists’ scientists’ conceptualisations and theoretisations of it. John A. Vasquez (1995, 225-226) presents a similar argument, starting from a very different tradition of scholarship. In addition to scholarly concepts and theories, the ‘world’ can also resist nonsense. Torsten Michel’s (2009, 404) argument that pigs, like humans can fly on the Moon is the kind of nonsense that Sokal underlines (Sokal & Bricmont 1998; Sokal 2008). As the physical phenomenon referred to by flying in the English language depends on ‘lift’ produced by ‘wings in motion’ within gaseous substances, neither humans, pigs, nor even birds can ‘fly’ on the Moon as it lacks an atmosphere: even if birds could survive on the Moon without oxygen or air pressure, their wings would not provide them with the same abilities of producing a region of lower pressure above and of higher pressure below their wings that would allow them to propel themselves and glide in the ‘air’ as they do on Earth. While Michel is confused in that it would be gravity that prevents pigs from flying on earth, it is actually the lack of ‘wings’ that is the reason for this. Of course we cannot know that pigs cannot fly somewhere else, just as we cannot know that we are not in Hell, or that we are not being deceived by an evil scientist when we believe to be observing something, yet these kinds of questions and investigations are a pastime for philosophers (or for sets of very confused brains in jars on shelves somewhere), not for people engaged in scientific activities. Science deals with facts and knowledge claims, not with the possibilities of knowing in a general sense. “I cannot possibly doubt that I was never in the stratosphere. Does that make me know it? Does it make it true?” (Wittgenstein 1999b, § 222.) ‘The world’ can also ‘resist’ when it comes to the performance of speech acts. For Searle (2002a, 104), the limitations of performatives are not the result of their semantic contents, but facts in the natural world. One could for example make a declaration that I hereby end all wars, but facts in the world make this impossible. Making declarations non-defective thus requires social institutions or conventions that enable the declarations to change the world to fit the propositional content of the declaration. The same applies to implicit speech acts. It is usually said one cannot insinuate by declaring that ‘I hereby insinuate that so and so.’ This again is not due to the semantics of the utterance, but to the social conventions of discourse communities, i.e., social facts in the world. This was also evident in the failure of the securitisation speech acts in the German Democratic Republic in 1989: the failure was not a matter of the semantics being any different; facts in the social world did not allow securitisation to succeed anymore. To again rule out any possible confusion: taking a social constructionist stance on science does not necessarily mean that one could not be an external realist; many constructionist approaches to science study the construction of understandings of ‘facts’ as social processes, not necessarily the physical or other objects that the ‘facts’ purportedly refer to. Disregarding the straw-men, the crux of the debate on constructionism within the philosophy of science, is whether facts about the world are ‘discovered’ or whether they are ‘invented’ or ‘constructed’ in social processes. 34 While Sokal (1998a, 213; 2008, 7-9; see also Sokal & Bricmont 1998, 2) uses this kind of radical constructionism as the launching pad for his parody, he fails to provide any references for such actual claims despite 32

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‘all the way down’? This question has its roots in the anecdote of a world built on the shell of a turtle. There are various versions of this anecdote in academic circles, but the most renowned was presented by Stephen Hawking (1998) in his Brief History of Time as a discussion between an old lady and Bertrand Russell at a public lecture. The crux of the various versions is that the debate is between a ‘Western’ scientist and an ‘Eastern’ sage. According to the sage, the world is located on the shell of a turtle (there may be an elephant between the world and the turtle in some versions, but this does not affect the point here).35 When the scientist asks the sage what is beneath the turtle, the answer is, another turtle. When the scientist persists and inquires as to what is beneath the second turtle, the sage gets irritated and quips that it is “turtles all the way down.”36 A belief in the world existing on the shell of a turtle seems nonsensical to us. Yet a scientific view of the world faces similar challenges: according to the current state of the field in particle physics, the lowest ‘turtle’ of our current understanding of the material is entirely hypothetical; the lowest turtle which might manifest mass into larger particles has not been empirically observed. Indeed, in the standard quark model of particle physics, the appearance of mass in larger particles relies on the so called Higgs boson and the graviton, neither of which have been empirically observed (to date June 2011). According to our current scientific knowledge of the world, we have not hit the bottom whereupon the lowest ‘turtle’ is apparently (still) standing on nothing. In addition to emphasising the ‘ridiculousness’ of ontological models of the world,37 the turtleshell-anecdote highlights the problem of infinite regress, of which ‘strong constructionism’, with its ontological commitment to all facts as social constructions, is especially vulnerable. However, this complaint does not require strong constructionism for even fig-leaf realism is subject to an accusation of infinite regress, since if all beliefs are socially constructed, then the belief ‘P’ is socially constructed, as is the belief that ‘belief P is socially constructed’ and so forth ad infinitum. Nevertheless, this kind of infinite regress does not need to be seen as a problem. Kukla (2000, 72) argues that this regression only shows that there is always ‘work to be done’, but it does not mean that this work must be done e.g., we can conceive of an infinite number of numbers, yet there is no necessity rigorous reference to a vast amount of nonsense of various other kinds (in addition to the references above, see also Sokal & Bricmont 1998, 50; Sokal 1998b, 259-260; Sokal 1998c, 269; even Sokal 2008, 7-9). One cannot help but get the sense of a straw-man as the pedantic referencing of the rest of the works is replaced in this case with recourse to ‘cliché’ (Sokal 2008, 8). The position of this present study as regards the social construction of facts, can be presented here by rephrasing Sokal (1998c, 270): while stating ‘physical reality is a social and linguistic construct’ is plain silly (if we are not discussing the concept of ‘physical reality’ but what this concept commonsensically refers to), to state ‘our concepts and knowledge claims of physical reality are social and linguistic constructs’ is virtually a tautology. This should hold even for Sokal, as for him (ibid.) to state that “’social reality is a social and linguistic construct’ is virtually a tautology”, and as human concepts and knowledge claims are a part of social reality. 35 In Hawking’s (1998, 1) anecdote, the turtle was a tortoise, but in the discussion within US dominated IR, the turtle has become the norm. It would be interesting, especially for the ontology of IR, to contemplate the consequences of the world residing on either the shell of a land (i.e., tortoise) or a sea habiting (i.e., turtle) creature, but I leave this for another occasion (I owe this flight of fancy to Paul Whybrow). 36 In Indian versions of the anecdote, the sage remarks that he does not know what is below the elephant and the turtle, or that they should change the subject. 37 Perhaps there is an Achilles trying to catch a tortoise at the bottom?

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to do this every time a count is begun. Thus this kind of regress is not a vicious cycle.38 Esa Itkonen (2003) grasps the same issue when he discusses socialness and decision hierarchies; we usually do not go on for many rounds of contemplating whether someone knows that I know that she knows that I know etc. Kukla (2000, 78) also suggests that Zeno’s paradoxes39 fail in the refutation of (strong) constructionism, because of the premise that the constructions in the infinite regress required to construct even one fact, would each require a non-zero amount of time; it may well be that there are temporally finite operations, that have the effect to constitute an infinite number of facts all at once. The third grain of wisdom conveyed by the turtleshell-anecdote, which is closely related to the issue of infinite regress, is that investigations must end somewhere and, likewise, that the acceptance of certain facts precedes and presupposes the acceptance of some other, prior, facts (Wittgenstein 1999b, §114-115, §120-121, §225, §274).40 Without stopping somewhere, we would succumb to the possibility of the infinite deferral of meaning, as emphasised by Derrida. Indeed, most discourses contain ‘trancendental signifieds.’ For example, to investigate the nature of the international system presumes the existence of the system and its units (and, ‘naturally’, a prior existence of the planet Earth). Such assumptions are also crucial for making queries: when we pose a question we have to know what our question is about in order for us to be able accept an answer to our question as ‘knowledge.’41 When the ‘background’ and the question that has been posed fit together, the answers may also seem obvious. As Chomsky (2006, 125, 135) has noted, when it comes to human nature, our background knowledge or pre-theories have not reached a level from which we could ask the right questions in order to get an encompassing scientific understanding of human nature. We know how to ask the right kinds of question only when it comes to certain aspects of human nature. We can, for example, ask the right kinds of questions on the nature of human language, since 20th century language philosophy after Wittgenstein (1999a; 1999b) made language ‘visible’ for us. Although language and investigations relating to language were prominent in 20th century philosophy, this has not always been the case.42 Before Wittgenstein, the appropriate type of questions in respect to the role of language A vicious cycle entails that we would have to do an infinite amount of ’work’, not that we can do an infinite amount of work. 39 I could never have written this sentence because I should first have had to move my finger half of the distance between I and C on the keyboard, and before that, half of the distance of that distance, and before that, half of the distance of that distance, and before that… 40 Derrida’s (1978) argument of ‘logocentricism’ is that the most ‘solid’ thing in texts are so called ‘transcendental signifieds’ which anchor discourses into something that is believed to be stable and permanent. The problem is that even these remain within the system of differences a language forms. For Derrida (1998, 158) ‘there is no outside-text.’ In other words we cannot communicate outside language. As the ‘first’ Wittgenstein (1996, §7) noted: “Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muss man schweigen.” Derrida’s point seems close to what Foucault (1972, 47-48) said about the relationship between ‘objects’, the ‘ground’, and the ‘foundation of things’: “What, in short, we wish to do is dispense with ‘things.’ […] To substitute for the enigmatic treasure of ‘things’ anterior to discourse, the regular formation of objects that emerge only in discourse. To define the objects without reference to the ground, the foundation of things, but by relating them to the body of rules that enable them to form as objects of a discourse and thus constitute the conditions of their historical appearance.” (Emphasis in original.) 41 As also highlighted by Douglas Adams (2002). 42 Philosophers have been dealing with language for a long time, but language itself has perhaps never had as prominent and rigorous role as in post-Wittgensteinian philosophy, something lamented by Mundle (1970). 38

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could not be posed.43 Even the arch-skeptic, Descartes, did not think to question the use of language. Instead of his own cognitive capabilities, Descartes in fact unconsciously based his whole thought-structure on the rules of the language he used (Kenny 1975, 205). For Descartes, language was invisible. Indeed, Wittgenstein’s (1999b) refutation of the possibility of ‘private languages’ is perhaps the most compelling philosophical proof for the necessity of a reality beyond individual consciousness.44 Even though the necessity of the intersubjectivity of language has been recognised today and so, in this sense, language is visible to us, it is still impossible to step outside language to communicate our perceptions and beliefs. Communication remains a possibility only through the ‘glass’ of social reality (cf., Agamben 2007). Just as the production of ‘right answers’ as knowledge requires the posing of ‘right questions’, an individual can only be conscious of something.45 Berger and Luckmann (1994, 30-31) argue that the imagined basic level of human consciousness can never be consciously reached, as an individual will always be conscious of something which can never be everything or nothing. Even in the era of language philosophy, the basic nature and structure of the world still remain unknown to us. Indeed, Williams (2005, 176) emphasises that for ‘wilful’ realism, the opaqueness of the nature of both the self and the world, sets certain limits for both claims about, and action in, the world. Chomsky (2006, 126-127; Chomsky & Foucault 2006, 23-25) touches these limits when he asks how it is Even though there have been people dealing with issues that essentially deal with the same questions as speech act theory (Wierzbicka 1991, 197). See discussion on speech act theory below in Chapter 6.3.1. 44 Mundle (1970) does not agree with Wittgenstein on the impossibility of ‘private languages’ (see Itkonen 2003, 120-125 for a recent discussion of the issue of private languages). As Mundle (1970, 262) however also argues that philosophers should be attentive to the findings of ‘specialists’, this means that his agreement with Ayer’s affirmative answer to the possibility of inventing private languages (ibid., 227) should be reconsidered. Linguists have found that children who have not had human contact have not developed a language of their own, and if they have come into contact with people after they have turned eight years old, they are not able to learn language beyond the level of a child (Trask 1999, 179-181). Greystoke (Burroughs 1963; directed by Hugh Hudson 1984, Warner Bros. Pictures) indeed turns out to be racist fantasy. Wittgenstein (1999b) was against the Cartesian notion of knowledge being principally private by nature. For Wittgenstein, knowledge has to be intersubjective because there is no way of confirming the correctness of knowledge based on ‘private languages’, regardless of whether it is knowledge of observable phenomena or of intuition. It is however a wholly different issue that languages and the rules that govern them have been learned or internalised by each individual in possibly different ways and means. The end result of this internalisation is an unconscious ‘mentalese’, which is psychological and not social by nature. The term mentalese was coined by Jerry Fodor (1976), and it refers to the ‘language’ our senses and nervous system use to communicate with our consciousness. Fodor claims that this mentalese is a conscious private language, while Itkonen (1978) argues that this mentalese must remain unconscious and thus does not refute Wittgenstein’s argument that there can be no private languages (in this sense mentalese is not a language). Itkonen takes the private language argument even further as he claims (1997, 10) that the necessity of being ‘public’ is not a peculiarity of language, but the basis of all social phenomena, which in the end are all supported by ‘substance’ deriving from psychological and biological phenomena within individuals. Elsewhere, he (Itkonen 1983, 8) argues that knowledge is always psychological (because social has to be psychological). Following Wittgenstein, we have to distinguish between knowledge and its object. For example, knowing the meaning of a sentence is different to knowing why someone uttered it. In the first case we have knowledge of rules or conventions while in the second we have knowledge of intentions, i.e., of psychological phenomena. A description of conventions is thus not a matter of psychology, unlike a description of intentions. Rules or conventions are not concrete things, they cannot be observed, only intuited (Searle 1969). 45 For Norwood Russell Hanson (1958) there is no pure observation that would be interpreted since all observation is immediately interpreted; Wittgenstein (1999a) reasoned that we see everything as something; for Popper (1963) observation is always selective and requires an interest, point of view, or a problem. In addition, observation requires categories of sameness, and the description of observatibles requires a language. 43

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possible that science of any kind has itself been possible, when the available data on the world has been very limited. For him, there has to be some kind of initial limitation for any possible theory.46 If all kinds of theories were possible, induction would lead us nowhere as it could go in any direction.47 For Chomsky rules and free creation are not mutually exclusive; instead they include or presuppose one another. Williams similarly notes that the underdeterminacy of the world is not synonymous with complete freedom; the opaqueness of the world does not have to lead to despair, as the underdeterminacy of the world is actually a prerequisite for the wilful construction of the self and society, it may even be a prerequisite for consciousness. If the world were not underdeterminable for the human species, it could not enjoy a total comprehension of the nature of the world, for it would be oblivious, as those people in Rousseau’s state of nature.48 The basic openness of human-beings vis-à-vis the world in itself already involves the paradox of order and disorder (Berger and Luckmann 1994, 119). The human-constructed social reality is tied together with a symbol-universe: people externalise themselves into this symboluniverse and thereby imbue the world with meaning and purpose. But where are these symbol-universes, social realities, and other metaphysical entities ‘stored’? How do we comprehend one another? There have been many attempts to represent ‘knowledge of the world’ as a basis for interpretation in discourse. This knowledge is assumed knowledge that does not have to be specifically provided in every chunk of discourse, and it is the basis for social constructions and socialisation. A number of default elements are assumed to be present in any concrete discourse situation and this does not require – for some reason – that these be explicitly stated or constructed in each and every situation. Even though there is a range of explanations, and terms, to describe how assumed or presupposed knowledge is stored and accessed by individuals, there is usually a large area of overlap in what these terms are used to describe (cf., Tannen 1993). The phenomenon has many names: Wittgenstein (1999a) calls it the Weltbild,49 Berger and Luckmann (1994) discuss the social stock of knowledge,50 Perelman (1996) talks about precontracts of discursive communities,51 Foucault (1970; Chomsky & Foucault 2006) For Charles S. Peirce the concept of abduction represents this initial limitation of possible hypotheses. For him abduction is made possible by the innate ability of imagining workable theories. 47 While for philosophers it may matter whether a certain theory is true or false, for practical purposes this may not be of great importance (Chernoff 2009, 380); practices function on different principles than ‘truths’; people can carve wood whether or not the current model of sub-atomic particles is ‘true’ or not. Just as Peirce observes the innate ability of imagining workable theories, it is important to note that there are limits to what can be ‘gotten at all’ (Chernoff 2009, 381). Various fields of science and other forms of human inquiry have limits to what can be claimed to be known as part of them. 48 If human beings were born with language, they would be connected to their ‘nature’, and would not have the possibility for ‘history’ (Koivusalo 2001, 103); such human beings would not have the possibility of the wilful construction of the social world and its meanings. 49 Wittgenstein talks about Weltbild – which should be distinguished from Weltanschau’ung – as the way we are able to comprehend each other. For Wittgenstein the Weltbild is an image of the world that an individual holds. This includes all the things that are taken for granted either through personal experience or education. This image is not constant however: it can change through new experiences like a river slowly changing its path. 50 Berger and Luckmann (1994, 49-61) phrase the phenomenon through the social stock of knowledge, which presents the validity of our everyday world as taken for granted until a problem arises which cannot be solved in terms of it. They argue that we have ‘recipes’ for dealing with routine problems. Mutatis mutandis, a large part of the social stock of knowledge consists of these recipes, and as long as problems can be mastered through them, people are not interested in going beyond this paradigmatically necessary knowledge. 51 ‘Precontracts’ or ‘premises’ form for Perelman the self-evident point of departure for the argument a politi46

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has his épistémè,52 for Searle (1996; 2000) it is the background,53 Minsky (1975; 1987) utilises frames,54 Schank & Abelson (1977) scripts,55 and Sanford & Garrod (1981) use scenarios.56 Fortunately, this research does not require one strict way to grasp this problem, but it is advisable to consider the different terms as alternative metaphors for how knowledge of the world is organised in human memory, and then how it is activated in the process of understanding discourse and to construct everyday reality – and thereby in the construction of issues of security. In order for some institutional system to seem self-evident, it has to be legitimated as part of a symbol-universe or stock of knowledge as discussed above. Indeed, truth claims cal speaker makes to an audience. The speaker attempts to fuse the obviousness of the shared undercurrent with the argument she is presenting. 52 For Foucault, an épistémè is historically formed, all encompassing and an unconscious forms of thought, which forms the basis for knowledge and theory. An épistémè both enables and constrains certain forms of knowledge in certain periods. The dominant épistémè defines what kinds of explanations are acceptable and constrains what kinds of theories there can be. Foucault contrasts the dominant épistémè of the renaissance, the classical period, and modernity. 53 For Searle (1996) the background is an indefinitely open set of skills, preintentional assumptions, and practices which are not representational, but enable intentional acts and states to manifest themselves. 54 The frame theory of Minsky (1975) proposes that knowledge is stored in human memory in the form of data structures, which are called ‘frames.’ When encountering a new situation, a stereotypical frame is selected from memory and this is then adapted to fit ‘reality’ by changing details when necessary. A frame is characteristically a fixed representation of knowledge about the world. The problem with frame theory, as with most other theories of how knowledge is stored and accessed, is that if it were truly so, then there would be a lot less discourse in particular situations than there actually is, as most situations that would follow the stored frame would require no communication, as all the participants in the situation could just follow the knowledge of the situation in their frames. However, that there are no comprehensive explications when people are engaged in discourse, speaks to these theories, e.g., as shown by the discussion on the infinite regress of constructionism. 55 The theory of scripts states that people parse and interpret text through conceptual expectations. While Minsky’s frames are more stable facts about the world, scripts are more about standard sequences of events that describe situations. The biggest problem with scripts, as with frames, is that they have no way to account for how we are able to limit our extra-linguistic knowledge of the world related to each conceptualisation of a script only to the relevant ones, i.e., how we do not end up with an infinite amount of conceptualisation for understanding a piece of text or discourse. Regardless, scripts can be utilised in describing ‘action stereotypes’ and empirical research has shown that people tend to confuse their recollections of a text they read with the stereotypical ‘script’ relating to the standard activity depicted in the text (Brown & Yule 1983, 245). This also shows how stereotypical gender relations are ‘programmed’ into us. 56 A ‘scenario’ is how Sanford and Garrod (1981) have elected to describe the ‘extended domain of reference’ which is used in interpreting texts in practice. They emphasise that the success of scenario-based comprehension is dependent on the text-producer’s effectiveness in activating appropriate scenarios for the reader. In order to elicit a scenario, a text must constitute at least a partial description of an element of the scenario itself. Schemata are more general than the situation specific scenarios of Sanford and Garrod. Schemata are related to story-grammars (e.g., tragedy and comedy) which are argued to have socio-culturally determined and fixed conventional structures containing a fixed set of elements. This can be compared to Northrop Frye’s (1957) theory of genres, Hayden White’s (1978) basic tropes of discourse, as well as Laclau and Mouffe’s (2001) conception of basic discourses. Thematisation and staging may facilitate the processing of text, but it also facilitates power structures embedded in language and social reality. Some discourses or story-grammars are more basic than others (Wittgenstein 1999a), and they may change or be changed more easily than others. Change in the most basic discourses may raise wide resistance. The strong version of schemata theory states that the schemata that people hold are deterministic, while the general view is much weaker. This view states that schemata can be seen as organised background knowledge which leads us to expect or predict discourse and facilitates our understanding of it. Searle (1996) is quite close to this view as he calls the abilities and knowledge people share a ‘background.’ Different cultural backgrounds can result in different schemata – or discourses – for the interpretation of events. Rumelhart & Ortony (1977) propose that schemata consist of fixed ‘data structures’ and that these form prototypic representations for natural and semantic categories. A schema or prototype would thus have various variables.

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require reasoning and proofs.57 For the latter to be understood and accepted, the presenter of a truth claim and the recipient of the claim have to play the same language game (Wittgenstein 1999b): the recipient of the claim has to be able to form an understanding of how something like the presented truth claim can be known. Indeed, “‘I know’ often means: I have the proper grounds for my statement” (ibid. 1999b, § 18).58 Perhaps paradoxically, both agreement and disagreement require mutual agreement of the factualness of certain things. A plural society may contain several symbol-universes, for instance, in the form of religions, sciences and various political doctrines. An individual may move from one symboluniverse to another even though the initially socialised symbol-universe often appears to be the most ‘real’ and secondary socialisations seem artificial vis-à-vis the primary or initial socialisation. Pre-theoretical entities seem more real than theoretical entities, which may also turn out not to be ‘true’. The issue of whether or not ‘theoretical entities’ have to be ‘true’, or not, is connected to debates on whether we inhabit many worlds or only a single one. This discussion has also flared up in the debates on constructionism, particularly on those on the social construction of scientific facts. Perhaps the most acceptable approaches in these debates are those that have divided the world into ontological levels. Karl Popper (1963) presented us with a tripartite ontology (see Figure 1), while John Searle (1996; 2000) divides facts and the world into two categories viz. ‘brute’59 and ‘social facts.’ In a more elaborate manner, Kukla (2000, 4) sees constructionist arguments as functioning on three levels: a) a metaphysical level, which produces theses about some or all facts about the world we inhabit, b) an epistemological level, which contains theses concerning what can be known about the world, and c) a semantic level, which concerns itself with what can be articulated about the world, all of which are not necessarily dependent on each other. Thus, those who espouse social constructionism, are not necessarily proponents of epistemic relativism (that there is no absolute warrant for any belief and that rationality makes sense only relative to culture, to individuals, or to paradigms). ‘Fig-leaf realists’ (or external realists) argue that there is a human-independent reality, but that there can be no absolute knowledge of its properties; what is known of this human-independent reality is constructed by humans.60 Fig-leaf realists will thus believe that there is something atop the Himalayas whether or not anyone has been there or knows about it, but as soon as Onuf (1989, 35) notes how what we understand to be truths are inextricable from the arguments offered to support them. 58 Larry Laudan’s (1977, 123) view of rationality seems very similar: “to determine whether a given action or belief is (or was) rational, we must ask whether there are (or were) sound reasons for it.” 59 Searle gets this concept from Anscombe (1958). 60 Continuing along with fig-leaf realism: even though the Wizard of Oz may be unmasked as a tiny man pulling on levers by drawing the curtains aside, the ‘truth’ remains behind the fig-leaf, as “what we cannot speak of we must pass over in silence” (Wittgenstein 1996, §7); in the cinematic version of the Wizard of Oz the tiny man pulling on the levers was actually an actor playing the unmasked Wizard, and the whole world was fictional, something which cannot be discussed within the story of the Wizard of Oz. Just as the Wizard of Oz could not present the ‘correct’ questions (am I an actor in a play?), we may not yet be able to ask the ‘correct’ question regarding human nature, or even the social construction of security. Indeed, while individual creativity has a role in scholarship, the current state of the relevant épistémè, or the aesthetics of the scholarly field have a major influence – and in the end scholars cannot have a vantage point beyond human nature, language, and most of the time even society (even Galileo did not transcend language no matter how heretical his claims were viewed as by his contemporaries). 57

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we attribute what there is as being snow,61 we provide it with a status-function and a metaphysical layer of meaning. If we take the approach of Wittgenstein (1999a; 1999b) and believe that meaning derives from use, for example the word ‘five’ has no intrinsic meaning without a context (how could you point to five?). We cannot ask what ‘five’ means, we can ask how ‘five’ is used. (Ibid. 1999a, §1.) The meanings of words are discovered by investigating how they are used. Once the use of a word is learned, its meaning is also learned. (Ibid. §43.) This implies that what a word denotes cannot be what it means (Juha is a name of a person, but this person is not what the name Juha means). Similarly, it can be argued that the concept of fact is a tool for intersubjectively assessing the validity of our perceptions and conceptualisations of external reality (cf., Searle 1996; 2000). From this point of view, facts represent an intersubjective agreement irrespective of whether this agreement comes about either through ‘silence’ or a public debate which abides by a certain set of rules (e.g., those of scholarly debate). Such agreement will usually not be reached unless there is agreement on the perceptions and conceptualisations that the facts in question are considered to represent. In any case, purely social and brute facts must further be distinguished: in accordance with fig-leaf realism, facts become facts through intersubjective agreement; however, the referents of these facts can be human-independent, but need not necessarily be so. Thus for all facts human action is necessary but not sufficient, but for social facts human action is both necessary and sufficient, and for brute facts necessary but not sufficient. In a way, Kukla (2000, 21) speaks of this when he discusses the difference between causal constructionism and constitutive constructionism; in the former, continuous human action sustains facts about the world, while in the latter constructionism, ‘facts about the world’ are only facts about human activity.62 For Searle (1969, 51-52; 1996; 2000), there is a human independent reality, but humans attribute this reality with status functions through social processes. He divides the various aspects of the realities into “brute facts” (Anscombe 1958), “raw feels”, and “institutional or social facts.” Unlike brute facts and raw feels, social or institutional facts depend on the existence of human institutions. These institutions consist of constitutive rules. This is one of the basic ideas of social constructionism, and the insight on which Ruggie (1998) builds his studies of international regimes.63 Social (including international) institutions cannot be described or measured conclusively through brute facts, as even infinite observation or statistical generalisation could not reach the constitutive rules of certain human activities like games, which like chess and ice hockey, can only be understood and described conclusively through their constitutive rules. A similar critique concerning external observation or strict limitation to the study of brute facts in social sciences has been made by Chomsky (Chomsky and Foucault 2006, 35) who argued that limiting social science to the study of behavioural data would be akin to limiting physics How long there will be snow on top of various mountains is a topic hotly debated, not among philosophers of science, but the IPCC! ‘There is snow on top of the Himalayas’ may be a safe bet for some time to come, but ‘there is snow on top of Mount Blanc’ may have its truth-value altered as an example of external realism. The king of France may soon be bald indeed (cf., Russell 1905). 62 This distinction has some relevance for the ‘normative dilemma’ of writing security discussed below. There has similarly been discussion on the theory of securitisation and whether it should be considered as a constitutive or causal theory. 63 See Onuf (1989) for a dissenting view of constitutive rules. 61

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to the reading of meters and gauges. Thus, when it comes to the study of social realities, understanding turns out to be a more comprehensive approach than explanation. Constructionist studies are often focused on social or institutional facts. For Searle, these facts come into existence by human ‘agreement’. The world contains objective facts which are facts only through human agreement (e.g., money, marriage, even ice hockey). Such facts are objective in the sense that they are independent of individual perceptions, opinions or estimations. Such facts are in contrast to those that are entirely independent on human perceptions, opinions or estimations e.g., the fact that there is ‘hydrogen’ in the ‘sun.’ The existence of institutional facts depends on human institutions, while brute facts exist without human institutions. This is evident when a ‘dollar bill’ is compared to the piece of paper it is printed on: if all humans are eliminated, the institutional fact of the dollar bill ceases to exist, but the piece of paper the bill was printed on will still continue to exist (as food for co*ckroaches for example). In order for a brute fact to be stated, the social institution of language is necessary, but the fact itself must be separated from the statement of the fact. To classify and name a piece of rock in our solar system as the planet Pluto or planetoid 134340 will not affect the piece of rock; it may only affect the human perception and understanding of it and perhaps the value ascribed to the piece of rock in question. Further, social facts often tend to be self-referential. Searle (1996, 32-34) uses money as an example of this: in order for the concept of money to be applicable to something, this thing has to be something that people usually consider to be money. If everyone were to cease to believe the item to be money, it would no longer function as money and eventually no longer be money. This happened to the items designated as Finnish marks when Finland turned to the euro for its unit of currency in financial transactions. While there is still money in Finland, coins and notes denoted in Finnish marks are no longer accepted as legal tender in Finland. Logically, the statement ‘a certain substance X is money’ implies that there could also be the statements ‘X is used as money, X is considered to be money.’ This makes the concept or definition of money self-referential: people have to believe that it is money and thereby fill the criteria of the definition of money. This means that people cannot be fooled all the time: if something is continuously thought to be money, it is money, and conversely if something is never thought to be money, it will not be money. Similarly, in the field of IR, this line of reasoning can be applied to, for example, the concept of security. For Wæver et al. (1993, 23-24) security is a self-referential practice, as, even though many things can endanger the existence of something, issues are ascribed the status function of (national) security only through an intersubjective and social process.64 This brings forth a major difference between brute and social facts: something can be an ‘electron’ without any human consideration of such, or there may be ‘galaxies’ which no human being has observed. But social facts cannot exist without human conceptualisation, as their conceptualisation is a major part of their constitution. Peter Winch (2008, 117) has proposed that humans can comprehend natural phenomena only through concepts, even though these phenomena may predate the existence of human beings and certainly any human conceptualisations of such. However, the conceptualisations of human action are, by their nature, different to the conceptualisations of natural phenomena. For example, it would See Chapter 6.3.3. below for a discussion of this issue with Balzacq’s (2005) differing view.

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be nonsensical to believe that people would have commanded and obeyed one another before concepts that enable commands and obedience came into existence. All social facts are ontologically subjective, yet epistemologically objective. E.g., from the previous example, a one euro coin is considered to be money only if people believe it to be money. One cannot examine a euro coin as a brute fact, as physically there is ‘nothing’ there that would intrinsically make the object a euro coin; pieces of ‘metal’ of various shapes, sizes and weights, can be examined as brute entities, yet coins as ‘coins’ cannot. Each individual conceptualises the euro coin in their mind, making it ontologically subjective, yet the euro coin is money even if single individuals were to cease to consider it any longer as money, as the social fact of euros has been institutionalised and thereby, become epistemologically objective.65 Whether a coin is a legal tender as a euro is not the provenance of individuals but depends on a very complex set of legal rules, on the international agreements constituting the EU, on national Parliaments, the European Central Bank and so forth. In other words, even if they wanted to, individuals cannot print their own money; it has to be epistemologically objective in order to serve the function of money. Thus from the perspective of brute facts, the ‘nothing’ can transpire to be very complex in terms of social facts. Indeed, social facts form the majority of everyday experience: the complex ontology of cars, keyboards, marriages as well as money is seen and not the simple ontology of, for example, particles on linear trajectories in fields of force. It is the intersubjectivity of social facts that differentiates the everyday experience of the world from other realities individuals are conscious of. Even though it is possible to question the reality of the intersubjective world, in daily life it is our duty to silence such questions and doubts. It is usually only in liminal situations e.g., in the presence of death – perhaps even a PhD thesis – that the ‘dark side’ of social reality comes to the surface and can endanger the ‘sanity’ of our daily experience of the world (Berger and Luckmann 1994, 113). In these kinds of situations, the conventionality and contingency of social reality and the symboluniverses that it consists of become ‘visible’ or apparent. In these kinds of occasions, ‘reality’ e.g., ‘the world of phenomena independent of our will’ (ibid., 11), the essence of which we cannot alter, may turn out to be a ‘principle.’66 Children grow up in cultures where social facts are taken and taught as self evident: the primary socialisation process produces a reified social reality (Berger and Luckmann 1994). Perception and use of everyday things like automobiles are encountered without

Interestingly, despite his euroscepticism, the Finnish populist Timo Soini accepts his salary in euros. The reality principle is one of the most important concepts of Jean Baudrillard (e.g., 2010). For him, when we examine and analyse images, it is revealed that there is nothing behind them. As simulations become more widespread and prevalent, they may become more important than the reality they simulate – and so become hyperreal. In hyperreality the distance between images and their referents becomes nonexistent making the image or representation as real – or even more real – than what it signifies. Our everyday experiences are no longer that relevant for, say, monetary flows realised by distance technologies. Most of our everyday experience may actually be more about representations based on images, than ‘events’ we experience directly. In these conditions, the challenge for postmodern societies is to develop practices to maintain the reality principle, as virtual realities may become more relevant than brute realities. Our primary socialisation is usually experienced as necessary and it is internalised as it is (Berger and Luckmann 1994, 166). Even the initial socialisation is however usually not entirely successful, or entirely complete. Subjective understandings of reality can be jeopardised by conflicting beliefs and ‘knowledge.’ In hyperreality, the liminal situations and environments of our understandings of reality may become more numerous. Security practices are one way of maintaining our dominant reality principles (Der Derian 1995). 65 66

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consideration, even realisation, of their simple ontology. For children, tokens and concepts of automobiles are essentially tied to each other: the contingency and conventionality of the signifier ‘automobile’ and its ‘signified’ (automobileness) (Culler 1994) are perhaps never realised by individuals without studies of language philosophy or linguistics.67 Objects like chairs and tables seem as ‘natural’ as water or stones. But when we examine our everyday practices (e.g., the purchase of bread in the store), an almost limitlessly complex ontological network is revealed that is not about physical or chemical phenomena. Indeed, it is actually more difficult to perceive and comprehend the simple, or brute reality of things with their social functions removed, than to perceive and comprehend their complex ontology of social functions. It is only through abstraction that automobiles can be perceived as masses on linear paths in fields of force. Thus paradoxically, complex ontology seems easy and simple ontology difficult. But this is because social reality is a human creation, for human purposes, and therefore such realities seem as understandable as those purposes: automobiles are for driving and money is for trading.68 It is more difficult to define a thing with its social function removed by only referring to its intrinsic features and not to social interests, purposes and objectives. Thus when, for example, structural realists within IR have strived for parsimonious theories by only focusing on the material capabilities of states, social constructionists open up the complexity of social realities for investigation. Even though the inclusion of social realities into the study of IR will render it more complex and perhaps more demanding, constructionist ontology is no more mystical than our so called scientific image of the world (Searle 1996): particles in fields of force can form systems, some of which can be sentient, with even consciousness. Intentionality comes along with consciousness and the ability to form representations of phenomena in the world. In addition to subjective representations there can be collective representations, which become possible through the social and conventional system of practices called language. These collective representations can be institutionalised (like language), when they are no longer dependent on individual intentions. The transition from intentions to social facts is then no more miraculous than the transition from particles to fluidity. What we are dealing with here is ‘emergence’; not all features that manifest on a ’higher’ level of ontology can be reduced to the features of lower levels. The underdeterminacy and opaqueness of the world at its basic level and essence is not an invention or privilege of ‘irresponsible postmodernists.’ These issues, the scholarly as well as practical dilemmas they create, have been wrestled with by such impressive figures of Political Realism as Thomas Hobbes and Hans J. Morgenthau.69 However, the fact And even then it may be difficult to grasp Derrida’s (1978) radical interpretation of de Saussure, that the most ‘solid’ thing in discourse or ‘text’ is usually tied to various ‘trancendental signifieds’, and that even these only exist through differences in a system of difference i.e., language. 68 It would be relatively simple to devise other social functions for both automobiles and money, which q.e.d. is precisely the point here. 69 Morgenthau (1947; 1970) argued that the world is in principle indeterminate, and he criticised the scientism of the ‘new theories’ of the second great debate in IR (see Knorr & Rosenau 1969a). It indeed seems that pre-positivists and post-positivists share many similar views in respect of knowledge formation and the limits of epistemology. Interestingly, Morgenthau has received a lot more attention recently (see Korhonen 1983 for an earlier intellectual history) and he is used as a means of criticism of utilitarist approaches to IR as well as a means of building bridges between constructivism, post-positivism, and classical realism. See for example Wyn Jones (1999), Williams (2005; 2007b), Scheuerman (2008), Cozette (2008), and Behr & Heath (2009). See Brown 67

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that there is no single universal epistemology or unambiguous access to the structures of reality does not mean that nihilistic relativism must overwhelm us, nor should the lack of a universal epistemology cause the abandonment of scientific discourse. If knowledge is taken as being a ‘justified, properly grounded belief’, convincing scientific arguments result in justified, properly grounded beliefs, and thereby in knowledge and science (cf., Wittgenstein 1999b, §18, §21, §165, §166, §170, §175-177, §179, §243). As such, viewing security as socially constructed is not a new revelation. An understanding of the social construction of reality has, in one form or another, been the basic insight that has guided sociological studies. This was merely ‘forgotten’ as timeless social systems, the autonomy of social structures, or a constant human nature were sought during the era of structural-functionalist dominated sociology (Aittola & Raiskila 1994, 229). What is of more interest for studies based on social constructionism is the study of the processes of the social construction of realities or aspects of them. Whether or not the ‘facts’ that are claimed by these kinds of studies are discovered or negotiated within the social fields of scholarship does not matter that much for the practicalities of empirical research: “‘I know’ often means: I have the proper grounds for my statement” (Wittgenstein 1999b, §18). What is more relevant is to abide by the ‘form of life’ of scholarship and the practices that constitute scientific scholarship, and eschew practices that constitute other ‘forms of life’ such as essayism, journalism, or art – although they all also serve important alternative functions, and share family resemblances with scholarship.

(2009) for a discussion of Waltz’s views on human nature in respect of the tradition of Political Realism, and for possible reasons why Waltz left human nature out of his theory. Morgenthau is not the only 20th century classic who has been the subject of newfound interest. Other pre-Cold War realists raising discussion include Carl Schmitt (1996; 2003; 2005; for critiques, warnings, and applications to security studies see Huysmans 1998b, Williams 2003, Smith 2005, and to IR in more general, Odysseos & Petito 2007) and E. H. Carr (1946; a recent example of reinterpretations of Carr can be found in Kubálková 1998). As we dismantle straw-men we often come to realise that the real things were not as fierce or simple as they were portrayed to be. Moderation can be found in many classics, even though ‘Chinese whispers’ have distorted their arguments over the years and generations of scholars. The possibility of reinterpretations is, of course, the mark of a true classic.

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3. Dilemmas in Theory Development and Application

I want the Truth! You can’t handle the truth!

- Lt. Daniel Caffee and Col. Nathan Jessup

Part of being a good scholar is to have an understanding of the character and objectives of the broader practices of scholarship that go beyond her particular study. These include the role of scholarship in society and the possible ethical dilemmas that may be involved in research in general, or in certain topics in particular. Meta-level discussion about science and scholarship has a key role in the provision of these kinds of insights; as Martin Hollis and Steve Smith (1991, 27) note, any student of international relations has to think deeply about the nature of science.1 Such assumptions must be clarified in this study’s context as well, because of its explicit theoretical aspirations, even though it is not a study in the philosophy or sociology of science as such. By explicitly stating the presuppositions2 and assumptions about shared knowledge that form the specific ontological (see previous chapter) and epistemological background, the likelihood of confusion and misunderstanding regarding the arguments is reduced, as the readers can compare the explicitly stated background knowledge to their own. This is necessary because we are dealing with abstract issues that go beyond our everyday use of language and thus move beyond our everyday experience which we take for granted. Since the results of this investigation are directed to both an international and interdisciplinary audience, the margin for confusion in respect of implicit assumptions is greater than in a study that is confined to an agreed upon ‘normal-scientific’ paradigm of a single discipline (cf., Kuhn 1996).3 For Thomas S. Kuhn (1996) this entails that IR has not reached the state of ‘normal science’ but remains waiting in the ‘ante-chamber’ (Hakovirta 2008), which may actually be preferable to only having one paradigm, one puzzle to solve. Hedley Bull (1969, 30) noted that instead of accumulating data and theory in a paradigmatic way “a more likely future for the theory of international politics is that it will remain indefinitely in the philosophical stage of constant debate about fundamentals; that the works of the new scientific theories will not prove to be solid structure on which the next generation will build, but rather that those of them that survive at all will take their place alongside earlier works as partial and uncertain guides to an essentially intractable subject; and that successive thinkers, while learning what they can from what has gone before, will continue to feel impelled to build their own houses of theory from the foundations up.” Witnessing the ‘third debate’ (Lapid 1989) and the current calls for naming a new great debate around issues of ontology testifies to the power of Bull’s view. 2 For Stalnaker (1978, 321): “Presuppositions are what is taken by the speaker to be the common ground of the participants in the conversation” (quoted in Brown and Yule 1983, 29). According to Givón (1979, 50), presuppositions are assumptions the speaker makes about what the hearer is likely to accept without challenge. 3 Perhaps ironically, it seems that social scientists are the ones who read treatises on the philosophy of science 1

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3.1. Science, Knowledge, and their Progress When people talk about ‘science’, what they usually have in mind are the natural sciences. Even most philosophers of science4 use the natural sciences as their template of what science is and how it progresses. However, as has already been discernible from the discussion in the previous chapter on social constructionism, it would seem that ‘talk’ of ‘narratives’ and (mere) ‘constructions’ in the “paradigm wars” (see Hacking 1999) of the philosophy of science has led to severe confusion in respect to the status and functions of facts and, consequently, science and its study.5 Indeed, having been corrupted by a plethora of ‘post-post-posts’, can a scholar truly believe in any form of science or facts?6 If our understanding of scientific facts is the result of negotiation and contingent social processes (Duhemian conventionality), is ‘science’ possible for a constructionist? If facts and truths are not equivalent, if science is ‘just another narrative’ (Lyotard 1984), why should we get entangled in it in a systematic manner, and not just follow some flights of fancy? Can Feyerabendian (1975) cognitive relativism be avoided? Even Aristotle deemed poetry superior to history, as poetry can confer causal logic on the arrangement of events when history is doomed to present events in their empirical disorder (Rancière 2007, 121; 2008, 36). In the field of social science, theory, be it causal or constitutive, has the same virtue as poetry had for Aristotle: theoretisation enables an abstract distance from the phenomenon under investigation, and thereby allows the formation of intelligible and sometimes even falsifiable arguments on it. The theory of securitisation, for example, is then perhaps neither true nor false, but may prove to be useful, simple, fruitful, elegant, or just satisfying instead. For Albert Einstein (1938) science “is a creation of the human mind, with its freely invented ideas and concepts. Physical theories try to form a picture of reality and to establish its connection with the world in order to form an understanding of what science is and how science is practiced. Kuhn (1996) has had a major impact here (Hakovirta 2008), which is lamented by some (e.g., Sokal & Bricmont 1998 and Haukkala 2008a). Most scholars engaged in the natural sciences do not consult philosophers on how to start their investigations, nor on ‘how to go on’; they merely ‘do’ science. Indeed, as Albert Einstein (1949, 684) noted, scientists cannot take their epistemological endeavours as far as philosophers. Scientists can practice science without understanding how they are doing it. As we will see below, science and philosophy engage in different types of investigation. 4 The term ‘Philosophy of the Sciences’ was coined in 1840 by William Whewell who is also credited with the invention of the very word ‘scientist’ (Hacking 1999, 197). 5 A commonly proposed definition of knowledge in philosophy is a ‘justified true belief.’ As various veins of epistemology have shown us, ‘truth’ seems to be too tall an order for ‘knowledge’ (Lammenranta 1993). Knowledge and facts are taken here as tools for negotiating intersubjective understanding of reality, which will remain in part unknown to us. But it is vital to note that the concepts of ‘fact’ and ‘knowledge’ have developed to deal with this issue: we can go on without an ultimate truth about the world. The take on knowledge applied here follows Wittgenstein: “‘I know’ often means: I have the proper grounds for my statement” (1999b, § 18); “What I know, I believe” (ibid., §177). Knowledge then is a ‘justified, properly grounded belief.’ Sokal & Bricmont (1998, 96-97) inadvertently provide a good example of what Wittgenstein was saying. For them, correct answers to scientific questions depend on the state of Nature (e.g., the number of neutrinos the Sun really emits). For unsolved problems, nobody knows the right answer, while for solved ones the answer is known. Yet even correct solutions can be challenged. Enter Wittgenstein. If correct answers are knowledge (a justified true belief), and their correctness is determined by Nature, how can they be challenged, and how can our knowledge of Nature change? The answer is that we learn the right answers for the right questions, but our certainty does not become truth vis-à-vis Nature, but vis-à-vis the language game. This does not entail relativism, it entails a lack of absolute certainty. 6 Is, for example, this thesis merely a pastiche, or, as given by Sokal & Bricmont (1998), “fashionable nonsense”?

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of sense impressions.”7 In a similar way, when discussing the relationship between fiction and history, Jacques Rancière (2008, 38) argues that the ‘real’ must be fictionalised in order to be thought. In the field of social science, this argument could be rephrased by stating that the ‘real’ must be theorised in order to be thought. This theoretisation allows a similar kind of arrangement of facts as history vis-à-vis poetry for Aristotle, or the formation of a picture for Einstein. The models or leading ideas of theories and research programs are not exact replicas of ‘real’ situations, but they aid comprehension in order to deal with what is conceived to be the ‘real.’8 This is where securitisation theory reveals its value, be it as a heuristic device, a magnifier of contingency for ethical intervention, or as an avenue to understand relationships of actors, objects, and meanings, to understand the functioning of power. However, any such sensible reconfiguration of facts also brings with it an aesthetic dimension, and this argument is equivalent to the dismantling of the barriers and hierarchies among the forms and levels of discourse (Rancière 2008, 65-66), even within and without scholarship. The breaking down of the separation of levels of discourse should not be taken the wrong way. Indeed, as Rancière (2008, 38-39) appropriately argues, the notion of ‘narratives’ has steered both positivists and deconstructivists to lose their bearings.9 Discussion of narratives has locked the ‘real’ and the ‘artificial’ into permanent oppositions, when all forms of knowledge construct ‘fictions’ in rearranging signs and images, thereby modulating what is seen and said and also what is done and what can be done. This does not mean however that everything would be fiction; it only means that in the “aesthetic age” (Rancière 2008), the borderline between the logic of fact and the logic of fiction has been blurred.10 Furthermore, this has nothing to do with the reality – or unreality – of things. Political, scholarly and even fictional statements can still shape reality.11 Statements on the real, or of pure fiction, can have a modulating effect on “the seeable, the doable, and the sayable” (ibid.).12 What is being dealt with here, is the aesthetics of scholarship in Rancière’s (2008) sense of the term, that is, the a priori distribution of the sensible within scholarship i.e., the modes of articulation between forms of action, production, perception and thought in On Einstein’s view of science, mental models, and creativity, see Vilhu (1979). The idea of a theory as a picture comes very close to how Kenneth Waltz (1979, 8) describes theory: “A theory is a picture, mentally formed, of a bounded realm or domain of activity.” Waltz (ibid., 9) similarly emphasises the element of creativity in the formation of theories by quoting John Rader Platt on theories as also being artistic creations. 8 This viewpoint is an instrumentalist one. Theories can be understood in various other ways as well. For example, Laudan (1984), in his debate among fictional philosophers of science, suggests that a theory can be: for a ‘positivist’, a system of equations (ibid., 10), or a declarative and descriptive, true or false statement about what there is in the world (ibid., 102-104), for a ‘realist’, a claim about basic causal processes and fundamental entities in a domain (ibid., 10), and for a ‘pragmatist’, a tool to anticipate and explain phenomena (ibid., 106). For a critical realist (e.g., Niiniluoto 2000), theories could be truth approximations. Etymologically, theory derives from the Greek theoria (θεωρία), which meant ‘a looking at, viewing, or beholding’ or being a theatre spectator. Accordingly, theory has been often viewed in contrast to practice; from an etymological standpoint, theory is contemplation rather than action. 9 This appears to apply to Alan Sokal (see Sokal & Bricmont 1998, 1) as well. 10 For Rancière (2007, 116) entities of representation are fictional entities, and thereby exempt from judgements of existence or ontological consistency. However, such fictional entities are also entities of resemblance. 11 Think of Iraq’s ‘weapons of mass destruction’, and the effects of the various claims that included this allusion. 12 For Slavoj Žižek cinematic fiction is more real than the (desert of the) ‘real’ (see The Pervert’s Guide to Cinema, directed by Sophie Fiennes 2006, Amoeba Film). 7

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the social field of scholarship. Taking science as just another narrative entails the dismantlement of the barriers of various tropes of discourse. This does not, however, mean that all discourses are equal in terms of their persuasiveness. It merely means that scholarly arguments have to be convincing without recourse to the authority of ’science’: scholars have to make their arguments with their top hats, tail- and even lab coats removed.13 If the practices of scholarship lose their felicity in terms of perlocutionary effectiveness due to this, the practices must be deemed not worthwhile. If, however, scholarly practices remain convincing and effective, this attests to their worthiness as a form of life. If social authority is removed from arguments, so too is an aspect of mastery from science whilst still retaining its exactingness (cf., Certeau 1988, 13). Rancière can also supply two additional concepts to consider how scholarship functions as a human activity. His ‘police’ in the field of scholarship is comparable to Kuhn’s ‘normal science’, while Rancière’s concept of ‘politics’ could be comparable to Kuhn’s ‘revolutionary science.’ For Rancière (2008; Rockhill 2008, 3), the police is an organisational system of coordinates that establishes a distribution of the sensible; the police is akin to a law which divides communities into groups, social positions and functions. In this, his police is similar to a state of Kuhnian normal science: scholars know what is valuable, important, and how progress can be attained in their endeavours, and the resources available to a field of science, whether they be intellectual, social, or economic, are distributed accordingly. Just as Rancière’s law of the police, normal science implicitly separates those who participate from those who are excluded, partly based on a prior aesthetic division of the visible and the invisible, the audible and the inaudible, the ‘sayable’ and the ‘unsayable.’ Revolutionary science, however, opens perhaps all of these aspects up. Indeed, if a field of scholarship is defined by anomalies, this could be close to an open politics of scholarship, where anything would truly ‘go’ (cf., Feyerabend 1975, 27-28),14 as long as it is more convincing than prior theoretical arguments. The essence of Rancière’s politics is the interruption of the distribution of the sensible and thus the modification of the aesthetico-political field of possibility. It is important here, not to confuse the opening up of the aesthetico-political field of possibility with that of the possibilities of the ‘real’: the social and the material have a partly dialectic relationship, but not all material, not to mention energetic, lends itself to a dialectic relationship with the social. Subatomic particles could be called ‘turtles’, but while human understandings of such things may be signs all the way down, quite likely there still remains phenomena beyond human understanding, and therefore also beyond human aesthetics (cf., previous chapter). Examining scholarship as an aesthetic practice is akin to viewing science, or the production of scholarly knowledge, through a sociological lens. The sociology of knowledge and science makes use of the practices of science, by investigating knowledge and science as human practices. Contemplation of science from a sociological angle should reduce the level of reification in a single piece of scholarship. Indeed, if the speech act framework of the present study is utilised to examine itself as an activity, it becomes apparent that a scientific thesis is merely a very complex speech act, a complex set of arguments. The author is engaged in communication with her audience, with the perlocutionary intention of Science should not become a ‘transcendental signified’ (Derrida 1978). For Feyerabend (1975, 296): “All methodologies have their limitations and the only ‘rule’ that survives is ‘anything goes.’” 13 14

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convincing.15 Therefore, in order to make the argument speech act felicitous, one should follow the norms and other rules of what is considered to be science, as this is what is considered most convincing within the discourse, practice, and institution of science.16 Hence, the construction of intersubjective reality and of the knowledge of securitisation theory, as aided by this new knowledge of certain aspects of Chinese security-speak ‘out there’, ‘in the wild’ is the process engaged in this study. In my view, scientific scholarship is how this is achieved most convincingly. Even if science is not understood to have any divine, or otherwise privileged, access to ‘the truth’, science and the factual claims it produces are tools to communicate one’s understanding of reality ‘out there’, and thus science is not an impossibility for a constructionist either.17

3.1.1. Instrumentalism, Truth and the Limits of Scholarly Knowledge

It appears that the social constructedness of intersubjective agreement on what is and what is not a ‘fact’, is not a problem for ‘science’, but for ‘scientism’,18 and perhaps even

For (sadly the now late) Derrida’s information: this is what I really meant to do by writing this thesis. Science can be viewed as a practice, and a form of discipline (Foucault 1979a); if one wants to take part in this field of practice, one has to conform to its rules, and the social ’circles of esteem’ that manifest ’science’ as a social field. Similarly, science can be taken as a form of life (Wittgenstein 1999a; 1999b; cf., Winch 2008). And scholarship truly is a form of life, with seminars, publications, meetings, offices, editors, professors, colleagues, and students. This PhD project has for example moved my body to the spaces denoted by the signs of Stockholm, Toronto, New York, Singapore, Beijing, Shanghai, Paris, Reykjavik, etc., virtually (all these places can be seen from Google Earth! http://www.google-earth.com) half way around the world. Whether viewed as a practice, a form of discipline, or a form of life, scholarship conforms to rules. The goal of science is to be convincing, and in order to be convincing, one has to follow the rules (of the game); in order to be convincing, i.e., intelligible, a scholar has to follow the rules and conventions of the field of science she is engaged in. The actions of scholars in any field of science gain their meaning from the social context of common activity that the scholars are engaged in (Winch 2008, 79). Does one have to believe in ‘science’ more than to this extent? Part of this understanding of science is that it is fallibilistic, it recognises that it may be wrong. My epistemological and ontological commitments are thus open, they may change. 17 Indeed, if scientific methodology is understood like it is defined by Sokal (Sokal & Bricmont 1998, 203) as: “a respect for empirical evidence and for logic,” I can hardly disagree. Similarly agreeable is Hedley Bull’s (1969, 36) definition of science as “a coherent, precise, and orderly body of knowledge.” 18 Scientistic positions view science as a means to acquire knowledge of all of reality and in general the nature of things, as if it were the only true methodology to acquire knowledge. This can lead to a reductionist view where the methods and categories of natural sciences are taken as the only proper elements of any investigation, whether they be philosophical or psychological in character. When natural science is viewed in such a way, the assumption is that science should dominate all walks of life, and subsequently that scientists should wield the greatest social capital; this can bring about the illusion that simplistic, yet ‘objective’ or ‘scientific’, methods allow us to solve very complex problems (Sokal & Bricmont 1998, 191). In a similar fashion, scientistic views can judge science as boundless and that science will, eventually, be able to explain everything (a belief aptly parodied in a computer providing the ultimate answer to life, the universe, and everything as 42 by Douglas Adams’s [2002] The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy). A scientistic trend was discernible in the field of IR during the ‘second debate’, where the views of science espoused already varied greatly within IR. For some, science was about abstract theory, for some it meant testable hypotheses, while for some it was synonymous with the collection of quantified data (Knorr & Rosenau 1969b, 13). Bull (1969, 20-21) summed the traditional and scientific approaches succinctly: the classic approach produces theories that draw on philosophy, history, and law and explicitly rely on judgement as strict standards of verification and proof would leave very little to be said about international relations, which leaves general propositions about them to be made with the scientifically imperfect process of perception or intuition; the scientific approach aspires to a theory of international relations where propositions are based upon logical or mathematical proof, or upon strict, empirical procedures of verification. On the second debate within IR, see Knorr & Rosenau (1969a), especially Bull (1969) and Kaplan (1969). 15 16

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positivism, which itself has run aground on a variety of other fronts.19 ‘Scientistic’ ideals have encountered further problems, in that, while still often held in high regard, scientists of all fields have lost some of their social capital (which has been transferred to ‘experts’ in general).20 Wittgenstein’s analysis of the realities of language, of the fact that we cannot step outside language to say something about it, has had a significant effect on the relationship between facts and what is said to be the truth.21 As even philosophers and scientists are trapped within ‘ordinary language’, they no longer have a privileged position of mastery over ‘reality’ and its nature. Thus, ‘truths’ no longer have any privileged position for signification. While ‘facts’ remain, not all of them are necessarily ‘truths’ any more (Certeau 1988, 11). The removal of the social capital of scientists and scholars beyond their arguments may reduce the inflation of ‘truths’ through the presentation of ‘facts’, so that philosophers, scientists and scholars can no longer convert ‘facts’ into ‘truths.’22 This change is also apparent in that even scientists do not share a common understanding of what science actually is. Yet, in whatever way science it viewed (e.g., from a positivist, empiricist, or instrumentalist standpoint), it usually can be deemed as a purposeful action irrespective of what that purpose may be. Like Ilkka Niiniluoto (2000, 60),

1) The principle of verificationism is in trouble because positivists cannot produce proper criteria for what would count as verification (Duhem 1954; Quine 1997), 2) the principle of observability is in trouble because all observation is observation of something, it is theory-laden (Wittgenstein 1999a; Popper 1963; Hanson 1958), and 3) the principle of accumulating scientific knowledge is in trouble because new theories are often contradictory, even incommensurate with old ones (Kuhn 1996; Popper 1963). 20 Competence is transmuted into social authority in the ‘expert’. Experts intervene in debates outside their particular expertise, yet often retain an aura of authority, or their social capital; experts convert competence in a certain field into authority in another. Through their capacity and capability of initiation in their field of expertise, experts gain a possibility of speaking with authority in other fields, not due to their expert knowledge but to the socio-economic function they play in knowledge production in another field. If an expert continues to portray herself as an expert or scientist in a field beyond her original capacity, she is confusing social place with technical discourse. (Certeau 1988, 7.) 21 The etymology of the word ’fact’ illuminates its constructedness. Facere or faktum meant in Latin performing or doing, a thing done or performed (Oxford English Dictionary 1989, 651-652). Although completely opposite to the everyday understanding of facts as something precisely independent of any judgement, this etymology fits well with the understanding of facts as tools in communicating and judging subjective observations in order to negotiate an intersubjective understanding of the state of affairs or the world that strives towards objectivity, or rather practicality and empirical adequacy. According to Searle (1996), the correspondence between ‘facts’ and the ‘physical world’ can be evaluated because the concept of ‘fact’ has been developed precisely for this purpose. The problems with the concept of fact arise from it being a noun: we intuitively assume facts to be the name of some phenomenon or thing and for the noun to be isomorphically linked to it (see for example Sokal & Bricmont 1998, 102; while ‘facts’ and ‘assertions of facts’ are different things, the problem is that we can only communicate our perceptions, beliefs, etc. on ‘facts’ by making assertions, statements, etc. on them). In French also bogus, false, invented, imitated, and simulated (facticé, la facticité) are derivatives of facere (Baudrillard 2002, 79), a fact [sic] which may explain some French philosophers’ sensitivity to ’reality-principles.’ Similarly to the current factual factness of facts [sic], the concept of ‘truth’ in the English language did not have the impersonal and objective ring it has today (Oxford English Dictionary 1989, 627-629). As Hughes (1988, 61-62) notes, truth evolved from being a private commitment to a publicly assessed quality. While in medieval times the personal aspect could overcome even evidence and testimony by means of ‘proof by arms’, in the modern European understanding truth is taken as the opposite to ‘lying’ and ‘concealment.’ Truth has been elevated to a high place among generally accepted ideas. (Wierzbicka 1991, 103.) 22 “The concept of ‘truth’ as something dependent upon facts largely outside human control has been one of the ways in which philosophy hitherto has inculcated the necessary element of humility. When this check upon pride is removed, a further step is taken on the road towards a certain kind of madness – the intoxication of power which invaded philosophy with Fichte, and to which modern men, whether philosophers or not, are prone. I am persuaded that this intoxication is the greatest danger of our time, and that any philosophy which, however unintentionally, contributes to it is increasing the danger of vast social disaster.” (Russell 1991, 782.) 19

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we can state that scientific and scholarly methods are the means to attain the objectives or purposes of such activities. Neither the objectives, purposes nor the methods to strive for these have, however, reached their final stage or form. Scholarly methods have not been ground down to their core, nor become pre-givens in conducting research. Indeed, new generations of scholars should contemplate previous understandings of science and scholarship, and strive towards the formation of their own structured understanding of this human practice. Thereby, what then is the approach to science and its means of progression in the present study? My approach here is that of an instrumentalist, and it thus departs from a purely rationalist understanding or viewpoint of science.23 Accordingly, ‘truth’ as a criterion of theoretical knowledge is viewed here as too tall an order for knowledge (cf., Lammenranta 1993). Instead, the stance adopted here combines fallibilistic instrumentalism vis-à-vis scholarship and scientific knowledge with naturalism or realism vis-à-vis pre-theoretical phenomena.24 This is close to a pragmatist approach, and thus attempts to find middle ground in the kinds of claims that can be made in respect of knowledge, while still retaining some ‘common sense’ when dealing with abstract and unobservable notions and phenomena. An instrumentalist stance on scholarship takes theories as an economical and appropriate tool to organise observable or intuitive consistencies (cf., Kiikeri & Ylikoski 2004, 204). In order to ‘save the phenomena’ (Duhem 1969; Bogen & Woodward 1988),25 theoretical concepts that refer to unobservable objects and processes are also possible. These however are tools to organise observation and intuition. Theories and abstractions should be kept separate from ‘things in themselves’;26 an instrumentalist position on science leaves the question of the contents of the underlying realities open. Theories are not ‘what is’, but they are very delineated abstractions instrumental in academic debate. Theories are isolated realities; theoretical concepts are a means to isolate “one realm Sokal & Bricmont (1998, 57) provide a succinct phrasing for an instrumentalist attitude in respect of scientific theories: “instrumentalists may regard our scientific theories as, quite simply, the most satisfactory way that the human mind, with its inherent biological limitations, is capable of understanding the world.” Indeed, an instrumentalist stance on science is seen here to entail that scientific concepts and theories are instruments whose value depends on how well they serve specific interests of knowledge, not on whether they are true or false. This means that instrumentalism treats theoretical claims and terms as referring to theoretical objects ‘as if’ they existed, rather than assuming that they are ‘real’ (Chernoff 2009, 376); theoretical concepts are useful tools to organise and systematise observations as well as to predict future observations based on previous observations (Raatikainen 2004, 26). In instrumentalism, pre-theoretical or pre-scientific objects are taken to be different to theoretical objects: pre-theoretical objects are assumed to be ‘real’ on the basis of non-theoretical knowledge claims, while there is no such assumption for theoretical objects. Dividing concepts into those that deal with observations (pre-theoretical concepts) and theoretical objects is problematic for strong empiricism; Carnap, Hempel, and Nagel all turned to an instrumentalist stand due to the problems of the strictness of their previous demands of operationalisation and descriptivism (Raatikainen 2004, 25-26). On debates on instrumentalism in IR see Chernoff (2007; 2009), and Wight (2007b). 24 To believe that most of the theoretical assumptions we base our understanding of the empirical world on, eventually turn out to be wrong (e.g., archaic), and that the theoretical objects theories deal with, are not assumed to be ‘real’, does not entail that there could not be such entities, or that theories could never “get it right” (Chernoff 2009, 386). Fallibilism is sceptical of the possibility of ultimate certainty, not of the possibility of knowledge or justified beliefs (Wittgenstein 1999b; Lammenranta 1993, 14). I consider fallibilism both compatible with instrumentalism and middle-ground between naive empiricism and radical relativism within the philosophy of science. 25 Bas Van Fraasen (1984, 256) would also ‘save the phenomena’ as fragments of larger unities. 26 To satisfy Nietzsche (2003), it must be stated that if there are ’things in themselves’, they are quite likely constantly undergoing change. 23

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from another in order to deal with it intellectually,” as Kenneth N. Waltz (1979, 8) puts is.27 According to this understanding, the theory of securitisation in this study is a tool to organise and understand the regularities of phenomena that happen ‘out there’ and, as such, it provides artificial examples of the category it claims to model. As the term already suggests, an instrumentalist views science as a result of the interaction between humans and their environments. The purpose of science and scholarship from this view-point is to help solve problems (cf., Laudan 1977), be they about physical survival or increased consciousness.28 This also means that scholarship shares ‘family resemblances’ (Wittgenstein 1999a) with other human practices or language games (e.g., policy research, surveys and journalism in the case of IR), yet it has its own style and rules of argumentation, debate and rhetoric (Kaakkuri-Knuutila & Heinilahti 2006, 8). Similarly, humans have developed various tools for various tasks and, consequently, not all tools can be used to perform all tasks. This is another point of disparity between an instrumentalist or conventionalist approach on science and a positivist one: instrumentalism is assumed in this study to entail that scientific theories are always developed for certain purposes and in certain political and social contexts (Cox 1986).29 These purposes and contexts set limits for the application of theories, which should be taken into consideration in the practice of scholarship. Kuhn (2000, 92-93) has gone so far as to argue that fully fledged theories cannot communicate with each other as they form ‘different languages’, which ‘cannot be translated’; in an earlier and even stronger formulation, paradigms were incommensurable,30 and could be without any common measure for

Waltz’s (1979, 7, 11) structural theory was closer to an instrumentalist position: the task of theory was to make observations meaningful; theories bring otherwise disparate facts together in a manner that makes them interdependent. Theories are in another world in regard to the reality they are used to explain; theory is independent of practices, and theories cannot be equated with practices: “A theory is an instrument used to explain ‘the real world’ and perhaps to make some predictions about it” (Waltz 2004, 3). While Waltz himself warns against positivist and empiricist tendencies (e.g., Waltz 2008), many still construe him as a positivist, e.g., Onuf (2009, 188): “Waltz’s conviction that the world consists of observable phenomena and theoretical notions, neither reducing to the other, makes him a strong positivist.” 28 Reality and political speech are messier than the elegant models scholars create (cf., Wilkinson 2007), but elegant models allow us to focus on relevant aspects of infinitely complex phenomena. This understanding supports a creative, pragmatic, non-correspondence theory of truth: scholarly models are useful symbols to represent relationships in ways that may allow them to be solved (Stegeman 1969, 30). 29 How much the social and political context has an effect on the content of theories is a question for specific empirical studies; politics may or may not have a significant impact on scientific theories (e.g., consider Nazi Germany, or the PRC under Mao). 30 Ian Hacking (1983, 63-74) has divided incommensurability into three distinct types, namely topic-, dissociation, and meaning-incommensurability. A new theory should be able to cover the topics of the previous theory, but also be able to deal with new topics. Having different topics makes for incommensurability between them. Dissociation on the other hand makes for incommensurability through change in concepts. As the background information and assumptions of an old text fade away, it may become impossible for a later theory to understand a previous conception. This may be why Derrida (1988) argued that literary studies cannot reach the ‘genuine’ or ‘real’ context of a text, and that new interpretations, meanings and contexts can always be grafted onto texts (see also Laclau & Mouffe 2001 on the surpluses of meaning). Incommensurability may also be the result of theoretical concepts having various meanings as parts of different theories. As concepts get their meaning from being a part of a theory, it may become impossible to derive a previous theory from a later one. (Hiski Haukkala 2008b, 39 emphasises this kind of conceptual path-dependence of various theories.) Mika Kiikeri and Petri Ylikoski (2004, 66) add a fourth form of incommensurability, that of standard and aim, or methodological incommensurability. Representatives of various paradigms or theories may have varying understandings of the aims of scholarship, the relevance of research problems, and the standards of evaluating results. Their category of incommensurability could perhaps be broadened to include interests of knowledge: 27

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Kuhn (1996). To pass from one theory and its language into another requires a Gestaltswitch without any process of understanding.31 However, not all approaches to science are satisfied with such an instrumentalist stance in regard to scholarly activities and knowledge production. For example in the field of IR, some scholars use Roy Bhaskar’s (1978; 1986) critical realism as the basis on which they build their own theoretisations.32 Colin Wight (2006, 26) summarises the metaphysical commitments of critical realism as: 1) ontological realism (the existence of a reality independent of the mind(s) that would wish to come to know it), 2) epistemological relativism (that all beliefs are socially produced) and 3) judgemental rationalism (that it is, in principle, possible to choose among competing theories).33 For Wight (2007b), the social objects that science studies should be identified before philosophical positions can be taken on how knowledge claims about them can be made.34 Fred Chernoff (2009, 388) views scientific realism as leading to an ontology that contains objects that almost certainly do not exist:35 “at its core scientific realism is a doctrine about the truth of scientific theories and the reality of the entities those theories postulate.”36 It is however not necessary to assume that theoretical objects postulated by philosophers or scientists are part of a ‘practical’, or ‘existing’, ontology that consists of pre-scientific objects like remote-controls or digital photographs of fathers, beyond starting our investigations ‘as if’ the theoretical objects existed.37 This approach is in accordance with Duhem’s thesis that no theory can be the final or unrivalled truth given variance in the interests of knowledge of various theories may bring about yet another type of incommensurability. Incommensurability is then a broader issue and question than debates on whether scholars inhabit a single or several worlds, whatever their Gestalt may be. 31 Kuhn’s (2000) later writings have indeed moderated his original formulation; complete incommensurability has become an issue of untranslatability. This alleviates many problems, as whilst all translation is ‘impossible’, we still manage to do it all of the time. If different theories are untranslatable, we may in a similar way in practice be able to make sense of them regardless. See Footnote 62 of the Introduction on issues of translation. 32 For recent debates and the position of critical realism in IR see Wendt (1999), Patomäki & Wight (2000), Wight (2006; 2007a; 2007b), Kurki (2006; 2007), Joseph (2007), and Käpylä & Mikkola (2009). 33 Wendt (1999, 51) summarises scientific realism as 1) the world is independent of the mind and language of individual observers, 2) mature scientific theories refer to this world, and 3) even when it is not directly observable. 34 While my own view of science, its functioning and role in knowledge production is close to the principles proclaimed by Wight, I do not see how science could go beyond an instrumentalist position, and that is where I part ways with Critical Realism. The current ‘ontological debate’ within IR on whether ontological questions should come before epistemological questions seems to repeat the positions of Plato and Aristotle who first discussed what kinds of things exist and how they relate to each other before going into how people can gain knowledge of these things, and positions that have been more prominent since the 17th century (e.g., Descartes) where ontological questions could be put forward only after epistemological issues had been solved one way or another (cf., Heiskala 2000, 82). 35 Even Sokal’s (Sokal & Bricmont 1998, 58-59) ‘sensible’ approach to determining the truth would result in a lot of untrue entities being considered as true: criminal investigations “are rational and based on a detailed analysis of prior experience. In our view, the ‘scientific method’ is not radically different from this approach.” It is good to be reminded here that a lot of innocent people have indeed been convicted in the United States and elsewhere. 36 Chernoff (2009) seems to be suggesting that Bhaskar and scientific realists should be included into Mundle’s (1970, 274) list of ‘great metaphysicians’ the likes of Plato, Descartes, Spinoza, Berkeley and Ayer who share a common trait: that of an irresistible tendency to believe that their categorical system is how the universe must be. 37 It is important to keep in mind that even pre-scientific ontological beliefs contain unobservables like money. Indeed, the assumption of unobservables is not limited to theories. Another difference between pre-theoretical and theoretical objects is that our access to pre-theoretical entities is more ‘direct’ than to theoretical entities (Chernoff 2009, 387).

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any finite store of evidence. The positivist understanding of science has taken science to be the provider of reliability, measurability, objectivity and the predictability of regularity. Accordingly, scholarly flirtation with various strands of relativism has often been presented as endangering these important properties of science and scholarship.38 Constructionist theories of knowledge, for example, have been criticised for precisely this.39 Michael C. Williams (2005) argues that the so called neo-neo-synthesis of international relations theory (Wæver 1996; 1997b), for example, is wary of constructionist epistemology due to a belief in cognitive liberalism.40 The leading idea of cognitive liberalism is the understanding of objective empirical knowledge as the foundation and prerequisite for responsible action and practice; liberalism as a moral and political theory, defines how knowledge about morality and politics can be attained, as well as what can be done about morality and politics. Williams sees cognitive liberalism as an answer to Thomas Hobbes’ (1999) state of nature, which represents the limitability of human knowledge and authority. According to Hobbes, ‘man’ has no natural epistemic ability that would provide agreement on what the reality of the world is, in neither an empirical nor moral sense. Individuals can interpret good and evil in various ways. Williams sees this as the background for the methodological debate between rationalists and their critics in the field of International Relations (see e.g., Lapid 1989). Cognitive liberalists seem to fear a return to the state of nature as a result of empiricism and liberal-empirical objectivism, as transpiring to be untrue. Since would not ‘man’ return to a nihilistic state of nature, if the basis for objectivist empiricism were lost?41 David Campbell (1996, 16-17) has identified this question as a fear of the loss of all options of articulating the state, or any other kind of political Sokal’s claim to fame is the result of just such an enterprise. For similar views within the field of IR see for example Mearsheimer (1994/1995) and Jarvis (2000). Others (e.g., Gilpin 1984) merely lament that they cannot understand what ‘post-modernists’ are trying to say. While for example Ashley’s (1984) barrage is quite easy to follow, the same cannot be said for the excerpts of Lacan (Sokal & Bricmont 1998, 18-37) and Kristeva (Sokal & Bricmont 1998, 38-49) Sokal and Bricmont (1998) have brandished. 39 See Keohane (1988) for an academic power-move trying to incorporate ‘critical approaches’ into the rationalist mainstream of IR. There were several proposals for label-candidates that could be used to manage the main fault lines of the field in the late 1980s. Keohane’s move was ‘reflectivism’ while Lapid (1989) used post-positivism. Around this time Onuf (1989; see also Kubálková et al. 1998) coined ‘constructivism’ as a third way, and eventual middle-ground in this ‘third debate’ within IR (Lapid 1989). David A. Lake’s (2011) keynote address from 2010 shows how the divisions among the discipline have remained, and repeats Keohane’s (1988) move in another guise. 40 Williams (2007c, 18) identifies a similar fear prevalent in Security Studies: there is a desire to render the world knowable, calculable, and as a result, controllable, and constructivism is suspected of undermining these goals. 41 Even Feyerabend (1995) seems worried that political ideologies are once again taking the place of science, this time in the United States (witness also the shift of targets in Sokal 2008). Such problems of ideology encroaching on scientific thinking and practice is not new. Indeed, Henrik von Wright (1987) argued that science as an independent form of producing knowledge first defeated alchemy, then totalitarian ideologies, and finally real socialism. It seems that it is the task of the current teams in the field of scholarship to defeat the challenge of real capitalism and New Public Management which are encroaching on the agendas and practices of science. The problem with ideologies penetrating scholarly practices is that the independently developed criteria and practices to evaluate what is claimed as ‘reliable scientific knowledge’ are replaced with criteria and perhaps practices developed for other purposes. Robert K. Merton (1973) argued for two criteria for the evaluation of scientific claims: logical consistency and compatibility with known facts. Hans J. Morgenthau (2006, 3) concurred with this understanding with his dual test of theories: theories should be consistent with the facts and within themselves. While the interests of scientific claims of knowledge vary, neither race, religion, class nor economic profitability should play into the criteria to evaluate claims about scientific knowledge. 38

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organisation to lead to a good life, if these critical arguments of rationalist international relations theory were taken to their conclusion. As cognitive liberalism connects universal empirical objectivism with responsible political practices, a relativist epistemology would lead to a political and moral relativism.42 It is important to note here, that even if knowledge claims can be argued to always be bound to a certain point of view, or a certain situation, this does not necessarily infer that all knowledge claims must be equally valid.43 Karl Mannheim (1997) had already separated this kind of a relationist understanding from a relativist one in his sociology of knowledge. A constructionist approach to scientific facts does not have to mean that a constructionist scholar could not believe in ‘external realism’, or in the existence of a human-independent reality, without its observation. Constructionist research of knowledge is usually interested in how claims about knowledge or facts come about, not in the existence of the claimed facts or the accuracy of the knowledge claims as such.44 The sociological study of science and scholarship takes these human practices as an object of science and scholarship; the sociology of science does not give the practices of scholarship any ‘special treatment’, beyond any other form of human practice. While the philosophy of science is interested in the nature of reality (ontology)45 and the possibilities of acquiring knowledge (epistemology)46 as such, the sociology of science is interested in the construction of knowledge as an intersubjective activity (Berger & Luckmann 1994). Although, like Peter Winch (2008), close connections between the social sciences and philosophy can be identified, there are also differences in both the methodology and interests of both the philosophy and the sociology of science.

3.1.2. Problems of Observation and Falsification

The differences between scientific and philosophical investigations and proofs become apparent when G. E. Moore’s (1962) pen and his hands are examined (Moore 1993). Moore argued that his knowing that the pen he held in his hand existed, refuted Hume’s sceptical arguments. Further, by moving his hand, he reasoned that there must be material

Which of course are logically separate. Mouffe (2005, 14-15) states a similar position as regards value judgements: that one cannot provide an ultimate rational foundation for any given system of values does not imply that all views of values would have to be viewed as equal; as knowledge claims may be deemed to be satisfactory or wrong within systems of rules that guide such judgements, for Mouffe, the just and the unjust, or the legitimate and the illegitimate can be distinguished within given traditions with the help of standards this tradition provides, by playing the sets of language games that make up a given tradition. 44 To use Sokal & Bricmont’s (1998, 91) example of a man running out of a lecture hall screaming that there is a stampeding herd of elephants inside: a sociologist of knowledge would not be interested in whether or not there actually were elephants in the lecture hall; the sociologist of knowledge would be interested in why Sokal took either there being or there not being elephants stampeding in the lecture room to be knowledge, or a justified true belief; the sociologist’s own view of the truth or falsity of the screaming man’s assertion would not count into her investigation of Sokal’s knowledge claims. This approach is similar to that of conceptual history as practiced by Skinner (2002): of interest is not whether witches were real or not when Bodin wrote his treatises, but why such a learned individual seemed to strongly believe in the influence of witches on the politics of his time. 45 As a branch of philosophy, ontology investigates the nature of reality and what really exists in general (Raatikainen 2004, 11). 46 As a branch of philosophy, epistemology investigates what should be believed and what should not, how beliefs are justified, and what can be known (Lammenranta 1993, 13). 42 43

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objects in the world. Yet, as Wittgenstein (1999b) showed us, Moore confused philosophy with empirical science: whether or not Moore could know that the pen or the hand he perceived were real, is a question of epistemology, but the study of the features of his pen or his hands (e.g., whether or not they are material, or even ‘his’) is a matter for empirical science since philosophical and scientific ‘proofs’ are different.47 Indeed, as Peter Winch (2008, 39) has suggested, philosophy of science should elucidate the peculiarities of the form of life called science, while epistemology should elucidate forms of life in general. In this vein, the scholarly rules that this present research follows can generally be described as that the arguments presented here, should be allowed to undergo public scrutiny in the relevant scholarly community, without any outside interference. Only after this has been the case, can the arguments presented here be considered as conforming to scholarly practices, and thus constituting scholarly knowledge. But how far do such scholarly practices or forms of life deem what is considered to be knowledge, and how can we assess how scientific knowledge progresses? The principle of induction could be described as the ‘common-sense’ view of how science works and what science is: scientific knowledge has been proven to be correct, it is superior to other forms of knowledge, it is based on experimentation and/or observation, and it is objective and trustworthy. The idea is that all science begins with observations, which are then generalised into theory. Observing was for a long time considered to be trustworthy and not subject to problems, such as Russell’s (1912) discussion on ‘sense-datum’ (cf., discussion of Moore’s hands above).48 After the ‘scientific revolution’, general laws and theories were induced from singular observations and these theories were then used to deduce forecasts and explanations for other phenomena. However, as Hume already showed us, induction is not logically valid. Observation cannot be fully trusted either, as all observation is theory-laden; for Norwood Russell Hanson (1958) there is no pure observation that would be interpreted, all observation is immediately interpreted, we see everything as something.49 The implications of the theory-ladenness of observation and perception were taken to their extreme by Paul Feyerabend (1975), for whom observation is subjective and what is perceived varies according to, for example, the culture or the scholarly tradition of the observer. Without investigating Feyerabend’s claims too deeply, the subjectivity of all observation can be dealt with by emphasising the fact that intersubjectivity has the most important role in scholarly practices (cf., Figure 1). The observations of a single scholar will usually not be accepted as an indicator for the existence of a certain phenomenon. Such tests and observations should be repeated by various scholars and defended publicly. Whilst the question ‘Do portable electronic devices that can be used to write academic theses exist?’ can be settled by producing the laptop on which I am currently writing this text for the one asking the question, answering such questions does not solve the question ‘Does reality exist?’ (cf., Winch 2008, 9-10). Whether or not reality exists is not something that the concept of ‘knowledge’ or ‘fact’ has been developed for; inquiring of others on whether reality exists, or not, does not make sense (Lammenranta 1993, 197-200). 48 David Hume had already proposed that only our sensory perceptions are real, and that supposing the existence of a material or spiritual reality beyond them means practicing useless metaphysics (Raatikainen 2004, 19-20). This kind of extreme empiricism is not subscribed to here, even though empirical observation (and explication of intuition) is taken as an important aspect of convincing scholarly arguments. 49 Karl Popper (1963) noted that observation is always selective and requires an interest, point of view, or a problem. In addition, observation requires categories of sameness, and the description of observatibles requires a language. 47

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Both cultures and scholarly communities are comprised of groups of people, who have intersubjective beliefs and which, indeed, influence observation and perception, as also emphasised by Feyerabend. But the perception or observation of a phenomenon does not necessarily affect it in a severe way. The Sapir-Whorf hypothesis falsification is a case in point: even though people in different cultures label and delineate phenomena in differing ways, that does not mean that their actual sensory perceptions would be that different, or at least different as a result of to the structures of their language.50 Indeed, the theory-ladenness of observation does not have to lead to any radical conclusions (Kiikeri & Ylikoski 2004, 31-33).51 Even though we have to live with always being ’situated’ somewhere during observation, we do not have to succumb to nihilism. The perception of phenomena is influenced by the experiences of the researcher and it is not possible to study something from a completely extra-cultural point of view (Wierzbicka 1991, 9); scholars are inevitably guided by some principles, ideas, or concepts that we know are not necessarily shared by the entire human race. Nevertheless, it is a necessity to commence enquiries from some point i.e., some initial concepts or ideas.52 It must be accepted that all study is conducted from within one’s own culture. However, it may be possible to separate the idiosyncrasies of specific cultures from some near-universal aspects of human interaction. In addition to issues of observation and perception, the question of how our assumptions can be deemed to be false has been considered a relevant problem for theory devel-

Linguistic relativists argue that the structure of our language in large measure affects the way we perceive the world. According to the Sapir-Whorf theorem, certain groups of Native Americans perceive colours in a different way to non-Native Americans because their concepts for colours are different. This hypothesis has been formed through the idea that since different languages have different structures for describing things (for example the Navaho have elaborate ways of ‘naming’ rock formations through geometrical shapes, which has led some to conclude that the Navaho perceived things geometrically) different cultures that use these languages (as a first language) also perceive things differently. That different cultures divide the world up differently, is usually not questioned, but the claim presented by Whorf (1956) that cultures with different language structures perceive the world differently, is highly controversial. The research of Berlin and Kay (1969) indeed supports arguments against linguistic relativism. The two anthropologists made a series of tests with people with different first languages that have different ways of describing the basic colours that are part of many languages (the amount of basic colour words can vary from two to fourteen). Different languages divide the scale of colours differently according to their basic colour terms. This has been considered a paradigm case of languages dividing up the world differently. Even though the boundaries of the colour terms of the participants were fuzzy, Berlin and Kay found that speakers of all the included languages displayed similar agreement on the central shades of all of their colour terms, which Berlin and Kay elected to call foci. Even though different languages have different numbers of colour terms, the foci were always the same. The locations of the foci on the colour spectrum also seemed to be universal. Colour terminology was thus shown to be governed by rigorous universal principles, and differences among languages are possible only within strict guidelines. The study of Berlin and Kay (1969) refutes the Sapir-Whorf theorem: despite varying concepts, the people involved in their empirical test of the colour scale did not perceive the colours differently; they merely divided the colour scale into different sections. This result favours structuralism in a broad sense of at least some aspects of cognition having their own structure independent of societal conventions. 51 It is generally accepted in the mainstream of contemporary philosophy of science that theory-ladenness can affect observation in at least three ways: 1) pre-theories or pre-beliefs can affect what is observed, what is noticed, and what is considered as important, 2) previous beliefs may affect the estimation of the plausibility and reliability of an observation: an anomalous observation may be disregarded as erroneous for example, and 3) observations have to be described in a language that is compatible with the theory, which can affect how the observation is given meaning (Raatikainen 2004, 34). As Abraham Maslow’s (2002, 15) law of the instrument states: “When the only tool you have is a hammer, it is tempting to treat everything as if it were a nail.” 52 As Onuf (1989, 35-36) notes, one may begin with by taking facts, or ‘things’ as granted, or one may begin with words, ideas, or arguments as deeds done, as he does. 50

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opment. The refutation of hypotheses based on modus tollens53 has become problematic due to holism and the possibility of ‘Duhemian operations’.54 As Pierre Duhem (1954; 1969) argued, no single empirical test or observation ever decides the fate of a single hypothesis: a hypothesis always encounters empirical observations together with secondary hypotheses. Thus, according to Duhem, which of the hypotheses is the faulty one, can never be known. There can be no crucial experiments that could decide the fate of a hypothesis, as the observation of empirical phenomena cannot articulate which hypotheses are falsified.55 In principle then, should they desire the survival of their hypotheses, scholars can always engage in ‘Duhemian operations.’ When the Duhem theorem is translated into the theoretical and language philosophical stance applied in the present study, we can see that the explanatory power of theories is a pragmatic virtue, and that ‘truth’ is a feature outside of explanation (cf., Kiikeri & Ylikoski 2004, 226-228). An explanation is independent of truth since theories are empirically underdeterminable. Empirical observation itself cannot articulate whether a theory is true or false. Those who would be convinced by a theory or observation may believe it to be true, but this is a pragmatic or a perlocutionary effect of the illocutionary force of the argument, presented in the form of a theory or hypothesis. Although now ‘visible’, thanks to 20th century language philosophy after Wittgenstein, our apparent consciousness remains unable to communicate perceptions of reality, except through the ‘glass’ of social reality and language (cf., Agamben 2007).56 That the ‘truth’ of theories is a virtue, separate from explanation, does not mean that solipsism must prevail nor the denial of an ‘external realism’; that one is an empirical constructionist, and argues for the empirical adequacy rather than ‘truth’ of theories (cf., Laudan 1977), does not mean that one could not be a realist when it comes to brute and social reality beyond one’s own perceptions and consciousness.57 What we know of either reality may not be ‘the truth’, but it may be enough for ‘all intents and purposes’

The logical validity of this principle is the basis for falsification. I.e., that we can reject our observation in order to keep our favoured theory. As the discussion of Lakatosian research programmes below shows, it indeed does not make sense to deem a theory as refuted due to a single discrepancy (naïve falsification), even if it is reproducible. There however also are limits to how many Duhemian manoeuvres should be allowed before rejecting a theory altogether (cf., Lakatos’s positive and negative heuristics of research programmes). These limits arise from the practices of scholarly communities. 55 Duhem’s thesis is more generally accepted than Willard Van Orman Quine’s (1997) stronger claim that a stubborn enough scholar can always find new ways to hold on to her hypothesis regardless of any logical or empirical proofs presented. While actual scholars often want to retain their theoretical constructions, we have to keep in mind that actual practice many times does not conform to philosophical possibilities. That you can be stubborn and reject both logic and evidence to save your theory or hypothesis does not mean that you have to do so; even scholars can be reasonable entities. Indeed, a sociological stance towards the study of science as knowledge production may save us from some of the problems the philosophical study of science has uncovered. The practices of scholars are from this point of view more relevant than the logical or other possibilities they may have. 56 As Agamben (2001, 47) notes, humans ‘see’ the world through language but they cannot see language itself. That Wittgenstein made language visible for us ‘equals a Copernican revolution’ (ibid., 54). But it is important to realise, as Agamben (1998, 50) notes, that this does not mean that the ‘nonlinguistic’ would be completely inaccessible for humans, but that human beings cannot reach it in a form that would be a ‘nonrelational and ineffable presupposition’, as the ‘nonlinguistic’ is only communicable by, and thereby within, language (cf., Wittgenstein 1999a; 1999b). 57 Indeed, many renowned scientists have held an instrumentalist stance on science; for many natural scientists, the support of evidence, proper scientific practices, and choice of theories are the basis for accepting knowledge claims, not a belief in the knowledge claims being the ultimate truth. 53 54

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(for the interest of knowledge of that research) in that it may be enough to negotiate and execute one’s existence in relation to that ‘reality.’58 Thus, theories are fallibilistic suppositions that remain adequate until convincingly deemed otherwise. Theories and models make abstractions of reality, which can be empirically adequate, yet still turn out to be ‘untrue’, as has indeed occurred many times over in the evolution of the scientific understanding of the world.

3.1.3. Difficulties of Estimating the Progress of Knowledge

It is often suggested that science should be both successful and progressive. But how does one arrive at acceptable criteria for the success or progressiveness of theories? This is usually determined within the branch of science under discussion, or within competing approaches. Science is often thought to be progressing when it comes closer to ‘truths’, yet the practical effects of scientific theories may also be a criterion of progress.59 Indeed, although Duhem’s hypothesis, or empirical underdeterminacy, undermines simple falsification, real scholars are anyhow engaged in a much more varied endeavour in testing their theories. Indeed, simple empiricism is not enough to decide on the usefulness and applicability of a theory. More complex criteria have to be set to decide the fate of theories. These might include compatibility with other theories, simplicity, explanatory power and theoretical fruitfulness (Kiikeri & Ylikoski 2004, 36), or their capacities to deal with problems in ways that allow them to be solved (Stegeman 1969, 30; Laudan 1977), even elegance. When these types of questions are investigated, the assumed foundation of rationality for knowledge is of paramount importance. Habermas’s (2007; see also 1977) concept of the ‘interests of knowledge’60 could be a basis here to evaluate the value of scholarly endeavours: as Laudan (1990, 18) also suggests, there is a need to assess how well various approaches have reached the goals they have set for their endeavour. In view of the interests of knowledge, research which reach-

Engaging in a boxing match may be a hard means of dealing with the bruteness of reality, but it may enlighten us as a metaphor of the argument here. A boxer may have a theory of how to fight, but the reality of the other boxer (and the rules that constitute a boxing match) may ‘prove’ the theory to be wrong (no hits below the belt allowed here, and especially no kicking!), and defeat you. This however does not necessarily mean your theory of how to be a successful boxer was wrong: perhaps the other boxer was merely more capable, or the situation of the fight did not fit the theory. The discussion of ‘which martial art system is the best’ is something that many martial artists (or should they be better termed martial fan-boys?) spend their time arguing about. But also here, it can be argued that there is no best or ‘true’ system of martial arts, i.e., theory or concept, it is about the empirical adequacy of the ‘theory’ or style/system and its application in given situations ‘out there.’ Yet, we also have to note that as there are many ways of fighting, all of them with limitations, it is not true that all bodily movements are equally good for fighting. There is no single, all-applicable, ‘true’ method of boxing for example, but not all methods of boxing are equally good or reliable either. The same applies to scientific methods and theories. 59 Various research programmes could for example be ranked according to their timeliness, fruitfulness, or political effects (Heiskala 2000, 11). Finding one common measure for all research programmes in every field of science is however exceedingly difficult, if not impossible. Larry Laudan (1977) suggests that how well a ‘research tradition’ is able to solve empirical and conceptual problems could be the measure to assess the progress of ‘science’, or even that progress is a diachronic notion that requires empirical means to rank how far various efforts have realised some aim or aims they have set as their task (Laudan 1990, 18). From such a viewpoint, methodological rules are putative instruments for the realisation of cognitive or doxatic aims (Laudan 1984, 34). 60 See Nurmi (1971) and Berndtson (1971) for discussions on Habermas’s interests of knowledge from a political science perspective. Ashley (1981) views Political Realism through Habermas’s interests of knowledge while Vuori (2008a) does this for Political Realism and the study of security. 58

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es for a technical interest of knowledge, progresses when it allows enhanced control and guidance of processes in reality; that which aims for the practical interest of knowledge, will progress when people are able to understand both themselves and one another, and then to pass this understanding on by communication and the mediation of information; research that strives towards emancipation, progresses when intersubjective relations or positions of power considered as ‘natural’, can be deconstructed or ‘unmasked’, and people can be released from ‘false consciousness.’61 For Habermas, the three interests of knowledge are separate by definition, yet even individual studies may exhibit more than one interest of knowledge. It however seems that scholars tend to favour one of such interests, and accordingly, that interests of knowledge form one more avenue for scholars to talk past one another in scholarly debates. It appears that some approaches to knowledge production and interests of knowledge go together better than others. Within the field of IR, it seems that, for example, realism, ‘explaining’ and a technical interest would easily talk past a combination of idealism, ‘understanding’ and an emancipatory interest. Actually, while Hollis & Smith (1991, 6-7) argue that the study of IR always has “two stories” to tell, viz. those of “explaining” and “understanding”, from the point of view of the interests of knowledge, IR may actually have three stories to tell (Vuori 2008a): the technical, the practical, and the emancipatory story. Indeed, securitisation theory can be used to conduct studies with any of the three interests in mind, although it may be more suited to serve certain interests better than others. But what are the three stories that securitisation theory, or Securitisation Studies, can tell us via the three interests of knowledge? In terms of control, or an instrumentalist interest i.e., the first story, the theory can be used to identify stages of conflict escalation. If the speech acts of various types of actors begin to display securitisation, this may be an indicator of the conflict becoming more acute. Identifying such situations may help arbitrators to, if not intervene, at least offer to participate in negotiations and thereby defuse a conflict before it becomes more drastic. The strands of securitisation proposed in the present study can make such estimates more nuanced. From another point of view, the framework can be used to identify the types of actors that are most relevant in various societies, and thus to recognise when ‘talk’ becomes serious.62 In these ways, the theory can be used as a tool in the early stages of crisis management and also for dealing with its problems on a practical level. In terms of the practical interest of knowledge i.e., the second story, the theory can be used to reveal and elucidate understandings of security.63 This may help decision-makers The combination of these three interests of knowledge together with Laudan’s (1977) division of empirical and conceptual problems provides us with a two by three typology for the assessment of aspects of the possible progress of theories. 62 It was for example interesting to note that both during the 2008 unrest in Tibet, and in the 2009 unrest in Xinjiang, provincial party leaders used the language of securitisation, while the central level used more moderate language. This tactic signalled that the issues were severe, and the local securitisation allowed the use of security measures, but also that the measures could become more severe; the provincial securitisation of the issues functioned as a means of control and deterrence. 63 For example Ciuta (2009) argues that the theory could be a starting-point for hermeneutical studies of security where both analytical language and the language of the objects of study would be combined (Ciuta 2009). Kurt W. Radtke (2008, 203) similarly argues that security studies ought to develop a metalanguage that could transcend the concepts of particular countries, cultures, and scholarly icons. As such, I reason that the theory of securitisation, when explicated with illocutionary logic, may provide some headway towards estab61

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and their critics and opponents, all to understand their own views, and possibly dissenting views in their own society or in others too. Denaturalising security increases the need to take political responsibility and to help people evaluate arguments for legitimacy. A hermeneutical approach to security underlines the relational dimension of security (cf., Buzan 1991; Buzan et al. 1998). Understanding the constitution of security and the processes of securitisation may similarly enlighten decision-makers, while understanding the negativity of security may help to keep more issues within the purview of non-emergency modes of administration. Finally, with the third story, told from an emancipatory point of view, the theory can also allow security to be denaturalised and reveal its functions in the production and maintenance of power. By understanding the construction of social reality, by uncovering the contingency of social constructions and their political nature regarding issues of even security, opportunities for an ethical intervention may be opened, by either the scholar studying securitisation or the reader of the scholar’s work. The study of securitisation can, for example, be utilised for double readings (in the vein of Derrida), the dissolution of myths (in the vein of Barthes), or the dissection of doxa (in the vein of Bourdieu). Securitisation scholars cannot say what ‘real’ security is, or what a ‘real’ threat is, without making an overt political argument or move. Yet this does not mean that a scholar could not make ethical interventions. Scholarly models can be used in the manner of artistic models to represent relationships, that is, they can be used to deal with actual problems (Stegeman 1969, 29). Displaying the elements of choice and contingency may lessen some of security’s functionality as a means of power. The theory can be used to unmask both the general functions of security, but also to analyse particular instances with this intent. As we can see, these three aspects of the interests of knowledge securitisation theory can be applied to serve and complement one another, or they may be stages of a broader project. Securitisation theory can be used as a heuristic device, as a magnifier of contingency for ethical intervention, or as an avenue to understand, even manage the relationships of actors, objects, and meanings, to understand the functioning of power. These three types of stories may also work as a criterion to evaluate the practical progress of the research programme of Securitisation Studies. Beyond the ‘stories’ or the value of studies of securitisation, the criterion for how scholarly knowledge progresses that is applied in this study is based on a reappropriated interpretation of the positive and negative heuristic principles promoted by Imre Lakatos (1970).64 Indeed, a theory is viewed here as scientifically acceptable, if its capacity to explain, to make understandable, or to solve problems is better in comparison to an earlier theory that was constructed to investigate the same phenomenon.65 Such ‘progress’ can be lishing just such a metalanguage. 64 Kenneth N. Waltz (2008, 92-95) sees Lakatos’s value in his writings showing how a positivist stance to theory in political science does not work: no finite sample can ever disprove a universal probabilistic theory. Theories and facts are interdependent. 65 For Lakatos, such progress was exclusively empirical, and alteration was allowed only via new assumptions or the semantic re-interpretation of terms of the original theory (Laudan 1977, 77). For Lakatos (1970, 116), scientific theories are meant to ‘predict novel facts’. Such a predictive stance to science is problematic for securitisation theory, as it is for most of social science: much of collective human activity is too ‘chaotic’ as a phenomenon to be predicted. Indeed, as Laudan (1977, 16-17) notes, to merely concentrate on the explanation or prediction of (novel) facts would leave out much of the theoretical activities scholars engage in.

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achieved both conceptually and empirically. Further, theories should not be rejected out of hand only because there is some evidence that is not in accordance with it: it could be that the examples do not fit into the existing conceptual scheme, or an anomaly for that particular theory could also be an anomaly for all other theories.66 Lakatos viewed groups of theories as ‘research programmes’. A research programme is conceptually progressive if it produces new concepts with rich and simplifying structures. A programme will be empirically progressive if these concepts can contain previous understandings and at the same time expand the analytical power of the programme.67 If a programme lacks these virtues, degeneration is the result, and when confronted with problems, it merely produces new theories that skirt the issue by engaging in Duhemian manoeuvres. Of course, Lakatos’s philosophy of science is not ‘correct’, and it is applied here in a reappropriated manner. The goal of many philosophers of science, such as Thomas Kuhn, Imre Lakatos, and Larry Laudan, has been to explain the evolution and progress of science in general. While their insights are important, such broad viewpoints may not be that helpful for particular theory developers in practice.68 Thereby, Lakatos’s similes of the positive and negative heuristics, and of the hard core and protective belt of research programmes are used here as a meta-method to model research programmes, and thereby to help scholars engaged in the business of science to grasp their total endeavours from a wider and more abstract point of view.69 Lakatos sees series of theories to contain a leading idea, through which various theories in the programme join, and thereby form the ‘hard core’ of a research programme.70 This hard core is ‘irrefutable’ and should not be targeted by the modus tollens, yet it should be ‘empirically falsifiable’. To be constructive, a research programme has to include a mechanism for theory development. In the model, the hard core of a theory is sheltered by a ‘protective belt’ of auxiliary hypotheses, which can be adapted as more and more empirical anomalies appear. This positive heuristic is accompanied by a negative one: a researcher engaged in a research programme should not tamper with the irrefutable hard core of the programme.71

Science then may not only be about empirical facts, but also conceptual problems. Thereby, although Lakatos’s similes of the core and the two heuristics is viewed here as useful, I do not subscribe to his strict notion of what ‘scientific’ entails. 66 To continue with the boxing analogy: perhaps you were boxing with the heavyweight champion of the world! 67 In Laudan’s (1977, 18) terms, the transformation of anomalous and unsolved empirical problems into solved ones is the hallmark of scientific progress. Such a view emphasises that theories should not be rejected out of hand: presumed empirical anomalies may be transformed into confirming instances via theory development (ibid., 30). Such development may occur through the shift of relevant variables in the theory, which may eliminate troublesome anomalies or resolve some conceptual problems (ibid., 68). For Laudan, theories are progressive if their problem solving capacity is increased. 68 Indeed, Lakatos emphasised the necessity to keep methodological assessments and heuristic advice separate. 69 Lakatos’s model is indeed viewed here as a general meta-method: actual research programmes should provide their own particular ‘clues’ for how to assess progress within their project (cf., Laudan 1977). 70 For Lakatos, this core can be the result of human creativity for example. Wæver (2005, 39; see also 2007a) seems to follow this vein of thinking as he also argues that instead of doing inductive generalisations from observations, scholarship begins with the creative moment of coming up with an abstract notion that is then tested via observations of reality or by deducing larger stories that ‘reconstruct complex realities’ in a convincing way. 71 Thierry Balzacq’s (2005, 176, 193) criticism of the speech act approach of Wæver, while raised in a construc-

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The meta-method of sophisticated falsification, with its positive and negative heuristics, provides a meaningful framework for the development and adaptation of theory by retaining its core claims while adapting the research programme to accommodate for empirical anomalies. This methodology should be specified in each research programme as there is the danger that theories might become too ‘stretched’ (Sartori 1970). The hard core of the research programme of securitisation is viewed here to be formed by speech act theory and that securitisation is a speech act.72 These suppositions are irrefutable within the programme, but they are surrounded by auxiliary hypotheses that can be ‘falsified’ by either logic or spatiotemporal occurrences.73 Security means different things to different societies at different times, since the core fears of societies or social groups are unique and relate to vulnerabilities and historical experiences (Wæver 1989b, 301).74 We can formulate empirical hypotheses in accordance with our understanding of this sociohistorical process.75 At the same time, the meanings of security are constructed through speech acts: speech acts are seen as the mechanism to intersubjectively construct the core fears and historical experiences – the meaning of security – in different societies. The theory of securitisation thus does not claim any universal culture or meaning of security, but still recognises the unity of the biological creatures that are the foundation for all cultures.76 This means that what, by whom, under which conditions and even how (on the level of convention) something is constructed as an issue of security, differs from society to society, but on the fundamental level of how this is accomplished, the linguistic mechanism (speech acts) remains the same. Speech act theory thus forms the hard core of the tive manner, goes against the ‘negative heuristics’ of Lakatosian research programmes by actually questioning the leading idea of the theory. Balzacq questions the idea that security is based on speech acts, which in effect questions the hard core of the research programme of securitisation. In my view, he echoes Pierre Bourdieu’s (1991) criticism of some structural linguists who mistake considering linguistic rules as entirely determinant in speech acts. I do not see Wæver’s approach to securitisation repeating this error. Although Balzacq raises relevant issues, my argument here is that his criticism has not jeopardised the leading idea of securitisation. See Chapter 6.3.3. below for a detailed discussion. 72 See Chapter 6.3.1. below on why ‘security is a speech act’ is not considered to be the core of the programme here. 73 Scholarly communities may be convinced of the falsity of hypotheses even though empirical observation is indeterminate. 74 Bubandt’s (2005) ‘vernacular security’ is very close to this idea. 75 Indeed, Priyankar Upadhyaya (2006, 14) calls for conceptual and empirical studies that would explore the operation of securitisation/desecuritisation in diverse situations. Studies in non-European contexts are helpful here as they provide different political and social environments for the study of securitisation dynamics. 76 Ciuta (2009) has argued that the CopS does construct a permanent meaning of security that would not take the understandings of the ‘targets’ of analysis into account; he argues that the CopS rules out that meanings of security can vary contextually. I however argue that this is not the case (see e.g., Wæver 1989b). What the CopS presents as security (a situation where there are means to repel an existential threat) is the current dominant understanding in ‘international relations.’ As Wæver (2004b; 2008a) shows, the meaning of security in Europe has fluctuated greatly. This entails that this remains a possibility in the future; to Ciuta’s (2009, 303-304; see also Huysmans 1998a, 500-501 and Trombetta 2008, 600 for critiques of the CopS approach being unable to study shifts in the logic of security itself, or of imposing an essentialising fixity to it and the practices it is used to legitimate) question on whether security could become something other than the current ‘theoretical fiat’, I would answer an emphatic yes. The interesting question is what it is that we are actually discussing or analysing in ISS: the meaning and uses of ‘security’, or the politics of ‘survival’, something which is termed ‘security’ in the contemporary era of international relations? Would it be more prudent and accurate to talk of ‘survival policies’ and ‘survival studies’ instead of ‘security’? Survival would include both non-human threats (e.g., hurricanes) and demand more responsibility from politicians as ‘survival’ does not carry the same positive commonsense connotations as ‘security’ does. While ‘security’ may not always and everywhere have to mean ‘survival’, ‘survival’ itself would.

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theory of securitisation while auxiliary hypotheses are used to understand the specific conventions of the social construction of security in different societies in different times, as well as the political functions and effects processes of securitisation have.77 As the above suggests, the hard core of the research programme of Securitization Studies is viewed here in a very minimalist way. Others might insert further features of the model, such as securitising actors, referent objects, existential threats, and extraordinary measures, into the core of the programme.78 I, however, contend that for the aims of theory travel, it makes sense to keep the hard core as minimal as possible: the more specifically the features of the model are hypothesised within the core, the more it makes presumptions based on certain types of political orders and practices. The intention here is to make the model as general and abstract as possible in order to allow its operationalisation to the greatest number of political orders and practices – even theories of politics. Such a minimalist and abstract view of the core of the research programme of Securitisation Studies begs the question of whether the theory of securitization is compatible with Lakatos’s views of what a theory is. For him, theories had to be empirically falsifiable, and be able to ‘predict novel facts’ (Lakatos 1970, 116). What is the case for the theory of securitisation in general and the present study in particular: are they in tune with Lakatos’s view? As with the core and the belt of the research programme itself, the theoretical and empirical aspects of this research and their methods of refutation must be separated. As it is viewed here, at the very core of the research programme is the theory of speech acts, which is based on intuition and should thus be approached through intuition. The theory of securitisation is based on the theory of speech acts, and in that sense, it should also be approached from the direction of linguistic intuition. The auxiliary hypotheses (the strands of securitisation) proposed for the theory of securitisation here are based on the illocutionary logic of speech acts, and thus also on intuition. Because rule-sentences that describe language cannot be falsified through spatiotemporal occurrences, they must instead be falsified through logic (cf., Itkonen 2003, 44-48).79 However, it must be kept uppermost in mind that even though intuition is the ‘act of knowledge’ (Popper 1963) used in this inquiry, intuition itself is not the object of study, but rather the norms of securitisation, which can only be accessed through intuition (cf., Itkonen 2003). Thereby, although all the elements of the core and protective belt are ‘falsifiable’, not all of them are ‘empirically falsifiable’, which means that the view taken on ‘scientificity’ here is broader than that of Lakatos. Such a view is based on Karl Popper’s (1963) views on ontological levels and their

We could for example form hypotheses on how security is understood and how it functions in Finland, and then study empirically whether our hypotheses derived from the theory make empirical sense or not. Although the hard core of the programme is viewed here to consist of the speech act aspect of the theory, the protective belt could include empirically falsifiable propositions such as ‘securitisation narrows down political debate’, ‘an affective relation between referent objects and audiences facilitates securitisation’, and ‘referent objects on a level above the individual and below the universal render themselves more easily to securitisation’. 78 One way to solve such different views of the contents of the core could be to divide the core into a hard core that consist of the leading idea of the speech act and a soft core that consist of further elements of the model. 79 A rule must be valid also independent of its particular use in discourse; a word can denote a segment of reality only insofar as it is meaningful in its own not-denoting. Language is pure potentiality. (Agamben 1998, 20-21.) Similarly, there can be no concrete promises without the performative practice of promising, without rules of promising, which give the particular discourses of promising their force. 77

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Figure 1: Popper’s tripartite ontology and acts of knowledge.

correspondent ‘acts of knowledge’. For Popper (1963), ontology can be divided into three ‘worlds’ or layers (see Figure 1): 1) physical states/events, 2) psychological states/ events, and 3) social concepts and norms. Each of these layers requires its own ‘act of knowledge’, or epistemology: for the first it is observation, for the second introspection, and for the third intuition. All of these acts emanate from the second layer i.e., human psychological states, since all are potentially conscious. Observation as an act of knowledge is directed at the first layer, while intuition is the correct approach for intersubjective or social norms and rules.80 Intersubjective norms thus differ from subjective experiences and connotations. Subjective experiences have to be grasped through introspection. ‘Empirical’ questions arise in the present study, when the social construction of security in China becomes the focus of consideration. China is an empirical entity, even though it is ontologically social.81 The analysis of how, what, by whom and under which conditions something has been constructed as an issue of security, has to be based on actually occurred speech and cannot be answered through linguistic intuition. The hypotheses and the theories discussed below are tools for this analysis and will assist in the formulation of empirical assumptions or claims. Even though the linguistic mechanism of securitisation and the general rules of securitisation are accessible through intuition, the referent objects, threats, audiences, securitising actors and facilitation/impediment factors, are empirical issues and require methods of empirical analysis beyond the analysis Sokal & Bricmont (1998, 143-144) argue that while intuition plays an important role in the creation or invention of theories, intuition should not play a role in the verification or falsification of theories, as these processes must remain independent of the subjectivity of individual scientists. Here, I would argue, Sokal & Bricmont succumb to at least two confusions. First, as Popper’s tripartite ontology reveals, all knowledge claims return to the second world of psychological events/states, and thereby all theories also ontologically depend on individual psychological events/states. While the above criticism may be borderline banality, Sokal & Bricmont conflate intuition and introspection; they have failed to see that intuition is the act of knowledge that should be used to verify, or falsify, intersubjective rules and norms. The checking of someone’s calculations is precisely based on intuition. 81 The PRC of course has a territory and a population, but these are not the PRC; the PRC is a social institution. This becomes explicit in the so called question of the two Chinas. 80

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of the logic of speech acts. It is possible to propose empirical hypotheses with three possible observational results within the theory of securitisation. While the success and failure of securitisation is not a binary issue,82 it may be difficult to assess whether and when securitisation has been successful.83 Furthermore, the success of establishing a security status for an issue, and the success of the politics of establishing a security status for an issue, should be analytically kept separate. What are termed securitisation moves within the model, can manifest and be successful (value 1), they can also manifest and be unsuccessful (value -1), and they may not manifest at all (value 0).84 This means that our empirical assumptions can be ‘falsified’ by analysing relevant data.85 It is useful here to follow James Bogen & James Woodward’s (1988) conceptual distinction between data and phenomena (in terms of language philosophy this comes very close to Searle’s [1995] distinction between type and token). Data functions as evidence to the existence of a phenomenon; (some) theories seek to explain or understand phenomena, not data. In this study, the phenomenon (or type) studied is ‘securitisation,’86 while the analysis of the speeches that have actually occurred are the data (tokens) used to reason about the phenomenon or practices of securitisation.87 As noted by Bogen and Woodward (1988), this distinction between data and phenomena is important as data is the result of an immensely complex set of causal (and constitutive) factors. As also emphasised in Regional Security Complex Theory (Buzan et al. 1998; Buzan & Wæver 2003), this complexity has to be dealt with in some way, for scholars cannot take everything into account in their hypotheses and theories.88 This is a point that many critics (e.g., Bubandt 2005; Kent 2006; Wilkinson 2007) of the approach, who emphasise the ‘messiness’ of ‘local’ events and processes, do not take into account: a model is a model.89 As will be seen below, many critics of the CopS approach have identified empirical ‘anomalies’ of one type or another (see for example Mak 2006; Wilkinson 2007; Barthwal-Datta 2009). I shall argue that the refined model presented in this study can deal with some of these ‘anomalies’ while retaining the insights of the previous version and that, as such, this study advances the research programme of Securitisation Studies. This is also emphasised by Haacke & Williams (2008) and Buzan (2008). On the issue of when securitisation is ‘successful’, see Chapter 6.3. below. 84 See Chapter 6.3. below for a fuller discussion on this issue. 85 Although analysis and observation in themselves cannot tell us whether our assumptions are ‘true’ or ‘false’, presenting an assumption and an analysis of data that claims to refute or support the assumption may have the perlocutionary and pragmatic effect of convincing. On the relation of threat perception, securitisation, and security action, see Chapter 6.3. below. 86 ‘As if’ it existed. 87 In sum, securitisation is the theoretical object/type/phenomenon whilst the occurred speeches are the pre-theoretical object/token/data. 88 “It’s only a model!” (Monty Python: the Holy Grail, directed by Terry Gilliam and Terry Jones 1975, Michael White Productions.) 89 The juxtaposition of ‘messy reality’ and ‘elegant models’ is prevalent throughout academia. Indeed, what we are dealing with here are two types of beauty: the beauty of the material and the beauty of the formal (Berman 2007, 97). The beauty of the ‘empirical’ or the ‘real’ is material, even when it can be described in a ‘formal’ way. Theoretisation ‘destroys’ this materiality, which may be why even ‘beautiful’ academic works are often described as ‘cold’ or ‘hollow’; the beauty of academic models is different from the beauty of the ‘wild.’ It is however advantageous to keep in mind that, as Wæver (2007a) also notes, abstractions are themselves an important part of reality, and it does not make sense to take all abstraction as an imposition on the inevitable messiness of the ‘wild.’ 82 83

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3.2. Travelling Theories and the Dilemmas of Conceptual Stretching Scholarly communities are generally not willing to accept the existence of phenomena based on just single sets of experiments or observations. Even the successful repetition of a test or observation will not always convince communities, as the test set-up may contain the same yet unexplained factor or idiosyncrasy that resulted in the data observed. Only when a phenomenon is observed with a variety of (mutually independent) observations or arrangements will communities of scholars be convinced that the phenomenon indeed exists and is not merely the result of idiosyncrasies in the original set-up. Hence, scholars will seek to test and try out their hypotheses in various contexts, and endeavour to produce improved or at least alternative data on the same phenomenon.90 It is at this stage where, in social sciences, things get tricky in terms of what Giovanni Sartori (1970; 1984) calls conceptual stretching. Indeed, scholars will often seek to broaden their knowledge by application of their models and hypotheses to a wider range of cases, which often results in adaptation of categories to fit the new contexts. Sartori (1970; 1984) encourages this conceptual ‘travelling’ (the application of concepts to new cases) but at the same time warns about conceptual ‘stretching’ (the distortion that occurs when a concept does not fit the new cases). In order for scholars to be able to test the generality of their findings, they have to establish that their concept has a sufficiently similar meaning in the context of the new cases. The merit of Sartori’s approach is to encourage scholars to be attentive to context, but without abandonment of broad comparisons. Sartori (1970, 1041; 1984, 24) approached the problem of conceptual stretching through extension and intension. The extension of a category is the set of entities in the world to which it refers, while intension is the set of meanings, or attributes that define the category and determine membership within it. ‘Specific’ categories thus have less extension but more intension, while more general categories have more extension but less intension. Moving back and forth in the hierarchy of categories, thus changing the intension and extension of the concepts, is called moving on the ‘ladder of generality.’91 Collier and Mahon (1993) have proposed that ‘radial’ categorisations may be more effective to facilitate conceptual travelling while at the same time avoiding the problems of conceptual stretching. In radial categorisations, in regard to intension and extension, the effect of moving between the principle and secondary categories has a reverse effect: by creating more elaborate categories the extension of a radial category may actually increase. In classical categorisations the differentiating attributes of secondary categories occur in addition to those of the primary category; in radial categorisations the differentiating attributes of the secondary categories are contained within the primary category. In radial categorisations, secondary categories thus serve to increase the extension of the categorisation, without any distortion. Another scholar sensitive to the effects of changing contexts and uses of theories is Edward Said (1983; see also 1994), whose critique focused on the imperialistic tendencies Indeed, one criterion for a proper test for a hypothesis is that it must be done on different samples than those which were used to devise the hypothesis (Laudan 1990, 62). 91 Sartori himself used the term ‘ladder of abstraction’ but I find that the ‘ladder of generality’, coined by David Collier and James E. Mahon (1993), carries a more illuminating connotation. 90

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of universalising claims. Said was not against universal or global claims as such. The question for him was how to understand the global in ways that remain sensitive to particular contexts and perspectives (Biswas 2007, 130). Paradoxically, Said was critical of humanism in the name of humanism, and simultaneously against universalising claims whilst claiming himself a humanist (Duvall 2007, 89). Aamir Mufti (2005, 122) reasons that Said was attempting to offer an alternative to Eurocentric thought by providing a general account of the role of the particular in universalising processes. Said’s answer was the ‘contrapunal’ reading of simultaneous and mutually constitutive histories against linear and developmentalist narratives (Biswas 2007, 133).92 He believed in the possibility of actively different locales, sites and situations, without recourse to facile universalism or overgeneral totalising (Said 1994, 214).93 In this study, I apply securitisation theory to the analysis of the social construction of security in the People’s Republic of China. This means that one has to be sensitive to the categories and concepts utilised in the theory and avoid stretching them too far. Accordingly, I propose further rungs to the ladder of generality of the theory of securitisation,94 which will facilitate the applicability of the theory to China and makes conceptual travelling, without stretching, possible. The study of the phenomenon of securitisation in various contexts and with various means, provides a more nuanced understanding of the phenomenon, and may eventually convince scholarly communities that it makes sense to conduct studies ‘as if’ there indeed were such a phenomenon as ‘securitisation’, if this is not already the case. This is where this current research endeavours to provide its modest contribution. The explication of securitisation is based on illocutionary logic. However, this does not imply that the linguistic rules of speech acts are entirely deterministic, nor that the study of securitisation should only focus on linguistic analysis; both social and linguistic

This is in essence Nils Bubandt’s (2005) argument for ’vernacular security.’ Also Claire Wilkinson (2007) criticises the CopS approach of assuming Euro-American models and practices in terms of human organisation which as a consequence turns complex issues into linear and simplified versions. However, from the point of view of theory development, Wilkinson’s critique can also be seen as a merit, if the problems of theory and conceptual travel are taken into account: the purpose of theory is not to make a 1:1 model, but to precisely provide distance through abstraction. 93 Donna Haraway (1988) similarly argues that the way towards objectivity is the confession of the situatedness and partial nature of all understandings, paradoxically also making an argument with universal scope. As was already presented above, the position I take in this study also emphasises the situatedness and relationality (yet not relativity) of knowledge claims: factual claims are partial, situated, and relational. Such a position does, however, not mean that I would subscribe to an cognitively relativist position: cultural or value relationalism does not entail nor equal cognitive or epistemological relativism. Thereby, if our theoretical notions are artificial enough, we can use them to study various socio-cultural situations and contexts without succumbing to ‘cultural colonialism’. As Žižek (2002b, 66) also emphasises, scholars should not assume of impose universal ideologies or values, but that universality should be understood as a shared space of understanding among cultures that requires an infinite task of translation and reworking of one’s particular position. Such a notion of universality is compatible with a pragmatist viewpoint to scholarship (cf., Laudan 1990, 109-111): one may transcend one’s own culture in the evaluation of one’s own and other’s cultures, even when different cultures have different standards for the admissibility of ideas. 94 The strands of securitisation explicated below in Chapter 6.3.2. entail that they are securitisation. As the previous understanding of the function of securitisation, i.e., legitimating future acts of the securitising actor, is one of the strands of securitisation proposed here, this logically means that the extension of securitisation increases; securitisation has less semantic information than the strands of securitisation, which means that securitisation applies to a larger set of entities than a single strand of securitisation. See Figure 7 below in Chapter 6.4. for a graphic representation of this reasoning. See Itkonen (2003, 26-48) on the logic of extension and intension. 92

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analysis are necessary to understand performative acts of securitisation. This means that the method of inquiry should be based on (cross-cultural) pragmatics (the study of the ways in which meaning is derived from the interaction of utterances within the contexts in which they are used) and not on purely semantics (the study of meaning) or universal linguistic rules. With departure from cross-cultural pragmatics, this study argues that a linguistic or a sociological approach to the study of actually occurred acts of securitisation cannot replace one or the other,95 but that they should be seen as complementary instead. But just as the sociological study of conversation should be built on a basis of illocutionary linguistics (Wierzbicka 1991, 254), the sociological study of securitisation should also have a linguistic foundation: the metalanguage of illocutionary logic provides the means for cross-cultural comparisons as it enables the identification of the families from the resemblances.96 Different social groups favour different styles of social interaction, and these types of cultural differences may be reflected in illocutionary grammars too (Wierzbicka 1991, 276). Thus, illocutionary logic can provide the necessary rigour required to investigate these types of issues. Moving from one social context to another or undertaking cross-cultural comparisons requires a culture-independent descriptive framework. In order to study different ‘cultures’ in their culture-specific features we need both a universal perspective, and a culture-independent analytical framework.97 In order to avoid the distorting effect of the assumption that scholarly concepts are culture-free analytical tools, a near universal perspective from within our own culture must be sought with which to develop a framework of near universal human concepts that will be then accessible to most specific languages.98 The cultural specificity of one’s current analytical concepts cannot be escaped, but a For securitisation studies that emphasise the sociological study of securitisation, see Balzacq (2005; 2010a; 2010b; 2010c) and Stritzel (2007) for example. 96 Realities are disorganised and complex, which is why models and theories are needed: the complexity of reality has to be dealt with in some way in order to deal with it intelligibly (cf., Waltz 1979, 8). For example, language is pure potentiality (Agamben 1998, 20-21). No scholarly model could capture all of this potential. Scholarly models can none the less be used to make sense of the potentiality and the actuality of language – indeed to a far greater extent than some strands of post-structuralism which emphasise the perpetual openness of interpretation would seem to suggest. More often than not, people make sense of others; there are various ‘illocutionary devices’ (e.g., intonation) that guide interpretation in real speech situations (Wierzbicka 1991, 197-199); “the alleged enormous indeterminacy of illocutionary forces is largely an illusion born out of an inadequate analytical model” (ibid., 252). Instead of trying to squeeze every utterance into a ‘pigeon-hole’ of illocutionary (English) verbs, the illocutionary force of utterances can be decomposed into individual components, thereby revealing that languages provide numerous unmistakable illocutionary clues which enable the listener, as well as the analyst, to identify illocutionary forces to a considerable degree. Indeed, ‘orphan letters’ are not the norm in everyday communication, not even for texts that are under investigation by students of securitisation. You may fool some of the people some of the time, but you cannot fool all of the people all of the time (attributed to Abraham Lincoln). While ‘surplusses of meaning’ (Laclau & Mouffe 2001; Derrida 1988; Certeau 1988) remain, this does not mean that most utterances would be unintelligible in most utterance situations; the possibilities of reinterpretation, and ‘living within text’ have to be qualified. Like hearers, analysts of speech acts are permitted to make inferences on the intentions of speakers as this is what, to a degree, pragmatically also happens. We should however keep in mind that to make such inferences does not mean that we would have access to the ‘sincerity’ of the speakers, nor to their ‘true intentions.’ Accordingly, the argument here is not that the intentions that can be inferred from speech acts would be the ‘real’ intentions of the speakers; what is argued here is that what most speakers can infer as the intention of a speaker, can also be inferred by an analyst. 97 As well as a semantic language that is in essence independent of any particular language or culture, and that is accessible and open to interpretation through any language (Wierzbicka 1991, 6-9). 98 Matt McDonald (2008a, 571) argues that to develop a universal framework to study the construction of security issues by analysing speech acts, would mean to downplay contextual factors. I however argue that 95

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distant culture also cannot be understood ‘in its terms’ without at the same time understanding it ‘in our own.’ Illocutionary logic provides us with a metalanguage to do cross-cultural studies of securitisation for it can be used to decompose illocutionary forces and thus avoid the anglocentrism and its universalistic tendencies emerging from the use of the English language. Acts of securitisation may not be achieved nor indeed be manifest in all societies or languages, but illocutionary logic can be used as a tool in the empirical study to assess whether illocutionary acts of securitisation do occur in specific situations, in any social context. Even though security means different things to different societies, since the core fears of a group or nation will be unique and relate to vulnerabilities and historical experiences (Wæver 1989b, 301), the social constitution of security with illocutionary logic can be studied as human utterances universally exhibit ‘force.’99 The linguistic comparison of acts of securitisation provides a basis for making cross-cultural comparisons of processes of securitisation; a broader categorisation of securitisation allows us to move beyond the European and liberal democratic political context. Moving from one social and political context to another also means that scholars have to be sensitive to the variances in values and connotations in the various contexts. If the values that guide research are not reflected upon, they may distort it. There are, however, limits to how far this reflection of values should be taken. Indeed, Hayward Alker (2006) has correctly emphasised that comparative political analysis does not necessitate an explicit endorsem*nt of a normative position on either the aims of the study or the worthiness of the empirical processes under scrutiny. While reflection has its merits, just as ‘justifications have to come to an end somewhere’ (Wittgenstein 1999a; 1999b; Winch 2008, 36), there is also a limit for the extent to which a scholar has to contemplate and report on her preferences. 100 this is not the case. While a near universal metalanguage deals with the ‘grammar’ or ‘langue’ of securitisation, the analysis of real, or actually occurred speech requires dealing with the individual context of the utterances. Contextual factors cannot be defined in too much detail within the model, as these depend to a large extent on the political order, as well as other socio-political factors, of various societies. 99 See Chapter 1.2.: Which particular forces are universal, or near universal, is a question for empirical linguistics, not securitisation studies. 100 The question becomes, how does a scholar know which things necessitate a reflection and report, and which do not? Would they include her preference regarding Loganberries? Trying to unravel the entirety of a scholar’s political views that constitute the path that led to the study would likely take longer than a life-time, and still probably leave out many unconscious constitutive elements. Arguing for a set of elements for reflection is bringing in a hegemonic practice, as is arguing for the “superior values of the community” (cf., Aradau 2004, 403). It must be kept in mind that the constitutive role of language has largely become visible to us only in the 20th century; there are certainly many other such blind spots to be discovered – a task for philosophy and political theory, and perhaps not for empirical analysis of securitisation processes. Morgenthau (2006) has argued that scholarly arguments have to be consistent within themselves and with the facts. This means that ‘I’ myself do not have to be consistent. For example, during the research process reported in this study, ‘I’ have indeed not been consistent: my body has gone through many changes (its weight has fluctuated and it has sustained injuries), as have my ideas, and even my identities (I have been engaged, single, and partnered). So has there been a consistent and constant ‘I’ driving these states, statuses, and acts, of this research endeavour (cf., Nietzsche 2003)? And how relevant is that? If such matters are not so relevant, how relevant then is the reflection of my values and preferences? Would it not be more important for the reader to engage in this kind of reflection and thus be the one to deem whether she wants to be part of the ‘conspiracy’, or the ‘(counter-)revolution’? See also Footnote 106 of Chapter 3. below.

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3.3. Culturalism and Evaluative Universalism Some of the universalism–culturalism debate prevalent in China studies101 revolves around the dilemmas involved in the role of values and their evaluation across cultures and societies. Thus, is it justified to impose one’s values or normative goals onto another culture or society, or is one’s research distorted by one’s values? Andrew Nathan (1997, 198) contends that values play a legitimate role in social science inquiry. This position is shared by most critical security scholars, whose interest of knowledge (Habermas 2007) is usually slanted towards emancipatory ideals: many critical studies of security are normative, for they urge change in the social architecture of our world. Constructionists in general, and critical scholars of security in particular, are often explicit in terms of the normative goals of their research programmes. As a result, the issue of a normative dilemma in research on security102 also becomes important. Wæver et al. (1993) lament that writing about security can never be ‘innocent’ and that widening the agenda of security studies can broaden the scope of security politics as well, which may then run counter to the normative aims of the research programme (see also Walker 1997; Williams 1998; Wæver 2004a, 7-8). They have been explicit on this in coining the concept of societal security, and argue that a wider group can speak security in the case of societal identities than is the case when official representatives of the state speak security, on behalf of the state. Speaking about security may also reify the issues, referent objects and threats, when the normative aim is desecuritisation i.e., the dismantling of security issues. Jef Huysmans (2002) concludes that this normative dilemma cannot be avoided or escaped, even if one moves away from the agenda of the study of shifts in ‘security fields’ to that of analysis of the ‘knowledge-power nexus’ of security where the specific security fields are embedded. Similarly, in the discussions on cultural relativism in China Studies, it has been emphasised that no interpretation can be value-free or completely neutral (Buck 1991, 32). And again, Alexandra Kent (2006, 344) has argued that all notions and practices of security are cultural and, as such, embedded in value systems, which often remain unquestioned; for her, any universal application of a particular definition of security is already a form of ‘cultural colonialism.’103 But do these dilemmas mean that scholars should remain silent, so as not to reify the ‘evil of security’104 or ‘colonial orientalism,’105 thus in effect perhaps to perpetuate China studies is by no means unique in this regard: ’area studies’ in general and post-colonial studies in particular, have engaged in discussion on ’cultural imperialism’ and universalising ethnocentrism prevalent in European and American scholarship. For examples of linking this discussion to security studies, see for example Bubandt (2005), Kent (2006), and Wilkinson (2007), and to IR, see Tickner & Wæver (2009). 102 See Chapter 3.4. below for discussion. 103 Kent (2006) criticises the tendency of security studies to develop hegemonic definitions of security, and thereby to dismiss and silence local and culturally varying understandings. It however has to be noted that the CopS does not discuss what should be relevant referents of security: the approach is meant to analyse what securitising actors deem as referent objects. For the CopS, security is what security does, an approach which retains the openness of cultural and temporal variance. 104 Some discussants of the normative dilemma seem to know what effects an analysis of a securitisation process will have: the analysis will be taken as reifying security issues (cf., Butler 2006); for those who worry about securitisation analysis co-constituting political realities, even an explicit questioning of security does not have to be heard, as all that is heard is the reification of the security issue. 105 See Said (1979) for the initiating work on ‘orientalism.’ 101

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the ‘white man’s burden’ or some other unwanted power-structure?106 For this study, I reason that the benefits of pointing out the ‘emperor without clothes’ i.e., unmasking security arguments, outweigh the drawbacks of possibly reifying unwanted discursive sedimentations or practices.107 Some of the discussion on relativism and culturalism in China Studies seems to be so focused on values that levels of abstraction and forms of social practices end up being confused in the debates. When China scholars equate transcendental truths and the underlying physical reality independent of humans with universal values (Buck 1991, 30), they commit the fallacy of deriving universal values – which are human dependent – from external realism, which is human independent. Indeed, cultural or value relativism (e.g., Wittgenstein and Winch) does not equal epistemic or cognitive relativism (e.g., Feyerabend), and the reverse applies too: one can use the same epistemological methods to study different cultures without the necessity to claim universal values among them. To restate the point, to apply foreign analytical frameworks to the study of other cultures is not the same as to apply foreign value standards to other cultures (cf., Nathan 1997, 200). Indeed, the ‘Westphalian straitjacket’ (Buzan & Little 2001) is still about the problem of the assumption of or preference for certain morals, values and world-views and not about the application of European analytical methods outside Europe as such. The realisation of the disparity between epistemic and cultural relativism does, however, not release the use of certain concepts from piggy backing values or biases: all scholarly work is political, but this is often distinct from the political.108 Scholars have to be sensitive to this, and thus reflect on the concepts used in their analyses. Describing one culture’s values in another’s language also leads to special problems involved in the translation and interpretation of concepts.109 This challenge, however, is one of translation in its broadest sense and not one of evaluation (Nathan 1997, 199). Another difficulty in the debates on the issue of culturalism-universalism is that participants in the debate often seem to approach both ‘China’ and the ‘West’ as some sort of Collingwood (1938, quoted in Winch 2008, 97) has stated that ‘scientific’ anthropologists often mask “a half-conscious conspiracy to bring into ridicule and contempt civilizations different from our own”; cultural anthropology has critiqued the belief of 19th and early 20th century anthropologists that human cultures develop from primitive to civilized cultures, the highest form being Victorian Great Britain. This is in a way what theories of ‘colonial knowledge’ also criticise. The dilemma of colonial or orientalist knowledge is a dilemma that shares many similarities with the normative dilemma of writing security. The question for a scholar writing of a society different to her own becomes: how to mitigate this ‘half-conscious conspiracy.’ If I write it out here, will I become part of this conspiracy? Or is the true insidiousness contained in the conspiracy’s half-consciousness; consciousness of the dilemma does not prevent participation in the conspiracy? This avenue of thought seems to risk the portrayal of the societies under investigation as hapless victims and passive objects at the mercy of masterly scholarship. This is of course not the case: studying the CCP and the PRC does not deprive either of their agency or identity. As always, whether the present study is part of a conspiracy of ridicule, a conspiracy to ‘topple CCP rule’, a conspiracy to ‘persecute the FLG’, or a conspiracy to ‘reify security’ whether as a category of human practice or in the specific cases studied here, is of course once again up to the reader to decide or interpret: ““I forgot my umbrella,”” (quote of Jacques Derrida [1988, 63] himself quoting an unpublished text by Friedrich Nietzsche). 107 Although, following Baudrillard (2010), it can be dangerous to unmask images, for it can be revealed that there is nothing behind them. According to the current (2011) state of particle physics, literally nothing. 108 Here, not in the sense of Schmitt’s (1996) political, but political as political in the commonly understood meaning of politicking. 109 See Footnote 62 of the Introduction on the problems of translation. 106

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monolithic totalities, which could be explained single-eyedly.110 However, as the normative dilemma of writing security illustrates, scholars face the same problems of valuejudgements and cultural relativity within the complexity of their own societies, not just in the ‘other’ of China (cf., Nathan 1997, 199): as the more general debates among philosophers of science also show (e.g., Laudan 1990), the issue of epistemic and cultural relativism is by no means limited to ‘area’, or ‘post-colonial’ studies. Just as in any comparative piece of scholarship, also area and post-colonial studies need a shared framework of investigation to discover the points of divergence and convergence among human communities and their activities. To suggest such a shared epistemic or methodological framework means that another confusion in the universalism-culturalism debate has to be addressed, namely that between regulative and constitutive rules. The discussion on evaluative universalism assumes that there is a set of principles or rules, which should be applied across cultures (Buck 1991, 30). This assumption however does not make any distinction between regulative and constitutive rules (Searle 1995), which are essential to make claims on universalities among the human species. Regulative rules guide behaviour (e.g., traffic regulations) while constitutive rules constitute activities (e.g., the rules of Chess). Regulative rules guide behaviour that would exist without the rules, while the activity constituted by constitutive rules would not be there without them. Certain human actions are logically dependent on the existence of ‘constitutive rules’, or perhaps more precisely, constitutive rules refer in English to the logical necessity of rules for certain practices e.g., the English language.111 Thereby, constitutive rules seem to be a shared, unconscious, necessity of all human languages, although the constitutive rules of particular languages are not alike, while if there were universal regulative rules, they would be intentional, and not a necessity for human culture to evolve. The approach taken here addresses the above issue of human collectives as sharing biological unity yet remaining culturally distinct. It is easier to accept the argument that the human species shares some universal traits e.g., the ability to form and learn languages, than it is to accept the universality of values without a universal culture. Seemingly universal concepts or values such as democracy and security are revealed in closer scrutiny to be essentially contested, and definitely not understood nor ranked in the same way in different (segments of) societies (Wæver 1989b; Nathan 1997, 203). In this study, my approach is situated between the culturally relativist and ontologically universalist stances. By using a theory that is based on a universalist premise i.e., that all human languages are conventional realisation of certain universal constitutive rules, this research takes a step towards universalism. Yet, the theoretical framework espoused here leaves a major role for the cultural conventions of securitisation as securitisation is not a purely linguistic phenomenon since it is dependent on conventional cultural practices. That the analytical framework of securitisation is applicable to China does not mean Both ‘China’ and the ‘West’ are simulacra, or hyperreal, as Jean Baudrillard (2010) might have put it: it would seem that some China scholars are trying to reconstruct ‘China’, even though there is no original blueprint to begin with. Most scholarly work creates an image of something, which does not exist as such, without them reflecting or explicitly dealing with this issue. 111 John G. Ruggie (1998) has applied this distinction of rules in the study of international relations. See Onuf (1989) for a dissenting view on the division of constitutive and regulative rules. 110

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that scholars who apply it should not be sensitive and attentive of their own values and those inherent in the societies under study. How relevant this reflection of values is, depends on the tasks and interests set for the scholarly endeavour that utilises the framework.112 Different tasks and questions raise different dilemmas. One way out of the conundrum would seem to be to relate one’s own perceptions and understandings of reality to those of others (Kent 2006, 347), and remain alert to seeking culturally sensitive understandings of security (ibid., 357), that is, not to assume any permanent and universal meaning of security, but to study who advocates what, when, how, and why as an issue of security.113

3.4. The Normative Dilemma of Writing Security for Emancipation

As shown earlier, many constructionist studies are normative114 in that they urge change

If the intention is to unmask, it would be reasonable to argue that one’s own society should not be studied, as the risk of making naturalist assumptions may be greater because a scholar may take too many things for granted in studying her own ‘initial socialisation’, i.e., scholars may have a tendency to reify and retain doxa. The solution, then, for studying foreign societies is not to transport one’s own reifications, doxa, or even language games, or at least, not to consider them to somehow be ‘superior’ to those of the society under study, unless that is what is specifically intended to be argued (cf., Heyes 2003b, 5). Indeed, as Brian Fay (1996) argues, it is neither necessary nor sufficient to be a part of a social group undergoing scrutiny in order to understand it. Chomsky however argues that one should be critical of one’s own society; for Chomsky it is of little consequence when intellectuals expose the sins of states other than their own (Osborn 2009, 366). While I agree with this to a degree, I believe that this issue is connected to the discussion of the grade of constructionism, or on how intent one is on normative change. While Chomsky is at least rebellious vis-à-vis his society, the present study is limited to the grade of unmasking. 113 This precisely is the CopS approach, as understood in the present study. For a differing view, see Ciuta (2009). 114 This normativity has to be separated from that of language (Itkonen 2003) and normativity in the sense of following social rules, which can sometimes be confused and mixed. Francois Debrix (2002, 204) seems to make this error as he correctly attributes ‘constructivism’ as normative, but only attaches this to the reconstruction of how rules are produced and reproduced in social interaction, and does not discuss normativity in the sense of the desire for change in society, or in the sense of the normativity of language. This kind of imprecision continues as he (ibid.) claims that for Onuf (1989) “speech acts fall into three different categories of rules: assertives, directives, and commissives.” Onuf’s (ibid., 85-87, 183-184) argument however is that these three types of speech acts can be used to, or that they construct three types of social rules. Indeed, speech acts ‘fall into’ or conform to five types of conventional illocutionary forces (Searle & Vanderveken 1985; Chapter 6.4.1. below), as also noted by Onuf (1989, 86-92; in Onuf 1998, 64-69 he however has dropped out both expressives and declaratives from the possible uses of speech acts: “speech acts […] get things done for speakers and hearers together in three, and only three, ways”). Onuf however does not note (either in Onuf 1989 or Onuf 1998) that while certain speech acts can be used to construct social rules, speech acts themselves also conform to certain rules (Searle 1969; Searle & Vanderveken 1985), even though he recognises Searle (1969) as bringing speech acts to the door of social theory (Onuf 1989, 82; Searle has also developed his own social theory e.g., 1995; 2000). While Onuf (1989, 84) argues that the normativity of speech acts is limited to the initiating interaction of speaker and hearer as well as subsequent interactions of the same category, Austin (1975) already argued that all illocutionary acts are conventional, they conform to constitutive rules; while Onuf (1989, 84-85) is correct in stating: “though all rules have an illocutionary component, it is not true that all sentences endowed with illocutionary force are rules,” it has to be noted that illocutionary forces are conventional and conform to ‘rules.’ Onuf’s (e.g., 1998, 68) emphasis on rules being both constitutive and regulative can lead to confusion on this issue. Debrix’s lack of precision regarding the aspects of normativity may indeed be due to Onuf (1989, 86; 1998, 66-68) only discussing social rules. He (Onuf 1989, 50-51) sees the distinction between constitutive and regulative rules as untenable. For Onuf (ibid., 91, 121, 183-184, 291) there are three kinds of social rules: instructionrules, directive-rules, and commitment-rules, each constructed by assertive, directive, and commissive speech acts respectively. Focusing on rules having both a constitutive and a regulative aspect (ibid., 52) (he however does not specifically define what he means by constitutive rules), he seems to miss the point that while all rules are social (in his terms, public [ibid., 47]), not all rules are social rules (on page 90 he also seems to be confusing 112

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in the social architecture of our world.115 Often this change strives towards the reduction of the blocking and restrictive practices of most security measures. Indeed, desecuritisation, the return of security issues into regular political processes, is the ethical push behind securitisation studies.116 But if writing about security can never be innocent, and the normative dilemma of the reification of security cannot be escaped, what can be achieved in terms of the emancipatory normative objectives in security studies? In effect, how can scholars deal with the risk of reproducing a particular securitisation move by just describing it (Huysmans 1995, 69)? Huysmans (1995; 2002) highlights the dilemma of writing security even in critical discourses and analysis, as constructionist approaches reproduce the security agenda when they describe how the process of securitisation works. However, it is important to note that the performativity of language has a role here: security utterances have a performative force that is different from other types of utterances. While the performativity of security utterances is precisely the phenomenon focused on in the present research, it has to be made clear that the theory of securitisation and acts of securitisation are distinct from each other.117 An example of a performative act does not have the performative force of the act it exemplifies (Agamben 1998, 20-22); writing the syntagm ‘I promise’ as an example of the performative speech act of a promise is not the same as making the promise.118 Illocutionary force is not equal to illocutionary verbs (Searle 1973; 1975).119 Therefore, the analysis of acts of securitisation through the theory of securitisation is not

a rule with stating a rule, thereby conflating all rules into assertives; cf., ‘all speech acts are assertives’ debate within speech act theory). Some rules indeed constitute an activity, which would not exist without the rules. Wittgenstein uses the example of Chess: while the rules of Chess are social, they are not social rules; the rules of Chess make Chess ‘Chess’, whereby they are more than the ‘regulation of agents’ conduct’ (contra Onuf 1998, 68). 115 Whether security scholars are observers or advocates was one of the discussion points of the ‘Eriksson debate’ in Cooperation and Conflict, see Eriksson (1999a; 1999b; 2000), Goldman (1999), Wæver (1999), Williams (1999), and Behnke (2000); For the CopS stand that security analysts cannot say whether something is a ‘real’ security issue or not, see Buzan et al. (1998, 25-26). Another debate on the ethical and political role of scholarship was in the journal of International Relations and Development, see Aradau (2004), Taureck (2006a), Behnke (2006), Alker (2006), Aradau (2006), and Floyd (2007a). Similar issues are brought up by for example Wyn Jones (2005) and McDonald (2008b). 116 The preference of non-security can also be viewed from the point of view of the aporia (Burke 2002) security arguments create. As securitisation arguments contain a threat, security arguments in effect reproduce insecurities; security arguments promise more than they can deliver (Hietanen & Joenniemi 1982, 35-36). 117 It seems that some critics confuse the theory of securitisation and practices of securitisation, or are at least not very clear on the differences between the two (see e.g., Aradau 2004; 2006); Taureck (2006a) raises the same issue in her defence of Wæver. For example Ciuta (2009, 322) notes that “to engage in the analysis of securitisation is inevitably to securitise, willingly or not.” It would, however, be peculiar to argue that one would be making a promise by engaging in the analysis of promising, willingly or not, or to argue that the analysis of Derrida’s (1988, 34) speech act “But let’s be serious” would entail being serious. Further, as Austin (1979, 234-235) notes that if someone says ‘I bet you sixpence it will rain tomorrow’, it makes more sense to consider this as a performance of betting, rather than a report on the performance of betting, I argue that the opposite also applies: analysing the performativity of the sentence ‘I bet you sixpence it will rain tomorrow’ does not entail making a bet on tomorrow’s weather condition. 118 Using one of Tyler Burge’s Twin Earth arguments, Steven Davis (2002) shows how illocutionary tokens that have contents are indeed not identical to utterance act tokens. 119 For Searle (1975, 2), “illocutions are a part of language as opposed to particular languages. Illocutionary verbs are always part of a particular language.” Holdcroft (1978, 127) similarly separates the illocutionary force of an utterance from the illocutionary act performed. In terms of intension and extension, moving from illocutionary verbs via illocutionary acts to illocutionary force means moving up on the ladder of generality. Illocutionary force has a larger extension than illocutionary acts or verbs.

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the same as securitising the issues analysed; an act of securitisation and an analysis of securitisation have different illocutionary forces. The analysis of a speech act does not belong to the class of the speech act under analysis.120 An example, or the analysis of something, is excluded from the ‘normal’ class of such things, as it will exhibit its own belonging to precisely that class (Agamben 1998, 20-22). The analysis of securitisation may still reify the existence of something, but it certainly cannot function as an act of securitisation, unless such an act is brought about by explicitly arguing for the securitisation of the issue being analysed e.g., by proposing that a matter should be securitised when it currently is not.121 While “a security problem results from successfully speaking or writing security” (Huysmans 2002, 45), a security problem which results from the analysis of successful, or unsuccessful, security speech or writing, can most certainly not be considered successful, or even a felicitously performed speech act with happy uptake. To avoid any kind of infelicity in one’s speech acts or their uptake would require muted silence which would not be very far removed from constituting a ‘Little Mermaid’s securitisation dilemma’ for critical security scholars (cf., Hansen 2000). Radical constitutivists122 would probably be unwilling to accept the above argument of a securitising speech act and its analysis having different illocutionary forces, and that therefore the normative dilemma not becoming as dire as perhaps feared by some. As Wæver (1999, 336) notes, radical constitutivists would quite likely still object that even to critique a security issue is still part of its constitution in the world, as it enforces the tendency to think and speak in terms of security.123 Derrida (1988), however, has underlined the openness of interpretation: you cannot know what kinds of effects a statement will have in the hearer and/or reader.124 Indeed, as Murray Edelman (1972, 13) has noted, one man’s reassurance is another’s threat.125 The openness of interpretation leaves open the possibility of reinforcing a security argument, even though the intention and aim is completely opposite. Radical constitutivists have their argument, but Judith Butler (2006) also has a point in her critique on Lawrence Summers’s126 view that all criticism of “any government

This is definitely not a pipe! (cf., René Magritte’s 1928-1929 painting La Trahison des Images; Foucault 1983.) 121 For examples of this kind of research, see Ramiah (2006). 122 Danger, Juha Vuori, danger! Beware the straw-person! (cf., Lost in Space, television series 1965-1968, 20th Century Fox Television.) 123 Don’t think of an elephant! But you did, did you not? This cognitive tendency emphasised by George Lakoff (2004) may perhaps be the reason why radical constitutivists are sceptical of even explicit critique; even critique will reinforce the mental frame or schema of the category or issue critiqued. 124 See Fiske (1992) for an introduction to communication theory. 125 The pragmatic element of speech acts is illuminated by ‘I’ll come tonight’ as a promise from Romeo to Juliet but a threat from Count Dracula to Van Helsing. (I owe this modified analogy to Esa Itkonen.) The study of how the abstract meanings of single speech acts become definite in specific cases requires knowledge on specific situations and the ‘pre-contracts’ (Perelman 1996) of the discursive communities involved. Particular cases of language use separate pragmatics from semantics. For example, if it has been agreed in a certain community that birds that land on the totem pole should be killed, saying: ‘a bird is on the totem pole’, actually means for the members of the community: ‘kill the bird.’ This pragmatic meaning cannot be discerned through pure semantics. This is also the case with institutionalised security: for example the word ‘counterrevolution’ has been institutionally securitised in the PRC: by using it as a label, its target is automatically considered a threat to national security; by saying ‘counter-revolutionaries have sneaked into the party’ means ‘certain people should be eradicated from the party (and we are justified in doing so).’ 126 Such comments were made as the President of Harvard University September 17, 2002 (Butler 2006, 101). 120

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of Israel” constitutes anti-Semitism. Butler critiques here the belief that audiences will only hear what they want to hear.127 For Summers, some utterances contain ‘effective anti-Semitism’ even though this is not the conscious intention of the one who makes the utterance;128 Butler (2006, 104-105) raises the point that the explicit argument of a speech act does not have to be heard, since the hearer will only hear the hidden claim made beneath the explicit one. She (ibid., 108) also notes that Summers, in effect, argues that he knows the effects certain statements will have: they will be taken as anti-Semitic. The question then becomes: is the discussion of the normative dilemma a repeat of Summers’s argument? Are all utterances that pertain to security issues, doomed as ‘hate speech’ and doomed to reify the issues they are perhaps explicitly criticising? Perhaps things are not that deterministic? Indeed, Huysmans’s (2002) argument is that there will always be a potential of reification of the security issue; as Wæver (1999, 338) notes, we have to off-balance this risk with the possible benefits of the analysis.129 A way to approach this issue of the balance between the potential of reification with the normative goals of this present academic endeavour, is to emphasise the role of the audiences of security studies. Just as Huysmans (2002) notes, and as Weaver et al. (1993) have also argued, social institutions and the positions of securitising actors and audiences within them, have relevance for the success of securitisation. Not everyone can speak security effectively. Indeed, Didier Bigo (1994) has noted that in the case of bureaucratic (or expert) securitisation, be it deliberate or not, success requires rational and technical language, which is often absent in constructionist scholarly parlance. The technical language of security is often of a different genre of literature and scholarship altogether. In addition to having different illocutionary forces than actual securitisation moves, while still possibly reifying the issues, the likelihood that politicians or technocrats who utilise critical constructionist research as a basis for their agenda-formation of ‘real threats’, is rather remote.130 As also Huysmans (2002) has noted, the normative dilemma of constructing or reifying security issues in ISS is, of course, a normative dilemma only for those who seek to remove issues from security agendas, or wish to eradicate or transform security altogether. This is a question of the degree of constructionism as discussed above; the degree of the normative dilemma may vary in accordance with whether one wishes to merely unmask,

Indeed, you can keep arguing until you are blue-in-the-face that a man armed with a bunch of loganberries is not a security threat, but the radical constitutivist will only hear that the fiend wielding the bunch of loganberries is a threat and drop the 16 ton weight on top of their head (“And Now for Something Completely Different”, directed by Ian MacNaughton 1971, Columbia Pictures Group). 128 Oh dear, yet another notch in my list of half-conscious conspiracy-memberships. 129 In a Nietzschean vein, Wæver (2007a) also argues that even scholars have to make choices, even with the risk of their choices going awry. For him, some forms of post-structuralism are too ‘security seeking’ in the sense of not being willing to have a stronger ‘will to power’, a stronger stomach for the responsibility of making a choice and leaving an impact. Yet he also warns of the dangers of allowing ‘anyone’ to speak security about ‘anything’ (Wæver 2004a, 7-8). 130 ‘Public intellectuals’ (Said 2001) wanting to have a political effect have to be more proactive than publicising their views in academic journals. Indeed, as Morgenthau has emphasised, speaking truth to power may challenge the current state of affairs, but this may require that there are strong enough interests willing to support the ‘truth’ claims of scholars. Truth alone shall then not set us free for Morgenthau, but in connection to strong enough power resources this may indeed happen. This is an important point the ‘New Left’ of poststructuralism seems to often ignore. Morgenthau (1972, 36) puts his position regarding science and action succinctly: “However deeply theoretical thought may penetrate the mysteries of the empirical world, it cannot do what even the most defective action achieves: change the world.” 127

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revise or revolutionise security. 131 However, this is not the only matter which affects the dilemma. If one is actually engaged in a programme aimed to create security issues, the dilemma becomes quite non-existent. For example, some scholars have actively raised environmental issues as security issues with the aim to raise awareness.132 Huysmans (2002) correctly problematises ‘positive security’, as the logic of security is conservative and guided by negative concerns (Wolfers 1952). Thus as security is about blocking and control, progressive and creative ‘Nietzschean’ agendas are not best served by its logic. From a Machiavellian point of view, the normative dilemma could be even more drastic: constructionist research on the ‘grammar of security’ could be utilised as a practical ‘how-to-speak-security’ manual.133 This is highly unlikely, however, since politicians and bureaucrats have learned to speak security without the help of academics,134 and the research conducted in constructionist projects is an abstraction of security practices – and should thus not be confused with what security-speak ‘out there’ is – and it is not meant to provide anyone with compelling security rhetoric.135 Just as ‘radioactivity’ caused blis-

Alker (2006) has correctly emphasised that comparative political analysis does not necessitate an explicit political stance in all research, although some clue of a political stance may be helpful to check for biases, for example. How important this kind of reflection is, depends on the tasks and aims of the scholarly endeavour. 132 Caballero-Anthony & Emmers (2006) argue that securitisation analysis should be used in a prescriptive way, and accordingly, Ilanevil Ramiah (2006) argues that AIDS should be securitised in Asia (Haacke & Williams [2008] however argue that while AIDS has been securitised in the African Union, policy implementation remains weak even there; the normative dilemma of unleashing the ‘Frankenstein’s monster’ [Grayson 2003; Collins 2005; However, the ‘Golem’ would be a more apt analogy for what is meant here than the ‘Frankenstein’s monster’, see Footnote 113 in Chapter 6 below] may then not be productive in Asia either; indeed, many scholars promoting securitisation do not reflect on the likely negative effects of actually employing ‘security measures’ to deal with this issue of concern. See Elbe [2006] on the ethical dilemmas of linking HIV and security, and Sjöstedt [2008] on the securitisation of HIV/AIDS in Russia). Nicole J. Jackson (2006, 313, 315) similarly argues that the securitisation framework should be developed into a tool to help the securitisation of individuals’ priorities and put new or ‘real’ security issues on the political agenda. Also others (e.g., Wang 2005) argue that securitisation theory’s usefulness comes from the ability to deem what should be on the security agenda. However, this tendency prevalent in security studies is one of the main reasons for Buzan et al. (1998, 25) to develop the constructionist securitisation approach to begin with: the security analyst cannot say what is a ’real’ security issue nor what is not, as that would be a political move (see the ‘Eriksson debate’ and Buzan et al. [1998, 25] for the CopS’s views on the issue). Elliott (2007) however provides an interesting avenue to approach issues which could, but have not been, securitised. She asks why transnational environmental crimes have not been securitised when transnational crime in general has been securitised in Southeast Asia (Haacke & Williams [2008] disagree on this being the case). This approach allows the study of issues that have not been securitised within the broader securitisation studies framework, without having to make claims that something should be securitised. It could also be one way to deal with ‘silence’ (Hansen 2000) within the framework. Elliott (2007, 506) argues that we can use the metric of security voiced by decision-makers on similar issues, to assess whether the ‘silent’ issue conforms to this criteria. Similarly, for Mouffe (2005, 14-15), the just and the unjust, or the legitimate and the illegitimate can be distinguished within given traditions with the help of standards this tradition provides, by playing the sets of language games that make up a given tradition. This could allow assessment without saying what is ‘real’ security and what is not; this approach could allow observation and assessment, while leaving the choice of advocacy up to the analyst. 133 Hayward Alker (2006, 75) also points out the possibility to use scholarly analysis for political purposes by others. An American journalist at the War and Peace: the East Asian Context conference in Toronto 2003, humorously wondered whether George W. Bush had read my conference paper, as he seemed to be following the grammar of securitisation to the letter. While this observation may testify to the analytical power of the model, it is unlikely that the drafters of Bush’s speeches would be familiar with the theory of securitisation. 134 But perhaps with the help of military ‘professionals’, like Senator Edwin Johnson’s comment to Navy secretary James Forrestall in 1945: ‘I like your words “national security”’ (Yergin 1977, 194). 135 It is useful to remember that the concept of securitisation is an analytical one, not one that is ’natural’ to politicians in either Europe or China, even if the practices and forms of interaction the concepts of securitisation are used to identify and analyse would be. ‘Securitisation’ then is not part of an English ‘folk-taxonomy’; it is an 131

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ters before the conceptualisation of ‘radioactivity’ of which people accumulated deadly doses of, before it was realised the phenomenon was dangerous, politicians have talked about ‘security’ and legitimated drastic measures with survival long before the theory of securitisation arrived on the ‘scene.’ Then, from this discussion, it can be concluded that the normative dilemma of studying security is perhaps not so drastic in the context of the present research. Indeed, emanating as it does from Finland, it has practically no socio-political capital to securitise or desecuritise issues in China. Further, the degree of constructionism in the present study is limited to the level of unmasking. In this sense then, the value of the present research is in the general unmasking of security-speak and in the understanding of the social process of the construction of security issues in China – and through which, China being a token of a type, perhaps also elsewhere. Fortunately, the benefits of unmasking and increased consciousness outweigh the dangers of reification of security issues in the context of the present study. However, the dilemma retains its potential as a dilemma; the die has been cast, the political move has been made – and the loganberries are at hand.

artificial and abstract concept. This is evident in that it would be nonsensical to say ‘I securitise this as a matter of national security’; a politician would perhaps rather say ‘this is a matter of national security.’

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4. What is Security?

We can regard ‘security’ as a speech act. - Ole Wæver

Threats, fears and their repulsion have probably been an integral part of politics as long as human beings have formed societies. Some have even considered the real possibility of ‘physical killing’ as the prerequisite for genuine life and politics (e.g., Schmitt 1996, 33; for a discussion see Huysmans 1998b; 2006a, 134-135; Ojakangas 2002).1 The preoccupation with threats and their repulsion seems to be a constant concern for politicians and scholars engaged in the affairs of ‘good governance.’ In contemporary scholarly and political parlance, this complex of problems is labelled as ‘security’, be it of the national or international kind.2 The Copenhagen School groups ‘security’ together with notions like ‘democracy’ and ‘peace’ as ‘contested concepts’ (Buzan 1991; Buzan et al. 1998).3 This means that even

While Mouffe (e.g., 2005) promotes and argues for an unessentialist conception of the political and politics, by arguing that Schmitt is correct in identifying the possibility of a we/them relation in any field of life as having the potential to become an antagonistic enemy/friend distinction (e.g., ibid. 2-3, 50, 111, 114, 123, 127-128), she is herself making an essentialist argument. Like Schmitt, Mouffe seems to be stuck in the unavoidability of binary divisions as the political: the enemy/friend distinction is the essence of the political for her. It seems that this distinction is the ‘transcendental signified’ for Mouffe. From a Wittgensteinian point of view, even Schmitt’s sovereign is a form of life made possible by the language game of dichotomising. Is it necessary to see it as having more essence than that, despite the possible consequences such a form of life and the language games that form it make possible? Why is the ever-present possibility of the enemy/friend distinction as the political, not as essentialist as claiming that the political is equal to class divisions (cf., Laclau & Mouffe 2001)? See Chapter 6.3.4 for how I argue that a Daoist theory of politics could perhaps avoid essentialising a binary exclusion as the essence of the political. 2 Before the Second World War, social sciences did not use the concept of security in the extensive way it is contemporarily being used, but discussed and applied those of defence, national survival, national interest, and sovereignty instead (Brauch 2008b, 77). 3 The term ’essentially contested concepts’ was coined by William B. Gallie (1962) who used concepts like ’the champions’ and ’democracy’ as examples of this ’closed set’ of concepts, which differ from moral concepts like ‘good’ and ‘just’ that share an agreed-upon meaning (although people disagree on what could be considered a token of goodness). Gallie’s point was that concepts are contestable in discourse, and that there is practical value in understanding what concepts are and how they are used. William Connolly (1983) goes further in his defence of Gallie’s thesis by arguing that there are no sets of secure basic concepts to guide practical judgements, that any attempt to construct such sets depends on the exercise of political power, and that any claim of incontestability is itself contestable. If all concepts are contestable, what makes some more ’essentially contestable’ than others? The simple answer would seem to be that some concepts have a more stable understanding of their ‘signifieds’ than others (due to the exercise of political or social power), while others are under constant struggle, or deliberately kept ’empty’ in order for them to work as vessels of the ‘politics of concepts’. 1

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though there have been a variety of attempts to define security,4 a common understanding of it has remained, and would seem to remain, elusive.5 Håkan Wiberg (1987, 340) has noted, however, that most authors seem to be in agreement on security as being something good: the very term ’security’ is positively value-loaded. Wiberg views this as one of the main reasons why no clear meaning is attached to the word. Indeed, scholars interested in problematising the concept of security often focus on the tacit agreement on the positive connotations of security. Ole Wæver (2004b, 54; see also Baldwin 1997 and Ciuta 2009) has noted that for the majority of scholars, security seems to be such a straightforward concept that most of the discussion claiming to be critical of the concept, focuses more on the referents6 of security, rather than the concept itself.7 Rather than

See Baldwin (1997, 10-12) for a critical discussion on whether security really is as contested as Buzan (1991) suggests. 4 For example: Walter Lippman (1943, 51): “A nation has security when it does not have to sacrifice its legitimate interests to avoid war and is able, if challenged, to maintain them by war.” Arnold Wolfers (1952, 485): “But while wealth measures the amount of a nation’s material possessions, and power its ability to control the actions of others, security, in an objective sense, measures the absence of threats to acquired values, in a subjective sense, the absence of fear that such values will be attacked.” Barry Buzan (1991, 18-19, 370): “In the case of security, the discussion is about the pursuit of freedom from threat. When this discussion is about the ability of states and societies to maintain their independent identity and their functional integrity. […] Its bottom line is about survival, but it also reasonably includes a substantial range of concerns about the conditions of existence. […] [security is] a powerful political tool in claiming attention for priority items in the competition for government attention.” Ken Booth (1991, 319): “Emancipation, not power or order, produces true security. Emancipation, theoretically, is security.” Ole Wæver (1995, 50): “The label ‘Security’ has become the indicator of a specific problematique, a specific field of practice. […] With the help of language theory, we can regard ‘security’ as a speech act. In this usage, security is not of interest as a sign that refers to something more real; the utterance itself is the act. […] By uttering, ‘security’, a state representative moves a particular development into a specific area, and thereby claims a special right to use whatever means are necessary to block it.” (Emphasis in original.) Hans Günter Brauch (2008a, 28): “’Security in an objective sense’ refers to specific security dangers, i.e., to ‘threats, challenges, vulnerabilities and risks’ to specific security dimensions (political, military, economic, societal, environmental) and referent objectives (international, national, human) as well as sectors (social, energy, food, water), while ‘security in a subjective sense’ refers to security concerns that are expressed by government officials, media representatives, scientists or ‘the people’ in a speech act or in written statements (historical sources) by those who securitize ‘dangers’ as security ‘concerns’ being existential for the survival of the referent object and that require and legitimize extraordinary measures and means to face and cope with these concerns.” (Emphasis in original.) Paul D. Williams (2008b, 5): “Security is most commonly associated with the alleviation of threats to cherished values; especially those which, if left unchecked, threaten the survival of a particular referent object in the near future.” 5 See Brauch et al. (2008) for over seventy articles dealing with the re-conceptualisation of security in the 21st century. 6 For Buzan (1983; 1991) and Wæver (1995; Buzan et al. 1998) the referent of security does not mean the referent of the word security in the sense of the sense (sinn) and reference (bedeutung) of Gottlob Frege (1966), but the referent of the security argument i.e., what is secure or whose security is being discussed. Paul Chilton (1996, 22-23) argues that security is the preferred form of secure (verb) or secure (adjective) precisely because it leaves the question of the argument’s predication open i.e., it is not necessary to define whose security is under discussion. These unclear definitions provide more options for the political use of security arguments. For Edelman (1972, 71) only intangible threats allow polarising role-taking, which enables exaggeration of the threat and the justification of unwanted policy choices. Indeed, many threats claimed by state administrations are actually intangible in that the reality of the threat is itself unverifiable and the subject of dispute (ibid., 69), and a particular instance of crisis or threat does not matter as much as the general creation of a threat perception (ibid., 13). 7 A similar conclusion is drawn by Graham Smith (2005). This is also what has happened in some discussions on the meaning of security in Asia (e.g., Bubandt 2005; Kent 2006; Muna 2006).

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focusing on what the concept of security means or does,8 the discussion has been more about whether national or individual security should be considered, for example. Mainstream scholarship on security matters, especially in the United States (Wæver & Buzan 2007; Williams 2008b), has seen no need to dissect the concept, as it has an everyday meaning which can merely be expanded to the international level.9 Wæver (1995; 2004b; 2008a) departs from the understanding that security is about the same thing in everyday use as it is in international politics. He even disagrees on the tacit agreement of security being something positive. Drawing on Arnold Wolfers (1952), he (e.g., Wæver 1997a) argues that even though security does have a positive connotation in everyday use, for states, it is a negative concern. This approach to the value of security is similar to other ‘critically slanted’ scholars who also often see security as ‘anti-democratic’, and therefore as a negative (see for example Lipschutz 1995; Krause & Williams 1997; Weldes et al. 1999; CASE 2006). The problem of viewing security as something positive when the measures that it requires often entail a negative form of politics is confounded by the image of effectiveness which security arguments often convey, or even effect. Indeed, securitisation moves suggest that the proposed means will effect an increase of security, which makes it a very powerful means to galvanise an audience behind the measures the speaker proposes (cf., Buzan 1991; Balzacq 2005). However, as security speech identifies vulnerabilities, securitisation also gives the impression that to reject a proposed path of action would bring about a loss of security i.e., security is bound to insecurity. Accordingly, security speech and policies tend to promise more than they can deliver (Hietanen & Joenniemi 1982, 3536):10 the everyday understanding of security connotates a sense of certainty that cannot actually be achieved with any security measures; security discourses are designed to provide safety and the defeat of danger, something which can never be totally accomplished given the limits of human life. Security discourses conceal this unavoidable deferral of surety by producing the referents of security as stable, knowable, and in effect, securable (cf., Stern 2006, 193). As securitisation arguments contain a threat, security arguments in effect reproduce insecurities. Indeed, as Anthony Burke (2002, 20) notes, security can never escape insecurity as its own meaning depends on the production of ‘images’ of insecurity (cf., Figure 6 below). Although concern over threats and their repelling is a perennial issue, security as a concept has not always been the prevalent avenue for discussing this complex of problems. The understanding of what security is and what security means has also undergone change throughout the ages. The conceptual history of ’security’ has been written many times, although not that often from an IR perspective.11 The word ’security’ in the English

Smith (2005) however brings up a peculiar critique that most scholarship would focus on what security does rather than what security means. 9 For example Waltz (1979) sees no need to deal with the concept of security, which is peculiar, in that one of his main arguments is that states seek to maximise their security. Even more striking is that the ‘conventional constructivist’ magnum opus of Katzenstein (1996) does not deal with what ‘security’, as such, is, but seems to take the state as the referent of security, as well as military and external threats as the taken-for-granted object of studies of security – thereby provoking the ‘counter-opus’ of Weldes et al. (1999). 10 Further, Aki Hietanen and Pertti Joenniemi (1982 35-36; see also Hietanen 1981, 5) argue that security is not an analytical, but rather an ideological concept. 11 For examples of conceptual histories on security see Kaufman (1970), Conze (1984), Schrimm-Heins (1991), Markopolous (1995), Rothchild (1995), Osiander (1998), Wæver (2004b; 2008a), and Arends (2008). For an 8

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language is derived from the Roman word ‘securus’, where ‘se’ means ‘without’ and ‘cura’ means ‘worry’, ‘care’, ‘concern’, or ‘anxiety’ (Markopolous 1995, 745; cf., Chilton 1996; Wæver 2004b; 2008a).12 Securitas is the Roman version of the Greek ataraksia (áταραξία; impassiveness, calmness), which also begins with a negation; without its negation, tarasso (ταρáσσω) means ‘to stir, trouble the mind, agitate, disturb’ (Markopolous 1995, 745; Arends 2008, 264). Arends (2008, 264-265) however argues that instead of ataraksia, the most important Greek root of security is asphaleia (áσφáλεια; steadfastness, stability, assurance from danger, personal safety) that was widely used both by Homer and Thucydides. There are two avenues to interpret securus (Mesjasz 2008, 46): in the first, the term is understood as a state of being secure or of being free from danger, while in the other, the term is understood as being without unease or without cares or worries. These two aspects have been emphasised differently in Europe, which is reflected in the objective and subjective aspects or understandings of security. Indeed, during its conceptual development, security has shifted on the axis of objectivity and subjectivity several times.13 Cicero viewed security as an absence of distress upon which happy life depends (Cicero 1971, V. 14, 42, 466-7); for him, security was a negation, the absence of worry. From Cicero’s perspective, the contemporary concept of insecurity might seem a meaningless double negative (Wæver 2004b; 2008a), while both the politiexample of a cognitive-semantic discussion of ‘security’ see Chilton (1996). 12 While there has not necessarily been an exact conceptual equivalent to securus or security in other ‘world cultures’, there however seem to be some similar aims and problems termed with different concepts. For example in Indian traditions, there is no equivalent to a modern concept of security (Brück 2008, 195). The notion of dharma (धम) or the dimensions of social experience of life and the individual’s framework for appropriate behaviour was what evoked trust in an unchanging universal order. What security could mean in this context would be a state of being in accordance with dharma in all respects, which would be good for individuals, society, and even the cosmic order. ‘Security’ would mean being without sorrow or anxiety and also confidence, freedom from danger, safety, stability (Dadhich 2008, 242). The citizens of a Hindu state were considered to be secure when the state functioned in accordance with the dharma; the state was considered to be secure when the king was safe. (ibid.) While for Hindus, dharma was about the upholding of the value of life, the togetherness and defence of inherited structures and the established system, i.e., about the conservation of the established order with the family and clan at the centre, for Buddhists, the dharma was open for anyone who shared its educational programme, thus, making the learned community and the future being of a new human being the referents of security (Brück 2008, 202). While the term ‘security’ is a modern concept vis-à-vis Arabic/Islamic thinking, an equivalent can be found in the Koran as well (Hanafi 2008, 279-281): security is translated as amn (ÇãÇä), with iman (ãÇä ; faith) and aman (ááÇÚÊÞÇÏ ; to believe) as terms close to the same root. In its modern usage amn is connected to issues of defence of the nation against external threats in the present or in the future. In classical Arab/Islamic thinking amn meant quietude or peace of the soul. From its use in the Koran, amn has various meanings as security: the verbal form indicates that security is an act and a process, not a given situation; its use as a pronoun indicates that security is related to human and social relations, not to individual positions; security is similarly always a perception of the other, not of the self, and it may be an illusion and not a reality; thus security is a state of mind that those who commit unjust acts cannot achieve. See Mabe (2008) for developments in African understandings of security, and Sánchez (2008) for a study of security in the Nahuan, Mayan, Quichean, and Incan traditions. See Chapter 7.1. on the Chinese and other Asian terms of ‘security.’ 13 Arends (2008, 263) sees the contemporary European concept of security as a chimera of Athenians’ intention of preventing the destruction of their empire, the religious connotations of the Romans’ ’securitas’, and Hobbes’s intention of preventing civil war. Buzan & Hansen (2009, 32-35) argue that objective, subjective and discursive conceptions of security are the major epistemological distinctions among perspectives on ‘International Security Studies’, in addition to whether a scientific, or positivist approach to analyse security should be adopted, or whether analysis should be conducted along philosophical, sociological, or constitutive lines.

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cians and scholars of today are so concerned with it. Cicero would certainly disagree with the current dominant understanding of security as being something objective, of which one can have correct or illusory subjective perceptions (Jervis 1976). Indeed, the contemporary concept of security is viewed as a quality that we either have or do not have. Security is like a measurable mass, or a ‘container’ with an inside (which is safe, but where there has to be surveillance of the enemy within) and an outside (which is dangerous and has to be guarded against) (Chilton 1996; cf., Figure 6 in Chapter 6.3.1.). Irrespective of its contemporary connotations, security has not always been viewed as something positive and sought-after. With the fall of Rome, the use of ‘security’ as a term diminished (Conze 1984, 834). For Medieval Christians, only God could provide certainty in matters of salvation, so the concept remained ambiguous, even hinting at mortal hubris (Markopolous 1995, 746; Rothchild 1995, 61); securitas became the ‘mother of negligence’ in slackening the struggle against sin (Schrimm-Heins 1991, 147). The negative side of security was again emphasised with the protests of Luther and Calvin, when certitudo, the certitude of faith, replaced the use of securitas in most contexts (Schrimm-Heins 1991, 169). This usage was similarly evident in 16th century English, in which the words secure and security, could be used pejoratively in the sense of ‘careless’ or ‘carelessness’ (Chilton 1996, 77), as illustrated by Shakespeare’s (1993, 788) Macbeth, “you all know, security is mortals chiefest enemie.” As Der Derian (1995, 28) notes, these kinds of pejorative connotations were still evident in mid 19th century Britain. Some two centuries ago, security split into two separate concepts, namely safety and surety/security (Wæver 2004b, 55; 2008a).14 This split and later fusion of the concepts produced the ’objective’ understanding of security which eventually led to probabilism;15 in the 1950s, for example, Wolfers (1952, 458) divided the concept of security into an objective and a subjective aspect: “security, in an objective sense, measures the absence of threats to acquired values, in a subjective sense, the absence of fear that such values will be attacked.” As Wæver (1995) has emphasised, probabilities and future-orientedness have been central to the concept in the 20th century.16 During the Cold War, and largely also after it, security was viewed more as an objective state, not of mind, but of being. Paul Chilton (1996, 86) already finds this kind of shift from the state of mind of security into an understanding of security as a ‘container’ or a ‘link’ in Hobbes’s (1999) Leviathan. The mental state of being without care is replaced in Hobbes’s treatise with an understanding of both physical protection and a psychological confidence in the future. Another relevant vantage point to security is the question of the level of analysis,17 This would suggest that, unlike Ciuta (2009) argues, the meaning of security can undergo change even for the CopS: security as a situation where there are the means to repel an existential threat, is how the CopS interprets the current dominant understanding of the logic of ‘security’ in international politics. In addition to shifts in the understanding of security as objective/subjective, as Conze (1984, 831-862) shows, since 1648, internal security was distinguished from external security. It seems that in contemporary times these two aspects of security are once again merging to a large extent (see e.g., Bigo 2000). See Trombetta (2008) on how the discourse of climate change may be altering the way security is understood as being about immediate threats to survival. 15 Security also has connotations relating to pledges of debts or obligations. These are common today in financial transactions: security works against financial risk. 16 For recent studies of risk within Security Studies, see for example Aradau & Van Munster (2007) and the special issue of Security Dialogue (2008). 17 The problem of levels of analysis was introduced to the field of IR by David Singer (1960; 1961). For discussions and propositions for relevant levels of analysis in IR, see Waltz (1959; 1979), Wendt (1987), Hollis & 14

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or ‘whose security’18 is under discussion (Wæver 2008a, 102).19 The introduction of the levels of analysis, in addition to the different sectors of security, has been one of the major contributions of the Copenhagen School.20 The state was for a long time, and still remains, the most central referent of security speech but this has not always been the case: for most classic philosophers of politics the state is a means to an end, that end being the survival and security of the individual21 (Rothchild 1995; Wæver 2008b). For Hobbes (1999), the Leviathan was the way to self-preservation. He emphasised that the right of self-preservation and defence was the only right that could not be given away. Friedrich Nietzsche (2003) dissented from this understanding, as he saw survival as merely being the most common result of the will to power. Critical scholars of security emphasise that the most ‘radical other’, death, cannot be escaped and that therefore, it makes no sense to recreate and reify fantasies of control and order. For them, creative ‘Nietzschean’ politics, without the fear of death, would be preferable to the conservative and repressive nature of security issues and policies.22 As already noted, security, as an organising principle of thought on international relations, was not a key concept before the mid 20th century. One of the first major steps towards the centrality of the concept for both international politics and research came during the period between the two World Wars when the status quo powers of the coalition that had won the first war used ’security’ as their ‘watchword’ (Carr 1946, 105). The concept was useful in dressing up power-politics; it was relatively new in the context of international relations and it blurred the distinction between the domestic and the international. Security proclaimed a shared interest in peace for the dominant powers, as well as for the whole world (ibid., 82). Smith (1991), and Buzan (1995). In regard to concepts of security, for example Rothchild (1995) sees the concept of security being shifted or operated in four ways. The concept of security is being vertically extended in terms of whose security is in question both down and up from the security of nations to the security of groups and individuals as well as to the security of the international system and the biosphere. The concept of security is being extended horizontally to various sorts of security/insecurity (cf., sectors of security). The concept of security is finally being extended in terms of which kinds of actors are responsible for producing or guaranteeing security. Buzan & Hansen (2009, 10-13, 21) similarly identify five points of contention that have defined the major academic debates within ‘International Security Studies’ as 1) whose security should be protected and studied, 2) which sectors should the study of security focus on, 3) should the study of security focus on only external threats, 4) is the only form of security politics one of threats, dangers, and emergencies, and finally 5) which epistemologies and methodologies should be applied to the study of security. 18 This is a major emphasis of ’critical security studies’ (Lipschutz 1995; Krause & Williams 1997; Krause 1998), but also emphasised by Baldwin (1997, 13-16) as a relevant aspect of the conceptual analysis of ‘security.’ 19 The ‘state’ or the ‘international’ level should not be assumed to be the dominant functioning levels. For example, while Muna (2006, 95) identifies IPOLEKSOSBUDHANKAMNAS (an Indonesian acronym for ideology, politics, social, cultural, defence, security, and national) as the ‘reference tool’ of the Indonesian state to find a ‘security balance’, Bubandt (2005) shows how local understandings of the world, including security, may win over official policies. 20 The CopS approach (Buzan 1991; Buzan et al. 1998; Buzan & Wæver 2003) includes three general ideas: 1) securitisation, 2) sectors, and 3) regional security complexes. The complexes are where the levels come in. 21 After the end of the Cold War discussion on individual security was revived once more. Individual security is contemporarily often termed as ‘human security’, as popularised by the UNDP in 1994. Human security as a political concept has won considerable approval in East- and Southeast Asia (Cheng 2006). See Burke & MacDonald (2007) for an example of how the individual or the human has been the referent of studies applying the Aberystwyth School’s approach to the Asia-Pacific region, and Floyd (2007b) for the differences between the notion and the CopS approach. 22 For Plato, the conquest of the fear of death would mean equality with Gods (Arends 2008, 269).

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Today, national security seems as natural a concept as any, yet it only came to its contemporary fruition in the United States of the 1940s, when it was used to explain America’s relationship with the rest of the world (Yergin 1977, 193-194). Before the end of the Second World War, ‘defence’ was the preferred term used by the military.23 ‘Defence’ has a distinct opposite, which ‘security’ lacks, namely attack; security allowed the promotion of ‘defence’ against intangible threats. However, the war effort required the combination of civilian and military activities which also led to a shift in terminology since security blurring the distinction between military and civil issues, and also that between domestic and international, made the war effort more palatable (cf., Carr 1946).24 Defence was usually understood as following geopolitical lines, whilst security was freed from this constraint, as it could be defined according to the needs of ‘national interests.’25 ‘National interests’, or ‘legitimate interests’, were a defining referent for security in the 1940s (see e.g., Lippman 1943). By the 1950s, the emphasis shifted towards what has been termed ‘core values.’ It would seem that core values have been understood as major referents of security26 at least since Arnold Wolfers’s (1952, 484) off-cited27 misquote28 of Walter Lippmann’s (1943) definition of national security. Wolfers’s misquote of Lippmann emphasised the role of core values in national security: “a nation is secure to the extent to which it is not in danger of having to sacrifice core values.”29 After the war, security was a useful tool to curtail the traditional mistrust of standing armies in the United States. First Secretary of Defence Forrestall used national security to legitimate a strong military establishment to fight a ‘future enemy’, which was reflected in the National Security Act of 1947 (Yergin 1977, 209-210, 339-340).30 The consequences of this new line of peacetime military development was quite apparent in Eisenhower’s (1961) farewell address, in which he lamented the necessity to build a massive standing ‘Defence’ has predominantly been used in military, sport, game and legal discourse, while ‘security’ had been used in financial and psychological domains before its adaptations to the affairs of states (Chilton 1996, 132). 24 Neocleous (2006, 367-369) emphasises the effect of President Roosevelt’s use of the concept of national social and economic security had on security becoming a widely used concept. This may have contributed to the popularity and usefulness of the concept of national security a few decades later. See also Yergin (1977). 25 The newness and apparent usefulness of the concept of national security was apparent in Senator Edwin Johnson’s comment to Navy secretary James Forrestall in 1945: ‘I like your words “national security”’ (Yergin 1977, 194). 26 All types of political orders securitise their core values, the fundamental values on which they are based on. I argue that securitisation speech is a way to identify and define threats to these core values, and their protection can be considered a special type of politics, even in non-democratic political orders (Vuori 2004; 2007). Graham Smith (2005) goes as far as to argue that all security is about the preservation of core values and the realisation of political orders, whether the political entity securing its values is an individual, a state, a nation, or a religious community. For him, this understanding makes the concept of security abstract enough to unravel the difficulties produced by trying to place the referent object of security somewhere on a spectrum between the individual and humanity as a whole: all of these entities can be the objects of security but security threats can also emerge at any point on this nexus. Although I disagree with some of Smith’s argument (especially with his interpretation of Buzan et al. 1998), his point on security measures arising when the core values of a political order are judged to be in jeopardy by the members of the political order (cf., Smith 2005, 499), resonates with my argument presented in Vuori (2007). 27 For examples of the ‘Chinese whispers’ see Buzan (1991, 16), Smith (2005, 489), and Albrecht & Brauch (2008, 509). 28 Lippman’s (1943, 51) actual definition was: “a nation has security when it does not have to sacrifice its legitimate interests to avoid war and is able, if challenged, to maintain them by war.” (Emphasis added.) 29 Emphasis added. 30 A similar and equally important development was the incorporation of ‘international peace and security’ into the UN Charter in 1945 (see Bothe 2008). 23

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army, and warned against the likelihood of unwarranted decision-making power shifting to the ‘military-industrial complex.’ National security worked as a ‘package legitimiser’ in the Cold War competition with the Soviet Union and the ‘Communist threat’ in general. It became one of the watchwords in the dominant macrosecuritisations of the era.31 It had been a means to deal with Pearl Harbour and latterly, nuclear weapons too: since no state could be invulnerable any longer, defence in the traditional sense could no longer exist.32 As such, national security thinking quickly spread around the globe and became a dominant logic in both research and politics for several decades. National security was a means to retain ’ragioni di stato’ policies33 in an era when democratic ethics seemed to be making such a way of thinking increasingly unacceptable. The national interest34 and now national security, were ways to address the ’democrat’s dilemma’ i.e., how to combine democratic values in domestic politics with an amoral and anarchic international system.35 As such, national security could justify drastic measures, such as intervention and war. By the late 1960s, then, it had achieved a status where it seemed as if it had always been part of the conceptual landscape of international politics, even though the concept was a recent intervention in this conceptual space (Neocleous 2006, 364). As a result of this development in the conceptual history of security, an almost complete divorce of the everyday sense of the concept and its use in international-affairs has transpired. Ole Wæver (1995; Buzan et al. 1998) emphasises that security is what it does: someone with the right amount of ‘socio-political capital’ claims that something valuable is in peril, and this then justifies the use of ‘extraordinary measures’ and this moves the issue into an arena of ‘special politics.’ In this study, the understanding of ‘security’ is based on that of the Copenhagen School i.e., security is what security does. Here security has ‘slipped’ off the objective-subjective-axis; security is neither objective nor subjective, but in between actors. This means that ‘securities’ in various socio-political and historical contexts form social fields, where certain habitus and positions are favoured vis-à-vis others, and where certain types of symbolic capital are more effective and valued than others. Both these social fields and the speech acts produced in them are relevant aspects of the study of securitisation, the power politics of raising an issue into the social and political realm of security. Security, then, does not have a constant meaning. In its contemporary use in international politics, security is about survival, that is, the continued existence of valued referent objects. This kind of understanding of security focuses our attention to the ‘power politics’ of speaking security.

See Chapter 6.3.2. See Tannenwald (2007) and Paul (2009) for how a tradition of non-use nuclear weapons has developed. 33 On the birth of ragioni di stato thinking, see Skinner (1998). 34 For a classical discussion, see Morgenthau (2006). 35 While various philosophers and state theorists (e.g., Montesquieu) had contemplated on the effects and consequences of an essentially anarchical international order, the concept of anarchy was incorporated into 20th century IR by G. Lowes Dickinson (1916; 1926). 31 32

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5. International Security Studies, the Copenhagen School, and Critical Approaches to Security in Europe

Red Five, going in. - Luke Skywalker

The problem of war and conflict has been at the core of International Relations as an academic field since its formal inception in 1919.1 However, what today is termed Security Studies has developed since the mid 1940s, largely influenced by the political popularity of the concept of ‘national security’ in post-WWII United States (see previous chapter). In the US, the field of study was largely labelled National Security Studies during the Cold War, while in the UK the label was Strategic Studies. Since the 1980s the label Security Studies has gained more ground as the field has been returning to its interdisciplinary roots beyond IR.2 Most reviews of the field (e.g., Walt 1991, 213-215; Baldwin 1995, 123-124; Wæver & Buzan 2007; Williams 2008b) characterise the period after the initiation of studies focusing on issues of security as a ‘golden age’ of security studies that lasted some ten years (1955-1965). During this time, such studies produced theories and methodologies that were incorporated into the broader field of IR (e.g., applications of game theory and theories of deterrence), and scholars in the US also had policy relevance. This theoretically innovative period was, however, followed by a reduction of multidisciplinarity in ISS, an increase in empirical and technically oriented studies, and the challenge of peace research, which together eventually amounted to stagnation and the end of the line for some of the theoretical assumptions of the ‘golden age’ (see e.g., Walt 1991, 215-216; Baldwin 1995, 124). The results of the reduction of multidisciplinarity in International Security Studies is evident in how Strategic Studies and Security Studies are often viewed as more confined areas of study within Political Science and IR (see for example Baylis & Wirtz 2007, 13; Figure 2). This has also been reflected in the majority of studies within The establishment of scientific institutes for the study of international relations in the US and the UK were given the task of focusing on the causes, conditions, and forms of war and peace, and on the approaches and results of international conflict resolution (Albrecht & Brauch 2008, 504). 2 As Barry Buzan and Lene Hansen (2009) have recently ‘filled the lacuna’ on a lack of an intellectual and disciplinary history of ‘International Security Studies’, identified by Nye & Lynn-Jones (1988), and the ‘manifesto’ of the c.a.s.e. collective (2006) outlines the development of the Aberystwyth, Copenhagen, and Paris ‘schools’ of critical security studies in Europe (see also Wæver 2004a), further detailed review will be omitted here. See also Baylis et al. (2007), Collins (2007), Williams (2008a), and Buzan & Hansen (2009) for recent reviews of and introductions to contemporary approaches within the field. 1

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Figure 2: The relationship between Security Studies and other related fields of study for Baylis & Wirtz (2007, 13).

the field of ISS, which were conducted in IR or Politics Departments at Universities.3 This period of stagnation lasted until the early 1980s ‘renaissance’ of security studies (Walt 1991). There was a revival of theoretical debates and increasing discussions on the concept of security (particularly in Europe), which coincided with the ‘critical’ versus ‘rational’ debates that were underway in IR (e.g., Keohane 1988). Recognising the partial overlap of Strategic Studies and Peace Research, Barry Buzan (1983; 1991), for example, proposed that ‘security’ should be the thing to focus on in both strategic and peace research. Some of the topics studied by both should be kept separate, yet chances for joint scholarly enterprises remain. In the era of détente between the superpowers, the research foci of die-hard ‘Realists’ and ‘Idealists’ began to shift. The ‘second generation’ of peace researchers collided in the 1980s with many of the general trends in IR theorising. After the neo-neo-debate (Wæver 1996; 1997b), theoretical debates in IR opened up to include social theories and developments in the philosophy of knowledge. The 1980s saw an increase in discussion on ‘new security’, with the broadening of the research agenda beyond the military realm4 that had been the focus of strategic studies for some time. Civil wars, ethnic conflict, terrorism, and international crime, although all features of the Cold War era, now received new attention as the bipolar nature of the international system began to shift. The agenda of ISS became even broader, now encompassing questions from environmental problems It is good to keep in mind that not all academic communities of IR have evolved the same way around the world: IR or even political science do not have their own departments everywhere, and the ’great debates’ may not have been that influential in all scholarly traditions of the study of international politics. For how the study of IR has developed around the world, see Tickner & Wæver (2009). 4 Some examples of broadeners of the agenda include McSweeney (1999) with ‘identity’, Mathews (1989) on ‘environmental security’, and Thomas & Wilkin (1999) on ‘human security’. See also Lipschutz (1995), Krause & Williams (1997), and Buzan et al. (1998). 3

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through to gender issues.5 At this junction, the so-called ‘Copenhagen School’ emerged from within the auspices of the Copenhagen Centre for Peace and Conflict Research (also called Conflict and Peace Research Institute, COPRI) that had been established in 1985 (Huysmans 1998a, 479; Guzzini & Jung 2004b). The Copenhagen School began to work on the concept of security, which it saw as both contested and under-theorised. It challenged the mainstream of ISS, which, even though expanding its agenda, still hewed to an objectivist understanding of security. For the mainstream, security remained a matter of objective threats ‘out there’, only to be detected by the resultant enlarged agenda and group of experts, and responded to by politicians. The Copenhagen School broke with this understanding by building on Arnold Wolfers’s (1952) analysis of national security as an ‘ambiguous symbol.’ Security is seen neither as objective nor subjective, but rather as an intersubjective practice (cf., Wæver 1995, 51; Buzan et al. 1998, 31). The Copenhagen School argued that the pitfalls of previous understandings could be avoided by focusing not on what security means, but on what security does, or more exactly, on what is done by ‘speaking’ or ‘doing’ security. The Copenhagen School’s approach can be viewed as an extension of ‘soft realism’ as exemplified by Wolfers (1952; see also 1962), Kissinger (1957), and Jervis (1978). Just as Jervis’s concept of non-offensive defence tried to overcome the ‘security dilemma’ (Herz 1950; Booth & Wheeler 2008a; Brauch 2008c), for the CopS, the normative push of nonsecurity aims to reduce the vicious spirals that security action and policies can otherwise result in (Wæver 2000a). The CopS also has ties to neorealism (Buzan et al. 1993) as well as an interest in the ‘English School’ (Buzan 1993; 2001; 2004a; 2004b; Wæver 1992; 1998; for a discussion, see Dunne 2005; Adler 2005; and Buzan 2005). Gender (Hansen 2000) and post-structuralist discourse approaches have also been part of the approaches within the school or its next-door critics (Wæver 1989c; Hansen & Wæver 2002; Hansen 2006). Later members of the institute – since 2003 merged into the Danish Institute of International Affairs – have introduced more sociological approaches (Guzzini 2000; Jung 2001; Leander 2000). These later additions also reflect some of the criticism raised against securitisation and the school in general (e.g., Bigo 1994; Bigo 2000; Bigo 2002; Huysmans 1998a; 1998b; Williams 2003; Hansen 2000; Balzacq 2005; see Chapter 6.). All in all, as reviewers have also noted (e.g., Huysmans 1998a; Eriksson 2001a; Williams 2003), the field of ISS which was long considered reactive, actually influenced discussions within IR and infused them with new approaches and ideas in the 1990s. However, the development of the Copenhagen School was not the only theoretical approach that came to depict the European development of ISS in this period. What in the 2000s is called the Critical Approaches to Security in Europe collective has its foundations in the vibrant theoretisations of the 1990s. Exemplifying the newfound interdisciplinarity of ISS (see Figure 3), Didier Bigo (e.g., 2000), coming from the field of criminology, inspired Bourdieu-based studies of security. Drawing on the ‘Frankfurt School’, Ken Booth (1991) and Richard Wyn Jones (1999) were among those to call for more focus on the security of individuals. Another source of inspiration to discuss the study of security was political theory (e.g., Huysmans 1998b). When these are combined with feminist (e.g., Tickner 1992) and post-colonial (e.g., Barkawi & Laffey 2006) approaches, and the increase of po See e.g., Brauch et al. (2008).

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litical interest in security in this decade,6 it may not be an exaggeration to call the 2000s a new ‘golden age’ of ISS (Wæver & Buzan 2007). The newfound interdisciplinarity of ISS is evident in the way Betts (1997) relates Security Studies to other close fields (Figure 3): while there is an overlap with Security Studies and IR for example, Security Studies also has dynamics and interests that go beyond international politics.7 The some six decades of ‘International Security Studies’ has resulted in a fairly complex structure of intellectual influences and approaches to the study of problems and phenomena that are considered to be of interest.8 Buzan & Hansen (2009, 222) provide a figure (Figure 4) that displays this complexity, and also situates the CopS approach to other prevalent contemporary approaches to International Security Studies. The formation of the c.a.s.e. collective is an indication of the establishment of a second generation of critical students of security, who are applying the theoretical approaches developed in the 1990s. The present thesis – located squarely between the sociological and linguistic boxes beneath Critical Constructivism in Figure 4 – is among those studies that aim to critically develop the theory of securitisation which has the greatest number of appliers of the various critical approaches.9

The ‘Global War on Terror’ has defined much of the security landscape of the first decade of the 21st century, but there have also been other new political discourses of security. The concept of ‘human security’ (i.e., ‘freedom from want, freedom from fear, and freedom to live in dignity’) has increasingly gained ground since its inception in the 1990s (e.g., Thomas & Wilkin 1999). Various forms of ‘environmental security’ also shift the focus away from threats posed by states, to problems facing individuals and communities as opposed to states (see e.g., Brauch 2008a). See Brauch et al. (2008) for a comprehensive selection of various approaches to the expanded security studies agenda. 7 For example ‘Surveillance Studies’ (e.g., Lyon 2006) and some aspects of critical geography (e.g., Koskela 2009) deal with issues of fear and unease, that are very close to the problems discussed within some areas of critical studies of security. 8 Buzan & Hansen (2009, 35-38) identify 11 approaches within ‘ISS:’ 1) Conventional Constructivism, 2) Critical Constructivism, 3) The Copenhagen School, 4) Critical Security Studies, 5) Feminist Security Studies, 6) Human Security, 7) Peace Research, 8) Post-Colonial Security Studies, 9) Poststructuralist Security Studies, 10) Strategic Studies, and 11) (Neo)Realism. 9 The ‘critical field’ of European security studies has also not remained in stasis. Wæver (2008a, 111) notes how the triangle of the three schools of critical approaches to security in Europe has shifted with Paris and Copenhagen becoming two poles with political theory of the ‘political’ becoming a new angle to approach issues of security (e.g., in the form of the work of Rob Walker and Jef Huysmans). The c.a.s.e. collective has sought to merge the schools but it remains to be seen whether this forms new research programmes. Other ‘second generation’ developments of the securitisation approach include Balzacq (2005; 2010a; 2010b), Stritzel (2007), Wilkinson (2007), and Salter (2008). 6

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Figure 3 The relationship of Security Studies to other related fields of study for Betts (1997).1

Figure 4: The present study within the intellectual evolution of International Security Studies as presented by Buzan & Hansen (2009, 222). Adapted from a PowerPoint slide used by Ole Wæver at the PhD Course “Security Theory – Critical Innovations”, November 27 to December 1 2006. 1

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6. The Theory of Securitisation and its Critics

Its only a model. Shut up!

- Monty Python and the Holy Grail

The theory of securitisation was not the first to emphasise the political use of threat discourse. For example, Murray Edelman (1972, 13) noted that political scenes maintain an ever-present threatening trend, be it acute or merely a potentiality to brood about. The urgent and critical times we are always said to be living in is a tactic for politicians to justify unpleasant actions that otherwise might arouse resentment or even resistance; as the abstract notion of ‘national security’ means different things to different groups, to claim to protect ‘national security’ is efficacious for reassuring the anxious1 (ibid., 116). Further, a particular instance of crisis or threat does not matter as much as the general creation of a threat perception (ibid., 13), which is also one of the main positions of the CopS. The conviction that current times are indeed critical, is the factor that brings wide popular support for drastic measures such as peacetime drafts, the construction of fallout shelters or enacting restrictive legislation.2 The theory of securitisation is perhaps the most systematic approach to study the use of security arguments. By drawing on constructionist language theory e.g., J.L. Austin (1975), Ole Wæver (Buzan et al. 1998, 32) views securitisation in terms of the power politics of a concept, that of security. According to his view, the construction of security issues does not require objective threats. Under the right conditions, issues can be labelled with ‘security’ irrespective of whether or not there is a ‘real’ threat. The implications of this labelling are thought to provide legitimacy for the political actions of the securitising actor. The study of securitisation does not mean the assessment of some objective threats that ‘really’ endanger something; this would require an objective measure of security, which no security theory has been able to provide (ibid., 30). Instead, this theory is a Even anxious academics. The Dean of the Faculty of Social Sciences at the University of Turku presented a security argument as the rationale to combine the Department of Political Science with the Department of Contemporary History during his visit to the departments in September 2008. Whether aware of it or not, the Dean followed the grammar of securitisation to the letter: if the departments were not merged, the Faculty would cease to exist as its departments would be moved to other Faculties. The continued existence of the Faculty would legitimate the special procedure to merge departments. Interestingly some of the faculty of the department agreed with the threat, while others did not. The Dean’s securitisation was only partially successful. On January 1, 2010, the departments were merged. 2 Or combining university departments. 1

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means to understand the processes of constructing a shared understanding of what is to be considered and collectively responded to as a threat (ibid., 26). Security is a selfreferential practice; it is by labelling something as a security issue that it becomes one (ibid., 24).3 The exact definition and criteria of securitisation is the “intersubjective establishment of an existential threat with a saliency sufficient to have substantial political effects” (ibid., 25). Technically speaking, an act of securitisation is an illocutionary speech act where an existential threat is produced in relation to a referent object; an act of securitisation classifies an issue as an existential threat which requires drastic measures, and thereby brings about a status transformation for the issue in question. In the CopS approach, the most important internal or constitutive rule of successful securitisation is the form of security, its grammar.4 By following the grammar of security a plot is constructed. This plot contains an existential threat, a point of no return and a possible way out (Wæver 1995; Buzan et al. 1998, 32-33). A successful or consummated (in Austin’s terms felicitous) performance of an illocutionary speech act brings in ‘consequences’ or ‘effects’ in certain senses (Austin 1975, 113, 116-117). A successful speech act leads to a number of changes, which would not have otherwise happened in the regular flow of events.5 Securitisation moves, whether they succeed or fail, can change the social situation and can be the basis for acts that would not have been possible or legitimate without them. Thereby, securitisation can have inter-unit effects. In addition to the constitutive rules - the ‘grammar’ of security - securitisation is dependent on cultural factors (the conventions of illocutions), which may be unique to political systems and cultures. This requires that the method of inquiry should be based on (cross-cultural) pragmatics (the study of the ways in which meaning is derived from the interaction of utterances with the contexts in which they are used) and not purely on semantics (the study of meaning) or universal linguistic rules. All societies have ‘rules.’6 These rules are products of historical and social contingencies, as are the referent objects and threats in security. When security logic and rhetoric is utilised to legitimate the breaking of these rules, a case of securitisation arises (Buzan et al. 1998, 25-26). My main argument in this study is that to speak of something as an issue of security is a political choice, which may have several kinds of motives and political functions. The CopS has also noted the plurality of meanings of security: even though in everyday use security has positive connotations, for states, security is a negative concern (Wolfers 1952; Wæver 1997a, 15). Indeed, more often than not, security policy is guided by negative concerns and its aim is to block negative developments. Perhaps due to the negative ‘nature’ of security policies, many see securitisation as a form of naturalisation, or depolitisation of political discourse (Buzan et al. 1998, 29; Huysmans 1998a; 1998b; Holm 2004). By labelling an issue as one of survival, it becomes part of the language of nature, which is an effective tactic for dominant individuals to work against heretical discourse and the For Buzan et al. (1998, 31) the field of security is not equal in terms of positions of authority or the social capital various agents can wield. 4 “Among the internal conditions of a speech act, the most important is to follow the security form, the grammar of security, and construct a plot that includes existential threat, point of no return, and a possible way out” (Buzan et al. 1998, 32). 5 The causes of saying something differ from causes in the physical sense: causality in saying has to operate through the conventions of language and it is a matter of influence exerted by one person on another (Austin 1975, 113). 6 See Onuf (1989; 1998) on how certain speech acts construct social rules. 3

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symbolic revolution of the dominated (cf., Bourdieu 1991, 131). Securitisation imposes a feeling of obviousness and necessity; it moves the issue away from the non-determined discourse of politics that would otherwise allow multiple interpretations and outcomes. As such, security is an effective means to legitimate policies which might otherwise be considered excessive or immoral as it stages issues as matters of survival above ‘regular politics.’ Security is therefore also an effective means of control. If securitisation is successful, legitimacy created through the widening social process, consisting of increasing cases of the act of securitisation, enables the speaker to break the rules that normally bind behaviour and policies, after which the question can be moved into an area of ‘special politics.’7 The perlocutionary effect of securitisation, as formulated by Wæver, is political legitimacy; securitisation legitimises action otherwise deemed non-legitimate.8 The theory of securitisation in a way describes the frame, script, plot or grammar of security – the way we have learned to understand what security is, what is security, and how something becomes security.9 Securitisation describes the process of creating the social fact of security, but the script or plot of security contains further ele Huysmans (2002, 45-46) has formulated securitisation as involving three elements from a generic perspective. The first element emphasises political contexts and practices of mobilisation. The contingent practices of enunciating security mobilise security knowledge in contingent political contexts. The second element focuses on the ‘security field’, which is distinct from other fields of practice. The successful performance of security practices integrates problem definitions, institutional processes, and expectations. Huysmans’s third element is the security formation in Foucault’s sense. While the security field is a concrete manifestation, the security formation provides the logic that binds disparate practices together into a field. The security formation makes the category of security practices possible, as it provides the rules and the grammars for security practices. While not applied in this study, the concept of security fields enables a technocratic view of securitisation (Huysmans 2006a). Security experts, or professionals, engaged in this field, gain their capabilities of defining problems from trained skills and knowledge, and from utilising these in their work (Bigo 2000; 2002). Professionals gain their positions of power by making claims about the boundaries of categories and who fit into them, and who do not; “The power to classify is the purest of all deposits of professionalism” (Cohen 1985, 196). Role taking is action, which creates and maintains political symbols, and responses to mutual role taking maintain the rules that are actually played out in political practice. Once these patterns of role taking are established, they become self-fulfilling and self-reinforcing. (Edelman 1972, 50-52.) For example, in the field of security, politicians or administrators may start to think of their activities as a special kind of politics, that of national security. They start to interact with other domestic and international politicians and officials, regarding them not just as politicians, but agents of national security. As self-aware creatures, they may not only become politicians who deal with national security, but in their own self-consciousness, agents of national security. For an application of Bourdieu in security analysis see Williams (2007c). 8 I however reason that securitisation can also have other perlocutionary effects and aims beyond legitimacy. See Chapter 6.3.2. below. 9 Language and its grammar are pure potentiality (Agamben 1998, 23), but this potential can be used to do and achieve a variety of things. In this study, illocutionary logic provides the basis from which a grammar for securitisation is constructed, while the cultural practices and the social and political contexts of each empirical case provide the vocabulary in the phenomena studied as securitisation. Grammars of security are powerful as they can provide political legitimacy for immoral or extraordinary acts, and inform people how they should seek safety from harm (cf., Stern 2006, 188). See Pin-Fat (2000), Heyes (2003a) and Zerilli (2003) for studies on the grammar of politics from a Wittgensteinian perspective. Maria Stern (2006, 193) has summarised a grammar of discursive moves in securing a ‘we’ as a referent object of security. The initial move is the imbuement of the object of security with an identity (cf., Weldes 1999) which is then presented as being stable and certain. The temporal grounding of this identity in the past, present and future is followed by the demarcation of a space where this subject of security resides. The fourth move is the naming of danger and identification of a threat. The special delineation works both towards defining the subject of security against the threatening Other and protecting the subject of security from this threat. The setting up of cognitive borders between ‘us’ and ‘them’ work in defining dyads defining the two identities in many ways. The construction of a threatening situation is alleviated by the promise to provide security, order and safety. This promise is then said to be achieved through various security measures (Jackson 2005). Such a grammar of discursive moves is quite close to the more condensed grammar of securitisation proposed by Wæver. 7

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ments that entail priority and utmost importance. Moving beyond the ‘grammar’ of securitisation, Wæver has argued that the requirements of securitisation include two ‘outside’ elements: the social status of the actor (the securitising actor has to be in a position of authority to the audience, which need not necessarily be formal)10 and aspects related to the threat itself (issues are easier to produce as threats if similar issues are generally considered to be threats).11 These two elements are divided into further basic ‘variables’: referent objects, securitising actors, functional actors, securitising moves, existential threats, facilitating conditions, and audiences. (Buzan et al. 1998; Wæver 2008b.) Some of the original formulations of the above variables have become targets of debate, or have produced confusion for appliers. The definition of securitising actors: “actors who securitise issues by declaring something – a referent object – existentially threatened” (Buzan et al. 1998, 36), is an example of how variation in definitions has problematic entailments. While Wæver often emphasises the openness of the acceptance of acts of securitisation by relevant audiences, declarations as speech acts do not necessarily require this if the speaker making a declaration has the correct social position or capital. The formulation quoted above seems to suggest that securitising actors could ‘decide’ on securitisation. Elsewhere, Wæver (2008b, 582) defines a securitising actor as: “the one who makes the claim – speech act – of pointing to an existential threat to this referent object and thereby legitimising extraordinary measures, often but not necessarily to be carried out by the actor itself.” In terms of speech act theory, this formulation emphasises that securitisation cannot be decided, as it is a claim.12 This issue of whether securitisation can be decided or not is closely connected the issue of the ‘success’ of securitisation. The other two basic variables of securitisation theory that have raised the most controversy – facilitating conditions and audiences – are also connected to this issue. Facilitating conditions are those under which the speech act of securitisation works, misfires, or is abused (cf., Austin 1975). There are two types of facilitating conditions external to the linguistic rules of the speech act of security. Firstly, the enunciator or securitising actor has to have a sufficient amount of socio-political capital or authority to perform securitisation acts.13 Beyond the capital and other resources of the actor, contexts “The particular persons and circ*mstances in a given case must be appropriate for the invocation of the particular procedure invoked” (Austin 1975, 34). 11 This for example seems to be the case with democracy and non-democracy in the US: the political order of India being democratic impeded the securitisation of India’s acquisition of nuclear weapons in 1998, whereas Iran’s non-democratic political order facilitates the securitisation of its claimed attempts to acquire nuclear weapons. Accordingly, India’s democracy was emphasised in speeches that justified the lack of a real response, while Iran’s non-democratic order is emphasised in speeches where Iran is presented as dangerous. For a comparison of US responses to these two states in regard to the nuclear issue via securitisation theory, see Hayes (2009). 12 In my view, this seeming imprecision can be dealt with by the strands of securitisation presented in the present study: some acts of securitisation are more formal and powerful than others, and some types of securitisation acts require formal social authority while others do not. Most often, Wæver presents securitisation as the public legitimisation of extraordinary measures. The audience may also be restricted as “those who have to be convinced in order for the speech act to be successful in the sense of opening the door to extraordinary measures, otherwise not available” (Wæver 2008b, 582). 13 Rita Taureck (2006b) has argued that instead of understanding Wæver’s second facilitating condition as ‘context’, it should be understood as capabilities in the Waltzian (1979) sense. Some securitisers have more capabilities (in Bourdieu’s terms social capital) than others, and because of this they are more likely to succeed in securitisation acts. 10

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and cultural experiences can impede or facilitate securitisation.14 Accordingly, a second category of facilitating conditions has to do with the threat. Buzan (1991, 133-134) notes how the nature of the threat and its intensity of operation have an effect on whether and when an issue becomes an issue of national security. It appears that the perceived intensity of an issue can have an effect on whether it is securitised or not.15 Facilitation or impediment effects may also depend on certain historical experiences and vulnerabilities, which may even take on the role of convention.16 However, the way in which the CopS presents their view of facilitating conditions is not entirely clear. Certain situations may actually impede securitisation, without being necessary or sufficient conditions for achieving securitisation. As Stritzel (2007, 379) notes, the CopS seems to conflate, or confuse, felicity conditions with facilitating conditions, in their various formulations of facilitating/impeding conditions. For Austin (1975), felicity conditions were conventions that regulate the appropriate use of utterances and they were necessary conditions to achieve successful speech acts; felicity conditions were not entirely identical with (social) conditions of success, but dealt with issues of uptake, for example.17 For the CopS, however, these two aspects are not clearly separate: “On the basis of theories of speech acts, we can say that there are three ‘felicity conditions’ of a successful speech act” (Wæver 2000a, 252). Yet, while felicity conditions deal with the conditions of successful uptake, facilitating conditions should be seen as parts of the more general social context. Further, facilitating/impeding conditions should be viewed to facilitate or impede the politics of securitisation rather than to deal with the felicity of the various elementary speech acts that comprise the more complex speech acts of securitisation. Indeed, felicity conditions are those types of conditions that could be termed necessary or sufficient whereas facilitating/impeding conditions are conditions of the situation or context of the utterance. It may be more appropriate to term these two types of things as felicity conditions and facilitation/impediment factors.18

This is also evident from different sectors of security having different ‘dialects’ when it comes to threats and referent objects of security (Buzan et al. 1998, 27-28). 15 It seems that there can be degrees of urgency in respect to the general trend of existential threats. For example, during the Cold War, it was as though the whole of humanity was moving across a minefield where one misstep could have led to nuclear annihilation in a matter of hours, if not minutes. When the possibility of such rapid acceleration of destruction is compared to the slowness of the degradation brought about by global climate change, it seems that the threshold of ’doom’ and the pace at which it can approach have changed in respect to the most prominent of catastrophes that constitute contemporary (mainly Western) threat registers. See for example Trombetta (2008) on how the rapidness or slowness of the possible realisation of threats may be affecting contemporary notions of security. 16 E.g., in the ‘West’ during the Cold War, tanks were certainly seen as more threatening than pamphlets, due to their historical record. In China however, pamphlets can be considered more dangerous than tanks, as on the one hand they ‘guide’ the tanks, while, on the other, resistance to the symbolic control of the party is threatening to the total control it otherwise proclaims to have. 17 Austin’s (1975, 14-15) felicity conditions included: A1) conventional procedures having conventional effects, A2) particular persons and circ*mstances that are appropriate for the conventional procedure and its effects, B1 & B2) the correct and complete execution of the procedure, and C1 & C2) the persons involved should have the correct thoughts and intentions, and should also consequently act them out. Austin’s point was to emphasise the difference of felicity conditions with truth conditions of statements. Already Searle (1969) argued that Austin’s distinction between felicitous and infelicitous speech acts fails to distinguish between those speech acts which are successful but defective and those which are not even successful. Searle’s (Searle and Vanderveken 1985, 10) solution was to replace Austin’s division of felicity and infelicity, with the possibilities of speech acts being unsuccessful, or successful but defective, or successful and nondefective. 18 For example, while an attack on skyscrapers is logically neither a sufficient nor a necessary condition to achieve successful securitisation, this kind of an ‘event’ may be the kind of situation that facilitates the success 14

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Moving on to the variable of audience, it is important to note that whilst securitising actors are necessary to label an issue with security, and that claimed threats, referent objects, as well as facilitation/impediment factors can influence the plausibility of such claims, the success of securitisation is up to the audience. The audiences of securitisation are those whom the securitising actor is attempting to convince in order to achieve success for the securitisation move. As can be seen from the original formulation of the audience in Buzan et al. (1998),19 it is not surprising that several scholars have raised critical points on this issue.20 Many of the criticisms of the CopS notion of audiences can be attributed to the imprecise original formulation of ‘audience’. Another contributing factor has been the ‘assumption’ of democracy as the form of politics that can be detected in descriptions of securitisation theory by many of its appliers. Although it indeed seems that the majority of literature on securitisation views the audience as referring to the citizens of a state (i.e., the electorate), and most functions of securitisation even in authoritarian contexts require publicity, the audience does not have to be the ‘general public’, as Wæver (2003) and Hansen (2000) have in fact noted. Furthermore, while Thierry Balzacq (2005) has emphasised the role of the audience as the primary aspect of securitisation processes, some critics emphasise that the role the ‘presumed’ general public as the audience of securitisation is not that prominent. 21 Alan Collins (2005) notes how authoritarian elites exert tight control on the dissemination of information. Similarly, Joseph Chinyong Liow (2006, 52, 57) argues that in authoritative political systems, authorities can “bull-doze” a securitisation discourse into the public domain without any open negotiation. Nicole J. Jackson’s (2006) observations from Central Asia concur with these views of audiences and securitisation in more authoritative systems.22 The problematic issue of assumed relevant audiences and political forums is also evident in Wilkinson’s (2007, 11-12) criticism that the CopS’s focus on identity privileges speech acts over other forms of communication. She argues that people may ‘securitise with their feet’ i.e., to migrate as a response to a perceived existential threat. Indeed, voicof securitisation acts. It is also important to keep in mind that securitisation may be the means to achieve alternative agendas, that securitisation may itself be a facilitating condition for something else. It may be that audacious attacks on skyscrapers facilitate securitisation, and securitisation may facilitate something else. For example Huysmans (2006a, 128) argues that the politicisation of existential threats facilitates the introduction of laws that would otherwise be met with fierce resistance. 19 “Securitising move becomes securitisation only once an audience accepts it as such; securitisation can never be only imposed, there is some need to argue one’s case” (Buzan et al. 1998, 25); “For individuals or groups to speak security does not guarantee success. Successful securitisation is not decided by the securitiser but by the audience of the security speech act. […] Thus, security (as with all politics) ultimately rests neither with the objects nor with their subjects but among the subjects.” (Buzan et al. 1998, 31.) 20 The audience has been a difficult aspect for appliers doing case study research in Asia for example (Curley & Wong 2008b 8-9). Also Wæver (2003) has recognised the need for empirical studies on audiences in order to develop a more general and applicable formulation of audiences in the model. 21 The ‘democratic bias’ (see Chapter 6.3. below) of many applications and appliers of securitisation theory becomes very evident in criticisms of the theory that focus on the aspect of the audience (e.g., Balzacq 2005; Mak 2006; Roe 2008). Balzacq (2010a, 67) goes so far as to suggest that a criterion for successful securitisation would be parliamentary action. This bias has resulted in several authors discussing the power of authorities in securitisation vis-à-vis ‘general publics’, as well as debate on whether or not publics have to be negotiated with by authorities or whether authorities can dominate public agendas and discursive spaces. 22 Hayes (2009, 982) also notes how the audiences that securitising actors face in autocracies are very different to democracies, and that this requires a very different language of securitisation.

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ing and disseminating security concerns may be very difficult for individuals or groups in non-democratic settings.23 However, this does not mean that a securitisation process could not take place also, for example, within a family. The question remains what is the relevant audience; not all securitisation discourses will be public on any level, ranging from the individual to at least the regional or even global level (it would, for example, not be hard to imagine the G8 or some other meeting of major powers containing macrosecuritisation moves away from the limelight).24 For example, migration as an ‘emergency measure’ can be an indicator of a successful securitisation process on the level of, say, the family or clan. Civil strife may well contain a plethora of securitisation moves and successful acts. But since such local or private processes may never be publicised, we may never hear of these, and it is possible that no artefacts remain as evidence of their occurrence. The general public is, then, not primarily important in terms of securitisation or security action in any type of political order (cf., Emmers 2007). For example, Collins (2005) and Roe (2008) note how the UK parliament was more relevant than the general public in the case of the UK’s involvement in the Iraq war. Furthermore, some critics who have considered audiences in securitisation theory have emphasised that, even in single processes of securitisation, there can be various relevant audiences. J.L. Mak’s (2006) analysis of the ‘partial success’ of securitising piracy in Malaysia and Singapore shows how the multiple relevant audiences he studied reacted in various ways to the securitisation moves of different actors.25 Mark. B. Salter (2008) also notes how securitisation speech can change in accordance with the audience, and with whether the discussion is happening at the ‘front’ or ‘back stage’; a securitisation act may be deemed successful for a technocratic audience, yet fail for elite or popular audiences.26 Mak’s (2006), Salter’s (2008) and Roe’s (2008) analyses also reveal how a securitisation discourse can change shape, and how the practical policy applicability also fluctuates as the process develops. The various strands of securitisation acts I formulate below may be used to comprehend the empirical observations on various audiences of even single securitising moves, as the strands can have various and parallel audiences. In my view, the strands provide a means to deal with the issue of multiple audiences within the abstract model of securi But as the fall of the SED (Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deautschlands) in East Germany exemplifies, ‘people demanding the power back’ by claiming ‘we are the people’, demonstrates that the people do have the power to resist securitisation moves, even in non-democracies (cf., Wæver 1989b; 1995). Wilkinson (2007, 21) therefore misfires in arguing that this would or could not be considered through the CopS approach. 24 Buzan et al. (1998, 28): “Some security practices are not legitimised in public by security discourse because they are not out in the public at all (e.g., the ‘black programs’ in the United States, which are not presented in the budget), but this is actually a very clear case of security logic.” 25 Indeed, just as securitisation moves can have several audiences and several forms, an act of securitisation can also function on multiple levels either in terms of actors, referents, threats, or audiences. For example, the Singaporean terrorism discourse works on at least five levels of securitisation: the individual, institutional, state, the macro-, and the international level (Mak 2006, 88-90). Perhaps due to the complexity of the audiences and the threats, the securitisation was only partially successful and indirectly effective, as the target audiences did not take up the threat assessments and threat constructions of the securitising actors. 26 What is deemed acceptable, proper, or necessary may also change for even successful securitisation acts. The successful securitisation of the US war in Iraq may convince some to join the military, others to support the President, while for some it may merely mean acceptance of the war as legitimate. Still, it can also have the opposite effect in that some will oppose both the war and the securitisation of Iraq. Salter (2008, 337) further points out how popular audiences of securitisation may not only accept securitisation, but also initiate the expansion of governmental power. 23

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tisation: the relevance of the different potential audiences of securitisation depends on the function(s) the securitisation act is intended to serve. Some acts of securitisation can serve as ‘system maintenance’ with a task to reproduce understandings of the self and other. Here the audience of securitisation would be quite general and encompassing. In other cases, for example in some tense crisis situations, the securitisation process may be restricted to inter-elite audiences and struggles.27 Just as with any rhetorical argument, the form that a security argument takes depends on which audience it is directed at (cf., Perelman 1996). Indeed, when we examine securitisation processes in various types of political orders, we soon realise that it is unhelpful to define the audience in the theory in a specific way, as audiences are dependent on the socio-historical situation. Who has to be convinced of the necessity of security action changes with the cultural and political systems the securitisation occurs within: the audience could be the power elite, but it could also be a group of fundamentalists. What could be said within the model is that the audience has to be such that it has the ability to provide the securitising actor with whatever she is seeking to accomplish with the securitisation. In each empirical analysis, the specific audiences must be appropriately operationalised. Furthermore, since the audience has a key role in the process of securitisation, my reasoning is that Balzacq’s (2005) criticism28 illustrates that there is a need to bring the audience into the theory in a more formal way. This can be achieved by expanding the categorisation of the felicity conditions of securitisation, to add a fourth condition viz. 4) conditions related to the audience of securitisation. In order to achieve successful securitisation, the appropriate kind of audience has to be present i.e., different types of acts of securitisation will demand different types of audiences in order to be considered as ‘successful’. Indeed, not all audiences will be amenable to achieve successful securitisation. Once such audiences have been identified, they could be further categorised according to how successful the securitisation has been: the audiences could, for instance, be divided into ‘believers’, ‘neutrals/indifferents’, and ‘non-believers’.29 Another dimension of suc-

For example Emmers (2003) argues that this has been the case in the securitisation of transnational crime in ASEAN. Haacke & Williams (2008) however contend that transnational crime beyond terrorism has in fact not been securitised in ASEAN. 28 Thierry Balzacq (2005; 2010a, 61) criticises Wæver’s approach of reducing securitisation to the acts of the speaker, to the illocutionary aspect of speech acts, and of not leaving any role for the audience of securitisation, for the perlocutionary effects of securitisation. Balzacq (2005, 172-173; 2010a, 63-65) subsequently argues that securitisation is better understood as a strategic (pragmatic) practice that occurs within, and as part of, a configuration of circ*mstances, including the context, the psycho-cultural disposition of the audience and the power that both speaker and listener bring to the interaction. According to him, the speech act approach overlooks the external context, the psycho-cultural orientation of the audience and neglects the differential power relations between the speaker and the audience. Furthermore, Balzacq views the speech act approach as too formalistic, as reducing security to a conventional procedure like marriage or betting. For him, the meaning of actions in world politics is not always determined by the conventional rules governing speech acts. Using Habermasian (1979) universal pragmatics, or universal rules underlying communicative action, is not enough for students of IR who should focus on discursive politics of security. Security should instead, in Balzacq’s view, be seen as a strategic purpose of the securitising actor to “swing” the audience’s support towards a policy or course of action, in a certain social context and field of power struggles. Balzacq repeats the problem to only focus on securitisation as a means to legitimise future acts of the securitising actor, which has also been criticised by Wilkinson (2007), and already addressed in Vuori (2003) in addition to the approach presented here. Balzacq’s critique vis-à-vis the context of securitisation shall be returned to in Chapter 6.2.3. 29 Fred Vultee’s (e.g., 2010) work on securitisation as a media frame would seem to suggest the feasibility of such categorisations. 27

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cess here could be the depth of success. For example, is the acceptance of a securitising move superficial, or does it have a fundamental effect in terms of e.g., world views.

Partly due to the ‘success’ (Knudsen 2001) of the concept of securitisation, the approach has attracted a variety of criticisms. What has been especially worrisome for some critics has been the focus on the speech act of securitisation. Their concern is that a linguistic emphasis excludes other relevant aspects of the ‘field of security’ from the analysis (e.g., ‘securitisation’ with feet [Wilkinson 2007]). Some propose that, for example, silence (Hansen 2000), contexts and audiences (Balzacq 2005), images and bodies (Hansen 2000; Williams 2003; McDonald 2008a), and the practices of security professionals (Bigo 2002) should be taken into account more elaborately by the framework.30 A focus on elites also concerns some (Huysmans 1998b; Williams 2003) as the focus on decisions to securitise can lead to Schmittian decisionism ‘at the limit’, with all the negative politics ascribed such an understanding of the ‘political.’ The wide remit of the concept of securitisation testifies to the utility of the approach, although it has been understood by both critics and appliers in a great number of different ways. Wæver (2003, 16-17) celebrates the variety in the ways actual studies have applied the concept, but some critics see the incoherence of the applications as a problem that effectively denies the comparison of accumulated results (see for example Stritzel 2007). Indeed, it is precisely the wide variety of interpretations and applications of the concept of securitisation that has been one of the prime motivations behind the present study. All in all, although the great variety of studies conducted within the Securitisation Studies research programme is to be celebrated, the differences between various approaches may disperse the programme too much, and may result in communication difficulties among scholars who disagree on concepts and methods.31 However, in my view, the explicated and subsequently more elaborate taxonomy of securitisation acts that I introduce below makes possible the incorporation of most of the ‘anomalies’ identified by various critics within the basic model of securitisation, by increasing its extension (see Figure 7 in Chapter 6.4.). All too often, approaches that are complementary to one another are seen as mutually exclusive.32 Various methods and methodologies may support each other to study empirical phenomena; but to make an argument for one set of methods is not to necessarily dismiss others which indicate different types of enquiries. However, it should be kept in mind that the theory of securitisation is not a theory of everything, not even everything pertaining to security and its academic study.33 This criticism echoes a similar discussion of ’bringing practice back in’ to general IR theorising (Bigo 2000; Neumann 2002); there are calls for a return to practices, that is, a return to traditional sociology from the linguistic turn. 31 This problem has been commented on as ‘overly enthusiastic yet unsystematic appliers’ of the framework creating more confusion. 32 Michael C. Williams (1999, 343) has pointed out the tendency of creating clearly opposing analytical positions in security studies. He has similarly argued that the division between realist and constructivist approaches to international relations theory is artificial, as many of the approaches share common intellectual roots with ‘wilful realism’ (Williams 2005). This opposing positioning is misleading, and according to Williams based on the reification of social sciences and the forgetting of the historicity of the understandings of humanity that theories of rational choice are based on. One of the c.a.s.e. collective’s purposes has been to mitigate this tendency, and not divide critically slanted security studies into opposite camps. 33 Indeed, as Mundle (1970, 274) notes, a theory may be used to explain something without explaining every30

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6.1. Desecuritisation: Function and Tactics Ironically, even though the normative goal of securitisation studies is the negative corollary of securitisation, namely desecuritisation, the majority of theoretical debate and empirical study has focused on securitisation.34 Indeed, desecuritisation has remained under-theorised (Aradau 2003). For the CopS, whilst securitisation raises issues into the realm of security policies and practices, desecuritisation lowers issues back into the realm of ‘regular politics’ or removes issues from the political agenda altogether. Desecuritisation has largely been understood in terms of deconstructing collective identities in situations where relations between ‘friends’ and ‘enemies’ are constituted by existential threats (Roe 2004, 280); i.e., they are securitised. Such a position has been criticised to represent and reinforce a realist view of security (e.g., McDonald 2008a, 579–580). From this critical viewpoint, ‘security as emancipation’ (e.g., Booth 2005) would be preferable to the negativity of security bound to threats that Buzan et al. (1998) highlight. Indeed, for Wæver (1995), desecuritisation is a process by which security issues lose their ‘securityness’, and are no longer restrictive by nature. He has outlined three options for this: 1) simply not to talk about issues in terms of security, 2) to keep responses to securitised issues in forms that do not create security dilemmas or other vicious spirals, and 3) to move security issues back into ‘normal politics’ (Wæver 2000a, 253).35 As already noted, an analyst of securitisation or security cannot make judgements on whether threats are ‘real’ as this would require an objective measure of security, which no security theory has been able to provide (Buzan et al. 1998, 30). The analyst of security may however assess whether a security reality is more conducive to the solution of a political problem as compared to a situation with no security aspect. Wæver (1995) emphasises that often a non-security reality would be normatively preferable to a security reality. ‘Asecurity’ or ‘non-security’ should however not be confused with insecurity: security is a situation where there is a threat with measures against it, whereas insecurity is a situation where there is a threat and no certain measures to counteract it (see Figure 5 for the structural relations of difference of these concepts).36 What is desirable is desecuritisation, which leads back to asecurity or non-security, a situation where there is no threat, and thus no need for restrictive measures. Claudia Aradau (2001) has noted that even desecuritisation is not without its own eth-

thing. Similarly, the point of theory is to deal with relevant empirical facts. Scientific theories do not make sense if they remain purely a priori. 34 This mirrors the pattern of peace and conflict studies, where the vast majority of studies are on conflicts and war, and not so much about peace. 35 These are in tune with Wæver’s (1999, 334; see also CASE 2006, 474) suggestions of what a scholar can actively do as regards the normative goals of the CopS: scholars can put ethical questions “at the feet of analysts, decision-makers and political activists alike: why do you call this a security issue? What are the implications of doing this – or not doing it?” Concerning desecuritisation, the analyst can 1) stop speaking about particular threats and hope that this contributes to a desecuritisation process by avoiding the adoption of the agenda of a securitising actor, 2) divert attention to other threats, and the analyst can 3) contribute to a different interpretation of the threat being securitised (Buzan et al. 1998, 34-35, 204-206). While an analyst cannot say whether something is ‘really’ a threat (in the sense of this claim being an ‘objective scientific result’; of course, like anyone else, analysts can make political/practical claims of the realness of threats), the analyst may comment on the desirability or possible effectiveness of dealing with a claimed threat with a security logic. 36 “’Security’ signifies a situation marked by the presence of a security problem and some measures taken in response. Insecurity is a situation with a security problem and no response. […] When there is no security problem, we do not conceptualize our situation in terms of security.” (Wæver 1995, 56.)

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Figure 5: The Structural Relations of Difference of Insecurity, Security, and Non-security

ical problems. The absence of securitisation processes is not straightforwardly positive, if threats are replaced by probabilistic risks. In her view, this could lead to the diminishing of individual freedom, as individuals would be categorised as risks, by merely exhibiting attributes that belong to authorities’ risk calculations. This argument can be expanded onto the international level. For example, US rhetoric on rogue states, or the Blair administration’s emphasis on failed states, might be considered relevant in this context (cf., Abrahamsen 2005). However, while Aradau (2001; 2003; 2004) focuses on the normative and theory-of-politics aspect of desecuritisation, the discussion on desecuritisation here concentrates on the termination of institutional facts and on how desecuritisation can work as a political tactic in the political ‘games’ of securitisation. The construction of security issues is a very useful and powerful political tool for power-holders, yet even this political move can be contested and resisted: desecuritisation can be viewed as a counter-strategy or counter-move to securitisation. 6.1.1. Desecuritisation as a Termination of Social Facts

In contrast to the approach taken to desecuritisation here, Andreas Behnke (2006, 65) views desecuritisation as necessarily a ‘withering away’: explicit debate on whether something no longer is a security issue retains the logic and possibility of securitisation. For Behnke, desecuritisation cannot be a speech act which affirms a new status for an issue but it rather can only occur through lack of speech.37 However, a problem with taking silence as equating desecuritisation, is that silence does not necessarily entail that a matter has lost its aspect of securityness, or that there are no threats (see discussion on silence and the three ‘(t)ions’ in Chapter 6.2.). Indeed, not speaking about security may not be as unproblematic and positive as Wæver’s and Behnke’s positions suggest. On the one hand, silence may mean that there is no possibility to voice security arguments even though that might be prudent and legitimate. Lene Hansen (2000) has exemplified this through the example of ‘honour killings’ of Pakistani women remaining a silent security issue. On the other hand, silence may also mean that security measures have been

A problem with this understanding is that everything has a potential of being securitised, whether an issue’s desecuritisation is being debated or not (Buzan et al. 1998). 37

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successful: there is no longer a need to maintain the security reality of an issue very ‘loudly’, as the threat has been secured and is now silent; thus, silence may be the effect of successful securitisation e.g., the result of government suppression.38 Silence may also indicate that an issue is institutionally so thoroughly securitised that it no longer needs to be voiced in particular situations; security may have become the dominant logic in a field of practice. Thus, whilst I shall reason below that security action cannot be a sufficient or a necessary criterion for successful securitisation, here I contend that silence, or the lack of securitisation speech, cannot be a sufficient criterion for the success of desecuritisation: there can be security action with or without securitisation (and securitisation without security action) and there can be silence with or without desecuritisation. I also contend that explicit speech acts can function as desecuritisation moves: whether or not an issue is successfully desecuritised may perhaps depend on a ‘withering away’ of the securitised issue, but this withering away may begin with active moves.39 Here it is useful to refer to Jef Huysmans (1995, 65-67), who has proposed three approaches for desecuritisation strategies: 1) the objectivist strategy, 2) the constructivist strategy, and 3) the deconstructivist strategy.40 The objectivist strategy is premised on a traditional objective-subjective understanding of security: that is, security has an objective content, while subjective notions of this are either real or illusory. A person intent on desecuritising a matter with an objectivist argument, would thus claim that the matter in question is not really a security problem. Just as with securitisation, this type of securitisation strategy can be considered a speech act, and it also has felicity conditions related to the socio-political capital of the enunciator of the argument, the threat and the audience. Similarly to Huysmans (1995), Jaap de Wilde (2008, 597) sees various ways out of a securitised situation. For him, there can be desecuritising actors who evade, circumvent, or directly oppose securitising moves by, for example, emphasising competing threats. While de Wilde argues that security policies aim at desecuritisation (the solution to the threatening situation), for him, desecuritisation can also happen independently from the actions of securitising or desecuritising actors. Ways out of the securitised situation then include the solution to the problem, institutional adaptation in the form of new reproductive structures, changes in discourse (e.g., loss of interest or audiences), and the loss of the referent object. For de Wilde (2008), securitised issues can either wither away, or they can be actively desecuritised.

See Roe (2004; 2006) and Jutila (2006) for a debate on whether the desecuritisation of minority rights is logically possible or not. 39 While not explicit on what would entail a desecuritisation move, Collins (2005, 582) identifies desecuritisation moves in the contested process of securitising Chinese education in Malaysia 2002. Unlike in 1987, in 2002 the process remained within the limits of ’regular’ politics, i.e., the Internal Security Act or the Sedition Act were not applied to the situation. 40 The discussion here is closest to Huysmans’s objectivist strategy of desecuritisation. The other two strategies may be more in tune with Behnke’s argument. Indeed, the aim of the constructivist strategy of desecuritisation is not to determine whether something is really a threat or not, the idea is rather to understand how the process of securitisation operates (Huysmans 1995, 66). Before the securitisation process can be handled, its causal processes have to be understood. The focus is on understanding how some issues end up within security discourses and policies. While the constructivist strategy examines the ‘security drama’ from without, the deconstructivist strategy looks out of the security drama from within. (Ibid., 67.) The deconstructive desecuritiser tells a story of the ‘security problem’ in a way that does not recount the security drama. The threat or issue is presented as having identities beyond security threats. 38

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The question of whether desecuritisation is a matter of withering away and depends on silence, or whether it can, or even has to, be an active performative action is an issue, in Searle’s (1995, 106) terms, of the termination of institutional facts: here desecuritisation is seen as terminating the institutional fact of a securitised issue. In Searle’s view, when a conventional power is destroyed, the negation operates on the collective acceptance and not on the content of the acceptance. In terms of securitisation, this means that an ‘act of desecuritisation’ would translate as ‘we no longer accept (X is an existential threat to Y)’. Josef Moural (2002, 283-284) however argues that Searle’s formula would not allow the distinction between a formal termination of a social institution and a collapse of a social institution (e.g., as in the difference between a divorce and the collapse of marriage acceptance). ‘An act of desecuritisation’ would therefore perhaps be better phrased as ‘we accept (X is no longer an existential threat to Y)’. A good practical example of these two different ways of understanding desecuritisation as a termination of institutional facts from an eroding totalitarian socialist setting, are the failed securitisation moves of the Socialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands (SED) in the German Democratic Republic (GDR) in 1989, also used as an example of desecuritisation by Wæver (1995). As Steven Pfaff (1996) has shown, the revolution in the GDR was conducted under the slogan ‘We Are the People’ (Wir sind das Volk) which the protestors framed as their collective identity to thwart the prospect of a ‘Chinese solution’ to the demonstrations (see Case III below). The ruling party, the SED, attempted to frame the demonstrators as counter-revolutionaries, but failed and finally had to cede power. Wæver (1989b; 1995) has emphasised that the fall of the SED was, inter alia, due to the failure of the ruling party’s securitisation moves.41 In a way, by stating ‘we are the people’ and resisting the securitisation of the ‘West’ by the authorities,42 the protestors made the statement ‘we no longer accept (X is an existential threat to Y)’ i.e., the protestors no longer accepted that the ‘West’ was an existential threat to the people of the GDR. As the authorities gave way, and conceded to the slogans on the streets, they, in a way, made the implicit statement ‘we accept (X is no longer an existential threat to Y)’ i.e., the SED authorities accepted that the ‘West’ was no longer an existential threat to the people of the GDR. The protestors made explicit moves towards dismantling the social institution of a securitised ‘West’, which the authorities eventually accepted. The authorities no longer maintained the securitisation of the ‘West’ and the threat label withered away i.e., it was desecuritised. The question then is about whether security is an institutional fact that needs maintenance:43 so, extending the nuptial analogy, is securitisation like a wedding (once it is done you do not have to care about it) or is it like a marriage that needs maintenance?44 The majority of the mobilised security units and the protestors being from Leipzig, and in some cases family members, quite likely affected the dynamic to not resort to the use of force. In China, the military units that were deployed to take over Tiananmen Square were from other military regions, as some commanding officers had refused to obey the orders to deploy to Beijing (see Case III below). 42 They were also resisting the securitisation of the protests. This is quite evident in the shouts of “wir sind keine Raudis” and “wir sind das Volk”, as well as the singing of the International by the protesters in Leipzig on the Ninth of October 1989. 43 Searle (1995, 43): as long as people continue to recognise the X as having the status function of Y, the institutional fact is maintained. 44 Securitisation for legitimating past acts (see Chapter 6.3.2.5.) indeed seems to be one means to maintain a security status for an issue. 41

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In the case of desecuritisation: is it a divorce, or is it a collapse of a marriage (a formal procedure, a shared disbelief in the continued existence of the marriage, or a lack of belief in a wedding having taken place)?45 6.1.2. Desecuritisation as a Political Tactic

Beyond the kind of philosophical or ontological issues discussed above, desecuritisation can be viewed as a ‘play’ in a politician’s or activist’s ‘playbook.’ Desecuritisation can be viewed as a political tactic that can be deployed before or after securitisation moves have been put into play. My argument here is that, especially in non-democratic settings such as the PRC, securitisation and desecuritisation provide a logic that legitimises suppression and resistance respectively, and that the vocabulary of both of these is drawn from the resonant values, myths, laws, and proclamations of the authorities. In such contexts, desecuritisation works towards contesting securitisation moves, or towards resisting securitisation that has already occurred. These could be the tactics of the ‘targets’ or the ‘threat’ identified in the securitisation discourse. In addition to securitising actors and the targets of securitisation articulating desecuritisation moves, desecuritisation could, however, also work as a political tactic for actors that are neither the original securitiser, nor the target being securitised.46 Overt desecuritisation moves may, for example, be prudent political moves in situations where they are not a form of resistance, but attempts at ‘riding the tide’ of public opinion. Indeed, overt desecuritisation moves may be necessary politically: ‘public opinion’ may be against some issue being dealt with under the label ‘security’, and in these types of situations successful politicians may want to ride this ‘tide’ and somehow acknowledge mistakes in previous assessments, go against the assessments of political opponents, or claim that the situation requiring securitisation has changed. While silence on the issue may be the final guarantor of desecuritisation, explicit desecuritisation moves may be politically prudent or even necessary. In situations where desecuritisation works against constituted security issues, formal authority to dismantle such issues is of major importance. However, while the success of desecuritisation may depend on actors with sufficient formal or other socio-political capital to perform or promote desecuritisation, desecuritisation moves may also be articulated by actors who do not have the sufficient socio-political capital to bring desecuritisation about of their own means. This is often the case with social movements, which have to reappropriate concepts, principles and slogans in order to utilise the symbolic capital of authorities. The redeployment of the language of officials or ‘professionals’ is

This analogy may enlighten what the Barack Obama administration has been debating regarding the question of whether ‘waterboarding’ and other ‘harsh’ interrogation methods were legal or illegal in 2009-2010. Interrogators using these methods were under the belief that they had the right to use ‘extraordinary measures’, they believed that the securitisation of terrorism was in effect in legitimating these procedures. The Obama administration seems to be retracting the right to use torture as an ‘extraordinary measure’; in a way not recognising that these methods would be justified even when terrorism in general is securitised. For the Obama administration, it could be reasoned, the marriage did not actually take place even though everyone present at the reception thought it did. For how the breadth of practical applications of securitisations can fluctuate, see Bendrath et al. (2007) and Salter (2008). 46 Aradau (2003, 20) has a concern with the agents of desecuritisation being the same as the agents of securitisation: the desecuritising agents should not only come from within the ‘self’ that securitised the issue, but also from the previously silenced ‘other.’ 45

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an important means of resistance for many social movements. Indeed, the question of ‘who’ or ‘what’ can securitise issues is one of the key issues or questions that has driven Securitisation Studies. I however, wish to suggest that of equal interest should also be the question of ‘who’ or ‘what’ can contest or resist securitisation, and how this contestation or resistance can be manifested. I address such issues here in the context of the PRC, by consideration of the role of identity frames and imputations to legitimise both social mobilisation and its suppression. After this, I will also discuss the possibility of ‘pre-emptive desecuritisation’ as a political tactic. 6.1.2.1. Desecuritisation and the Justification of Resistance

Desecuritisation is viewed here as a means of contestation and resistance. Resistance47 is seen here as emerging in the tension between contending projects/visions/practices, and thereby, taking on many forms. Accordingly, the focus here is on instances where securitisation is contested by ‘public actors’, or actors with formal authority, and resisted by actors who do not have formal authority.48 Such contests of securitisation and desecuritisation moves are viewed here as though moves in a game. This kind of an approach allows for the omission of questions of sincerity and intentionality, which chimes with Foucault’s critique of the modern subject49 (Mitchell 1990; CASE forthcoming): the moves manifest and can be detected regardless of whether the ‘subject’ exists within or without them, or whether the subject can ‘own’ the moves or not. As Scott (1987) emphasises, who resists, what, and how are important aspects of resistance.50 All of these aspects are similar to the relevant aspects of securitisation, on the issue of who is speaking e.g., in the name of what or whom is security being spoken (Wæver et al. 1993). Securitising actors and contesters or resisters of securitisation can be on various social levels, and the power to securitise or contest securitisation may be Resistance studies have established a network of scholars working on similar themes. See http://resistancestudies.org/ Concepts of resistance variously incorporate other notions, such as ‘disguised resistance’, ‘critical resistance’, ‘off-kilter resistance’, and ‘civil resistance.’ Close fields such as social movement studies, terrorism studies, and subaltern studies have concepts with different but similar connotations e.g., ‘contention’, ‘protest’, ‘power struggle’, ‘revolution’, and ‘mimicry.’ Scott (1987; 1990) are classic, formative studies of resistance. See also Veivo (2007) and CASE (forthcoming) for various notions of resistance. 48 Cf., de Wilde’s (2008, 596) distinction between private and public securitising/desecuritising actors. 49 If Foucault’s idea of the individual as a ‘relay’ of power is followed and power is viewed as productive, then the modern subject of power (or the subject of modern power) has historically been produced, which then also reproduces the fundamental mechanisms of power. The same form of power that exists at all levels, including “state to family, from prince to father, from the tribunal to the small change of everyday punishments from the agencies of social domination to the structures that constitute the subject himself” (Foucault 1979b, 84-85). 50 Scott’s (1987) typology leads to six types of resistance, viz.: Resistance exists in public as public declared resistance (e.g., open revolts, petitions, demonstrations, land invasions) against material domination, as assertions of worth or desecration of status symbols against status domination, and as counter-ideologies against ideological domination; resistance exists in disguised forms (e.g., low profile, undisclosed, or ‘infra-politics’) as ‘everyday resistance’ (e.g., poaching, squatting, desertion, evasion, foot-dragging), or direct resistance by disguised resisters against material domination, as hidden transcripts of anger or disguised discourses of dignity against status domination, and as dissident subcultures (e.g., millennial religion, myths of social banditry, class heroes) against ideological domination. See also Certeau (1988) on forms of ‘everyday resistance.’ 47

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dispersed even on a single level.51 While securitisation and its contestation are viewed here as moves in a game, it is important to note that both securitisation and its contestation can be unintentional, and that both can have unintended consequences. Just as in the general ‘security dilemma’, securitising and desecuritising actors have to deal with the ambiguity of their speech acts and actions. The plurality of power and resistance must be kept in mind when resistance and suppression is considered: civil society is often understood as being a more authentic site of social organisation, and also as being an opposing force to the state i.e., an authentic site of resistance.52 But civil society can also be a site of conservatism, and civil society can be co-opted by the state, as is frequently the case in East Asia in general, and in China in particular (Callahan 2006, 99, 109).53 One should thus not see the relationship between the state and civil society as a binary position, for neither the state nor civil society is monolithic: scholars should not surrender to the ‘Westphalean straitjacket’ (Buzan & Little 2001; Wilkinson 2007). In the context of East Asia it may actually be more helpful to consider New Social Movements (the emphasis being on the plural) rather than a singular civil society, as based on European assumptions of social organisation (Callahan 2006, 117, 122). European orientalised assumptions of Asia often envision collectivism of a monolithic character, especially in the Chinese case. But even the claimed essence of Chineseness of such visions i.e., Confucianism, can be used to highlight the plurality of forms of governmentality, even in China. The Great Learning is explicit in the presentation of various forms of governance and it transgresses the binary of the state and civil society thus making the individual, civil society and the state codeterminous and mutually entailing (Callahan 2006, 107). Governmentality54 joins the personal, the familial, communal, political, and cosmic in a Chinese articulation of pastoral politics, which diffuses power that emanates from many nodes.55 Confucianism resembles the pastoral power identified by Foucault (2007) in that it also repeats the diagrams of power on various levels. The juridical power of the sovereign attempts to demarcate the power of the ‘prince’ and any other form of power. While disciplinary power also draws lines, or rather is a practice of limitation and exclusion, it goes beyond the power of the sovereign and manifests itself in a variety of practices (Foucault 1979a; 2007). Just as different geometries or diagrams of power create different positions of dominance, they create different forms of resistance as well. Resistance is never in a position of complete exteriority in relation to Foucault (1979b, 85) puts power into perspective consisting of (a) a commanding head or ruler, and (b) the obedient subject: “the formal hom*ogeneity of power in these various instances corresponds to the general form of submission in the one who is constrained by it – whether the individual in question is the subject opposite the monarch, the citizen opposite the state, the child opposite the parent, or the disciple opposite the master. A legislative power on one side, and an obedient subject on the other.” 52 Cf., discussion of authenticity in respect of the state and its ‘creation’ in Chapter 6.2.4. 53 For example NGOs are more often than not government organised NGOs in China. 54 Governmentality in the form of biopolitics is also drastically apparent in China’s population policies. See Greenhalgh & Winckler (2005). 55 The Confucian dictum君君, 臣臣, 父父, 子子 (jūn jūn, chén chén, fù fù, zǐ zǐ) is illustrative here: ‘A sovereign is a sovereign, an official is an official, a father is a father, and a son is a son’ presents the various positions of dominance, and while the dictum suggests that these are not the same things, and that they should not be changed (i.e., one should not think the one can be like the other, and one should take this as being a good thing) (Wierzbicka 1991, 426-427), the relationships also show how the diagram of power, in a Foucauldian sense, is reproduced on various levels. 51

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power. There is no single locus of ‘great refusal’, no soul of revolt, source of all rebellions, or pure law of the revolutionary. Just as there is a plurality of techniques of government, there is a plurality of resistances to them. As William A. Callahan (2006, 108) notes: “The relation between power and resistance is not clean or pure, but sticky.” The possibilities and means of resistance, together with the use of identities in the mobilisation of protest has been extensively covered in some of the research on protest and social mobilisation on the Chinese mainland. For example, in Gries & Rosen (1994) and Perry & Selden (2003a), various authors deal with the question of the legitimacy of the contemporary CCP and the legitimisation of protest against it. Vivienne Shue (1994) argues that the manner in which the Communist regime has legitimised itself offers a ‘grammar of protest’ to activists who can similarly use it to legitimise their protest. Patricia Thornton (1994) notes how the type of legitimisation speech that authorities direct at different social groups (such as workers, peasants and students) is important, as those groups are likely to seize these group-specific legitimisations and use them to their own benefit. Thornton (2002; 2003) also discusses the importance of the Internet as a space of resistance for ‘cyber-cults’56 like the FLG. Kevin J. O’Brien (1996; see also 1994) has developed the term ‘rightful resistance’ to describe the nature of typical low-key protest in contemporary China, whereby protestors usually draw on various existing sources of legitimisation for their protest, such as the legal code, CCP proclamations, social values and moral codes, that they hope will help to deflect repressive actions taken by the authorities.57 The opportunities for contestation and resistance are influenced by the forms of suppression authorities range against them. Comparative studies of social movements have demonstrated how various forms of policing influence protest behaviour (Porta 1996). The securitisation of social movements or activities is also a form of suppression: using soft forms of suppression e.g., labelling then increases the likelihood of subsequent hard repression, as it lowers its costs both by intimidation of protestors and justification of violence, and may thus eventually ‘up the ante’ on both sides of the struggle.58

FLG is not the only online ‘problem’ for Chinese authorities: Xinjiang and Tibet activists in addition to democracy dissidents also operate online in order to garner both domestic and international support and attention. However, the effect of this ‘online dissidence’ or ‘cyber-separatism’ is difficult to gauge. Wayne (2008, 104) notes that for example in the case of exiled Xinjiang activists, exaggeration and inaccuracy is prevalent in foreign statements which has resulted in the creation of a wedge between local populations and outside dissidents. Similarly, Millward (2004) and Bovigndon (2004), argue that while Uyghur organisations and groups outside China have provided international visibility, evidence of any actual influence on Xinjiang politics, seem scant notwithstanding some Uyghur leaders’ boasts and Chinese authorities’ claims. Regardless of its effectiveness vis-à-vis its target audiences, this online activity thereby provides a degree of plausibility for the Chinese authorities claims of ‘anti-China forces operating both within and outside China.’ 57 In autocratic settings of domination, resistance may also take forms beyond mass mobilisation; discursive or symbolic resistance may be more effective in these circ*mstances. For example, Thornton (2002) discusses metonymical resistance even in spaces like doorways and the body. In a more public setting, Elin Sæther (2008) has studied the conditional autonomy of critical journalism in China by examining the opportunities journalists may have to present ‘hidden transcripts’ or challenge the hegemonic discourses present in the media. 58 Repression is understood here as “any action by another group which raises the contender’s cost of collective action” (Tilly 1978, 100). These actions that raise the contender’s costs, can further be divided into hard and soft forms. Myra Marx Ferree (2005) argues that states engage in hard repression through use of force, and in soft repression when they try to limit and ‘exclude ideas and identities from the public forum’ in nonviolent ways. Such soft repression is specifically directed against movements’ collective identities and ideas that support ‘cognitive liberation’ or ‘oppositional consciousnesses.’ In non-democratic systems like China, the use of soft repression (e.g., labelling) is an integral part of hard repression (e.g., sending dissidents to labour camps). Both 56

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Thereby, securitisation arguments can, for example, be used for deterrence: they can suggest that acquiescence would be preferable to the continuation of the securitised activity. Once these types of securitisation moves appear in the media, for example, they often become the natural focus of refutation and thereby also to protest legitimisation. This forces those engaged in the securitised activities to discuss their own protest/movement and its objectives among themselves and vis-à-vis their audiences in terms that will, it is hoped, render the suppression ineffective, and mobilise popular support to give the protest a sense of common cause. Indeed, it can be argued that in non-democratic states most of this type of ‘identity talk’59 by protest movements is produced under either soft or hard forms of repression. Which words and symbols are used to characterise an issue has great importance for how it is understood, regarded, and responded to. Meaning does not only imply what is at issue, but also what is to be done about the issue in question (Schön & Rein 1994, 29). As Williams (2007c, 69-70) notes, identity narratives are not private constructions but social and relational. Narrative resources available to an actor are historically and socially constructed and contained, and depend on recognition and acquiescence by others. Mere identity imputations or avowals are insufficient as they must also be acknowledged by others as legitimate. As such, the frames through which social movements are presented can have significant effects, and the frame of national security is a powerful one in China. To be labelled a revisionist, a running dog of capitalism, or a counter-revolutionary has had drastic consequences for the bearers of these labels (cf., Koselleck 2004b, 155-157). But if social activities are framed according to the set objectives of the authorities, the likelihood of their suppression will diminish. Even criticism against the authorities may be tolerable, if presented through the correct frame. For example, criticism of Chinese authorities through a patriotic or nationalist frame is far more tolerated by state authorities than many other frames of critique. It is indeed well established in studies on Chinese social mobilisation that the way the CCP legitimises its rule, is important for the ways in which the protestors in turn legitimise their collective actions in Mainland China. However, most studies of social mobilisation and the securitisation of social movements have biases to them. Studies of securitisation focus on legitimisation from the side of the authorities, while protest studies focus on legitimisation by the movements. Both literatures often overlook the interaction between the authorities and protestors on the level of both discourse and practice. The need to see protest legitimisation as a result of an interaction becomes apparent in recollection of the fact that in post-totalitarian60 states such as China, social movements and protracted protests generally operate under some degree of repression, which itself is often also the primary motive for the activists to produce protective identity framings. While different actors with different identities are unequally equipped to engage in strugare used in unison, with soft repression preceding hard repression. 59 ‘Identity talk’ refers to processes whereby social movements’ identities are constructed and expressed through communication among the movement’s participants and with non-participants. It occurs, for example, when the activists explain the movement to others, recruit new members, proselytize their message by making public pronouncements, and engage in disputes and debates. Identities are also expressed in cultural materials, viz. names, narratives, symbols, verbal styles, rituals, clothing etc. See for example Snow & McAdam (2000) and Polletta & Jasper (2001, 285). 60 For post-totalitarianism, see Havel (1992). For applications to analysis of Chinese politics, see Lai (2006) and Paltemaa & Vuori (2009).

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gles over social knowledge (Williams 2007c, 70), the structures of non-democratic political orders are more rigid and uncompromising than those of democratic orders where the freedom of self-expression and identity formation is often considered to be a core value. In non-democratic orders, in accordance with O’Brien’s (1996) concept of rightful resistance, protestors/activists are usually compelled to frame their identities and goals in accordance with the stated goals of the political order. Even in the initial stages of collective action, the knowledge of past protests and their means of suppression can guide activists in framing their movement’s collective identities and objectives in a pre-emptive manner. As such, there is nothing new in the notion that social movements and authorities interact with each other on the level of identities that play a key role in mobilisation and repression. Indeed, the idea that the success or failure of social movements is largely dependent on the interaction between activists and authorities (the state) was made clear in the ‘political opportunity structure’ approach to social movements of Charles Tilly (1978).61 As such, this interaction also holds true on the level of identities. The state always engages in a ‘struggle over meanings’ with the movements, and this struggle includes identity avowals and imputations on both sides (Tarrow 1998, 22; Hunt et al. 1994, 185-186). Furthermore, it has been noted that frames are not built from scratch but they usually employ ‘resonant ideas’ or the vernacular of ‘cognitive maps’ of societies.62 According to Doug McAdam (1994, 37-38), the central task in framing is to advocate a view that both legitimises and motivates protest activity, and its success is partly determined by the ‘cultural resonance’ of the frames which the activists draw on. Therefore, the audience of protests is seldom offered new, and thereby perhaps alien, ideas.63 Instead, mobilisation draws on existing ideas which are applied creatively to the situation, something which is called ‘frame alignment’ (Snow & Benford 1988, 204).64 Chaïm Perelman (1996) refers to this phenomenon with the terms of ‘precontracts’ or ‘premises’; they form the self-evident starting-point for the argument that a political speaker makes to their audience, wherein the speaker attempts to fuse the obviousness of the shared undercurrent with the argument being presented. Such precontracts have ‘cultural resonance’ and thus make the movement and its identities appear natural and its message familiar (Gamson 1988, 227). They can also evoke emotions that are needed to activate collective action (Tarrow 1998, 111).65 That movements’ identity frames also depend on the way outsiders frame movements, is also noted in the new social movement research, for example, by Rachel L. Einwohner (2002) and that identities are constructed also with strategic goals in mind, is noted by David L. Westby (2002). 62 In Indonesia, the ideological success of the New Order was largely based on the success of equating its notion of political order with the traditional cultural concern of being ‘secure’ (Bubandt 2005, 284). The state order resonated with stability, harmony and safety, which were significant cultural ideas in many parts of Indonesia (Mulder 1998). 63 Holger Stritzel (2007, 369-370) separates the socio-linguistic reservoir of analogies and contracts from the socio-political context of more sedimented structures and positions of power. If securitising actors are able to frame their discourse compatibly with existing linguistic reservoirs, and they have positional power, they are more likely to succeed in getting their ‘texts’ to be the dominant narrative. 64 Frank Pieke (1994) refers to what is basically the same phenomenon, through the concept of ‘recontextualisation.’ 65 In China, this has been observed, for example, in the way the CCP mobilised its revolutionary movement through highly emotional frames, deliberately designed for this very purpose (see Perry 2002b; Snow & Benford 1988, 198-199). 61

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Ideologies are an especially salient source of frames and resonant ideas in totalitarian settings, and therefore can guide both individual and collective identities and actions. Ideologies also provide a ready value base upon which social movements and their activists can construct their identities and legitimisation (Rokeach 1979; Warren 1990). As David Apter notes, ideologies do indeed ‘dignify discontent’66 but they also dignify repression, as ideology is also a tool to legitimise the totalitarian system itself (Guo 2000; Elo 2005). Totalitarian ideologies define the actions and policies of power-holders as correct and legitimate, as they work in accordance with and toward attaining the only permitted world-view and set goals of a totalitarian system. Having only one accepted ideology also legitimises the use of force to protect it. Thus, it follows that should a movement want to avoid repression, it must align its identity framings with that of the official ideology. The construction of security issues is a significant political tool for power-holders. As Williams (2007c, 68-69) notes, legitimate identities are inextricably tied to roles, and to structures of power: identities, roles and forms of action are fundamental components of structures of social power. Accordingly, the capacity to claim identities, or to grant or deny them to others, is a major source of social power. Securitisation is a major technique by which to achieve precisely this, to imbue or deny certain identities, roles and forms of action. While this is the case, the political move of securitisation can also be resisted. Desecuritisation can be viewed here as a counter-strategy or counter-move to securitisation. Thereby, in non-democratic settings, such as the PRC, securitisation and desecuritisation provide a possible logic to legitimise repression and resistance respectively, while the vocabulary of both of these is drawn from the resonant values, myths, laws and proclamations of the authorities. As an attempt to raise the cost of resistance, authorities resort to framing activists with identities that render them as a threat to certain referent objects which are usually some valuable goals of the regime. In contrast then, activists attempt to desecuritise their movement by invoking identities that are aligned with these same values and so frame their activities as conducive and not as threats to them. Although the construction of identities for a movement serves other important functions too (such as the mobilisation of popular support and providing the participants with a sense of belonging, commitment and legitimacy of collective action) (Gecas 2000, 95-100; Polletta & Jasper 2001), these functions are not mutually exclusive. An effective frame will satisfy all of them. The necessity to respond to the issue of security is, however, forced on activists and becomes a prime constraint on their identity framings. The question of social capital (Bourdieu 1991) is also related to identity framing. It would seem that social movements, almost by definition, lack the socio-political capital needed to achieve desecuritisation, capital which the authorities have stored in their formal positions. The desecuritisation of the movement is nevertheless something that movements must try to effect when confronted with soft repression (denial of their identity frames by the authorities for example) in the form of securitisation (imputations of negative identities thereto).67 This is made possible by direct appeals to various audiences Quoted in Tarrow (1998, 21). As Butler (2006, xix) notes, to charge those who hold critical views with negative labels such as treason, or counter-revolution, does not necessarily aim to question the credibility of the views held, but rather the credibility of those voicing them. Dissent is, at times, quelled by the prospect of receiving such negative social stigmata. Dissent may risk becoming banned, becoming abandoned between life and law (cf., Agamben 1998, 66 67

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through the use of resonant collective and activist identities that carry moral authority and therefore endow their carriers with socio-political capital, such as popular support and approval. Furthermore, movements can also engage in the persuasion of leading authority figures in the authoritarian polity, with the intent to effect their own definition of the movement as acceptable. Through the use of resonant collective and individual identities, activists can also attempt to utilise possible fissures among the authorities and prompt those they deem responsive, to use their socio-political capital to desecuritise the movement and thereby grant its activists the right of social activism.68 Should this desecuritisation strategy fail to remedy the situation, and as the costs of resistance increase, activists may turn to tactics which can be termed reverse-securitisation and counter-securitisation. In a reverse-securitisation discourse, activists reflect back the security arguments of the authorities in the same terms i.e., the adversaries’ identities are framed in exactly the same terms as the movement was framed. In a way, activists will endeavour to present themselves as a ‘matched pair’ with the authorities, a status which could increase their socio-political capital if their move were to succeed.69 Activists can however discard the vocabulary of the authorities, and instead turn to counter-securitisation, where the authorities are still securitised, but the identity frames used are not the same as those that the authorities use. Activists can turn to other reservoirs of cultural resonance prevalent in the wider society or to their own inner discourses.70 While securitisation and desecuritisation are powerful ‘moves’, it is good to keep in mind that just as securitisation is a specific type of media-frame among others (Vultee 2010), securitisation/desecuritisation moves constitute one set of tactics among many in a suppressor’s or resister’s ‘playbook’. It is possible to suppress and to resist without securitisation/desecuritisation, but this would entail different costs than action with successful securitisation/desecuritisation. From this point of view, processes of securitisation are a much smaller group of phenomena than processes of social mobilisation and its suppression in general. Social mobilisation and its suppression can be based on and achieved by a variety of tactics, yet the logic of security is one of the strongest among these moves. 6.1.2.2. Desecuritisation as a Pre-Emptive Move

As was already noted, social movements can use the language of desecuritisation in order to deflect securitisation moves, already even before they occur, or to resist them once they appear. Indeed, antagonistic sides of a conflict usually blame one another, and depict themselves as not constituting a threat. Desecuritisation can, however, also be a tactic in a ‘cold’ conflict, or even before any specific conflict situation arises; desecuritisation can be used pre-emptively. This becomes evident when the foreign policy maxims of the PRC in 28-29). 68 As O’Brien (1994, 105-122) notes, attempting to find political leaders or organisations sympathetic to the protestors’ cause is typical of contemporary protest in China, where protestors know that they need official sanction to succeed in their endeavour, and that they can utilise the differences between the various levels and organisations within the state. 69 This kind of reverse-securitisation was apparent in both the Democracy Wall Movement and the 1989 Student Democracy Movement in China, see Paltemaa & Vuori (2006) and Case III below. 70 This has been evident in the case of Li Hongzhi and the Falungong, see Case IV below.

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the reform period are examined. Here, instead of viewing Chinese foreign policy maxims as a feature of some ‘strategic culture,’71 or strategic culture affecting or facilitating policies, these maxims are viewed as a tactic to avoid conflict, that is, a tactic of avoiding the threshold of securitisation. For example, the Chinese foreign policy slogan of a ‘peaceful rise’72 of the 2000s seems to be a ‘pre-emptive desecuritisation move.’73 This slogan explicitly runs counter to what many theories and beliefs of international relations suggest about eventual conflicts with Alastair Iain Johnston (1995a; 1995b; 1996b; 1998; 1999; see also Burles & Shulsky 2000) disagrees with the ‘pacifist bias’ prevalent in both Chinese political rhetoric and research on Chinese strategic culture. He claims that the Chinese strategic culture is comparable to the ‘para bellum’ nature of strategic culture dominant in the ‘West.’ The PRC leadership has a ‘Mencian’, Realist world-view, which can be compared to French Gaullists and American Republican isolationists. Johnston argues that strategic cultures are not limited to nations, but that there are strategic cultures that span eras and nations. American and Chinese idealists share more in common than American Realists and Idealists for example. Zhang Shu Guang (1999, 29, 44) shares a similar view in stressing that the PRC’s strategic culture is rooted in the history of Chinese warfare. Matti Nojonen (2008) makes a similar argument. However, most Chinese analysts (see for example Zhang T. 2002) reject Johnston’s concept of ‘Cultural Realism’ and argue that traditional Chinese strategic culture has been thoroughly influenced by Confucian non-violence and would be better termed ‘Cultural Moralism’, which refers to a prolonged practice of moralising and a persistent emphasis on morality. However, the current Chinese strategic culture stresses material strength more than cultural and ideational preferences. Therefore it is expressed in the form ‘Defensive Realism’, which is based on ‘active defence’ rather than the ‘passive or static defence’ of the imperial eras (Zhang T. 2002, 73, 87). While Johnston strives towards positivist-type explanations (cf., Johnston 1999), including statistical data from conflict behaviour (cf., Johnston 1998), Chinese mainstream analysts (cf., Zhang T. 2002) seem to be following the line presented in official Chinese security documents and repeat the ‘common knowledge’ of Chinese strategic behaviour, listing a host of ancient Chinese mottoes about ‘harmony’, ‘peace’, ‘benevolence’, and ‘kingly ways’ (Yong 1998, 325). Most Chinese analysts fail to incorporate a truly historical perspective into their conceptualisations. Feng Huiyun (e.g., 2005) however has combined operational code analysis (Leites 1951; George 1969; Holsti 1970) with temporal contexts in his studies of the world views of Chinese foreign policy leaders. Feng argues that which ‘culture’ a decision-maker seems to apply, depends on the international situation e.g., how real a threat of war appears. These conflicting views on Chinese strategic culture as either Cultural Realism or Defensive Realism, reflect the disparity between stated Chinese diplomatic objectives and the apparent realpolitik calculations that have driven most of China’s significant foreign and security policy adjustments. Chinese culture contains elements of both moralism and realism (Nathan & Ross 1997, 21). Incidentally, both are also elements of the Chinese classic The Three Kingdoms (Luo 1999), in that, while realist stratagems win battles, they cannot unify the kingdom. While it is difficult to assess whether Chinese culture is more violent than most others, it seems at least to be not less violent than many; similarly, Chinese states have seldom been reluctant to use force in their defence (Harrell 1990, 1, 7). Foreign military conflicts which China has participated in include the Korean war (195053), border-clashes with India (1962) and the Soviet Union (1969), a ’punitive’ war with Vietnam (1979), and island conflicts over the Paracels (1974) and Sprattlys (1988). In 1954-55 and 1958, China bombarded islands in the Taiwan-strait, and in 1995-1996 conducted missile tests next to Taiwan. These uses of force would seem to be at odds with Chinese claims for benevolence and non-violence. However, all of the conflicts have been interpreted in China as ‘foreign aggression’, which has then compelled the Chinese government to take resolute action. China has also supported the weaker party in 56 percent of the inter-state wars listed by the Correlates of War Project, in accordance with its self-portrayal of ‘anti-hegemonism’ (Singer & Small 1994; see also Johnston 1998; Whiting 2001; Wang 2003). 72 See The Information Office (2005) for the White Paper ‘China’s Peaceful Development Road.’ China has had also other foreign policy maxims that emphasise aspects of peacefulness e.g., the ‘five principles of peaceful co-existence’, and China has proclaimed itself to be working towards a ‘multipolar world’, towards China’s ‘peaceful rise’, and most recently towards a ‘harmonious world.’ 73 The peaceful rise maxim could also be seen as a rebuttal of the US China threat discourse (see e.g., Bernstein & Munro 1997, Timperlake & Triplett 1999, and Mosher 2000), which China has countered with a desecuritisation discourse (see e.g., Yee & Zhu 2000). The official maxim can be read as a pre-emptive move to avoid the China threat discourse becoming official US policy. It is as if the maxim had been developed to rebut theories of hegemonic wars. 71

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rising powers.74 It can be read as a tactic aiming to keep China off the acute security agenda of concerned states; the principle of ‘peaceful rise’ pre-emptively argues that China is not a threat to other states’ security, although China’s ‘comprehensive national strength’, consisting of economic, political and military elements, and China’s capabilities of projecting it even militarily, are increasing. Desecuritisation may then not only be about the termination of an institutional fact, but a move directed at the prevention of the construction, or solidification of an institutional fact.75 This dynamic also seems to be at work in China’s positions on the issues of Chinese migration to Russia’s Far East being securitised in Russia as part of the ‘China threat’76 (see e.g., Lukin 2000 and Wishnick 2008) and the securitisation of human smuggling across the Taiwan Strait (Chin 2008).77 Whilst Russian politicians speak security at home and cooperation in China,78 Wishnick (2008, 84) identifies the Chinese position on the issue of Chinese migration to Russia as being consistently one of desecuritisation: for Chinese officials, the issue of migration is an economic and administrative issue, not an issue of security.79 She (ibid., 96) argues that this kind of asymmetric position may lead to increased tension: even while the Russian side has not implemented drastic measures, but merely incrementally made Chinese immigration more difficult, the Chinese desecuritisation stance may signal a lack of concern or even the ‘masking’ of a deliberate programme. A most fortuitous situation would emerge if both sides emphasised the position of desecuritisation, effectively rendering the issue one of non-security. Like securitisation, desecuritisation tactics can have unintended consequences.

6.2. Perception, Securitisation, and Action – When is Securitisation Successful?

Desecuritisation, whether viewed as a termination of social facts or as a political tactic that works against securitisation, is closely connected to the issue of timing and success. For Wæver, successful securitisation is achieved when the relevant audience80 accepts

For a critical review of the applicability of various models on power-transition and major war to the Chinese case, see Chan (2008). 75 For how these ‘tactics’ have played out vis-à-vis various social movements in the PRC, see Paltemaa & Vuori (2006) and cases III and IV in part two. 76 There are various ‘China threat’ discourses in the US as well as in states in Asia, see Yee (2000). 77 The issue of human smuggling from Mainland China to Taiwan was securitised by Taiwanese officials in the 2000s along three referent objects (Chin 2008, 106-107): societal security, economic security, and public hygiene. Chin (ibid., 111) argues that on the Mainland, Chinese officials securitise the issue of human smuggling within the state bureaucracy while they present a position of desecuritisation concerning the issue to officials on Taiwan. The PRC has had laws that forbid human smuggling since 1979, but the issue received more attention in the early 1990s with more specific legislation put into place. The desecuritisation of the issue regarding people emigrating or being smuggled to Taiwan is however problematic for Mainland officials due to the unique status Taiwan has: The issue is a thorny one for the Mainland, which has to use each opportunity to maintain the ‘one China policy.’ Accordingly, Mainland officials use special terms for people who have illegally moved or been moved to Taiwan and to states the PRC recognises. Similarly, in negotiations between Mainland and Taiwanese officials, the issue is phrased with different terms on different sides of the negotiating table. 78 Good political speakers fuse underlying precontracts into their speeches (Perelman 1996), which means that the same issue can be voiced quite variably for different audiences. 79 Chinese scholars even contest the whole issue by arguing that the Chinese in most instances are not migrants but ‘overseas workers’ (Wishnick 2008, 93) who only want to make some quick money and return to China. 80 The relevant audiences vary from system to system, and from issue to issue. The relevant audience similarly depends on the functions of the security argument: functions of mobilisation, control, deterrence and legiti74

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the security argument to an extent that makes it possible to use extra-ordinary measures to counteract an alleged threat (Buzan et al. 1998, 25), which requires some basis of plausibility (cf., Haacke & Williams 2008). The exact definition and criteria of securitisation presented by Buzan et al. (1998, 25) is the “intersubjective establishment of an existential threat with a saliency sufficient to have substantial political effects.”81 The important criterion here is the “securityness of security” (Wæver 1997a, 24).82 The successful achievement of securitisation speech acts requires both a correct ‘illocutionary grammar’ (Searle & Vanderveken 1985; see Chapter 6.2.1.2.) and a sufficient amount of ‘socio-political capital’ from the speaker:83 in order to invoke the ‘social magic’ of (national) security, the speaker has to be in the correct social position (e.g., chairman of the Central Military Commission) and use the correct form of speech (e.g., ‘We have to take these resolute measures in order to safeguard social stability and unity’).84 Aspects related to the threat itself also facilitate or impede securitisation (issues are easier to produce as threats if similar issues are generally considered to be threats) (Buzan et al. 1998, 32-33). Neither the linguistic nor the social felicity conditions of securitisation are entirely determining or sufficient conditions for successful securitisation. No individual can be guaranteed successful securitisation, as this is up to the audience (Wæver 1997a; 2000): Securitising moves fulfil the criterion of securitisation only after (the relevant) audience(s) accepts it as such; securitisation can never be only imposed, but there is some need to argue one’s case (Buzan et al. 1998, 25). Securitisation can therefore always fail (Wæver 1995; Buzan et al. 1998, 31; cf., Derrida 1988). In contrast to considering linguistic rules as determining, Wæver has argued that due to the social character of securitisation, formal authority is not sufficient to achieve success: securitisation cannot be closed off by finite criteria for success (Wæver 2000a, 286; 2000b, 10).85 It is worth asking what the success of speech acts means, when the possibility of infelicity or the failure of the speech act is always present in speech acts situations (cf., Derrida 1988, 15). Here it is important to remember that the success or failure of speech acts is not a binary division. Already Searle (1969) argued that Austin’s distinction bemacy, may ask for differing audiences. The audience of securitisation can then be key members of the political elite, voters, or a group of militant fundamentalists, for example. Also Mak (2006) and Salter (2008) emphasise that securitisation acts can have multiple and varying audiences. 81 Or in Buzan (2008, 553): “Securitization is when something is successfully constructed as an existential threat to a valued referent object, and that construction is then used to support exceptional measures in response”; or in Wæver (2008b, 582): “Securitization is the discursive and political process through which an intersubjective understanding is constructed within a political community to treat something as an existential threat to a valued referent object, and to enable a call for urgent and exceptional measures to deal with the threat.” 82 The “securityness” refers here to the Sausserian division of signs into the signifier, the signified and the referent. 83 Taureck (2006b) argues that this aspect is actually from the Waltzian root of securitisation theory: the social capital and position of securitising actions should be taken in the model in the way capabilities are distributed in Waltz’s model. 84 As Williams (2007c, 67) notes, ‘security’ is not a property of either speech acts or discourse, or knowledge discourse, or of social organizations; ‘security’ is a function of all three. 85 In order to gain a better understanding of when securitisation is successful, when securitisation is not successful, or when it fails, should also be studied. It seems that more attention is being given to the aspect of failure in securitisation processes, as indicated by some of the examples used in the present study, and also by a group of papers at ISA 2009. See for example Mak (2006); Salter, Mark B. (2008; 2009; 2010); Stritzel (2009); Ruzicka (2009); Vuori (2005; 2010). It is however good to keep in mind that some of the initial texts on securitisation specifically emphasised how securitisation can fail (e.g., Wæver 1989b; Wæver 1995).

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tween felicitous and infelicitous speech acts, fails to distinguish between those speech acts which are successful, but defective, and those which are not even successful. Searle’s (Searle and Vanderveken 1985, 10) solution was to replace Austin’s division of felicity and infelicity, with the possibilities of speech acts being unsuccessful, successful but defective, or successful and nondefective.86 In regard to acts of securitisation, the felicity of speech acts and the success of the political function of securitisation should be similarly separated: achieving a felicitous speech act does not yet necessarily mean that an issue has been successfully securitised, nor does it mean that the politics of securitising an issue have been be ‘successful.’ Further, the success or failure of securitisation as a form of politics is not a binary division either: there can be a continuum of success and failure.87 A security argument can be accepted wholeheartedly and embraced proactively to the extent of even enlisting in the military for example, while the same security argument may fail to obtain ‘genuine’ legitimacy in the privacy of other individual minds. The act may still achieve a degree of success, if the audience adheres to the ‘rituals’ the practice entails and subjugate themselves to its discipline (i.e., apathy equals legitimacy). Alternatively, the utter failure of securitisation acts may lead to a system collapse (Wæver 1995). In all, the criteria of successful securitisation processes as politics depend on the function security arguments are intended to serve.88

See Chapter 6.2.1.2. for the conditions for a successful and nondefective performance of illocutionary acts defined by Searle & Vanderveken (1985). 87 Liow (2006) and Roe (2008) also suggest this. Various audiences can accept the security argument to various degrees, but even when the security nature of an issue has been accepted, there can still be disagreement on how threats should be responded to, or which kinds of real policies the security nature of an issue actually justifies (see also Bendtrath et al. 2007; Salter 2008). Buzan (2008, 553) makes the CopS position somewhat clearer by noting that attempts at securitisation may have widespread success and be quite durable (e.g., the communist/Soviet threat in the US after 1947), or they may have limited success (e.g., US attempts to construe Iraq as a threat), or they may fail (e.g., the erosion of support for the war in Vietnam in the US). This succinct scale could be continued with the ‘epic failure’ of securitisation (e.g., fall of socialism in Europe in the late 1980s) (I owe the term ‘epic failure’ to Mika HarjuSeppänen). 88 Buzan et al. (1998, 25-26) are unclear, or even self-contradictory, in their statements on the criteria of successful securitisation: “We do not push the demand so high as to say that an emergency measure has to be adopted, only that the existential threat has to be argued and just gain enough resonance for a platform to be made from which it is possible to legitimise emergency measures or other steps that would not have been possible had the discourse not taken the form of existential threats, point of no return, and necessity (ibid., 25). […] Securitisation is not fulfilled only by breaking rules (which can take many forms) nor solely by existential threats (which can lead to nothing) but by cases of existential threats that legitimise the breaking of rules (ibid.). […] A successful securitisation thus has three components (or steps): existential threats, emergency action, and effects on interunit relations by breaking free of rules (ibid., 26).” The confusion that can be attributed to these statements, seems to point to the last one. What Buzan et al. are taken to mean in the present study, is that successful securitisation has three components: 1) (the acceptance of) claimed existential threats and 2) a platform for emergency action, 3) which can affect interunit relations. The kind of confusion discussed here is evident in, for example, how Emmers (2007, 112, 115, 123) deals with the issue of failed and successful securitisation. He identifies successful securitisation as a two-stage process in Buzan et al. (1998), with stage one being a securitising move, and stage two being the success of convincing a relevant audience of a referent object being existentially threatened. He then argues that “only then can extraordinary measures be imposed” (Emmers 2007, 112). He further (ibid., 115; see also 2004) argues that successful securitising acts should entail both the convincing of an audience and the adoption of emergency measures. Confusion arises when Emmers (2007, 123) points to the failure of both the Bush and the Blair administration to convince the international community of the security nature of the invasion of Iraq: “even after the start of the hostilities, the US administration failed to convince the wider international community of the necessity and legitimacy of the conflict. […] The process of securitisation therefore failed to move beyond its first stage.” If an agent can take extraordinary measures only after the first two stages of securitisation have been successful (cf., Barthwal-Datta 2009), how can the securitisation be a failure for Emmers when the measures (i.e., 86

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Some of the critique of the CopS points to the imprecision of the theory on the issue of successful securitisation: questions arise in regard to audiences and the success of securitisation (Balzacq 2005; 2010a; McDonald 2008a; Barthwal-Datta 2009; Ciuta 2009; Léonard & Kaunert 2010) as well as on the lack of more general criteria for successful securitisation (Emmers 2003; Emmers 2004; Emmers 2007; Caballero-Anthony et al. 2006; Jackson 2006; Roe 2008).89 Some critics of the CopS approach argue that the focus on speech acts leaves out threats that cannot be voiced, so that the CopS approach is unable to deal with ‘silence’ i.e., that the theory is blind to situations where security arguments could or, as argued by some, should appear (Hansen 2000; repeated by many).90 For example, Wilkinson (2007, 11-12) argues that the CopS’s focus on identity in its discussion of societal security privileges speech acts over other forms of communication e.g., demonstrations.91 Others argue that threats which are real threats to some people, remain off the agenda of states (McDonald 2008a; Barthwal-Datta 2009).92 Some (McDonald 2008a; Trombetta 2008; Ciuta 2009) criticise the CopS’s approach to ‘security’, and the imprecisions or contradictions inherent within their writings. As a significant amount of the types of critique above can be traced to the ambiguities, or even contradictions, of definitions of security used by the CopS,93 and to how securitisation relates to security, it is worth outlining this study’s own reading of the relation of securitisation and security. This reading can, I hope, solve some of the critical points raised, both in terms of the lack of criteria for successful securitisation, and the

invasion) were implemented? For this reason, I argue that this underlines how the ‘three (t)ions’ are separate (see below), and how securitisation for the legitimisation of future or past acts, is a political choice independent of the use of security measures; in the example used by Emmers (2007) the attempt to legitimate forceful action failed, yet forceful action was still taken; force can be used without public legitimacy via securitisation, but this entails different costs than the use of force with public legitimacy via securitisation. This demonstrates how the estimation of success and failure often depends on the function securitisation is intended to serve: different strands of securitisation have different political functions, and thereby also different criteria for estimating success and failure. 89 McDonald (2008a, 575) argues that the CopS approach could not decide when securitisation took place in the UK decision to go to war in Iraq: was it the definition of the issue as an issue of security, when an audience backed this up, or when extraordinary measures were implemented. I would reason that securitisation is a process, often incremental, and that securitisation moves or acts can change shape as the process goes on, as was the case in the examples (securitisation of asylum-seekers in Australia is another) McDonald also uses (see for example the analyses in Part II). Salter 2008 also emphasises the processual nature of securitisation, and argues that the duration of the process is a relevant factor in terms of the success and failure of practical policies that are carried by or tied to the securitisation discourse. The various strands of securitisation can be used to analyse various types of speech acts in these kinds of processes. 90 As Butler (2006, xvii) notes, what cannot be said or shown in part constitutes the public sphere. What can be said/heard and what can be shown/seen sets limits for what can be considered as public, and thereby as viable political actors. 91 These types of criticisms seem to miss that while Austin focused on spoken language for the sake of simplicity, other means of communication beyond speech were never excluded from even the initial formulations of speech act theory. Indeed, for Austin (1975), it was possible to perform illocutionary acts even non-verbally. Similarly, one can make a promise without using the verb ‘promise.’ As Buzan et al. (1998, 33) note, the same applies to securitisation: even though it can, the word ‘security’ does not have to be used in order for an issue to attain the status-function of security, or for the handling of the issue to begin following the logic or rationale of security (cf., Huysmans 2006a, 4). Ciuta (2009, 310) seems to miss this feature of speech acts in his criticism of Buzan et al. (1998). 92 The Critical Security Studies, or ‘Aberystwyth’ approach to security, contradicts the Copenhagen understanding of security as for them security means emancipation which should be striven for (Booth 2005). For CSS, students of security can deem what is ‘real’ security (meaning the security of the individual). 93 Ciuta’s (2009) critique precisely identifies this problem, even though he phrases it in a different manner.

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consequences of ‘silence’ in regard to securitisation.94 Threat perceptions, securitisation, and security action are logically, and at times even practically separate from each other, and this is why security action alone cannot be the criterion for successful securitisation. Further, in my view, the appearance of ‘silence’ in situations where there could be a securitisation discourse, which, for example, might appear in other societies, is good for the theory in terms of the possibility to form and ‘falsify’ empirical assumptions as drawn from the theory and empirical observations in other socio-political contexts. After presenting my reading of the relationship of securitisation and security, I shall illustrate how securitisation discourses may, or may not appear, by investigating whether or not the four contemporary macrosecuritisation discourses ‘postulated’ by Buzan & Wæver (2009) are part of prevalent security narratives in China. Here, I will also reflect on the debates that have revolved around the issue of structure and agency among appliers and developers of securitisation theory. This discussion entails examination of the event and context, as well as the possibilities of deciding in securitisation processes.

6.2.1. Securitisation, Not Security, is a Speech Act

A major criticism of the securitisation framework presented by those appliers who focus on politics outside Europe has been that the criteria or indicators for successful securitisation have been ill defined. Some empirical appliers would prefer a more ‘rationalist’ (e.g., Emmers 2004) or policy oriented approach to securitisation, which could then also have prescriptive applications (Caballero-Anthony et al. 2006).95 In this vein, Jackson (2006, 312) considers the approach too ‘vague’, as it makes it difficult to identify the key indicators of the securitisation processes,96 resulting in difficulties for understanding how, why and when securitisation occurs.97 Like Caballero-Anthony & Emmers (2006), Jackson asks to which degree the language of security has to emerge, how much money needs to be allocated, or whether there have to be substantial administrative changes in order for an issue to be securitised.98 Emmers (2004, 15; see also Emmers et al. 2008,

The ‘Aberystwyth School’ approach to and understanding of security is a fundamental issue and leads to a different kind of analytical and normative approach. See for example Buzan et al. (1998, 33-35), CASE (2006), and Floyd (2007a). 95 While some of the chapters of the edited volume in question include references that go beyond Buzan et al. (1998), the chapter that deals with the limits of securitisation theory (Caballero-Anthony & Emmers 2006) unfortunately does not engage with the various debates about securitisation theory. 96 Buzan et al. (1998, 25) however argue that the study of securitisation does not need indicators beyond the direct analysis of discourse and political constellations. While important parts of analysis, the central focus of securitisation analysis should not be on the actors (ibid., 32), or policy action, but instead the practice of securitisation, “the power politics of a concept” (ibid.), which can be studied directly. 97 Salter (2008, 325) proposes that scholars could measure various things in order to deem how well they are in accordance with the prescriptions of the securitisation speech act: 1) to which degree the issue is part of wider political debates, 2) is the description of the threat accepted or rejected, 3) is the solution accepted or rejected, and 4) are new emergency powers accorded to the securitising agent. In addition to the difficulties of setting thresholds and criteria to assess when a policy or an opinion is in accordance with the securitisation (e.g., when is something accepted or rejected; the basic epistemological problem is not solved by dividing the question into four categories; see the discussion below for why Salter’s fourth aspect cannot be sufficient criteria for successful securitisation); as Edelman (1972) notes, threats in political speech are, most of the time, left on an intangible level. The specifics of security are often left for the technocrats who may, as Salter (2008) also notes, be more successful with some policy initiatives than with others, even though all of them would carry the banner of a relevant securitisation discourse. 98 For Wæver (Buzan et al. 1998, 25) these are not issues, as for him the criteria of successful securitisa94

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62), Caballero-Anthony & Emmers (2006), Jackson (2006, 313; 2008, 158), and Wishnick (2008, 96) all argue that securitisation theory should have criteria to define when securitisation had been practically achieved;99 they are not satisfied with ‘only rhetorical’ securitisation. For them, securitisation would only be achieved after the implementation of ‘extraordinary measures.’100 Roe (2008) argues for the inclusion of two aspects to estimate the success or failure of securitisation viz. identification and mobilisation.101 Through his analysis of the legitimisation of UK participation in the Iraq war, he argues that issues can have an intersubjective security status without actual mobilisation of security measures. The same has been noted by Emmers (2003; see also Caballero-Anthony & Emmers 2006) and Jackson (2006) who argue that securitisation should be deemed ‘successful’ only after policy implementation. Caballero-Anthony & Emmers (2006) identify further limitations, or shortcomings, of the CopS approach. They argue that securitisation theory should explain why decision makers choose to use either securitisation or desecuritisation. They are interested in the motivations and intentions of the securitising actors. They also take into account the rise or decline of levels of existential threats in respect of the outcomes or impacts of securitisation.102 Wæver (2007a), however, emphasises that it is not necessary to deal with what the motivations or intentions of policymakers are, as it is sufficient to consider what they have elected to say and do103 (with which I concur and thus omit those aspects of sincerity when explicating the concept of securitisation below in Chapter 6.3.2.). Indeed, an individual’s ‘real’ (as opposed to conveyed) intentions are not relevant here, but rather speech act analysis is used to model explicit and verifiable formulae for what people con-

tion are met when there is a basis for legitimacy: there do not have to be actual ‘emergency measures’ for an issue to be securitised. At the same time though, mere securitisation moves are not enough either: the relevant audience has to accept the securitisation argument for it to be successful (ibid.). The criteria for this, however, remain unspecified. As I argue here, security measures and their public securitisation are theoretically and at times even practically separate from each other, and thereby the application of security practices cannot be a sufficient criterion for the success of securitisation. 99 The emphasis of action beyond ‘talk’ is also evident in Iver Neumann’s (1998; 2001) further peg of ‘violitisation’ when the threshold of physical violence / killing is passed. For a study of Russian foreign policy in the 1990s through this ‘revised’ framework of securitisation and violitisation, see Wagnsson (2000). 100 This demand is in part a result of securitisation moves in the ASEAN context which have not had policy implications (see e.g., Emmers 2003). Haacke & Williams (2008), however, argue both that transnational crime has not been securitised by ASEAN, except in the case of terrorism, and that it is not necessary to expect policy measures from ‘successful’ securitisation. For them, collective identification of a threat would be enough. Similarly to Abrahamsen (2005) and Emmers (2007), they further argue against a strict distinction of political and security issues: policy agendas are often crowded and security may provide urgency for a matter that is perceived as a problem, yet the language of security may not entail ‘emergency measures’ but rather incremental policies. 101 Alan Collins (2005, 570) identifies three stages: securitisation moves, acceptance of moves, and mobilisation, while for Emmers (2007) there are two stages, and for Haacke & Williams (2008) there are two steps. For Buzan et al. (1998, 26): ‘a successful securitisation has three components (or steps): existential threats, emergency action, and effects of interunit relations by breaking free of rules.’ 102 Buzan (1991, 133-134) already notes how the nature of the threat and its intensity of operation have an effect on whether and when an issue becomes an issue of national security. While Buzan et al. (1998) are vaguer on this question, it seems that the intensity of an issue can have an effect on whether it is securitised or not for them as well. 103 Skinner (2002, 40-43) supports the same kind of approach in his method for studying the history of concepts: historians have to (most of the time) take the stated beliefs of people 1) as being conventionally truthful, 2) at face value, and 3) as a part of a broader network of other conventionally held beliefs.

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vey in their utterances and discourses by conventional (socio-)linguistic means.104 Similarly, to assess differing levels of real existential threats would entail that securitisation analysts could then deem what is a real threat and what is not, contradicting one of the founding principles of the CopS i.e., that security analysts cannot say what is, and what is not, real security without a political move being made.105 Indeed, it seems that CaballeroAnthony et al. (2006) promote normative securitisation studies in the guise of ‘normal’ security analysis. It would seem that some of the criticisms presented above are consequences of conceptual imprecision in the CopS’s various formulations of what security is. For example, in my view, to state “we can regard ‘security’ as a speech act” (Wæver 1995, 55; emphasis in original) is not entirely accurate and easily leads to confusion regarding the relationship of security, securitisation, and the role of speech acts (cf., Balzacq 2005; Stritzel 2007; Ciuta 2009). For example, Felix Ciuta (2009, 312) identifies the problem of taking ‘security’ both as a ‘speech act’ and as ‘survival’ (or more precisely as having the means to repel an existential threat).106 To avoid such confusion, I believe that it would be more precise

For Skinner (2002, 82) speech act analysis is a way to gain a grasp of what people mean and do with what they say (the meaning of words may indeed differ from what people mean by using them). He (ibid., 91-93 ) argues that there are at least three kinds of meanings: 1) what do certain words mean in a certain context, 2) what does something mean to me (i.e., the reader), and 3) what does a writer mean by what is being said in a given text. Knowledge of the intentions and motives of a writer may guide us to understand the relationship of the writer to the text (ibid., 96-97), yet the recovery of intentions does not mean the recovery of ideas in ‘other minds’, it means the recovery of the intersubjective meaning of utterances, be they in the form of hand or sound waves. For Skinner (ibid., 98, 100) what Austin (1975) calls successful uptake equals the understanding of the primary intentions of issuing an utterance (which does not necessarily convey the motivations of issuing the utterance); Wierzbicka (1991, 197-199) emphasises that there are numerous ‘illocutionary devices’ that guide listeners’ or readers’ interpretations of what an utterer is intending to convey. Skinner’s approach to the analysis of meaning in text, entails that the illocutionary intentions and perlocutionary intentions of issuing an utterance may vary and may be separate from each other, in addition to the varying and more unpredictable perlocutionary effects of illocutionary acts: what Skinner’s approach amounts to is that if the conventions of illocutionary acts in a certain socio-cultural situation are known, you can infer what an utterance is intended to do (its illocutionary force, if not the illocutionary act itself), and thereby to infer what the utterer means by doing what is being done. Yet the desired perlocutionary effect is not guaranteed: one’s reassurance can indeed be another’s threat (Edelman 1972, 13). While the ‘death of the author’ announced by Barthes (1979, 73-78), Foucault (1979c, 141-160), and Derrida (1976, 6-100) is an important point regarding literary criticism, it is similarly important not to take this vein of thought too far: the virtual limitlessness of interpretation is more important in some situations than in others (cf., Skinner 2002, 121). While I can interpret a student raising her hand in my class in various ways, the conventions of these kinds of social situations usually allow me to be confident that she is asking for permission to speak, and not confusing me for a Roman Caesar to be hailed. Some utterances are indeed devoid of the sorts of contextual or illocutionary indicators that would allow us to infer the intentions of issuing the utterance, e.g., Nietzsche’s note on forgetting his umbrella as used by Derrida (1979, 122, 123; Derrida 1988, 63). But these types of utterances are what Plato called orphan letters, and they are not the norm in communication. Derrida is correct in insisting that we cannot be sure of what Nietzsche meant, but absolute certainty is too tall an order for scholarship in general. Derrida’s points and approach largely remain philosophical. 105 Indeed, an analyst of securitisation should not take a stand on the existence of elephants, nor on the danger of their stampeding in lecture halls (cf., Footnote 44 of Chapter 3.), but to analyse how these kinds of claims become, or do not become, accepted as issues of security. This of course does not entail that the existence or non-existence of stampeding elephants in a lecture hall would not be a very important facilitating factor (i.e., type of situation) for some audiences’ acceptance or refusal of an argument to securitise a stampede of elephants. 106 Buzan et al. (1998, 21): “Security is about survival.” Wæver (1995, 56): “’Security’ signifies a situation marked by the presence of a security problem and some measures taken in response. Insecurity is a situation with a security problem and no response. […] When there is no security problem, we do not conceptualize our situation in terms of security.” 104

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to express the CopS understanding of security in terms of securitisation speech acts.107 Although many threats, referent objects and means of threat repulsion are based on ‘brute reality’, security is a socially constructed, intersubjective and self-referential practice (cf., Buzan et al. 1998, 24, 31). Contrarywise to what Monika Barthwal-Datta (2009) argues, this would mean that there can be threatening things without them being securitised for even the CopS.108 For just as a matter can be securitised without being a ‘real’ threat, ‘real’ threats can remain without a security label.109 Of interest for the CopS approach are those instances where securitisation moves occur, even though it could be possible that there were no such moves. That there is ‘silence’ in situations where there could, and according to some, also should be securitisation, or security measures, is important for the theory of securitisation as a theory, and it also opens up interesting avenues for research.110 But before delving further into this issue, first an elaboration on why security is not a speech act, but securitisation is. As already noted, the exact definition and criteria of securitisation presented by Buzan et al. (1998, 25) is the “intersubjective establishment of an existential threat with a saliency sufficient to have substantial political effects.” At times, however, Wæver (1995, 55) states that “security can be considered as a speech act”, while at others, that security is a socially constructed, intersubjective and self-referential practice (Buzan et al. 1998, 24, 31),111 where the important criterion is the “securityness of security” (Wæver 1997a, 24). On the other hand, for Wæver (1997a, 14), security signifies (X counts as Y in context C

While the phrase ‘security is a speech act’ (Wæver 1989a; 1995) is the slogan used to distil the CopS approach to its core by both key members, appliers, and critics, on a close reading, some texts of the CopS suggest that my formulation may be what is actually meant: “the process of securitisation is what in language theory is called a speech act” (Buzan et al. 1998, 26); “the process of securitisation is a speech act” (Wæver 2004a, 9). This seemingly slight alteration of the 1995 formulation would seem to support my argument that the underlying idea actually is that securitisation (and not security) is a speech act. While not putting attention on the difference to security being a speech act and securitisation being a speech act, some appliers ‘quote’ the CopS as presenting securitisation as a speech act: for example Mark Neocleous (2006, 366) notes that “’Security’ on this view, is the outcome of ‘securitising speech acts’,” while for Hans Günther Brauch: “security is the result of a speech act (securitization)” (Brauch 2008a, 28); “’securitization’ has been referred to as a ‘speech act’” (Brauch 2008b, 65). 108 “Securitisation is not fulfilled only by breaking rules (which can take many forms) nor solely by existential threats (which can lead to nothing) but by cases of existential threats that legitimise the breaking of rules” (Buzan et al. 1998, 25). 109 For example Roxanna Sjöstedt (2008, 8) points out how there has been a multitude of instances where decision makers have failed to recognise deadly developments as threats to ‘national security.’ Wæver (2008b, 585) also argues that cultures and identities can disappear without this aspect being securitised. 110 If a securitisation discourse cannot be detected where it could be assumed to be prevalent, it could be asked, like Lorraine Elliott (2007), why a matter is ‘undersecuritised’. This would entail the use of different types of methods than securitisation analysis, as it is difficult to analyse something that is not there with tools that are meant to analyse something that is there. These types of questions would not entail deeming whether something is ‘really’ an issue of security, but to perhaps investigate why it is that politicians have elected not to use the language of securitisation in a certain issue. This avenue of investigation would be close to how Skinner (2002, 28-29) would investigate why some thinkers seem to believe in the existence of witches, while others do not. 111 Or: ”national security, that is, the security of the state, is the name of an ongoing debate, a tradition, an established set of practices and, as such, the concept has a rather formalized referent” (Wæver 1995, 48); “the label ‘security’ has become the indicator of a specific problematique, a specific field of practice” (ibid., 50). In this view, securitisation is an operation within the field of practice of security: “The specificity, in other words, is to be found in the field and in certain typical operations within the field (speech acts – ‘security’ – and modalities – threat-defence sequences), not in a clearly definable objective (‘security’) or a specific state of affairs (‘security’)” (ibid., 51). (Emphasis in original.) 107

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[Searle 1969, 35]) the presence of an existential threat and adequate measures to deal with it, while insecurity signifies the presence of a security problem without the means to tackle it. This definition of security means that security is a state of affairs or a status. Further, taking security as a self-referential social practice means that security itself is not a speech act, but both a status-function and/or a practice. While these various formulations or aspects of ‘security’ can elicit confusion, the issue may be clarified by stating that securitisation is a complex speech act, which has a key role in the social construction of security, and thereby in the social practices of security, as well as the achievement of a security status for an issue; a security status is imbued by the perlocutionary effects of this constellation of elementary speech acts (see Chapter 6.3.2. below). This understanding of securitisation and security entails that securitisation is neither necessary, nor sufficient, to achieve ‘security’ (as means to repel an existential threat): there can be activities that can bring about a security logic, or set of practices without explicit securitisation (Huysmans 2006a, 4), and a referent object may remain insecure even after its successful securitisation (if there are no actual means to repel the threat). Thus, the core of securitisation theory is the intersubjective establishment of a security status for an issue. This core is not concerned with threat perceptions, or whether something is really a threat, nor is it concerned with security measures. This understanding of security and securitisation also entails that policy measures or security activities, are insufficient and unnecessary criteria for the success or failure of securitisation (here as a means of public legitimisation).112 Securitisation and security policy action are logically separate, that is, threat perception, securitisation and security policy action are not codeterminant.113 Indeed, as Aristotle (2009, book IX, section 8) noted,114 Contra Caballero-Anthony & Emmers (2006). Collins (2005) identifies three stages of securitisation: securitisation moves, acceptance of these by the audience, and emergency measures. He notes how securitising actors in Malaysia have used the language of security without proposing the use of emergency measures or escalating to the third stage of securitisation. Like Kyle Grayson (2003), he argues that security language may become a ’Frankenstein’s monster’ in the sense that it may unleash unpredicted consequences if left unchecked (cf., the ‘security trap’ identified in CASE 2006; the ‘Golem’ would, however, be a more apt metaphor here, as the ‘monster’ of Frankenstein was an awry scientific experiment, the product of which merely sought the approval and love of its creator, while the Golem was created for protection but turned out to be too unwieldy and disastrous for its creator. I was reminded of this by Paul Whybrow.). For Collins, desecuritisation does not necessarily entail that some issue is not an issue of security, it merely means the handling of the issue through ’regular politics’ and not by using the ’monster.’ For Grayson (2003) and Collins (2005), like for Wæver (1995), security practices may turn out to be counterproductive vis-à-vis the object of concern (the same argument is also made by Elliott 2007). Unlike Collins (2005), Haacke & Williams (2008) identify securitisation as a two stage process: similarly to the argument given here, for them, emergency measures are not necessary for securitisation to have taken place. 114 “Every potency is at one and the same time a potency of the opposite; for, while that which is not capable of being present in a subject cannot be present, everything that is capable of being may possibly not be actual. That, then, which is capable of being may either be or not be; the same thing, then, is capable both of being and of not being. And that which is capable of not being may possibly not be.” (Aristotle 2009, Book IX Section 8.) It seems that a theory of action requires that an actor has a choice (Heiskala 2000, 16); if there is no choice, for Giddens (1984), we would be talking of an agent. This entails that in order for securitisation to be an action, there has to be a possibility to not make a securitisation move, as well as the possibility of making one. Securitisation Studies embarks on its avenues of investigation precisely from the actualisation of this choice, from the “practice of securitisation,” from “the power politics of a concept” (Buzan et al. 1998, 32). Whether or not to securitise is a two-level dilemma for decision makers, similar to the more general ‘security dilemma’ (Jervis 1976, 58-113; Booth & Wheeler 2008b, 137; see also Brauch 2008c): decision-makers have both a dilemma of interpretation and a dilemma of response in making the choice whether or not to securitise an issue. The possible benefits and costs of securitisation have to be weighed as in any political choice (cf., Wæver’s [1995, 80] analogy to raising a bet). Because securitisation is such a powerful political move, it may have major 112 113

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one can have a skill but not use it.115 Referring to Karup Pedersen, Wæver (2007a) blackboxes the intentions and thereby the perceptions of security policy decision-makers.116 While logically there are eight possible situations vis-à-vis the three ‘(t)ions’ i.e., threat perceptions, securitisations (as legitimisation of future acts) and security actions, the CopS has been primarily interested in instances of securitisation. Further, normatively or morally, it might make sense to retain the aspect of threat perception (the assumption is that decision makers should be sincere in their legitimisation arguments), but for the sake of a securitisation analysis, it must be omitted. The eight logically possible combinations of the three binary variables117 are illustrated here by the Daoist symbol of the Taiji (太极, tàijí; the great or ultimate, the origin of the 阴, yīn and the 阳, yáng) and the eight trigrams (八卦, bāguà) that surround it118 (see Figure 6 and Table 1). The Taiji or Yin-Yang symbol in the centre represents or symbolises here the aporia of security (Burke 2002), the inseparability of processes of securitisation and insecuritisation (CASE 2006, 461), and the inside/outside of security/insecurity: freedom and security depend on each other (Huysmans 2006a, 88-89),119 and security promises more than it can deliver (Hietanen & Joenniemi 1982, 35-36); it is not possible inter-unit effects: if there is no securitisation of some issue, this may encourage others to keep moving towards a coercive solution, while securitisation perceived by others as ‘paranoid’ or over-excessive, for example, may lead to increased tension, even into a ‘security paradox.’ While the ‘securitisation dilemma’ and its material and psychological bases (the symbolical ambiguity of security means, and the problem of ‘other minds’) are not the main interests of the CopS, it could be possible to combine the study of securitisation with these more general approaches to security and international relations, as is strongly suggested by the variables considered relevant in analyses via the Regional Security Complex Theory. For a view of how securitisation as action and perception could fit into more elaborate models of system and complexity theory, see Mesjasz (2008, 48-52). 115 Holdcroft (1978, 75) notes how the question of whether someone in a position of authority intends to use their authority when making an utterance, is indeterminate: persons in positions of authority do not always choose to exercise their authority. In addition to not performing an utterance with formal authority when an opportunity for this arises, for example, a formal command may be given with the hope that it will be disobeyed. This entails that while an utterance may conform to the conventions of a certain illocution, its perlocutionary intentions may differ from the usual expectation of intention. The possibilities of such occurrences depend on the formality of the situation: a judge may personally not want to give a severe punishment, yet regardless of intentions, the performance of the utterance will have a ‘conventional outcome.’ Speech acts may indeed have unintended consequences. Marina Sbisà (2001, 1809) also emphasises that in certain situations speech acts may be performed merely to ‘fulfill one’s role’, and that the intention or commitment to perlocutionary goals does not necessarily affect the conventional illocutionary effect. Yet, if the lack of such commitment is marked somehow, in less formal situations, this may result in an unhappy situation. 116 Human causation is often equated with psychological causation. Social determinants of behaviour are however often more interesting as well as accessible, as opposed to psychological ones. This is why Itkonen (1983, 13) argues that the question of how social determinants are internalised in the individual psyche may safely be ignored. Just as the八卦(bāguà) can be increased, the logical possibilities of combinations may be increased, if instead of a binary division, multiple values for the variables were to be proposed (e.g., successful but defective, partially successful securitisation etc.). 117

The八卦(bāguà) are eight diagrams (☷☶☵☴☳☲☱☰)used in Daoist cosmology to represent a range of interrelated concepts. The eight symbols consist of three lines, each either ‘broken’ or ‘unbroken’, which represent a 阴-line (yīn) or a 阳-line (yáng) respectively. These symbols are often referred to as trigrams in English. In the Book of Changes (易经, Yì Jīng) the Taiji was surrounded by 64 pairs of trigrams (六十四卦, liùshísì guà), and was used in Daoist fortune telling and philosophy to explain how from 阴 and 阳 come the 八卦, and from these the 六十四卦. 119 Whilst today, security is often depicted as limiting freedom, as security in a way blocks or ties down, for Montesquieu, for example, “political freedom consists in security, or at least in the opinion which one has of one’s security” (quoted in Rothschild 1995, 61). 118

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to have a completely secure inside or a completely insecure outside, security entails insecurity (Walker 1993; Bigo 2001; CASE 2006).120 The trigrams represent the binary possibilities vis-à-vis the three ‘(t)ions’, which are also presented in table-form (Table 1).121 What is important is that the various combinations of the three variables entail different costs for decision makers or securitising actors: for example, security action without legitimisation in the form of securitisation may be costly in terms of trust or popular support.122 While logically there are eight combinations of these three variables, Securitisation Studies is most interested in situations where the ‘social magic’ of security is ‘cast’ even when this is not logically a necessary condition (i.e., C, E, G, and H in Table 1). Furthermore, Securitisation Studies is not concerned with what decision-makers or securitising actors ‘really’ think, or whether or not they are sincere (i.e., the inner ring of perception is removed). This means that the possibilities are reduced to four,123 and of original interest out of these combinations have been securitisation with no security action, and securitisation with security action. The eight logically possible combinations entail that the existence of actual policy consequences following securitisation moves, cannot be used either as a sufficient or a necessary criterion for the success of securitisation: security action is possible with or without either successful or infelicitous securitisation. In sum, security action or shifts in security policies may be an indicator of The symbol can also represent the relationship of potestas (the normative and juridical) and auctoritas (the anomic and the metajuridical) that Agamben (2005, 86) identifies as the antagonistic, yet functionally connected elements of ‘Western’ legal orders; the symbol could represent the ‘holding together and articulation of the two aspects of the juridico-political machine that institutes a threshold of undecidability between anomie and nomos, between life and law, between auctoritas and potestas.’ For Agamben (2005, 88), the symbol would be the political, the nexus between violence and law. Within IR, the symbol could also represent the relationship between political realism and idealism. 121 The perceptions of threats, means of securitisation, as well as the types of security action can vary greatly along with sectors and actors of security. Even the division of private and public securitising actors (Wilde 2008) makes this evident. In the case of a family, for example, a perceived threat could be the rumoured execution of people with a certain ethnic background that the family also shares, occurring in a nearby location. This perception of threat could be securitised within the family by arguing that the family must leave their home before it is too late. Security action here could be the seeking of refuge, or the sending away of the family’s children, even through the means of ‘illegal emigration.’ Such processes could be difficult to trace with the conventional methods deployed by students of securitisation, but for example, interviews of refugees might be a way to discover whether or not such ‘private’ securitisation moves take place in real situations (Wilkinson’s [2010] method to study securitisation that draws on ethnography could be one avenue to approach these kinds of investigations). Conversely, the study of processes of public securitisation is easier, as there are more traces of such processes. A government could, for example, perceive its own citizens of foreign descent as a threat in a crisis situation. This kind of perception could be securitised by, for example, arguing that such individuals’ loyalties may not lie with their new state, or that foreign agents may easily infiltrate such groups. Security action in such situations could, for example, be their internment. These two examples illustrate how securitisation can be possible for both private and public actors, but which may entail different difficulties vis-à-vis the empirical study of such processes. They also show, however, that the three aspects are not deterministic, but that each is logically independent. A family could be mendacious as to the reason their children are being sent away, or a claim of an existential threat can be used to legitimate ‘illegal immigration’ without there being a genuine threat perception for example. Likewise with public political machinations. 122 While all of the combinations are logically possible, it seems that certain combinations are more likely than others. For example, while ‘insincere securitisation’ may be an even likely tactic for a politician, ‘insecure securitisation’ may be a risky proposition. Securitising threats which cannot be repelled may lower public morale and make the securitising actor seem weak. This may be one factor which has worked towards keeping difficult issues such as the abolishment of nuclear weapons and climate change off the top of states’ security agendas. 123 I.e., no securitisation with no security action, no securitisation with security action, securitisation with no security action, and securitisation with security action. 120

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Figure 6: The eight possible combinations vis-à-vis threat perception, securitisation (as legitimising future acts) and security action.

A B C D E F G H

Perception of Threat

Securitisation

Security Action

☲ Insincere or ulterior securitisation

☶ Securitised insincere or ulterior security

☰ Non-security or asecurity

☴ Insincere or ulterior security

☱ Perceived insecurity

☵ Sincere security without securitisation ☳ Perceived insecurity with securitisation

☷ Sincere security with securitisation

Table 1: The eight logically possible situations vis-à-vis threat perception, securitisation and security action. 139

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successful securitisation of one or another strand, but such shifts cannot be either sufficient or necessary conditions for success.

As the above discussion has shown, there have been many criticisms of the CopS approach which derive from empirical analysis that views securitisation as successful only after policy implementation. To define the success of securitisation on implementation of policies would, however, require a vast amount of criteria for success e.g., when a policy would have been implemented to a degree to satisfy the criteria for successful securitisation. Indeed, instead of focusing on policy implementation, it is better to separate the felicity, uptake and other linguistic aspects of successful securitisation from the success of the whole securitisation process and the success of the politics of securitisation. This means that a speech act of securitisation can be successful, but that the process and the politics of securitisation may still fail. The assessment of these aspects of security policies has not been discussed within the original securitisation framework, and no readily available methods to tackle this exist. Perhaps due to the difficulty of defining these kinds of criteria, and the operationalisation of them being beyond most research projects, Wæver (e.g., 1995) has often emphasised that as an open social process, securitisation cannot be closed off by finite criteria i.e., no one can be guaranteed the success of securitisation. In my view, the success in achieving a security status for an issue, and even the mobilisation of concomitant security measures, should be separated from the assessment of the success or failure of the politics of securitisation, whether this is taken to entail the intersubjective establishment of a status function, or the mobilisation of policies. The success and failure of the politics of securitisation depends on factors beyond individual samples of discourse. This means that this kind of analysis requires methods beyond the textual analysis of security speech. The analysis of text through the securitisation framework can be used to deem whether or not a securitisation discourse is manifest in it (value 1 or value 0). The success or failure of securitisation moves requires analysis of the political and social context beyond the specific text (e.g., how political constellations and interunit relations are affected) (value 1 or value -1) e.g., opinion polls, demonstrations and reactions of other units. Assessment of the success of the politics involved entails the deployment of even further methods of analysis. Indeed, the theory of securitisation is not a theory of everything; it is a constitutive theory of how issues receive the statusfunction of security.124 The theory of securitisation can be combined with other social theories in order to enhance our understanding of, for example, mobilisation, suppression and resistance. This is something that some critics of the approach seem to have overlooked; some seem to try to include all relevant aspects of politics into the theory of securitisation, when a better tactic would be to combine the theory of securitisation with other theories and thus discern what insights securitisation theory might provide rather than vice versa. This is also suggested by Regional Security Complex Theory: whether or not a matter is securitised, is first used to deem whether a security complex exists, or not. After the identification of a complex, other means are used to assess it. If securitisation theory can be combined or connected to regional security complex theory in this way, I argue that securitisation theory can be combined to other political theories or analytical frameworks too. See Paltemaa & Vuori (2006), Vultee (2010), and Chapter 6.1.2. on how frame theory can be combined with securitisation theory (Eriksson 2001a suggests a similar combination), and Limnéll (2009) and Léonard & Kaunert (2010) on how Kingdon’s (2003) agenda setting theory, can be combined with securitisation theory. 124

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6.2.2. The Appearance and Non-Appearance of Securitisation Discourses: Macrosecuritisation with Chinese Characteristics

That the CopS is interested in cases where there is ‘security talk’ has raised criticism from scholars who argue that some unvoiced threats should be securitised; the CopS approach has been criticised as unable to deal with ‘silence’ i.e., that the theory is blind to situations where there could or, as argued by some, should appear the voicing of security arguments (Hansen 2000). Some critics (see for example Kent 2006; Jackson 2006; Wilkinson 2007; Barthwal-Datta 2009) of the CopS approach which focus on the lack of gender and the exclusion of ‘silence’ in the original formulation of securitisation theory, often refer to Lene Hansen’s (2000) article on the problem of Pakistani women being unable to voice their lack of security, due to the hegemonic discourses which silence them.125 Some of the critics who attack the CopS from this angle seem to be wishing to be able to articulate ‘real’ security threats. The problem this understanding brings with it is, firstly, the challenge to deem what is and what is not a real security threat, regardless of what the referent object of security would be (this lengthy debate need not be reiterated here).126 Another problem is the paternalism of ‘speaking for the silenced.’ For example, some feminist scholarship has been criticised for speaking for ‘Third World’ women, thereby also depriving them of their own voice and agency (see e.g., Butler 2006, 41, 47). Speaking security is never ‘innocent’, even when the intentions accord with so called ‘good’ morals e.g., equality and non-violence. Indeed, “any attempt to define other people’s security for them necessarily excludes those people’s own constructions of meaning” (Kent 2006, 347; cf., Hansen 2000; Ramiah 2006). Whether something should be securitised or not is a normative, ethical and political question. Scholars can also deal with these types of issues and make interventions, but in these situations it has to be recognised that such are political moves, not ‘scientific’ results. Indeed, Ciuta (2009, 323) is correct in noting how prescriptive observations cannot be justified analytically, but only normatively. Here though, I would like to argue that from a scholarly and theoretical point of view the existence of ‘silence’ on possible ‘security issues’ is positive for the theory: securitisation does not appear everywhere, not even everywhere where it could.127 We can expect a securitisation process to emerge – and this may prove to be a false hypothesis; such a possibility of ‘falsification’, in my view, increases the explanatory potential of the theory. While many scholars (e.g., McDonald 2008a) use Hansen’s argument to criticise the CopS approach for dismissing those without voice or power, Jackson (2006) points out how the CopS approach provides an accurate description of the realities of Central Asia: it is almost impossible for people to raise concerns in an authoritarian setting; the CopS framework enlightens us on why some issues receive less attention than others. That ‘the people’ may not have a voice in these issues is not the ‘fault’ of the CopS, but a feature of the political order. Silence is also not as definitive on what it means or entails in regard to securitisation. Silence may, for example, indicate that security measures have been successful: there is no longer a need to maintain the security reality of an issue very ‘loudly’ as the threat has been secured and is now silenced; silence may be the effect of successful securitisation, a result of government repression, for example. Silence may also indicate that an issue is so institutionally securitised that it no longer needs to be voiced in particular situations; security may have become the dominant logic in a field of practice. 126 See the ‘Eriksson Debate’ in Footnote 11 of the Introduction above. 127 In respect of theories of action, this means that securitisation is a choice, and thereby an action; securitisation is not deterministic, but a (political) choice (but not always a decision). 125

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I demonstrate this kind of ‘confirmation’ and ‘refutation’ of empirical hypotheses with a digression into Chinese macrosecuritisation discourses.

Buzan and Wæver (2009; see also Buzan 2006 and 2008) have argued that at certain times higher order securitisations embed themselves into most political discourses and practices in a way that incorporates, aligns and ranks more parochial securitisations beneath them. This was the case, for example, during the Cold War, when the struggle between the two ideological camps overrode many other security concerns and discourses.128 Indeed, it seems that macrosecuritisations and their consequently ‘macro’ desecuritisation define, or at least provide, hegemonic labels for contemporary political eras, viz. the ‘Cold War’, ‘post-Cold War’, and the ‘Global War on Terror’ (GWoT). Perhaps consequently, Buzan and Wæver (2009) identify or ‘postulate’ four such higher order securitisation processes, namely ‘Cold War’, ‘Anti-Nuclear discourse’, ‘Global Climate Change’, and ‘Global War on Terror’. While macrosecuritisations label and may dominate security discourse, these larger constructions may also be vulnerable.129 This is evident, for example, in the failure to transform the dominant security discourse in Indonesia after the fall of Suharto. During the Cold War, the macrosecuritisation of socialism in the ‘capitalist camp’ worked quite well in Indonesia, and the traditional ‘vernacular’ of security could be stretched to cover socialism as the representative of ‘bad elements’ working against the societal order there (Bubandt 2005). This has, however, not been the case with the ‘Global War on Terror’: the new US-led macrosecuritisation has not worked in the same way as the Cold War macrosecuritisation, even though they are still framed in accordance with local traditions and resonant values.130 As Bubandt (ibid.) notes in the case of Indonesia, higher level securitisations (e.g., GWoT) do not always triumph over lower level securitisations, be they national, international, or macro-level. Indeed, no one is guaranteed the success of securitisation (Wæver 1995; 1997a; 2000), not even global power macrosecuritisers. While Buzan and Wæver (2009) discuss the global level, state level discourses can also have macrosecuritisations which bundle horizontal securitisations and provide them with a ‘higher’ status. In China, although Mao’s securitisation moves can be read as a part of the overriding macrosecuritisation of the era, and macrosecuritisation scripts

Buzan & Wæver (2003) argue, for example, that the Asian security complexes were overlaid by the dominant bipolar struggle during the Cold War, and the results of this can still be seen in the contemporary security architecture of the region. 129 In addition to vulnerability, even the breadth of the legitimisation effects of even successful (macro)securitisations may fluctuate. This is evident for example in the US securitisation of ‘cyberthreats’: here the threat of cyberattacks fluctuated from state attacks (pre-9/11) to terrorist attacks (just after 9/11), back to state attacks (quite soon after 9/11) (Bendrath et al. 2007). The GWoT temporarily subsumed the ‘cyberthreat’ securitisation, but it was deemed that a return to ‘regular’ state (i.e., ‘axis of evil’) threats, was more conducive for the securitisation of cyberthreats. Salter (2008) also emphasises variances in the effectiveness of accepted understandings of threats to specific policy initiatives. Stritzel (2009) deals with these types of issues as a translation of threat images. See also Nissenbaum & Hansen (2009) for discussions on ‘cyberthreats’ and securitisation theory in general. 130 For example, Emmers (2003) notes that the GWoT has not succeeded beyond rhetorical commitment at the official level within ASEAN. The different level of success of the two macrosecuritisations becomes quite apparent through an example of the politics of T-shirts. Timo Kivimäki (2007) has observed an Indonesian security officer putting on an Osama bin Laden T-shirt after work. While tacit support of bin Laden would seem tolerable in contemporary Indonesia even for security officers, donning a Che Guevara T-shirt under the Suharto regime would have quite likely had dire consequences for a similar officer. 128

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provided many moves and processes with vocabularies and categorisations, macrosecuritisation as a phenomenon or category of practice alone does not explain these securitisations. The question then becomes: how are macrosecuritisations, ‘watchwords’, and the institutionalisation of certain securitisations linked together? Buzan & Wæver (2009) argue that various ‘niche’ securitisations can be brought together into a macrosecuritisation framework. Didier Bigo’s concept of security continuums131 also seems relevant here. Specific issues can be joined together both horizontally, and in the case of macrosecuritisations also vertically, by which parochial and local issues can be provided with a macro or even global significance. The use of watchwords, or institutionalised securitisation (Buzan et al. 1998, 27-29), endows these continuums with ‘master signifiers’ (Buzan & Wæver 2009) which reduce the need for elaborate arguments about the securityness of specific cases. Indeed, the continuous use of watchwords (like ‘counter-revolution’, ‘socialism’, or ‘terrorism’) can be seen as an indicator of a successfully institutionalised securitisation.132 While the practice of ‘grafting’ new issues or tokens onto institutionalised security is quite evident as a practice, how do the four candidates, or hypotheses, for macrosecuritisation status postulated by Buzan and Wæver fare in the case of China? Can the ‘Cold War’, ‘Anti-Nuclear discourse’, ‘Global Climate Change’, and ‘Global War on Terror’ be deemed as overriding securitisation discourses or themes in China?133 When we examine the first of these discourses, we notice that, overall, the Cold War is the paragon of Buzan and Wæver’s concept of macrosecuritisation (cf., Buzan’s 2006 article:

The concept of security continuums comes from Bigo’s (1994, 164; see also 2000; 2001; 2002) studies of the internal security field in Europe. In a security continuum, a general feeling of unease or insecurity is linked to a group of issues e.g., terrorism, organised crime and immigration, as they are often listed together in official European documents without any overarching justification for doing so. Thereby, as a field effect, the fear of terrorism is grafted on to issues of migration, for example. Security continuums can also be found in the Asian context, for example, in Singapore where piracy and terrorism have been conflated in public official statements (Young & Valencia 2003; Mak 2006) – a move which failed for the International Maritime Bureau in Malaysia but succeeded for the Mahathir administration which linked pirates, foreign terrorists, and illegal migrants (Mak 2006). Accordingly, Indonesian undocumented labourers have also been successfully linked with criminal activities and even terrorism as ‘existential threats’ in Malaysia (Liow 2006). Illegal migration has also been connected to terrorism in Australia (Emmers 2004; Huysmans 2005; Emmers 2007; McDonald 2008b). In Indonesia, cross-border crimes such as terrorism, money laundering, and drug trafficking have been linked, while illegal trade in small arms and weapons is securitised only in connection to national integration. ASEAN links other forms of transnational crime together with terrorism in its policy declarations (Haacke & Williams 2008). In China, the issue of North Korean immigration has also been framed in terms of security by the PLA (Curley 2004, 18), but the ‘Strike Hard’ and the campaign against the ‘three evils’, are the cases in point to discuss security continuums in contemporary China, which will be examined in more detail later below. The partial successes and failures of the instances of securitisation analysed by the authors referred to here seem to suggest that security continuums can be used to facilitate securitisation moves. Indeed, it is easier to securitise some types of issues than others. Linking some issue into a continuum of prevalent security issues provides a sense of plausibility for the claims of the securitisation actor who is intent on labelling a new issue or token as a security problem. The securityness of one issue can be ‘grafted’ onto another. For example the CCP’s ‘war on drugs’ (see Dutton 2005, 155-161) used the category of counter-revolution to link drug use and trade to this institutionalised securitisation. 132 For Chinese watchwords and master signifiers indicating institutionalised securitisation, see Chapter 7.1.1. 133 These candidates are used here to show how some hypothesised discourses may appear empirically (1), while others may not (0). An example of a securitisation discourse that appears, and has interunit effects, yet fails (-1) is discussed in Chapter 9. 131

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is the GWoT the new Cold War?). States indeed had to align themselves along or explicitly outside (i.e., the Non-Aligned Movement) the lines of the two inclusive universalist ideologies formed around the camps of the ‘West’ and ‘East’ during the Cold War. Formative speeches and documents after the Second World War already showed the formation of this bipolar constellation. Harry S. Truman (1963 [1947]) distilled the emerging constellation in his ‘Truman doctrine’: “at this moment in world history nearly every nation must choose between alternative ways of life.”134 This division was also evident in Mao’s (1949a) speech to the first Central Committee, in preparation for the declaration of the People’s Republic (see Chapter 7.1.2.): Mao clearly leaned to one side in the early constellation of the Cold War. Just as with the rest of Asia, Chinese security arguments and visions were largely overlaid and aligned by those of the US and the Soviet Union. However, China in the Cold War demonstrates the vulnerability of macrosecuritisations. Buzan & Wæver (2009) utilise the Sino-Soviet split as an example of this when ‘parochial’ securitisations begin to be disaffected by the macrosecuritisation or withdraw from it. In its early stages, the PRC leaned to one side and consequently received massive support from the Soviet Union. However, relations between Stalin and Mao were strained from the start and this tension, inflamed by further problems, led to the Sino-Soviet split in the late 1950s. During the ‘polemics’ (1965; Gittings 1968) between the two Communist Parties, it was quite evident that both Soviet and Chinese securitisations were pulling away from the two inclusive universalist macrosecuritisations of the Cold War (Chen 2001; Lüthi 2008). While the socialist camp was being split, anti-American rhetoric retained its strength in China even during the heights of the Sino-Soviet split when the Soviet Union was formally declared as China’s greatest enemy (Barnouin & Yu 1998, 98). However, the potential for change in the macrosecuritisation constellation was already evident in the institutionalisation of Khrushchev as a harbinger of security issues both in the US and the PRC of the 1960s. After an armed border conflict with the Soviet Union in 1969, Chinese assessments considered the situation of ‘fighting with two fists’ as unfavourable for China.135 This opened the way for closer Sino-US relations with the Nixon administration, negotiated by Henry Kissinger.136 Here Carl Schmitt’s (1996) analysis of friends and enemies seems to hold water: Sino-US relations were at their best in the 1970s and 1980s when In his speech after the 2001 terror attacks, George W. Bush (CNN 6.11.2001) aimed for the same kind of universality in his macrosecuritisation move on terrorism: “You are either with us, or you are with the terrorists.” 135 This shift also had domestic dimensions. Lin Biao issued an emergency six-point directive ‘On Strengthening Defences and Guarding against an Enemy Surprise Attack’, which placed the armed forces on red alert, increased weapons production, and ordered commanders into combat positions. Lin’s apparently autonomous order angered Mao, and was countermanded. This episode that demonstrated how the military could be mobilised without Mao’s orders, perhaps put fuel on the fire of suspicions that would eventually lead to the fall of Lin Biao and to the ’Lin Biao Affair’, see Chapter 8. below. While the fear of losing control of the military may be one explanation for why Mao did not support the large scale mobilisation of military units, MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 319) provide another: instead of costless political mobilisation, high profile military mobilisation could actualise the ‘spectre’ of Soviet attack. In terms of securitisation theory, when shifted to the level of practice, the securitisation of the Soviets could escalate further; the political functions of a domestic political mobilisation based on an external threat could spill over into inter-unit relations and become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Indeed, with a ‘matched pair’, securitised interaction can become unmanageable. 136 See Burr (1999) for the transcripts of the negotiations between the Chinese and Kissinger and Nixon. 134

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they shared a common adversary in the Soviet Union.137 China no longer fought with two fists, but now deemed Soviet Imperialism as worse than US imperialism.138 The difficulty in comprehending the Sino-Soviet split until its very visible practical implications on the one hand, and the devastation of the ‘Nixon shock’ of 1971-1972 on the other, attest to the power of the Cold War macrosecuritisation. China’s ideological disagreements with the Soviet Union and realpolitical calculations with the US demonstrate that China was indeed engaged in Cold War macrosecuritisations and it was a major threat for both camps. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, this constellation changed again and the 1990s became a period of, at times, very tense Sino-US relations.

In respect of the second macrosecuritisation discourse i.e., the anti-nuclear discourse, as Buzan & Wæver (2009) have noted, during the Cold War the anti-nuclear movement was not successful in achieving the abolition of nuclear weapons. While the level of the claimed threat was global and all-inclusive the relevant audiences in the leaderships of the nuclear states were not convinced to a sufficient degree to relinquish their nuclear weapons.139 Nuclear powers retained lower level securitisations at the top of their agenda, which has meant that the universal character of the anti-nuclear macrosecuritisation suffers, in a way, from the ‘tragedy of the commons.’ According to Buzan and Wæver (2009), the ability to generate successful macrosecuritisations is not only dependent on power, but also on the construction of a higher level referent object capable of appealing to and also mobilising the identity politics of a range of actors. It seems that it is also more difficult to mobilise actors around a unity of positives than a unity of negatives e.g., the Mao’s appeasem*nt with the US flew right in the face of the polemics (1965) he had been conducting with the Soviets; Mao himself contradicted one of the major stated reasons for launching the Cultural Revolution (see Chapter 8. below). It seems that beyond the veneer of ideological disagreements, the polemics and the Sino-Soviet split were about more than this (Lüthi 2008). PLA marshals had already indicated the benefits of improved relations with the US in the latter half of the 1960s, but MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 320) argue that Lin Biao’s ‘first order’ was the trigger that launched Mao on the path to improve relations with the US; if the emergency situation with the Soviets had continued, this would have only increased the importance of the PLA in politics, which had already increased as a result of the Cultural Revolution, and thereby also increased the importance of Lin Biao. Retaining his unrivalled position required desecuritisation away from an emergency in the military field, so that the party could once again gain control of the gun rather than vice versa. Improved relations with the US would remove the acute threat from the south as well as providing support against the threat from the north. 138 Interestingly, China was also not in alignment in the macrosecuritisation constellation of its own Three Worlds theory: while proclaiming to be part of the Third World, Sino-Indian relations were strained at best after the late 1950s and the occupation of Tibet, actually boiling into an armed border conflict in 1962. 139 The Cold War also witnessed major successes in the limitation of nuclear arms, and especially in the prevention of the spread of nuclear weapons. The successes include the Non-Proliferation Treaty, the Partial Test-Ban Treaty, and the various limitation treaties between the U.S and the Soviet Union. Further, the role of civil society and the anti-Nuclear peace movement cannot be discounted in the 1970s and 1980s discussion on the placement of intermediate range nuclear missiles in Europe. The failure of the anti-nuclear macrosecuritisation is evident in that two decades after the end of the Cold War none of the five NPT-recognised nuclear powers has relinquished nuclear weapons (France and the UK for example legitimising their arsenal with terrorist threats, see e.g., Blair 2006), three states have conducted nuclear tests after the Cold War ended (India, Pakistan, the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea) and Israel is widely thought to possess nuclear weapons. The US unilaterally abolished the ABM-treaty and is building missile defences. The CTBT has not been ratified by either the US or China, and the NPT-renewal process has also run into difficulty. Similarly the Moscow Treaty did not actually reduce the number of nuclear arms, but only those on active duty. However the Atomic Scientists reset their ‘Doomsday Clock’ one minute back to six minutes to midnight in January 2010 in the hope that the negotiations between the Obama and the Medvedev administrations effects a new treaty with actual reductions in the number of warheads and means of delivery. 137

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blame for the initiation of a nuclear holocaust is easier to pin on ‘them’ rather than ‘us.’140 The absence of a ‘matched-pair’ in the anti-nuclear securitisation discourse has been an impeding factor in this process. What has been China’s policy alignment in terms of anti-nuclear macrosecuritisation, mainly operated by Western non-governmental organisations and the transnational networks they have been able to construct?141 The PRC acquired nuclear weapons in 1964 because its leadership believed that its alliance with the Soviet Union did not guarantee China’s security (Lewis & Xue 1988; Johnston 1996a; Freedman 2003). Due to the resource constraints the PRC faced, the leadership believed it necessary to also develop a self-reliant dissuasion strategy through nuclear deterrence. It seemed a more viable option than deterrence through either defence or conventional forces.142 Yet more incentives were the implicit and explicit nuclear threats made by both the US and the Soviet Union.143 The role of nuclear weapons is not restricted to pure military calculations and deterrence however. Chinese statesmen are often quoted as affirming that nuclear weapons have always played a more political than military role for China.144 In the Chinese analysis, the question has been of a power resource: Germany and Japan have gained in importance and influence through their economic power, while the UK and France are only able to cling to a major power status through their nuclear forces.145 The emphasis on nuclear weapons as political tools is also evident in China’s consistent argument that it developed nuclear weapons to counter the hegemonic aspirations of the superpowers, and that it supports the total prohibition of nuclear weapons. Thus, even here, an attitude that goes against the anti-nuclear macrosecuritisation is present;

The paranoid attitude of the Cold War is evident in McNamara’s anecdote from the era of negotiating the Partial Test Ban Treaty: US military representatives argued that the Soviets would cheat by testing on the dark side of the Moon (The Fog of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara, directed by Errol Morris 2003, Sony Pictures Classics). It seems that President Kennedy’s Secretary of State McNamara was eventually convinced of the anti-Nuclear macrosecuritisation together with an impressive cast of ‘cold warriors’ (see e.g., Schultz et al. 2008). 141 For studies and histories of non-governmental anti-nuclear movements, see for example Wittner (1984; 1993; 1998; 2003) and McCrea and Markle (1989). 142 While the field of nuclear weapons was omitted from the various rectification campaigns of the Cultural Revolution, Mao’s emphasis on red being better than expert, had had negative effects on China’s engineering field (see Paltemaa & Vuori 2009). Deng Xiaoping taking charge in a pragmatic vein was quickly reflected in the field of nuclear and missile technologies as well. In 1975, China conducted a series of successful satellite launches, which culminated in 1980 in the launch of China’s intercontinental ballistic missile, Dongfang 5 (Lewis & Xue 1988, 213-214). While China achieved a credible second strike capability around this time (Sagan & Waltz 1995), official threat assessments were already reduced by 1975. Even though world war between the superpowers was still deemed inevitable, China being involved in a war within the next three to five years was considered as unlikely (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 388-389). 143 Displaying too much restraint from Mao’s point of view, the Russians hesitated in backing the Chinese with their nuclear umbrella when China was shelling Quemoy in 1958; Khrushchev made a nuclear threat against the US only after the crisis had, in effect, subsided (Christensen 1996; Freedman 2003, 264). This hesitation pushed the Chinese towards even more concentrated efforts to construct their own bomb, which exacerbated Russian perceptions of Chinese recklessness in the question of nuclear war. It even seems that the Soviets indicated to some of the European Socialist states in the 1960s the possibility of a ‘surgical strike’ on China (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 313), but the US responded that it would not tolerate a nuclear attack on the PRC. 144 For example Mao’s comment “the atomic bomb is not so big, but if you do not have it, you are not counted. OK, let’s make some such bombs” (quoted in Liu 1999), illustrates the acknowledgement of the political power of nuclear weapons but is in stark contrast to the concerns of the anti-Nuclear macrosecuritisation. 145 For an example of this kind of argumentation see Liu (1999). 140

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the Chinese criticism of nuclear weapons has been more about nuclear weapons as tools of imperialism rather than as an existential threat to humanity. In the words of Mao (1969 [1946]):146 “The atom bomb is a paper tiger which the US reactionaries use to scare people. It looks terrible, but in fact it is not. Of course, the atom bomb is a weapon of mass slaughter, but the outcome of a war is decided by the people, not by one or two new types of weapon.” The line continued when China announced its first nuclear test (Xinhua 16.10.1964): “The atomic bomb is a paper tiger. This famous saying by Chairman Mao Tse-tung is known to all. This was our view in the past and is still our view. China is developing nuclear weapons not because it believes in their omnipotence nor because it plans to use them. On the contrary, in developing nuclear weapons, China’s aim is to break the nuclear monopoly of the nuclear powers and to eliminate nuclear weapons.” While the aim of abolishment is promoted here, it is not argued for with any threat to humanity or civilisation; the issue is closer to desecuritisation on the issue of such weapons as a threat to humanity as such.147 After the Cuban missile crisis, while both the political leaderships of the US and the Soviet Union were acutely aware of the dangers of the nuclear Damocles sword that hung over their heads and thus in that sense were, at times, aligned with the anti-nuclear macrosecuritisation, Mao remained adamant in his dismissal of nuclear war as a disaster for China. Mao’s belittlement of nuclear weapons was in accordance with the people’s war (人民战争, rénmín zhànzhēng) strategy which emphasised the value of China’s vast resources of manpower instead (‘rifles plus millet’). As morale and political indoctrination were of utmost importance to this strategy, Mao had to ensure that the people would not succumb to fatalism which could be caused by an overemphasis on the destructive force of nuclear weapons. In fact, warnings of a nuclear world war that could annihilate the country were actually considered reactionary in 1960s China (Powell 1965, 61), which meant that the anti-nuclear macrosecuritisation itself was thereby institutionally securitised. Nuclear blackmail and threats were thus countered in this strategy by denial, since China had no credible second strike capability for some considerable time (Lewis 2007).148 Mao’s views on nuclear weapons accorded with his doctrine of people’s war. The principle of people’s war which was the mainstay of Mao’s military thinking, was developed during the Chinese civil war and the war against Japan, a time when there were no nuclear weapons, and even if there had been such weapons, Mao’s guerrillas would have had no access to them. The strategy was directed against the massive invasion of a superior force and it comprised three phases (retreat, stalemate, offence). The idea was to ‘lure the enemy deep’ or ‘exchange space for time’ so that the enemy would have to extend its forces too far so that the inferior forces of the Chinese could mount an offensive with locally superior forces. These elements were also present when Mao (1974b [1969]) was discussing war with the Soviet Union in 1969. 147 Mao’s speech at the 1957 Moscow Conference on a nuclear third world war which would lead to the victory of socialism (Mao 1986) was not received well by Khruschev, who deemed Mao’s views on nuclear weapons as both naïve and dangerous. Accordingly, Khrushchev reneged on the secret agreement to supply the Chinese with a nuclear bomb in 1959, when the world’s largest technology transfer programme ended with the withdrawal of 1400 soviet experts in 1960 (see Paltemaa & Vuori 2009).The difference of Mao’s view of nuclear weapons becomes clear when his position is compared to Soviet and US pronouncements around the same time: The Russians argued that in a nuclear war “the weak will be exhausted before the strong” (Freedman 2003, 265). Mao’s comments on and attempts to gain the ‘bomb’ also worried Kennedy who made inroads into possible joint US-USSR action against the Chinese in the 1961 Vienna summit. China was also a galvanising factor in bringing about the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty in 1963, which enraged Mao. (Scott 2007, 47.) In 1963, president Kennedy similarly asked to insert nuclear weapons into the mix of planning action against Chinese nuclear plans, as Chinese development of nuclear weapons would be “potentially a more dangerous situation than any we have faced since the end of the Second World War, because the Russians pursued in most cases their ambitions with some caution” (MacFarquhar 1972, 200). 148 In 1961, Chinese military leaders maintained that China could not be defeated by long range nuclear weapons, even if combined with chemical and biological weapons (Powell 1965, 59). After the Gulf of Tonkin 146

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The evolution of the post-Mao nuclear weapons doctrine towards ‘limited deterrence’ (Johnston 1996a) seems to indicate that an anti-nuclear macrosecuritisation has not been a guiding principle in China’s nuclear policies.149 Even though China has seemed to be in line with the objective to abolish nuclear weapons, the legacy of Mao’s cavalier attitude towards nuclear weapons both as mere political paper tigers, and the survival of the Chinese nation in the event of a nuclear war, have gone starkly against the premises of anti-nuclear macrosecuritisation. Paradoxically, while still officially in line with the anti-nuclear stance with its call for the abolition of nuclear weapons, China is yet to relinquish its own nuclear weapons capacity, and for a long time was prepared for what it believed would be an inevitable nuclear war. Since the end of the Cold War, China has, in effect, increased its nuclear prowess, as it has modernised its own nuclear forces while both the US and Russia have reduced their own stockpiles of active nuclear warheads. In fact, the evolution of the Chinese military doctrine towards the limited use of nuclear weapons in limited conflicts takes China still further away from the premises of anti-nuclear macrosecuritisation.150 Indeed, antinuclear macrosecuritisation has not appeared in China in the form of the Western, mainly non-governmental anti-nuclear macrosecuritisation; securitisations with respect to nuclear weapons have focused on national referent objects, rather than global civilisation. As regards the third macrosecuritisation discourse, namely global climate change, during the past two decades, the threat of global nuclear conflagration has subsided from the most acute threat registers of societies and ‘global climate change’ seems to have usurped the top position among ‘doomsday scenarios.’151 Indeed, climate change has been advocated as a global, or in some places national security issue by numerous non-governmental organisations,152 as well as by the 4th Assessment Report of the International Panel on Climate Change in 2007. It seems that the IPCC estimates of the likely effects of climate

incident 1964, Mao divided China into three strategic areas, as a plan for withstanding a nuclear war: the remote and difficult terrain in inland China would be appropriate for a people’s war under nuclear conditions (Barnouin & Yu 1998, 93). However, this plan was not properly effected until 1969-1971 when Mao called on China to be “prepared for war” both physically and psychologically (Mao 1974b [1969], 285). 149 The role of nuclear weapons seemed to gain in importance, as deterrence through denial was altered to deterrence through retaliation after Mao’s death. Deng’s (Wu 1999, 207) comment makes a case in point: “While you have some deterrence force, we also have some; but we do not want much. It will do just to possess it. Things like strategic weapons and deterrence forces are there to scare others. They must not be used first. But our possession will have some effect. The limited possession of nuclear weapons itself exerts some pressure. It remains our position that we will develop a little [nuclear weapons]. But the development will be limited. We have said repeatedly that our small amount [of nuclear weapons] is nothing. It is only to show that we also have what you have. If you want to destroy us then you yourself will receive some retaliation.” 150 Interestingly, the US 2005 Doctrine for Joint Nuclear Operations also indicated many signs of considering limited nuclear weapon use a relevant option (Joint Publication 3-12). Lewis (2007) does not agree with the view that China has shifted from minimum deterrence to minimal deterrence, but that China still seeks the ‘minimum means of reprisal’. 151 This tendency becomes clear from two of the latest resets of the ‘Doomsday Clock’, which emphasised the role of “global climate change” in 2007 and 2010; see Vuori (2010a). 152 While the focus here is on whether the Global Climate Change macrosecuritisation is organising securitisations in China, some macrosecuritisation moves include China as a major threat in the discourse, as it is one of the largest emitters of greenhouse gases, yet is not in a position to be able to tackle it as the vast majority of Chinese energy production comes from coal. While in 2008 China’s energy imports were still only a small fraction of its total energy consumption, China is likely to become one of the largest energy importers. As such, it would seem that the world’s largest coal producer will continue to use of its own coal.

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change have given impetus and plausibility for the discourse of climate change as a security issue,153 whereas previously the environment was mainly politicised rather than securitised (Buzan et al. 1998; Buzan & Wæver 2003). Climate change has also been on the agenda of the UN Security Council (Bothe 2008) and it flashed in the 2008 US presidential election, for example when Barack Obama, in his second debate with John McCain on October 7, stated that energy and climate change should be considered a national security issue. Environmental issues have become some of the most discussed sectors of ‘broadened’ or ‘new’ concepts of security.154 In the post-Cold War period, also China has emphasised that it is working under a ‘new concept of security’. The new concept is a departure from previous notions in that what China now pursues is, to a large extent, the security of its ‘sustained development’, or its ‘comprehensive national power’ on a range of battlegrounds (inter alia in military, political, economic and technological areas).155 Just as in the rest of East- and South-East Asia, the Chinese largely perceived security in military and geopolitical terms, until recent years (Cheng 2006, 90);156 comprehensive security has now, however, become the most widely used security concept in the Asia-Pacific region. Sustained development157 is seen as a guarantee, or even a necessity, for the other objectives of national security. Sustained development then becomes both a security objective and a means for security. In contemporary Chinese thought, sustained development requires opening up and interaction with the outside world, which has brought more attention to the interrelations between internal and external threats. This new security concept reflects an increased awareness of the risks of accommodation to international regimes, so that the increased interaction and dependence on foreign influence in Chinese society and the economy have blurred the boundaries of Chinese ‘interests.’ As a result, China has become more supportive of multilateral approaches in international security activities.158 Taking part in multilateral fora reduces the likelihood that these organisations could be used ‘against’ China. 159 China has been one of the major producers of CO2 emissions in the world for some decades now. Although China participated in the Kyoto Protocol and the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change, it is deemed to be a developing nation and

Public awareness in Europe and the US, which may also provide tangible support for securitisation moves, has been increased by the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize award to the IPCC and Al Gore. An Inconvenient Truth (directed by Davis Guggenheim 2006, Lawrence Bender Productions) has played a not insignificant role in raising awareness in the US and Europe. 154 See for example Deudney (1990) and Trombetta (2008) for discussions. 155 See Chapter 7.1. below for a discussion of Chinese notions of security. 156 Military considerations have not disappeared from Chinese security estimates (Ong 2007), and the procurement of offensive weapons platforms still seems to be the norm in the rest of Pacific Asia as well (Hartfield & Job 2007). Indeed, old preoccupations with territory, sovereignty and core values have not disappeared from Chinese security thought, but merely been ‘secured’ to the extent that other preoccupations can take the main stage. 157 Although Chinese leaders increasingly include the rhetoric of sustainable development in their rhetoric and policy planning, notably sustained development still takes priority over sustainable development. 158 Beyond being one of the permanent five of the UN Security Council, the first Chinese headquarters of an international organisation is that of the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation, which is mainly focused precisely on security issues. China has also been active in the six-party talks on the North-Korean issue, and also taken part in the ASEAN Regional Forum. 159 See Johnston (2003). 153

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has therefore had no CO2 emission reduction obligations. In 2008, the year in which Chinese officials also admitted that it was the largest producer of the so-called greenhouse gasses, the Chinese authorities issued their first White Paper on Chinese policies towards Climate Change (Information Office 2008). An analysis of China’s policy positions in this White Paper (Information Office 2008) indicates that China is willing to align itself with the general trend on issues of climate change: while the issue is expressed as a major concern for humanity, the proposed means to tackle it are closer to ‘macropolitisation’ than macrosecuritisation. For example in the Foreword to the White Paper, the issue is presented as a global concern: “Global climate change and its adverse effects are a common concern of mankind.” However, the reason for this challenge to the survival and development of human society is placed on the activities of developed nations. China is depicted as a developing nation, which is thereby being adversely affected by Climate Change, which threatens its “natural ecosystems as well as the economic and social development.” While “[f]ully aware of the importance and urgency of addressing climate change” as well as its likely negative impacts on Chinese society in the form of “augmented threats to the safety of life and property, and to the normal order and stability of social life,” the measures listed in the White Paper160 do not go past ‘regular’ policies and are in fact stated as being in line with the current political line of the Hu Jintao government: “the concept of harmonious development between man and Nature [… and…] the Scientific Outlook on Development, establishing a harmonious society and sticking to the sustainable development road.” Thereby, the Chinese authorities do not advocate or strive to legitimise any ‘breaking of rules’ via the issue of global climate change. The paper does raise the issue as a major concern with adverse effects, yet it does not raise the issue as an issue of national or global security requiring drastic measures. ‘Actively participating in worldwide efforts to address climate change’ and ‘adapting’ to climate change, cannot be considered ‘special politics’ beyond the regular bargaining in international relations.161 As such, China still argues for the necessity to place its own economic development before the reduction of emissions. The White Paper thus raises the urgency of the issue of Climate Change, which is reflected in the broad range of government measures, projects, tax-relief and legislation, as well as international cooperation and awareness raising. A final boost beyond being an urgent political issue to that of national, or in this case global or universal security, is not apparent in the document, or any other major policy outlines published by the Chinese authorities.162 Thus, while the official Chinese security concept has been broadened in “To address climate change, China adheres to the following guidelines: To give full effect to the Scientific Outlook on Development, adhere to the fundamental state policy of resources conservation and environmental protection, control greenhouse gas emissions and enhance the country’s capacity for sustainable development, center on securing economic development and accelerate the transformation of the pattern of economic development, focus on conserving energy, optimizing the energy structure and strengthening eco-preservation and construction, and rely on the advancement of science and technology, increase international cooperation, constantly enhance the capability in coping with climate change, and make new contribution in protecting the world environment.” (Information Office 2008.) 161 “The UNFCCC and the Tokyo Protocol are the main programs for addressing climate change. The two documents lay the legal foundation for international cooperation in dealing with climate change, and reflect the common understanding of the international community.” (Information Office 2008.) 162 See for example State Council: China National Plan for Coping with Climate Change; Outreach session of the G8 summit; APEC meeting; East-Asia Summit; Boao Forum for Asia; Chinese president and premier ‘energeti160

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the 1990s and 2000s, Climate Change is still not labelled as a major security concern, even though it is recognised as a major concern for the whole of humanity. According to the Chinese authorities, a solution to the issue requires international economic, technological and legal cooperation, rather than uni- or multilateral security measures. While China participates and engages in the ‘macropoliticisation’ of climate change, this, however, cannot be deemed successful macrosecuritisation in the Chinese case. This would support Buzan and Wæver’s (Buzan et al. 1998; 2003; 2009) observation that environmental securitisation has mainly been successful in politicising issues rather than securitising them.

As regards the final macrosecuritisation discourse of the GWoT, while the anti-nuclear and climate change discourses are either non-existent or remain within the realm of ‘regular politics’ respectively, the discourse of the Global War on Terror seems to be on a different dimension in terms of its prevalence and effects. In the 2000s China has been actively engaged in this dominant macrosecuritisation of the era. The Chinese official response to the September 11 airline hijack attacks in the US already leaned towards the macro level, when Jiang Zemin described terrorism as a “common scourge” for the international community (People’s Daily Online September 12 2001). Similarly in a May 2002 position paper (Foreign Ministry 2002), the Chinese authorities noted that “[t]he September 11th incident indicates that non-traditional security issues as represented by international terrorism are of graver concern. […] [R]recent years have seen a noticeable rise of international terrorist activities, which constitutes a real threat to regional and international peace and is becoming an important factor of uncertainty affecting the security situation.” While supporting many US initiatives by, for example, backing U.N. Resolution 1373 and ratifying China’s accession to the International Convention for the Suppression of Terrorist Bombings and also as a party to the International Convention for the Suppression of Financing Terrorism,163 China had even presaged the issues of terrorism and religious extremism in its own domestic security continuums in the 1990s.164 While China has engaged in the GWoT discourse, it has its own dynamic in and utility for it, for the GWoT discourse is not as overriding as for example it is in the US,165 yet it has been useful for China.166 cally promote global action to cope with climate change’ (Information Office 2008). 163 Chinese support has, however, not been unequivocal. China criticised the US invasion of Iraq as well as its permanent bases in Central Asia for example. While the early stages of the GWoT warmed Sino-US relations, US activities in Asia can still be read as a means of containing China. 164 Chinese security continuums containing separatism predate even the initiation of the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation’s ‘threat package’ of the ‘three evils’ in the form of the strike hard campaign, which was launched in April 1996 as a nationwide crackdown on crime. While an influential report published in Renmin ribao (29.4.1996) focused on various criminal activities, as Dillon (2004, 84-85) reports, the focus of the campaign was directed at unofficial political organisations and separatist activities in Tibet, Inner Mongolia and Xinjiang. The initial criminal element was put into a continuum with “violent and terrorist cases organised and manipulated by national separatist forces” as well as “unlawful religious activities.” A securitisation discourse was quite evidently apparent already here. In this process, Islam was singled out as the greatest religious threat to national stability when compared to Christianity, Buddhism and Daoism (Dillon 2004, 90). Three years later, this was to be changed when Falungong received the status of the overriding threat (see Case IV below). 165 In his interview for 60 Minutes in 2008 (CBS 2009), president elect Barack Obama for example listed the capture or killing of Osama bin Laden as a top national security priority for the US. On May 2, 2011 Obama announced that Osama bin Laden had been killed in a US military operation in Pakistan. 166 In addition to warming Sino-US relations, Chinese authorities also have other uses for securitising separatist

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If, for example, the Chinese campaign against the ‘three evils’ (i.e., ‘religious extremism, separatism, and terrorism’) is examined, it becomes quite clear how the GWoT macrosecuritisation has been utilised to bring China’s domestic ‘problems’ (e.g., Taiwanese, Xinjiang and Tibetan separatists, and the Falungong) into the macro-process, and to link other issues within the same constellation (the ‘international struggle against cults’ is also utilised in this discourse for the same purpose).167 This also exhibits how macrosecuritisations can be of political utility but without a ‘common concern.’168 Quite soon after the US had initiated its ‘War on Terror’ and thus defined the main global security discourse for the 2000s, on October 19-21 2001, Chinese representatives at the APEC summit in Shanghai identified ‘Eastern Turkistan terrorist forces’ as a part of the global terrorist movement that the US and its allies were fighting, and further specifically claimed that Uyghur separatists in Xinjiang had connections with Osama bin Laden and Al-Qaeda. Eventually China was also successful in getting the “East Turkistan Islamic Movement” (ETIM) on the US and UN terrorist organisation list.169 The ‘three evils’ is also the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation’s main ’threat package’ and has been used to securitise human trafficking by linking it too with terrorism (Jackson 2006, 310).170 Thus, as global security discourse witnessed its most important shift since the desecuritisation of the Cold War, the Chinese authorities linked the insurgency in Xinjiang171 to

activities in its ‘periphery.’ The securitisation of Xinjiang insurgency as terrorism and separatism, in addition to the other two hotspots Taiwan and Tibet, works towards motivating the Chinese majority against these movements, and thus, according to Wayne (2008), increases the Chinese authorities’ legitimacy and possibilities to deal with insurgency and separatism. The graver the securitisation, the graver the threat, and the more the authorities are endowed with legitimacy or approval for the actions they take to deal with the claimed threats. 167 The strike hard campaign in Xinjiang has contained many elements of threats, referents and benefits. Hostile forces both internationally and within, were portrayed as ‘colluding in jeopardising Chinese unity and social stability’, thereby endangering social development (cf., Wayne 2008, 23). The acts of the Chinese authorities were working toward repelling these threats and thereby ensuring the Chinese border (and sovereignty) and the continuation of economic development and social progress. While the continuum of ‘violent and terrorist cases organised and manipulated by national separatist forces’ as well as ‘unlawful religious activities’ portrayed an insecure situation vis-à-vis violent crime, separatism and illegal religion, there were also reports of the successes of the strike hard campaign. In accordance with ‘security grammars’ these reports portray the means of achieving security, the repulsion of the threat. The possibility of continued insecurity was however retained, even in celebratory reports on the progress of the ‘strike hard’ campaign. Garner Bovigndon (2004, 4) also notes that the PRC’s other provincial-level autonomous regions i.e., Inner Mongolia, Guangxi, Ningxia and even Tibet, have been far quieter in terms of unrest in the 1990s, which may explain the authorities emphasis on Xinjiang unrest as a threat. While Xinjiang has been the focus of Chinese authorities and the Western Press, other insurgencies, for example in Palestine, Chechnya, Aceh and Mindanao, have been far more violent and frequent in terms of incidents (see IISS database, http://www.iiss.org/publications/armed-conflict-database/). 168 It would appear that China or Indonesia, for example, do not use the GWoT macrosecuritisation out of a concern for the ‘West’ or the United States, but for their own concerns. Similarly, on the other side of the constellation, while Al-Qaeda may want to subsume all Islamist movements to within their base-walls, most Southeast Asian movements have local or regional aspirations and do not share the goals of bin Laden, even though they may have contacts and cooperation with Al-Qaeda. 169 ETIM was listed as an international terrorist organisation by the US and the UN on August 26 2002. The US Department of State’s (2004) report Patterns of Global Terrorism 2003 has also had ETIM on its list of international terrorist groups, while other groups listed by China were deemed as ineligible for the list. 170 The concern about these three issues lumped together was already present in the first statement of the meeting between the five participants (China, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Russia and Tajikistan; Uzbekistan was admitted to the group in June 2001 when the SCO was formally promulgated), which has retroactively been nominated as the initial meeting of the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation where the security continuum of ‘splittism’, ethnic exclusion and religious extremism was clearly present. 171 On the level of practice, the Chinese response to the insurgency in Xinjiang since the ‘Baren uprising’ of

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the international campaign against terrorism. In January 2002, the Information Office of the PRC State Council (2002) released a document which is still the most comprehensive account published openly of separatist resistance and organisation in Xinjiang by Chinese authorities (Millward 2004). This document, as well as the increased flow thereafter of official information on violent incidents in Xinjiang, previously termed as ‘splittism’, but after 2001 as ‘terrorism’, demonstrates the practical effects of the GWoT macrosecuritisation in Chinese official policies.172 In accordance with the new global trend of security speech, ‘East Turkistan terrorists’ were now presented as a security threat to international society, that is, the security and stability of related countries and regions, the stability of society, and the lives and property of all ethnic groups in Xinjiang (Information Office 2002). As Buzan & Wæver (2009) note, it indeed seems that the selection of which terms are elevated to top official status as security issues, is both an international as well as a domestic concern.173 As is evident from the above analysis of the four macrosecuritisation discourses with ‘Chinese characteristics’, Chinese authorities have either formed their own dynamic in the securitisations (Cold War and GWoT discourses), or they have not actually securitised the issue at all (anti-nuclear discourse), although perhaps tacitly acknowledging the existence of the discourse (global climate change discourse). While this supports the existence of macrosecuritisations as an organising force in global security discourse, it also seems to indicate that the discourses and their ‘high’ status are more likely to be utilised on issues where parochial interests are of concern. The analysis also demonstrated how assumptions of the appearance of securitisation discourses can be ‘falsified’ through empirical investigation.

1990 has evolved into a ‘four-in-one approach’ consisting of the PLA, the People’s Armed Police, the Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps (兵团, bīngtuán), and the people (Xinhua 26.5.2003). Other clusters of instances of violence Chinese official sources consistently refer to, are a series of explosions and attempted bombings in 1992-1993 involving busses and stores as targets, and a wave of protests, explosions and assassinations in 1996-1997, which coincided with the initial meetings of the ‘Shanghai Five’ and the initiation of the ‘Strike Hard’ campaign. (Dillon 2004, 62-65; Millward 2004.) Wayne (2008) describes how the Chinese anti-insurgent operation has evolved: the initial use of PLA-force has been replaced with an emphasis on the People’s Armed Police and the Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps. (Wayne sees the success of the Chinese anti-insurgency activities as resulting from unique cultural, political and other situational factors, but also from the emphasis on bottom-up techniques.) The Chinese have used a mixed set of hard- and soft-power, ranging from eliminating insurgent leaders to co-opting groups and integrating ideas into the ‘core’ of Chinese society. 172 Jackson (2008, 154-155) notes how the 9/11 US attacks effected a restructuring of priorities throughout Central Asia. 173 In his analysis of the Beijing Review and Government Work reports, Wang Hongying (2003) has found four persistent images of China presented in these official publications directed at foreign publics. These portray China as 1) a peace-loving nation, 2) a victim of foreign aggression, 3) an opponent of hegemony, and 4) a developing country. Andrew Scobell (2001) argues that Chinese elites hold three core beliefs: that the Chinese are a) a peace-loving people, b) not aggressive or expansionist, and c) only use force in defence. These images seem to be internalised and constitutive as they have moulded Chinese foreign policy in the long-term, while ‘strategic images’ of China as a bastion of revolution have only had slight or short-term effects (Wang 2003; cf., Van Ness 1970). ‘Realist’ Chinese behaviour may then be interpreted and perceived in China through these self-perceptions, which turns behaviour that is interpreted by others as aggression, into defence against foreign aggression.

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6.2.3. Security, Event, Context – The Post-Structurality of Securitisation Theory

We have seen above that securitisation discourses may or may not appear in the ‘wild’. This raises the question of ‘what explains’ securitisation or ‘what makes it understandable.’ Here we are venturing into the debate on what kind of a theory the ‘theory’ of securitisation is, or should be. As already noted, there have been a number of critics of the CopS approach who have had reservations with the emphasis placed on speech acts in the framework. These debates have created multiple positions, but they seem to revolve around the same issue of contention between structure and agency.174 One such division has been formed around views on the ‘event’ or ‘performance’ of speech acts. Inspired by Jacques Derrida (1978; 1988) and Judith Butler (e.g., 1999), Wæver’s early works on securitisation (e.g., Wæver 1989a; 1995) emphasised the ‘internalist’ aspect of securitisation. This ‘postmodern’ or ‘performative’ understanding has been criticised by scholars, who focus on the ‘externalist’ or ‘constructivist’ aspects of securitisation. They have emphasised the process of securitisation, and especially the ‘field’ of security (Bigo 1994; Balzacq 2005; Stritzel 2007), drawing from the works of Pierre Bourdieu.175 Balzacq (2010c) posits this division as one between philosophical and sociological approaches; Wæver, on the other hand, sees this division as one between constitutive and causal theories. As regards the issue of causality as opposed to constitutiveness, my reasoning is that causal theories of securitisation should be based on a theory of how security issues are constituted. While also examining actually occurred speech, the theoretical propositions regarding the illocutionary logic of speech acts of this present study, accordingly, operate within the dimension of constitutiveness. It must also be noted that even when dealing with empirical investigations, there will always be a causal jump between securitisation and actual ‘brute’ effects e.g., violent dispersion of protestors, or breakout of war.176 In a similar way, I contend that the sociological study of securitisation processes should be based on a linguistic foundation with respect to speech acts.177 In terms of the internal/ external division, I suggest that the rules of language, as well as conventions of securitisation, are intersubjective and thereby external. Yet, these rules and conventions can be applied creatively so that acts of securitisation can constitute something that was not there before; even if the conventions and social assets necessary to bring about something new

In addition to the distinction of the internalist and externalist understandings of securitisation i.e., emphasis on the event or process nature of securitisation, there has also been a distinction between emphasising the spectacle of politics (on politics as a spectacle, see Edelman [1972], and Debord [1992]) or the technocratic nature of more mundane securitisation (e.g., Bigo 2002; Huysmans 2006a). The spectacle of securitisation emphasises securitisation as ‘high politics’ e.g., major representatives of states are in the best position to voice security and therefore the study of securitisation should focus on these processes. The technocratic approach emphasises the ‘security professional’ who by her actions sets what is security, i.e., modulates insecurities. 175 Wæver’s theory actually contains elements of both the internalist and externalist understandings, which can be found in his three facilitating conditions, for example. Holger Stritzel (2007, 366) sees this as creating conceptual tension within Wæver’s theory. 176 Empirical appliers to Asian contexts have effectively made the same conclusion; see e.g., Curley & Wong (2008a). 177 The basis for this argument has been presented in Chapter 1.2. above. It is, of course, possible to develop means to study securitisation without examination of speech acts at all: even securitisation can be studied on several levels of analysis, and the focus can be on various aspects of securitisation processes, e.g., the resources available to actors and the nature of the relations (e.g., amity/enmity) of relevant actors. 174

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would be external, the act itself can create something new that is internal to the act. Similarly, most social facts are ontologically subjective but epistemologically objective (i.e., intersubjective); social facts or status functions of security can be both self-referential and intersubjective. The basis for my position may become clear through an analogy of the study of other speech acts. If the linguistic root of securitisation theory is taken seriously (as in this study), then the linguistic study of securitisation in IR should be equivalent to the linguistic study of, say, promising in IR. Such a study of promising would not make much sense without including the relevant contexts of the empirical objects of study. Yet, these contexts would not close promising off. A ‘model’, a ‘grammar’, a ‘theory’, or a ‘langue’ of promising is required in order to study promising in specific empirical contexts.178 While equivalent in this way, the study of promising and securitisation in international politics would also differ in an important way. Promising is similar to pre-theoretical objects such as chairs and dogs, whereas securitisation is a theoretical object (cf., Chernoff 2009); ‘promising’ is part of a folk-taxonomy (Wierzbicka 1991) whereas ‘securitisation’ is an artificial academic notion. While it can be fairly certain that promises exist, and existed before a linguistic theory of promising, this is not so certain in the case of securitisation. From an instrumentalist point of view, we do not have to assume that the theoretical object of securitisation exists, yet we can begin our investigation ‘as if’ it would. Effectively, the argument posed here is that real processes of social construction are more complex than academic models of them. Accordingly, models are more formal, and based only on a certain aspect of such processes. Thereby, I contend that for the theory of securitisation, the focus on speech acts is the most productive foundation to build on. But this does not entail that processes of securitisation need only concern speech acts. Indeed, Huysmans (2006a, 25) argues that the rationale of security should not be confused with the ‘physical utterance of security.’ The security rationale refers to constellations of meanings that allow for speech acts of securitisation to do their work; “security rationalities define the meaning of security” (ibid., 147). Huysmans emphasises that these constellations of meanings need not be understood as a set of rules that could easily be changed or manipulated, but that they can undergo change like a grammar or a language. Securitisation speech acts draw on historically constituted and socially institutionalised sets of meaning, which have to retain some continuity in order for the speech acts to have the capacity to generate meaningful speech.179 This constellation of meanings makes it possible for the performativity of securitisation speech to succeed: thus, how certain issues are perceived and understood can change to be in accordance with this ‘rationale’ i.e., securitisation speech can be used to create a new situation.180 Issues of interpretation, perception, reception, and perlocutionary effects are even more prominent if we examine how images and symbols can be intertwined into securitisation Habermas (1984) makes a similar point in how ‘universal’ and ‘empirical’ pragmatics should work together, lest the study of language be ‘empty and blind.’ 179 Huysmans’s (2006a, 147) intention is to shift emphasis from the language of security to the logics of its practice. 180 Even though securitisation also often draws on pre-existing images and understandings, and in this manner, some processes of securitisation can be viewed as a ‘translation of threat images’ (Stritzel 2009), even here, it should be borne in mind that a translation is also a creation of something new. 178

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discourse or rationality. Indeed, there have been numerous calls to include images and the media environment generally in the analysis of securitisation and the wider construction of security issues (e.g., Hansen 2000; 2011; Williams 2003; Möller 2007; McDonald 2008a). For example Michael C. Williams asks not only how images affect securitisation acts, but also how the visual representation of various policy options influences security practices, and how images impact viewers in a way that is different from that of words on listeners, or text on readers.181 For Plato, speech was primary to text, as any text could become an ‘orphan letter’, while in a speech situation the sender and the receiver(s) were present and unambiguous (Derrida 1978; Rancière 2008).182 While messages cannot be transmitted without interpretation even in situations of direct speech communication, with a written text ‘authentic communication’ or ‘real meanings’ become even more complicated, as shown by Jacques Derrida. For Michel de Certeau (1988, xxi), even reading is not passive, for the reader enters the text, moves back and forth along it, and ‘lives’ within it. Indeed, reading a text creates an intertextual situation, where every instance of reading, even of the same text by the same person, has the potential to be unique, as the reader will connect the text being read with different connotations, texts and experiences.183 While written text is more open to interpretation than a situation of direct speech involving non-verbal communication, the interpretation of images is even more open. Images do not necessarily constitute a language, which makes the communication of specific meanings rather challenging. Most importantly, images can convey emotions without recourse to language, which may be the aspect in which their relevance for acts of securitisation is the most significant. However, without a previous securitisation, or a security rationale that the image represents or connotates, it would be difficult to convey an act of securitisation with images alone. If an image is to have an influence on an act of securitisation, it must be ‘anchored’ to a meaning, that is, the ‘floating chain of signifieds’ has to be affixed to a preferred reading of the image (Barthes 1977, 38).184 Since images can convey emotion, affective images especially can have a facilitating effect in securitisation processes where, on the one hand, threats and fear, yet on the other, certainty and relief, play major roles. Just as with standard advertisem*nt practice, when bound to securitisation processes, images can evoke emotions that thereby facilitate the ‘purchase’ of a securitisation argument, This approach to the inclusion of images in securitisation processes seems to suggest that the focus of study should be on how images operate to the facilitation or impediment of the legitimacy of certain policies being proposed or implemented by officials. It would, however, be interesting to also investigate how images impact political choices of decision-makers: for example, how do video-recordings of demonstrations by security ‘professionals’ affect political decisions on how demonstrations in particular, or in general, should be handled? This is an especially pertinent question as video surveillance capabilities are being increased in many states and societies. 182 There are numerous ‘illocutionary devices’, e.g., intonation that guide listeners’ interpretations of the ‘force’ of real utterances (Wierzbicka 1991, 197-199). Also Sbisà (2001) emphasises the possibility to ‘qualify’ illocutionary force in various ways. 183 See Der Derian & Shapiro (1989) for a selection of studies in the intertextual nature of international relations and their study. 184 Huysmans (2008, 177) notes how images of sewed-up eyelids and lips of individualised and ‘biologised’ refugees have no political significance without the mediation of public media, mobilisation, and contestation in courts. Similarly, while such images may be evocative emotionally or aesthetically, without their anchorage to issues of immigration and refugees, their political message is lost. 181

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in addition to providing either evidence or a degree of plausibility for the claims of the securitising actor. But as Frank Möller (2007) has argued, even textual interventions into images cannot guarantee that they will then be understood and perceived the way the intervention suggests. Instead, it is important what the perceiver, or consumer, of the images does with them (Certeau 1988). Images intended to facilitate an argument, may actually, contrarily, end up impeding it. The consumer or receiver of an image can also resist the general flow of signs (Tarasti 2005). To examine such an aspect of securitisation requires entry into a less discussed view of securitisation processes, namely securitisation as symbolic action.185 As with most of ‘high-politics’ and other formalised social processes, senders and receivers with the right kind of ‘socio-political capital’ have to be present in order to have ‘social magic’ successfully conjured (Bourdieu 1991). Edelman (1972, 95) has similarly argued that although all of an interlocutor’s acts take place in a setting, that is usually taken for granted whilst focus is on the actions of those involved instead. However, some formalistic acts greatly depend on their settings, which are not merely physical, but in their essence social and fundamental for symbol formation (Ibid. 103).186 Religious ceremonies often require a special setting, as do many official political events, such as sessions of parliament, where correct symbols have to be present, be they in the form of cloak or gavel. Settings may have conducive resonance for the political message delivered: think of for example the declaration “mission accomplished” behind George W. Bush on the deck of the aircraft carrier Abraham Lincoln during his speech on May 1 2003. The immediate setting of any political act can then be widely recognised as either appropriate or inappropriate for the kind of act committed.187 Images may be strong facilitation or impediment factors in securitisation/desecuritisation processes, yet, as their interpretation is up to their perceiver, they have to be anchored to certain meanings in order for them to operate as part of a securitisation/ desecuritisation process.188 Without ‘anchorage’ the images may remain too open in in-

Interestingly, while the relevance of ‘contexts’ for securitisation speech acts has been widely examined, the symbolic settings of securitisation speech acts have received relatively little attention. Mark B. Salter (2008) has studied the effects of settings on securitisation processes; whether a securitisation discourse is taking place in a popular, elite, technocratic, or scientific setting can affect how threats and remedies are articulated. While Buzan et al. (1998) deal partly with this issue in terms of the sectors of security having ‘dialects’, this could also be the case in terms of types of actors and audiences. Defining these types of factors too specifically would however risk biasing a certain type of political order. I argue that the features of settings identified by Salter should be part of the facilitating factors within the model; certain settings facilitate, or impede, certain types of securitisation arguments. Here the settings of securitisation acts do not draw on dramaturgy and the stage and backstage of securitisation speech, but on the symbolic settings of securitisation: how do symbols present at security speech situations affect securitisation? Thus, which symbols facilitate, and which impede, securitisation acts? 186 The symbolic uses of politics are closely connected to political speech acts in formal settings. Edelman (1972, 98) has identified three functions for the settings of political acts: 1) to impress large audiences, 2) to legitimise a series of future acts and thus maximise acquiescence to and compliance with them, and 3) the establishment or reinforcement of a particular definition of the self as a public official. 187 This is where Michael Moore also derives his satire in Fahrenheit 9/11 (2004, directed by Michael Moore, Fellowship Adventure Group): it seems an inappropriate symbolic setting for President Bush to be securitising terrorists while he is playing golf. 188 For example the Doomsday Clock of the Atomic Scientists (Vuori 2010a) demonstrates how symbols can be intertwined with security discourse. The symbol of the Clock evokes and thereby facilitates all of the crucial ingredients involved in a securitisation grammar: the lateness of the hour (urgency), impending doom (existential threat), as well as the possibility to reverse course by moving the hands of time far away from midnight (way out). Thus, display of the Clock can be seen as a securitisation move, but the uptake of this move depends on the 185

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terpretation to have any meaningful chance of securitisation, that is, they remain floating signifiers. The causal effects of symbols and images may be impossible to determine and quantify ‘in the wild.’

The above discussion of images in relation to securitisation processes reinforces the, already noted, prudence of separating the felicitous achievement of a securitisation act, and even the successful constitution of a security issue, from the success of the politics in construction of a security issue. The assessment of these types of issues requires tools beyond securitisation theory, which demonstrates how security issues are constituted through speech acts.189 A phenomenon (e.g., the social construction of security) can be modelled in various ways, allowing various interventions or understandings on it. The social construction of security can be studied through the theory of securitisation, but other options are available as well.190 The quantification of causality in social relations is indeed difficult, and as regards linguistic causality, this functions in a different way than physical causality, as already noted by Austin: the causes of saying something, differ from the causes in the physical sense; causality in saying must operate through the conventions of language, and is a matter of influence exerted by one person on another (Austin 1975, 113). This illustrates the insight of Wæver in his formulation of securitisation theory as a constitutive theory: since it is virtually impossible to quantify the causal effectiveness of social constructions, it is prudent to understand the constitution of social reality. To reveal the contingency of these constructions, and their political nature vis-à-vis issues of even security, creates an opportunity for an ethical intervention, by either the scholar who studies securitisation or the reader of scholarly work. Speech acts are not limited to speech: they can be accomplished through either the act of speaking, writing, hand signals, image creation or any other system of symbols and meaning representation.191 From the point of view of politics, these various means to achieve communicative interaction, inclusive of the use of images and the systems of meaning to which they can be attributed to, are embedded in fields of power and practices. Thereby it is important to keep in mind that what speech act theory, and thereby also securitisation theory is about, is not words (or verbs), but illocutionary force. Such forces may be brought about by words and utterances, but other forms of interaction (e.g., images) may at times also achieve perlocutionary effects.192 institutionalised status of the previous securitisation moves connected with it, that is, one has to be aware of the status of the Doomsday Clock in order for the securitisation move to be effective. Not all clock-faces entail a securitisation move. 189 For example McCrea and Markle (1989, 58) suggest resource mobilisation theories focusing on mobilisation, mass media manipulation, and coalition building to explain the ebb and flow of the nuclear peace movement. The question is how to combine norms, material constraints and social constructions into one study? How do securitisation arguments and moves weave into the more general practices of social mobilisation, its legitimisation and suppression? 190 See for example Weldes et al. (1999), CASE (2006), and Hansen (2006). 191 Indeed, Austin (1975, 119-120) emphasised that even in instances where an illocutionary act can be performed non-verbally, the means for achieving its ends non-verbally most of the time have to be conventional, even though you can use unconventional means of achieving uptake. 192 Enquiries into the means of illocutionary acts beyond utterances would demand that the theory of securitisation develop its stance on theories of signs. Thus, this type of research now requires a semiology/semiotics/ semiosis of securitisation. I have made some suggestions on how to connect Peircean semiotics onto the protec-

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The realisation that speech acts are about more than ‘mere’ words may lessen some of the anxiety of critics who frown upon the study of such acts. Further, as already noted, for some, securitisation is about more than ‘speech acts’. For Huysmans (2006a, 153): “Securitisation is not a speech act but a multidimensional process in which skills, expert knowledge, institutional routines as well as discourses of danger modulate the relation between security and freedom.” His move to incorporate political theory and Foucauldian techniques of government into the study of the politics of insecurity, takes this approach beyond what the CopS has presented in their works. Huysmans recognises that what he is doing in the ‘wake’ of the linguistic turn of Security Studies and Foucault, is to focus on the technocratic analysis of techniques of government. This kind of move brings with it more levels of analysis than the CopS approach. My reasoning here is that a theory of communication or linguistic interaction should be the basis on which such broader approaches should be built on, and that the linguistic foundations of this kind of approach should be as explicit as possible. That speech acts of securitisation are rarely isolated incidents or one-off affairs does not mean that the logics and grammars of the linguistic acts that form practices and processes of securitisation should not be explicated to a greater extent than they have been before.193 Making the roots of the framework of securitisation more defined also strengthens the branching out of the approach. While Huysmans goes beyond the CopS approach by incorporating various other aspects to the study of securitisation, Thierry Balzacq (2005; 2010a) is the leading critic of the CopS’s ‘linguistic’ approach, which is why his argument is used as the counterpoint to the one outlined here. It seems that the difficulties in Balzacq’s critique may derive from two sources, namely Bourdieu (e.g., 1991) and Habermas (e.g., 1984). Balzacq (2005) emphasises the sociological aspect of securitisation processes, and argues that a focus on speech acts reduces the aspect of, for example, power to a linguistic convention like betting. While, in my view, the CopS approach does not do this, the problematic reading may be a result of Bourdieu’s critique of some structural linguists who take the rules of language as entirely determinant. However, Balzacq’s (2005; 2010a, 63-65) main argument is that securitisation should be taken as a ‘pragmatic act’, rather than a speech act. This position may derive from Habermas’s (1984) theory of communicative action, more specifically from his problematic position on illocutionary and perlocutionary acts in his division of communicative and strategic action. While Balzacq is correct to argue that securitisation is often, at least partly, about the convincing of audiences, and that securitisation often has perlocutionary intentions, this does not mean that securitisation should be viewed as a perlocutionary (i.e., pragmatic) act; illocutionary acts can also have strategic objectives.194

tive belt of securitisation theory elsewhere (Vuori 2011). 193 The example of the Doomsday Clock also illustrates how a process of securitisation can last for several decades. Indeed, while securitisation theory is best understood as a constitutive theory, it does not mean (as some critics and commentators seem to suggest) that the analysis of securitisation would have to be limited to the ‘creation’ or the ‘constitutive moment’ of securitisation. ‘Real’ securitisation can be a lengthy process indeed, not purely a decision or a moment of creation. Since reality and political speech is fuzzier than the elegant models scholars create (cf., Wilkinson 2007), elegant models still allow a focus on relevant aspects of infinitely complex phenomena to be attempted. 194 Balzacq’s language of ‘security is a pragmatic act’ is not clear in this respect: as was noted before, security is not a speech act, and thus is unable to have perlocutionary effects in this sense (security may however, for

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Launching his critique from an externalist and sociological angle, Balzacq suggests that Wæver has conflated the illocutionary and perlocutionary aspects of speech acts in his theory of securitisation; Balzacq (2005, 176-177) argues that Wæver’s approach reduces securitisation to the acts of the speaker, to the illocutionary aspect of speech acts, which leave no role for the audience of securitisation, that is, for the perlocutionary effects of securitisation.195 Balzacq seems to repeat Pierre Bourdieu’s (1991) criticism of formal and structural linguists. Bourdieu (ibid.; see also Thompson 1991, 2) argued that such approaches fail to grasp the social and political conditions of language formation, and especially language use. Wæver frequently (e.g., Buzan et al. 1998, 46-47; Wæver 2000a, 286; Wæver 2003) notes that this was Bourdieu’s way to counter the tendency of some post-structuralists and philosophers of everyday language to consider the internal linguistic features of speech acts as entirely determinant. This was part of Bourdieu’s project to free sociology from all forms of domination by linguists and their conceptualisations (Bourdieu 1991, 37). Balzacq (2005, 185) presents securitisation as a strategy to swing audiences to favour the securitising actor. However, in my view, although a relevant aspect of securitisation, securitisation and security are not only about swinging audiences. As already noted, to speak of a matter as an issue of security is a political choice, which may have several kinds of motives behind it. Indeed, the perlocutionary effect of securitisation, as Wæver presents it, is legitimacy: securitisation justifies acts which would otherwise be considered unjustified i.e., it makes morally unacceptable policies196 become morally acceptable, because they are seen to ensure the existence of something that should survive. However, legitimacy is not the only perlocutionary aim of securitisation. The process of securitisation may utilise securitisation moves with different aims as it goes on. Securitisation may first be used as a warning or a deterrent, then as a basis to legitimise future drastic acts, and finally as a post-hoc justification, for example. In addition to legitimacy, controlled silence can also be the sign of a successful securitisation. The success of security as silence may not be about swinging an audience in ones favour, but also to obtain desistance from some form of action e.g., popular resistance/uprising. Another point of contention in these debates on securitisation is an echo of those on formality and openness within speech act theory’s applications in social theories. For example, Balzacq (2005) criticises Wæver of reducing securitisation to conventional practices like marriage and betting. It should however be noted that while some speech acts have what Holdcroft (1978, 18-19) terms ‘conventional consequences’, not all do. Unlike standard perlocutionary effects, some speech acts (like a marriage declaration) do not have consequences that may or may not occur.197 In this sense securitisation is unlike bet-

example, have connotations or, through affects, some other effects). The speech act of securitisation however can have intended or unintentional perlocutionary effects. It might be clearer to posit that securitisation is a speech act, which when successful, brings about the status function of a security issue. 195 For Wæver however, as we have already seen and will see below, the success or failure of securitisation has always been up to the audience, who the securitising actor tries to convince of the validity of her argument. Indeed, I reason that the perlocutionary effect is in fact the criterion for the success or failure of securitisation and a relevant aspect in the explication of the strands of securitisation speech acts. 196 Sometimes politicians too: securitisation has been utilised in interfactional struggle in the People’s Republic of China for example. 197 For Habermas (1984), some speech acts rely on social institutions, while others are more open, which for him allows ‘communicative action.’ While securitisation seems to conform to illocutionary conventions, most

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ting: while betting has conventional consequences, securitisation may or may not have them, depending on the ‘strand’ of securitisation.198 Most securitisation moves are open in the sense that they are not declarations, in the sense that they have to be argued and their ‘success’ depends on effecting the desired perlocutionary effect.199 While illocutions may be performed with perlocutionary intentions (Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 10; cf., Cohen 1973, 500; Holdcroft 1978, 21) and an illocutionary act may have a role to effectuate a matter, this does not necessarily mean that it has to be a perlocutionary act (Holdcroft 1978, 22). This becomes evident when it is noted how nonsensical it would be to say for example that ‘I convince you that you should do this’, or ‘I persuade you that you are wrong’, or even that ‘I legitimise this as an issue of national security.’ Thereby, I believe that Habermas (1984) has a problem in categorising speech acts with perlocutionary intentions as ‘strategic’, while leaving illocutionary acts without perlocutionary intentions as ‘communicative acts.’ Indeed, as he himself recognises, argumentation, which clearly should be the prime example of interaction that strives for understanding,200 can have “strategic [i.e., perlocutionary] aspects.” Indeed, while argumentation seeks understanding, it also aims at convincing, which is a perlocutionary effect; thereby, I would argue that even understanding is a perlocutionary effect. Another aspect of the internal/external debate on acts of securitisation is the issue of the ‘self-referentiality’ of security. Accordingly, Balzacq (2005, 171) also brings this point of contention up in his critique of the CopS approach. Like other criticisms of the ‘internal’ aspect of securitisation theory, he identifies a problem with the self-referentiality of security, with it being considered an intersubjective process: we either have to argue that security is a self-referential practice, thus forsaking perlocutionary effects, or we have to hold fast to the creed that using the concept of security also produces a perlocutionary effect, in which case we have to abandon self-referentiality.201 Thus the question arises: does the emphasis on audiences and perlocutionary effects, that is, the intersubjectivity of securitisation as discussed above, lead to security as not self-referential, as Balzacq argues? I contend that recognising the necessity of both illocutionary and perlocutionary aspects does not mean security is not self-referential. John

acts of securitisation do not seem to have conventional consequences. 198 And even in the case of strands which do have conventional consequences, even these are open and can fail, or be refused (even if only by violating the norm or convention); no act of securitisation is guaranteed or omnipotent in terms of it becoming a working social reality, no matter what kind of power of declaration some conventional and institutionalised social position may have. Indeed, Wæver’s (1995, 80) footnote on securitisation being akin to raising a bet is an analogy rather than an equivalent. 199 Securitisation for deterrence differs in this sense, as its effects come into play only after a declaration has taken place. In the realm of security, declarations of war would be another example of a speech act with ‘conventional consequences.’ A declaration of war is however quite different from most securitisation moves. See Chapter 6.3.2. below for the various strands of securitisation proposed in this present study. 200 Habermas’s (1984; see also 1979) communicative actions easily reads as extremely idealist. Even a precursory reading of Schopenhauer (2005) shows how academic debates, which should be the form of life that most resembles Habermas’s communicative action, can be strategic indeed; Schopenhauer’s ‘eristic dialectics’ shows how academic discussions can be quite bereft of both truth and understanding. 201 Wæver’s internal aspects in his formulations of securitisation theory may be derived from his views on the possibilities allowed by discourse analysis of texts: discourse analysis should work within the text, and seek trancendental signifieds. This does not however mean other methods could not be deployed in order to examine variables beyond certain discourse samples. That the analysis of acts of securitisation works within discourse samples does not mean that these samples would be all there was or is as regards actually occurred social constructions of certain security issues.

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Searle (1996, 32-34) has noted that concepts that name social reality seem to have a peculiar kind of self-referentiality. Following Searle’s way to approach this issue, in order for something to be security it would have to be something considered to be security. If everybody ceases to believe this something to be security, then it ceases its function as security, and eventually ceases to be security.202 The very concept of security is self-referential, as in order for something to fall under the concept of security it must be believed to be satisfying the definition of security; part of being security is that it is believed to be just that, security. This is a feature of all social facts. Further, continuing along the externalist approach, Balzacq (2005, 181) argues that language does not construct reality; at best it shapes our perception of it. I concur with this position when it comes to issues such as, for example, the colour spectrum. However, social facts such as the status function of security are fundamentally different: they are political issues that exist only in a human-dependent form, even though some ‘threats’ have their basis in ‘brute reality.’ Yet, such brute facts have to be provided with a layer of social reality in order to have a status function for humans. Self-referentiality does not mean a divorce from the ‘real world’ or even ‘brute reality.’ Social facts are epistemologically objective, yet ontologically subjective. At the same time, the construction of social facts and institutions (like security) are both self-referential and intersubjective. A tank is only a ‘tank’ to humans who perceive the status function of a tank, even if a ‘tank’ can still cause their death without a status function of any kind. Similarly, that a status function for the human independent phenomenon of hurricanes is provided, clearly, will not affect what the physical effects of hurricanes are (unless this leads to, for example, human action in preparation for them). But hurricanes are also not spoken about as a security threat in the sense security in relation to international relations is (e.g., hurricanes cannot jeopardise the sovereignty of states which are social institutions, unless the hurricane happens to also eliminate humanity as such).203 Security in international affairs is relational, but one cannot be relational with hurricanes.204 But the question remains: why does security constituted by a belief to be security, not lead to infinite regress (cf., Searle 1996, 52-53)? I reason, along Searle’s lines, that the word ‘security’ marks a node in a complex network of intertwined practices inclusive of defence and surveillance;205 further, ‘security’ is a modality (Hansen 2000) or a rationale (Huysmans 2006a) that can operate in the absence of ‘security words.’ Although Balzacq (cf., 2005, 180) seems to view the term or concept of security as being a necessity to produce the speech act of securitisation, for Wæver (e.g., Buzan et al. 1998, 27), the word ‘security’ is not required in order to have securitisation.206 The speech act of securitisa Wæver (2000a, 253) seems to implicitly follow this understanding when he speaks about the normative goal of securitisation studies; he has proposed that securitisation studies should aim at desecuritisation. 203 Catastrophic effects of hurricanes can, of course, facilitate threats that can bring the sovereignty of a state to an end, if another state sees its opportunity for an attack or a secessionist group decides to take action, for example. 204 We may be witnessing a shift in the predominant understanding of ‘security’ in international politics: slow physical processes in the global atmosphere seem to be attaining a sense of a threat to survival, which is of a different nature to those posed by humans via states and their weaponry. Whether such slowly progressing threats will be incorporated into ‘security’, or whether they will be conceptualised in a different manner, remains to be seen. See Trombetta (2008) for a discussion of this issue. 205 See e.g., Lyon (2006; 2007). 206 Searle and Vanderveken (1985, 10) argue that speakers often perform illocutionary acts implicitly through the explicit performance of other illocutions by relying on background knowledge and the mental capacities 202

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tion does not happen if, for example, an actor utters the word security, but through the production of an impression of a threat to something’s existence (e.g., by claiming and warning) through the suggestion that some emergency action will repel the threat. Indeed, the word security may not have to be used at all, as security can manifest itself on a metaphorical level, implicitly or through institutional security (e.g., when some phrase automatically contains the element of security and priority) (ibid.).207 What is sufficient is that something is considered to have the role of security in a network of practices. Thereby infinite regress, as a result of the self-referentiality of social facts, is not apparent. The word security functions as a linguistic placeholder for the practices that are a part of it, and what is termed security is itself a network of practices: the word security does not need to be used. The self-referentiality of ‘security’ then becomes intersubjective and thereby does not lead to infinite regress.

The above debate within Securitisation Studies has been about whether securitisation theory should emphasise the illocutionary or perlocutionary aspects of speech acts of securitisation. Due to this debate, it may be prudent to state my own view and reasoning on this contentious issue. The debate on the issue of illocutionary and perlocutionary aspects is closely connected to the various views on political theory and theories of politics that appliers of the approach have taken. Thereby it is also prudent to state my viewpoint on this issue here as well. My aim for the present study is to explicate the speech act logic of acts of securitisation, and thereby to provide solutions for the empirical problems that have been identified by appliers of the securitisation framework. By provision of a typology of ‘strands’ of securitisation208 the semantic content of ‘securitisation’ lessens and ‘securitisation for some purpose’ increases, and thereby the extension of ‘securitisation’ is greater than before. While the emphasis here is on the explication of the variation in the political functions of securitisation, it is also important to note the shared semantic content of its various strands – after all – securitisation is ‘all about security’. To elucidate the shared illocutionary elements of the various types of securitisation acts may also clarify the view here on shared with the hearer, in order to achieve understanding (asking whether someone knows where something is, implies a request for directions for example). Securitisation speech acts can also be indirect, and rely on the relevant background. Similarly, certain illocutionary acts can imply perlocutionary intentions. For example, a promise could imply a threat. Ted Cohen (1973, 500) and David Holdcroft (1978, 21) argue in a similar vein that a perlocution can be the point of an illocution. They further argue that while an illocution may be performed in order to bring about a perlocutionary effect, the opposite is not possible. You may threaten in order to intimidate, but you cannot elect in order to vote. Ciuta (2009, 316) argues that speech acts are by definition explicit, and that therefore the CopS could not analyse ‘implicit security’, or the logic of security, which it deems more important than the word security. There is however a huge discussion of ‘implicit speech acts’ beyond the points brought up here. It is prudent here to recall that speech acts do not always depend on certain ‘explicit’ verbs for example: a promise can be made without using the verb ‘promise.’ 207 This institutional nature of securitisation is evident in the ‘macro-securitisations’ engaged in during the Cold War (Buzan & Wæver 2009). Edelman (1972, 14-15) has also noted that some threats come to be shared universally and thus are claimed to have the same consequences for everyone. The wide public processes that these types of threats are constructed by make it very difficult to react to them in any other way than as threats; threats will be the focus of attention whether the media is controlled by private interests or propaganda ministries. Communism, counter-revolution, or terrorism will entail a security element and logic, depending on the context where they are used (Buzan & Wæver 2009; cf., Edelman 1972, 15). 208 See chapter 6.3.2. below.

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what exactly happens in illocutionary acts of securitisation. When we compare the elementary speech act sequences of the five strands of securitisation posited below (see Table 2), it becomes apparent that they all share the speech acts of a claim and a warning. The combination of these acts commits the securitising actor to the view that there is an existential threat to a valued referent object, and that its continued existence requires or has required drastic measures (to paraphrase the main point: ‘this issue has/had to be dealt with before it is/was too late’). This then forms the shared elementary stem for the strands of securitisation: the securitising actor commits to the view that to repel a threat to a referent object’s existence requires drastic measures. It also displays how the word ‘security’ does not need to be used in order to ‘do security’: what is required is the social institution/rationality/modality of security, and precisely this is evoked by the shared illocutionary stem of securitisation. Although the various strands of securitisation display how ‘security’ can be used for various functions or purposes in terms of perlocutionary goals, the securitising actor already does something beyond communication in the illocutionary utterance of securitisation, namely commits to the goal of a ‘status transformation’ or maintenance on the issue in question into that of ‘security’ or threat repellence. This commitment takes place irrespective of whether the utterance act is felicitously performed or not. Thereby, already the illocutionary act may change or alter the social situation, as it brings the social institution/rationality/modality of security to bear on it. The success or felicity of the illocutionary act beyond uptake is a perlocutionary matter (is the hearer convinced, for example), but as the two level securitisation dilemma also shows, the illocutionary act on its own already evokes the possibility of the status transformation, even if it ‘fails’.209 What the transformation that happens in the illocutionary act is, depends greatly on the socio-political context.210 But it is important to note that for the various perlocutionary intentions to succeed, the constitutive change that takes place in the illocutionary act of securitisation also has to be successful. As was already stated, the debate on the illocutionary and perlocutionary aspects of securitisation speech acts is closely connected to different views on theories of politics. This connection has recently become a new explicit point of contention within the litera-

This viewpoint can perhaps be elucidated with an analogy of punching: whether or not there are effects caused by a punch, the status of the social situation may already be transformed in the act of punching (‘You tried to hit me?!’), which may depend greatly on the social context of the punch (e.g., whether it takes place in a contest, in jest, illegally, or in self defence). Thereby, irrespective of whether the punch lands on its target, misses it, or either is dodged or parried, the act of punching is done in the punch and the puncher commits (irrespective of intention or sincerity) the status transformation it entails. Furthermore, just as speech acts can have both intended and unintended consequences, so can a punch. 210 As Marina Sbisà (2001, 1797, 1801) notes, some illocutionary acts can have ‘conventional effects’, which may depend on the ‘power’ of the utterer (e.g., authority, influence, legitimation, capacity, or competence) and the uptake of the hearer. As was already noted above, a similar notion has been put forward by Holdcroft (1978, 18-19), who posits that some speech acts can have ‘conventional consequences’. Which illocutionary acts have conventional constitutive entailments is an empirical matter to be investigated. In the case of acts of securitisation, as was noted above, to commit to an illocutionary act of securitisation, in some social situations, may have consequences, some of which may be conventional. For example, with a declarative illocutionary force, the success of the strand of securitisation for deterrence depends on its conventional ‘effects’ or ‘consequences’, as the deterrent effect is based on the possibility of realisation of the proposed measures. Declarations of states of emergency or war are other examples of instances where there are conventional effects when the correct speakers, hearers, and other social conventions are present. Often, these effects have even been codified into laws. 209

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ture on securitisation theory.211 Different participants in the debates on securitisation theory hold different views on what politics is, and this is often reflected in the way they approach securitisation theory as well. Many critics have also noted that the theory of politics which can be deduced from securitisation theory is inconsistent or self-contradictory. Indeed, politics may be approached from a variety of angles. It can be viewed as a productive activity (e.g., postmodern approaches that draw on Foucault), reproductive activity (e.g., approaches that draw on Bourdieu), or an allocatory activity (e.g., approaches that draw on Easton). Furthermore, politics can be viewed both as an arena and an activity (e.g., approaches that draw on Palonen). It could be possible to limit the theory of securitisation to one theory of politics, and inject that into the theory, and it could be argued that the theory of securitisation needs to contain a theory of politics – or even that the theory of securitisation is itself a theory of politics. My viewpoint is, however, different. In accordance with the minimalist view on the core of the theory, and the goal of theory travel, my contention is that securitisation theory can be used to elucidate phenomena and practices in accordance with all of the above approaches to politics. This is made possible by a minimal core, and the adaptation of the protective belt in accordance with the theory of politics applied in each study. An empirical applier of the theory of securitisation could connect some theory of politics onto the protective belt of the framework, while another applier could attach a different theory to it. Thereby, the speech act approach to securitisation can be used to investigate how identities are produced in processes of securitisation, yet it can also be used to investigate how securitisation operates in bureaucratic battles of resource allocation. When the core of the theory is kept minimal, such variation in the types of problems investigated with the approach does not have to be a question of either or. It may be necessary to have some theory of politics in order to apply securitisation theory, but it may not be necessary that the combination of securitisation theory and a theory of politics would always stay the same. To sum up the above discussions, we know that IR has witnessed a series of metatheoretical debates on structure and agency.212 Thus, it is no surprise that the issue has flared up within the debates on securitisation theory, too. In this view, the debates on the internal and external aspects of acts of securitisation seem to revolve around the same issues that Chomsky and Foucault (2006) discussed in their famous debate on human nature. Proponents of the internal aspect emphasise the creativity of acts of securitisation, in that performative acts of securitisation bring something new into situations that was not there before. Conversely, proponents of the external aspect emphasise that acts of securitisation depend on various structures that emanate from the situation itself, for it is not possible to do certain things, if certain other things are not first in place. I believe that a middle-position should be adopted on this issue, just as Chomsky and Foucault did in the end: not everything is possible, even performatively, if certain ‘structures’ are not in play, while such ‘structures’ can be applied or manipulated creatively. While many processes

A forthcoming issue of Security Dialogue based on the 20th anniversary of securitisation theory conference held in Copenhagen in September 2010 engages this debate explicitly. 212 For debates and discussion of the agent-structure problem in IR, see Wendt (1987; 1999), Hollis & Smith (1991), Carlsnaes (1992), Buzan (1995), and Wight (2006). 211

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of securitisation depend and build on existing norms, threat images and even previous processes of securitisation, bringing these to bear on some particular issue is concomitantly a way to create something new. The capabilities (e.g., habitus and socio-political capital) of actors and how these are distributed in a particular social field, enable and constrain the creative use of performatives. The field and the capabilities are, however, not the same as the context of the utterance or performance of speech acts: for Searle & Vanderveken (1985, 27-28), the context of an utterance consists not only of speaker, hearer, time, place but of also related other features of the speaker, hearer, time and place that are relevant to the performance of the speech acts. Securitising actors can choose to perform securitising moves, but they cannot decide on the perlocutionary effects these will elicit i.e., securitising actors cannot decide on the success or failure of their illocutionary acts.213 Thereby, securitisation is an open social process which can always fail, and which can be refused (Wæver 2000b, 10): “it is necessary always to keep open the possibility of failure of an act that previously succeeded and where the formal resources and position are in place (the breakdown of communist regimes in Eastern Europe) and conversely that new actors can perform a speech act they previously were not expected to (the environmental movement). […] Therefore, the issue of ‘who can do security?’ and ‘was this a case of securitisation?’ can ultimately only be judged in hindsight. […] It can not be closed off by finite criteria for success.” For Derrida (1988, 15), the possibility of infelicity or the failure of the speech act is always present in speech act situations. Searle and Vanderveken’s (1985, 10) solution to the issue of success and failure, or the felicity and infelicity of speech acts was to broaden the possible ‘results’ of speech acts, to those of speech acts being unsuccessful, successful but defective, or successful and nondefective. Beyond issues of success and failure of speech acts in terms of criteria such as uptake, Habermas (1984) raises the point of the ever present possibility of refusal: hearers can challenge the social convention a speech act is based on. While such refusals may be a taboo or have severe consequences, e.g., a court martial for refusal to follow orders, the logical and practical possibility of such remains. Structures and agents are both required to achieve securitisation, and both should be taken into account in its empirical investigation.

6.2.4. Carl Schmitt in Copenhagen and Beijing – the Concept of the Political and Securitisation Theory

As the previous sub-chapter demonstrated, the issue of structures and agents in bringing about securitisation has been a multifaceted debate. ‘Who’ can ‘speak security’ is a relevant question here, but even more pertinent is whether those who that have the ability to speak security can decide on the success of such speech, or on whether or not a security policy is implemented. Wæver’s emphasis of the internal aspect of acts of securitisation has worried many because of its similarity with ‘decisionism’. However, while processes of securitisation can be viewed as a form of politics that defines limits between the normal and the ‘special’ or the ‘exceptional’, as the above discussion already indicated, speakers In analoguous terms, one can choose to make a flanking operation, but one cannot decide that it will be successful. 213

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cannot always decide on the success of securitisation.214 This is one of the fundamental differences between the theory of securitisation and readings of Carl Schmitt’s notion of the political within Security Studies. Schmitt (e.g., 1996; 2005) discussed the state of exception in the context of constitutional legal systems. For him, the essence of the political is the moment when normative procedural constraints on political power have to give way to the necessity to recognise the enemy,215 thus revealing the primacy of the exception over the norm.216 The power to decide on such an exception to regular procedures and limits defines a sovereign,217 and the authentically political moment of creation.218 Even though Schmitt has never disappeared from the ‘scene’ in Europe (Koivusalo & Ojakangas 1997, 35), since the end of the 1990s his thoughts have gained intensive attention in European security studies.219 The opening salvos for this new barrage of debate came from Jef Huysmans’s (1998b) and Michael Williams’s (2003) articles. The newfound interest in Schmitt has been fuelled by Giorgio Agamben’s (2005; see also 2001) discussion on the state of exception and ‘bare life’ (Agamben 1998), journals such as Telos have constantly discussed Schmitt, and such illuminaries as Chantal Mouffe (2005; see also 1999) and Jacques Derrida (2005) have found it necessary to engage with Schmitt to develop their own conceptualisation of politics. Schmitt has even been relevant in China studies, as exemplified by Michael Dutton’s (2005) study of policing in China, which I will discuss below. As Markku Koivusalo and Mika Ojakangas (1997, 36-37) note, Schmitt has been either an inspiration or a target for criticism and debate for a broad spectrum of positions ranging from the neo-right to Maoism and even the Green movement. As was just noted, many commentators on securitisation studies (e.g., Huysmans 1998b; 2006a; Williams 2003; Alker 2006) have found similarities between securitisation and Schmitt’s decisionism.220 Wæver (2007a) too, recognises these similarities, but denies that Schmitt would have influenced him before the development of his own understanding of securitisation.221 As will be seen, although the two approaches do share A securitising actor can choose to make a securitising move, but thereafter the actor cannot decide whether the move succeeds or fails. Some acts of securitisation have conventional perlocutionary outcomes whilst others do not. 215 Schmitt (1996, 26): “The specific political distinction to which political actions and motives can be reduced is that between friend and enemy.” 216 Schmitt (2005, 5): “This definition of sovereignty must therefore be associated with a borderline case and not with routine.” 217 “Sovereign is he who decides on the exception,” (Schmitt 2005, 5). The sentence in the original German is “Soverän ist, wer über den Ausnahmezustand entscheidet”, which implies the possibility of the sovereign in plural. Thereby, the sovereign is not necessarily an individual person, but the position from which a new order is established, and exceptions from it determined. 218 For Agamben, the political is the nexus between violence and law (Agamben 2005, 88), and “in modern biopolitics, sovereign is he who decides on the value or nonvalue of life as such” (Agamben 1998, 142). 219 The same trend has happened within IR. See for example Odysseos & Pepito (2007), and the exchange between Chandler (2008a; 2008b) and Odysseos & Pepito (2008). 220 For example Huysmans (2006a, 135) identifies the Schmittian understanding of the political as a move from normal to exceptional politics, as the political problematic of securitisation. While securitisation is different from Schmitt’s position, Huysmans argues that taking securitisation as the legitimisation of the ‘exceptional’ is a particular way to view the political. Neal (2006) similarly posits securitisation as among the various approaches to ‘exceptionalism’ he discusses and critiques. 221 Andreas Behnke (2000, 91-92) argues, similarly to Huysmans (1998b), that the separation of politicisation and securitisation reifies and depoliticises the constitution of political communities through sovereign decisions. Behnke argues that Wæver rejects securitisation because it disturbs the silence of the sovereign 214

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similarities, there are also clear differences, which have also been noted (Williams 2003; Neal 2006). A discussion of Schmitt’s and Agamben’s approaches to ‘states of exception’, with a Daoist digression, will elucidate these differences. We can begin by noting that, for Schmitt, the authentically political moment of creation boils down to a struggle between (Christian) good and evil; for Schmitt (2005, 36): “all significant concepts of the modern theory of the state are secularized theological concepts”; “every political idea in one way or another takes a position on the ‘nature’ of man and presupposes that he is either ‘by nature good’ or ‘by nature evil’” (ibid., 56).222 Yet what is deemed to be good or evil is in itself a political and moral question. Leo Strauss (1996, 95, 99, 101) already noted this problem with Schmitt’s ‘affirmation of the political’, which Strauss demonstrated was merely an ‘affirmation of the moral’:

“the opposition between the negation and the position of the political can be traced back to a quarrel over human nature. […] The opposition between evil and good loses its keen edge, it loses its very meaning, as soon as evil is understood as innocent ‘evil’ and thereby goodness is understood as an aspect of evil itself. Schmitt [has to nullify] the view of human evil as animal and thus innocent evil, and to return to the view of human evil as moral baseness. […] [H]e affirms the political because he sees in the threatened status of the political a threat to the seriousness of human life. The affirmation of the political is ultimately nothing other than the affirmation of the moral.”

Indeed, instead of going ‘beyond good and evil’, Schmitt is basically bound to Christianity, and thereby to a Manichean understanding of the world and how it is ultimately constituted. This is evident in his assumption of the existence of basic dyadic relations (Schmitt 1996, 26): ”Let us assume that in the realm of morality the final distinctions are between good and evil, in aesthetics beautiful and ugly, in economics profitable and unprofitable.” In the realm of politics, then, the basic dyad is famously that of friend and enemy. However, a Daoist double reading of dyads through the Yin-Yang principle, and of sovereignty through the ‘sage-ruler’ (圣人, shèngrén), show how a morality beyond basic dyads and ‘deciding’ could be possible. While for Schmitt (2005) it is the sovereign that decides,223 for Laozi (2004) it is the sage that cannot decide. For Schmitt (1996) it is not important how, or on which grounds, a judgement or decision is made, but that it is made in the first place, so that, in each situation a judgement on what is right and wrong, what is good and evil, or what is beautiful and ugly, comes about. Conversely for Laozi (2004), the ability to lack such judgements is decisions that precede the ‘liberal democracy’ that is already included in the theory of securitisation. In a way, Behnke fleshes out the ‘democratic bias’ of the paradigmatic form of securitisation theory, see Chapter 6.3. 222 Ojakangas (2002, 35) presents one possibility for why Schmitt was ‘stuck’ to a dichotomous morality: Schmitt was a ‘true believer’ who saw Christianity as essentially anti-Jewish and exclusionary of Judaism. 223 As Huysmans (2006a, 137) puts it: “The Schmittian sovereign does not move value questions to the private realm but publicly decides what counts as right and wrong” (cf., Schmitt 1996, 53-68). The Daoist sage is precisely the opposite of this understanding of the sovereign; a Daoist sage-ruler is against vitalism, against creative acts of will. “The wise ruler is a non-judgemental, self-effacing mother” (Roberts 2004, 131). Instead of an über-mensch, the sage-ruler is an unter-mensch (Moeller 2006, 135); while Schmitt aims at being ‘beyond good and evil’, the Laozi (2004) achieves precisely this: the Laozi is non-humanist philosophy.

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precisely what makes the sage a sage: all other people know that good is good and bad is bad, except the sage-ruler (Moeller 2006, 103-104, 106; Laozi 2004, §2, §49).224 As Ojakangas (2002, 119) notes, the Reich or Polis, that is, the state, is by no means rare in the world, but rather, what would be rare, for him, would be the non-creation of the Reich, the suspension of power and rulership. It would also seem that Daoist states have been rare, if not non-existent. A Daoist state would practice inaction or non-interference (为无为, wéiwúwéi): the sage would be a leader who would neither decide (contra Schmitt) nor judge (contra Arendt).225 This kind of state would be essentially different from those formed in the Judeo-Christian tradition and the types of judicial orders discussed by Schmitt, since they would not be based on absolute dichotomies, but rather on the YinYang principle. Yet even here there would be ‘limits’: only the sage would know that she actually does not know (what is good and what is bad).226 With his vitalist philosophy, Schmitt sought the authentic political condition or experience, which was the definition of the enemy and the decision on the state of exception, the real possibility of ‘physical killing’ (Schmitt 1996, 33; Huysmans 2006a, 135-138).227 As Strauss (1996, 107) suggested, Schmitt sought ‘pure and whole knowledge’, which could only be gained by the means of return to the origin, to ‘undamaged, non-corrupt nature.’ The leading philosopher of contemporary ‘exceptionality’, Giorgio Agamben seems to resist this position, or at least its desirability. For Agamben (2005, 88), “purity never lies at the origin”: the ‘disenchantement of fictions’ (like the unity of life and law) merely allows the possibility of the origin’s new conditions. As Koivusalo (2001, 100) notes, Agamben has dealt with the issue of ‘authenticity’ or ‘origin’ in most of his works, by returning to the issue of the limits and power of language, always in a slightly different manner. In a way, this could be seen to conform to the circular principles of Daoism: “Reversal is the movement of the Dao” (Moeller 2006, 102), “the things of the world are generated from presence; presence is created from non-presence (ibid., 39).”228 Agamben’s objective to seek to end that which has been, and move towards that what is, but has never before already been, equals the truest form of infantia (Koivusalo 2001, 107-108). In Daoism, the origin is similarly always present; it is neither more authentic nor purer than the The sage-ruler has two key characteristics: inaction and being without personal qualities (Moeller 2006, 59; Laozi 2004, §48). The sage-ruler will not be opposed, as there is nothing to oppose; the sage-ruler must make sure that there is no distinguishable person or ‘interest’ at the centre of power (Moeller 2006, 62-65). 225 One could think that perhaps the Laozi (2004) is not about politics or a social theory, but as Moeller (2006, 57) notes, the Laozi is a text of human leadership, and like many other philosophical texts of its time, it was a guidebook for political leaders. 226 Daoist thinking could also make possible the essentialist-resistant politics Mouffe (2005, 7) seeks: just as “neither the totality nor the fragments possess any kind of fixed identity, prior to contingent and pragmatic forms of their articulation,” Daoist principles deal with emptiness and form (form is emptiness, emptiness is form). Moeller (2006, 20) suggests that the Dao describes the structural interplay of emptiness and fullness, or non-presence and presence. The Laozi does not seek ‘external sources of energy’, it does not look for acts of creation; genuineness is not to be found in the origin, as the origin is always present (Laozi 2004, §14). As Roberts (2004, 21) notes, history in Daoism becomes a nonchronical and everpresent antiquity; virtue does not emanate from some paternal history, but is accessible in the authenticity of the present. 227 Schmitt (1996, 29): “The political is the most intense end extreme antagonism.” For Laozi (2004), a moral aspect is absent even in issues of war: instead of ‘good’ and ‘bad’, or enemy and friend, the Laozi conceptualises military confrontations in terms of ‘winners’ and ‘losers’ (Moeller 2006, 84). The function of military forces is to act as deterrents (Laozi 2004, §80). The Daoist approach to military engagements is in tune with Sunzi (2005): the aim is to make the opponent expend energy while the defendant remains inactive. 228 In Laozi (2004, 112) the Stanza 40 is translated as: “The Way moves on by contra-motion; Yielding is the application. Becoming begets all beings below; Becoming begotten of negation.” 224

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present.229 Thus, in a way, the objective of the sage is to be in-between the social and the corporeal, to be in a state of infancy. The sage-ruler is non-present, a human desert, ‘an infant that does not yet smile’ (Moeller 2006, 67). Unlike the superior individual, the ‘gentleman’ (君子, jūnzǐ) emphasised by Confucianism, in Laozi, the sage is childlike and never a commanding father; the sage has no ruler-vassal relationship (臣君, jūn-chén) nor father-son relationship (父子, fù-zǐ) that are among the cardinal relationships of Confucianism (Roberts 2004, 18).230 The Laozi envisages a system of rule that is not based on paternalism, nor vitalist moments of creation or decision. Beyond the notions of infantia and the lack of purity in origins, Agamben (1998; 2005) departs from Schmitt in that when for Schmitt the state of exception is truly exceptional, for Agamben the state of exception has become the rule.231 This state of affairs came about

‘Out of one comes two, out of two comes three, out of three comes a multitude of things.’ In Laozi (2004, 116) Stanza 42 is translated as “The number one of the Way was born. A duad from this monad formed. The duad next a triad made; The triad bred the myriad, Each holding Yang And held by Yin, Whose powers’ balanced interaction Brings all ten thousand to fruition.” As Moeller (2006, 51-52) notes, the Dao is not an origin or an ultimate beginning: “neither the cosmos nor society has been ‘created’ or ‘planned.’ Neither of them is grounded in some initial ‘action’ or ‘agency.’” Unlike Christianity, there is no creator in Daoism. Accordingly, the Daoist state is not based on vitalist philosophy à la Schmitt. The Laozi is non-teleological, and avoids concepts of some original acts of creation, or of entities that would precede their own existence; the Laozi does not seek external sources of energy (Moeller 2006, 52-53). A ‘secularised’ Daoism would then lead to a different understanding of sovereignty than the ‘secular’ theology of the political Schmitt examines. 230 The Daoist critique of the definition of the enemy as the founding moment of political orders, and the basis of the political presented here, should not be taken as an argument for how things metaphysically ‘really’ are: I use the Daosit critique as a double reading of the necessity of the enemy/friend dyad. I argue that there is no need for a doxa, or even an orthodoxa concerning the political. If a Daoist sage is a sovereign who cannot decide, then perhaps sovereignty can be something beyond deciding on the exception. Another possible reading of how a state can be founded without defining an enemy also comes from Chinese state-philosophy. Without going deeply into the traditions, it can be noted that in imperial China, the basis for legitimate rule of the emperor was the mandate of heaven (天命, tiānmìng). This mandate was however not permanent. Should there be a succession of bad harvests or natural disasters, this could be interpreted as the heaven announcing that the mandate was revoked. This legitimated rising up against the emperor, and setting up a new cosmological order with a new emperor. Although culturally and temporally anachronistic, these kinds of situations could be interpreted as states of exception, moments of overturning the reigning political order and replacing it with another. This however did not necessitate the definition of an enemy. See Perry (2001) on how the idea of challenging the mandate of heaven has influenced popular protest in China. 231 Huysmans (2008, 166-167) also emphasises the difference between Schmitt’s and Agamben’s ‘state of exception’: Schmitt grounds the political in a conception of the exception, while Agamben grounds it in a conception of the exception-as-the-rule. Agamben draws inspiration for this from Walter Benjamin’s (1999b, 248) sentence: “The tradition of the oppressed teaches us that the ‘state of emergency’ in which we live is not the exception but the rule.” There indeed are examples of ‘emergency powers’ as the rule for decades. This was for example the case in Malaysia where states of emergencies were in place for several decades, and in the US which has, for the most part, been in a state of emergency since President Roosevelt declared one during the ‘great depression’ (the four states of emergencies declared after 1933 were terminated in 1978, only to have a new national emergency declared in 1979, which has been followed by 30 others in a fewer number of years [Neocleous 2007, 10]). Agamben however does not continue Benjamin’s (1999b, 248-249) point: Benjamin called for a ‘real state of emergency’ which would improve the positions of struggle against fascism. Indeed, it is important to realise that what Balakrishnan (1999, 264) notes on Schmitt, applies to Benjamin as well: the political context of both Schmitt and Benjamin is ‘nearly the exact opposite’ to Agamben’s, despite the camps in Guantánamo or Woomera. Agamben (2005, 2) argues that the state of exception has become a global technique of government, and thus it blurs the distinctions between constitutional forms. Before (1998, 115) he argued that “if today there is no longer any clear figure of the sacred man, it is perhaps because we are all virtually homines sacri.” But if 229

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in Nazi-Germany when the state of exception ceased “to be referred to as an external and provisional state of factual danger” and came “to be confused with juridicial rule itself” (Agamben 1998, 168). Agamben (1998; 2001) uses the political theoretical analysis of ‘camps’ as his example of how the exception is incorporated into the normal, of how a state of exception is willed into being.232 The ‘camp’ is a space that opens up and is given permanence when the state of exception is left to remain in normalcy, yet is excluded from it (Agamben 1998, 169-170, 175; 2001, 36). The ‘Jew’ could be put into camps only after she had been stripped of all aspects of citizenship, after she had been ‘denationalised’ (Agamben 1998, 132) and had become ‘bare life’, life that could be killed by anyone without consequence (Agamben, 2001, 25).233 Agamben (2001, 13) argues that the state of exception has become the sole form for legitimising power, and that power constantly aims to produce a state of exception. Via biopolitics, the pre-eminence of the bios over the zoe, bare life has become the only value of modern politics for Agamben, and this is where modern democracies and totalitarian orders are in solidarity (Agamben 1998, 10, 122; cf., Koivusalo 2001, 114-116).234 However, it would appear that Agamben conflates a state of emergency and a state of exception,235 which Schmitt (2005, 5) clearly keeps separate; for Agamben (2005, 4), the state of exception (Ausnahmezustand) contains the ‘state of necessity’ (Notstand), ‘emergency decrees’ and ‘states of siege’ (état de siège), as well as ‘martial law’ and ‘emergency powers.’ As was already noted, for Schmitt (2005, 5), the state of exception is more exceptional: the exception is not merely a construct applied to any emergency degree or state of siege.236 Rather, the exception is a borderline concept, which should not be considered

this would be the case, how would the people in the ‘camps’ be any different from citizens who have rights and entitlements, any different from those who would not be banned ‘outside the city’? If all are banned, does that not mean that all are inside or outside? This shows how practices of securitisation may be viewed as more specific techniques of abandonment or banning. On the level of technocratic practice, this may entail the banning of a trench-coated man in a subway, for example. At times Agamben also seems to paint with too broad strokes, for example, in terms of what is global and what is the West: in Agamben (1998, 176), “the camp, which is now securely lodged within the city’s interior, is the new biopolitical nomos of the planet,” actually turns out, a few pages later (ibid., 181), to be “the fundamental biopolitical paradigm of the West.” 232 Jurists came up with the concept of a ‘state of willed exception’ (einen gewollten Ausnahmezustand) in order to establish the National Socialist state (Agamben 1998, 168). 233 Agamben (1998, 8): hom*o sacer (the sacred man) “may be killed and yet not sacrificed,” as the hom*o sacer is already in the possession of the ‘gods of the underworld’ (ibid., 73). 234 Mika Ojakangas (2002, 112-116) argues that Agamben’s interpretation of biopower is different to Foucault’s biopower: for Foucault, the sovereign can only deal with ‘bare life’, but biopower goes beyond the power to decide on death, as it aims to exclude death itself; Foucault’s biopower precisely deals with life in all of its forms, not just bare life as Agamben suggests. Biopower cannot rule through merely the threat of death as sovereign power, biopower requires a plurality of techniques of power (cf., Foucault 2007). Further, while Agamben (1998) portrays for example the extermination of the ‘Jew’ as ‘lice’ as being a paragon of the biopolitics of bare life, Foucault might have seen this as a form of thanatopolitics instead, i.e., the politics of death (cf., Agamben 1998, 122). 235 In Agamben (2001, 9), for example, he defines a state of exception as a temporary suspension of the legal order, something similar to a state of emergency, which is often part of a legal order. 236 Schmitt (2005, 5): “the exception is to be understood to refer to a general concept of the theory of the state, and not merely to a construct applied to any emergency decree or state of siege.” Agamben (2005, 4-5; see also Agamben 1998, 166-169) recalls the historical introduction of the Napoleonic decree of a state of siege, and when the possibility to suspend the constitution was introduced into law. That such possibilities are inscribed into a legal order precisely shows that they are not what Schmitt’s state of exception was about. When Schmitt (1996, 46-47) for example discusses the hostis declaration of the Romans, he uses this as an example of how internal enemies are decided on by the sovereign. Deciding on the exception

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routine. The exception, thus, cannot be factually circ*mscribed or codified in law: indeed, the exception can, at best, only be characterised as extreme peril or a danger to the existence of the state (ibid., 6); “what characterizes an exception is principally unlimited authority, which means the suspension of the entire existing legal order” (ibid. 12). For Agamben (2005, 23) by contrast, the state of exception can be the total, or partial, suspension of the legal order and the state of exception is neither internal nor external to the juridical order but in a ‘zone of indifference’ where inside and outside blur into one another. The legal order is permanently suspended in the ‘camp’, and thereby the camp remains outside the legal order (Agamben 2001, 37). It seems then that, for Agamben, the camp represents a specific or limited suspension of the legal order and is thereby different from what Schmitt describes as a state of exception; the camp is a permanent special order that houses ‘bare life’, which no longer can be written into the order beyond it (ibid., 40).237 As can be seen from the above reasoning, for Schmitt, the sovereign decides on the state of exception and also defines the enemy. This forms the metaphysical basis of the political and the political involves the definition of mortal enemies. This decision, however, remains solely with the sovereign. This then crystallises the first difference between decisionism and securitisation. Wæver has argued that due to the social character of securitisation, formal authority is not sufficient to achieve success. Securitisation can always fail and no one person can conclusively hold the power of securitisation (Buzan et al. 1998, 31). Securitisation cannot be closed off by finite criteria for success (Wæver 2000a, 286; 2000b, 10). Therefore no single individual can be guaranteed that her decisions will be accepted; securitisation is an intersubjective, social process. Huysmans illustrates how Schmitt’s understanding of the political renders politics as a politics of fear; to base a political order on the fear of the enemy is a dictatorial principle of governance that enforces executive authority and denies the possibility and capability of others to interpret and act in the world in a different way (Huysmans 2008, 170). Therefore, Schmitt’s understanding of politics would seem to be contrary to what communication studies have otherwise demonstrated on the openand deciding on the enemy are two different things for Schmitt, when for Agamben they seem to be conflated. Thus, for Schmitt, what Agamben conceptualises as the ‘ban’ or ‘abandonment’ is not about the exception, but about the enemy. 237 Butler (2006, 57) identifies the Guantánamo Camp Delta as just such a space. The Bush administration’s legal arrangement for this camp does indeed seem to have parallels with what Himmler did with the initial camps for political prisoners in 1933 (Agamben 1998, 169); similar to the camps in Hitler’s Germany which were placed under the authority of the SS, and thereby outside the German legal order, the Bush administration has placed ‘enemy combatants’ captured outside the US legal order. While the case of Guantánamo has been a popular example of how the state of exception has become the rule (for a critique, see Neal 2006), it seems that this specific camp may not be that permanent after all, at least in this specific geographic location. Whether or not indefinite detention (cf., Butler 2006, 63) remains an indefinite practice for the Obama administration remains to be seen. Another problem with Agamben’s conception of camps when actual practices are investigated, is that he does not give a voice for hom*o Sacer: Agamben presents the people interned in camps as hapless victims who have no agency. Yet, when for example the Woomera camp in Australia is examined, those interned in the camp had agency even though they did not have a voice (see for example Huysmans 2005 on the Woomera detention centre and the protests there). Constructions of worthless and powerless others may be dangerous, as that other may prove to have agency and voice after all (e.g., North Vietnam vis-à-vis France and the US) (I owe this insight to Tarak Barkawi).

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ness of all interpretation; there is always a surplus of meaning in a text (Derrida 1988; Laclau & Mouffe 2001; Fiske 1992).238 Habermas (1984) also emphasises the possibility of refusal, even in highly formal and institutionalised social situations. Another difference between the state of exception and securitisation is that while the state of exception is general and all-encompassing, the nullification of the legal order and the setting up of a new ‘Ordnung’, securitisation is specific and limited.239 It would seem that a considerable amount of the recent literature on the state of exception, especially in terms of the war on terror, is confused as regards Schmitt’s concept of the state of exception.240 Schmitt clearly states that the state of exception is not about a siege on a town, but that it is about the nullification of law to instigate a new order and sovereign i.e., it is about revolution.241 Camps do not nullify an entire legal order, but are exceptions within the judicial order (Agamben 1998; 2001). This is a significant phenomenon and should be further analysed, but even so, this state of exception may still not be the correct concept and understanding to assess this inclusion of the exclusion. A third difference between decisionism and securitisation is that the number of actors who can speak security is greater than those who can decide in the vein of Schmitt. While Schmitt’s metaphysics is based on a judge’s prerogative of decision, which is used to return to the origin of a legal order, it may be possible to conjure up images of situa While interpretations retain the possibility of openness, it is also frequently the case that people will interpret matters in a similar way. There are also consistencies in cultures and societies in terms of the understanding of concepts. The roles people assume may also influence interpretations: people who share the same role learn to respond in similar fashion to particular signs. Specific types of political speech to specific types of audiences, may specify a certain response with a high confidence; in a way, Graham Allison is speaking of this when he states that ‘where you stand depends on where you sit’ (Allison & Zelikow 1999). Meanings and ways of responding to them are not the same for everyone, but perceptions of group interests and mutual role-taking may bear a significant influence on them. (cf., Edelman 1972, 115.) For Wæver (2007a) however, the possibility of re-articulation, the surplus of meaning, is a condition for the possibility of politics. Like him, it may be advantageous to take a middle-ground position on the issues of Derrida-style (over?)emphasis of freeflowing reinterpretation and the Foucauldian emphasis of dominant discourses and structures. Structures may dominate, but they can also be used creatively to undermine them, as a form of resistance. 239 Insight as provided to me by Ole Wæver during the Q&A session to his keynote lecture at the Culture and the Configuring of Security Conference in Höör, 7.11.2007. See also Wæver (2008a, 109). 240 As Neocleous (2007, 14) notes: “governments much prefer to work under the cloak of legality […] far from suspending the law, violent actions conducted in ‘emergency conditions’ have been legitimated through the law on the grounds of necessity and in the name of security.” This demonstrates how most ‘emergency conditions’ differ from what Schmitt describes as a ‘state of exception’, and how securitisation similarly differs from Schmitt’s approach. 241 The discussion on the state of exception can be seen as continuing an even older discussion on ragione di stato and coup d’état. Michel Foucault’s (2007, 261-266) discussion of coup d’état’s also comes very close to securitisation. For Foucault a coup is a suspension, or a temporary departure, from laws and legality; it is an extraordinary action against ordinary law, while ragione di stato demands that it must command laws themselves. While ragione di stato is always exceptional in relation to public, particular and fundamental laws, most of the time it still respects the law it has stipulated down. But in the name of the salvation of the state, ragione di stato can free itself from the binds of law. A coup d’état is a self-manifestation of the state: “necessity, urgency, the need to save the state itself will exclude the game of these natural laws and produce something that in a way will only be the establishment of a direct relationship of the state with itself when the keynote is necessity and safety” (ibid., 262). While prepared in secrecy or behind the scenes, coups, are for Foucault, like security arguments, by their nature theatrical or public because they need support: “to win support, and so that the suspension of laws with which it is necessarily linked do not count against it, the coup d’état must break out in broad daylight and in so doing reveal on the very stage where it takes place the raison d’état that brings it about. No doubt the coup d’état must hide its preparatory processes and moves, but it must appear solemnly in its effects and in the reasons that defend it” (ibid. 264-265). 238

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tions where also non-sovereigns can create mortal enemies.242 The Atomic Scientists responsible for the creation of nuclear weapons concomitantly also created a global threat i.e., the possibility of thermonuclear annihilation. Securitisation moves that have posited human civilisation as jeopardised by such a possibility, are one of the macrosecuritisation discourses postulated by Buzan and Wæver (2009). I have elsewhere (Vuori 2010a) analysed the anti-nuclear macrosecuritisation moves of the Atomic Scientists, by which I demonstrated how the theory of securitisation differs from Schmitt’s political: not all securitising actors can ‘decide’.243 Some actors have to convince others of the necessity of their suggested remedies to deal with existential threats. Furthermore, the anti-nuclear macrosecuritisation discourse demonstrates that securitisation moves do not always have to entail the creation of an existential enemy. To reason via enmity, and to be able to refer to a ‘matched pair’, seems to make securitisation arguments more convincing, but this does not make the construction of an enemy a logical necessity for securitisation.244 While the securitisation moves of the Atomic Scientists argue for the initiation of a new international Ordnung (cf., Schmitt 2003), and thus come close to what the political entails for Schmitt, they are not sovereign. Furthermore, the securitisation moves of the Scientists work via a different route than that on which securitisation is generally assumed to operate. Instead of sovereign decisions, or legitimisation of the exceptionality of state action, their securitisation moves have strived for increased awareness of the threat of nuclear weapons and, thereby, for the inclusion of this issue on the agenda of decision makers via the pressure of public opinion. Indeed, it seems that the way in which the Atomic Scientists perceive security, exceptionality and desecuritisation differs from the way they are generally approached. While nuclear weapons are often viewed as means to achieve the security of states and their sovereignty, the security that the Scientists seek is security from such weapons. Final desecuritisation could be achieved only once the possibility of waging war with these weapons was eliminated – that is, when the world would be ‘emancipated’ from nuclear weapons. 245 The ‘exceptional’ the Atomic Scientists are proposing, then, is not Incidentally, from this point of view, Alan Moore’s (1995) graphic novel character of Ozymandias is interesting: While not a sovereign in Schmitt’s sense and thereby unable to decide on the enemy, Ozymandias quite concretely creates an impression of an enemy, and thereby constitutes a more encompassing ‘us’ via a global threat. 243 I use the initial securitisation move of the Atomic Scientist as an example of a securitisation move to raise an issue on the agenda below in Chapter 6.3.2.1. This strand of securitisation also shows how securitisation moves by non-state actors, who may not have recourse to ‘extraordinary measures’, can still nonetheless ‘speak security’, and thereby exemplifies how ‘securitisation without the state’ (Bartwal-Datta 2009) can be studied within the framework of securitisation. 244 Collins (2005, 571) for example argues that the consequence of securitisation is the generation of a threatening other, the creation of friends (us) and enemies (them). As the example of the securitisation moves of the Atomic Scientists and Moore’s (1995) Watchmen show, a matched pair of friends and enemies may facilitate a securitisation, but it is not a necessary condition, nor a result of securitisation. Trombetta (2008, 598) also suggests something similar in the case of the securitisation of the climate, which has “avoided the identification of enemies and has involved actors other than states.” 245 ‘Ways out’ of threatening situations when expressed as parts of securitisation processes are generally thought to entail exceptional, immoral or illegitimate measures. Here it seems that the actions of the Atomic Scientists differ from more ‘conventional’ securitisation measures: their call for exception is from sovereignty rather than in support of it. In respect of such views of ‘exceptionality’ as an integral part of securitisation and when the anti-nuclear stance is being discussed, it is prudent to remind of the ethical push that guides this study, and that is viewed here as the push of the CopS as well. Just as Wæver (1999) has argued that scholars studying securitisation should 242

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more powers or measures for the state, but a new international order, where state sovereignty would be reduced. That they nonetheless make arguments that conform to the grammar of securitisation, is further demonstration that securitisation is not equivalent to Schmitt’s political.

Now that the differences between Schmitt’s concept of the political and securitisation theory have been established, I will present my argument for why securitisation theory is a more appropriate and powerful analytical approach to the study of Chinese politics than a Schmittian framework. This will lead us into a discussion of the nature of the Chinese political order and the role of defining enemies and opponents in it. Michael Dutton (2005) has studied Chinese policing by using Schmitt’s concept of the political.246 He demonstrates how campaigns against various enemies were frequent in Mao’s China, which might even be understood as the formation of a rule as Agamben (1998; 2005) suggests. Dutton (2005, 18-21), however, argues that this type of politics ended with Mao’s death: his successor Deng Xiaoping’s politics were no longer concerned with the definition of the enemy. During the ‘reform period’, incidents of ‘enemy definition’ are, for Dutton, separate instances which no longer form the definitive element of Chinese politics of policing; for Dutton, ‘the political’ in China ended with Mao’s rule when policing and the political were decoupled. Indeed, many scholars (e.g., Baum 1996) have described Deng’s China through various fang/shou (放/收, fàng/ shōu; let go/tighten) cycles and not Schmitt’s political. However, does the definition of enemies becoming more ‘exceptional’, suggest that the ‘political’, as Schmitt saw it, has ended? I would suggest that another division that stems from Schmittian metaphysics provides a more illuminating answer: rather than the end of the political, the qualitative change is a result of a change from constitutive to constituted power. A cardinal element of Maoist politics was the almost continuous campaigning against various types of enemies. This is already evident in the opening sentence of the Selected Works of Mao Zedong (Mao 1926): “Who are our enemies? Who are our friends? This is a question of the first importance for the revolution.”247 Dutton (2005, 3) uses this as not be either fatalist or defeatist when it comes to the role of the analyst and the security policies of states, Hannes Alfvén (1981, 4-5) has argued that proponents of the elimination of nuclear war i.e., proponents of the macrosecuritisation of nuclear war, should not be fatalists either, saying that the catastrophe is coming no matter what, or defeatists, saying that nuclear omnicide would be equivalent to an inevitable natural disaster. The ethic of the anti-Nuclear Movement then seems to be close to the ethic of a critical scholar studying security, also exemplified by the Bulletin’s editors’ call at the end of the Cold War: “’National security’ should no longer justify bankrupt policies and conceal misdeeds. […] People must work more vigorously to demilitarise their societies” (Editors 1990, 3). It is important to emphasise here that, in my view, this has also been the ethical push of securitisation studies. For contrasting views of this issue, see for example Wyn Jones (2005). 246 Dutton (2005, 304) emphasises the class issue in the definition of enemies: “Maoist China lived life politically and, in the process, transformed everything into a binary political question framed in the language of class.” Thereby, the definition and search for enemies would seem to concur with Schmitt’s friend/enemy dyad. Yet, as MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 201) also note, it may actually be that the influence for the centrality of the friend/enemy distinction for the CCP actually emanates from Lenin; or, more specifically, from his Kossack dictum of Kto, Kogo (кто кого?), or ‘Who, whom?’ (i.e., ‘who will prevail over whom’). Lenin’s dictum was in use in China, for example, by Liu Shaoqi in his discussions with Mikojan in the 1940s (Heinzig 2004, 149), and was also in use in the Polemics (1965, 471-472): “[A] very long period of time is needed to decide ‘who will win’ in the struggle between socialism and capitalism.” See Palmujoki (1995, 39-40) for how the dictum was adopted and operated via Stalin in North Vietnam’s political language and practice. 247 谁是我们的敌人?谁是我们的朋友?这个问题是革命的首要问题.

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the platform from which to launch his analysis of the tradition of policing in China. Using Schmitt’s principle of defining the enemy as the essence of the political, Dutton argues that this was indeed the essence of policing in China before the establishment of the PRC and during Mao’s rule. However, the problem with this argument is that Dutton takes only this one aspect of Schmitt’s metaphysics into account:248 he fails to deal with the issue of exceptionalism and the issue of constitutive and constituted power. Mao had defined enemies even before the declaration of the People’s Republic, and he would continue to do so after it up to his death, in 1976. It should be considered then whether the Maoist ‘political’ was about defining the enemy, and about making the ‘state of exception’ the rule, and whether this changed in post-Mao China. To begin this examination, it must be enquired as to what exceptionality means in political orders that are not liberal democratic, or more precisely, what an exception means in a non-democracy where the legal order is not settled but in continual flux or a fluid state.249 Why do non-democratic orders for example declare martial law when they could use their prerogative power regardless? Mark Neocleous (2007, 14) may have one an answer here: governments seem to prefer to operate under the cloak of legality, so that in lieu of suspension of law, violent actions of state apparatuses conducted under ‘emergency conditions’ have been legitimised through the law, on grounds of necessity and in the name of security.250 Indeed, it would seem that even in political orders in which the state is ideologically legitimised as an exception, adherence to laws, decrees, and other principles remain necessary to legitimise forceful actions, once the initial stage of the revolution has been accomplished. After this point, the use of force may in fact well be read as a sign of weakness. The post-totalitarian order where freedom is a technique of government seems more effective in the longer term. The issue of constitutive and constituted power seems more pertinent to comprehend the differences between the type of political rule in the Mao and post-Mao orders, rather than to take the differences as an end to the use of the enemy/friend dyad in Chinese politics. Agamben (1998, 12) views the dictatorship of the proletariat as the state of exception, which is the transitional phase leading to a stateless society. If we agree with this viewpoint, then the PRC has been – and remains – a state of exception itself. But can this Dutton (2005, 304): “I have no interest in Hitler’s so-called crown jurist beyond this.” Dutton’s application of Schmitt has also further problems. For Schmitt, defining the dyad is a decision, yet Dutton (e.g., 2005, 77-78) describes the dyad as a discourse which shifts, without indication as to how this occurs. For example during the anti-Japanese war, there was a shift in the basis for defining the enemy from class to the nation (Dutton 2005, 77-78). It seems that even for Dutton (ibid., 80), the political is not a decision, but a “dyadic process of framing politics.” For Dutton (ibid., 308): “Be it in the singular or in the collective, then, the enemy defines us.” But why then is there a need to change who the enemy is? The enemy/friend distinction is not enough of an explanation for the totality of Chinese politics during Mao’s lifetime. The defining of enemies is better viewed as a technique, a mechanism, or a logic, which may also have unintended consequences. The theory of securitisation provides much greater nuance for studying such techniques than Schmitt’s metaphysics. For Dutton, the dyad takes centre stage and seems to explain everything in Chinese policing. I, however, contend that while the construction of impressions of threats and the legitimising effect of claiming to repel them is an important political technique, the effects of these kinds of tactics and strategies are qualified i.e., they are not the only matter that affects politics or politicking. As also Dutton (2005) admits, this kind of politics did not end with Mao. My reasoning is that it is important to study both Mao-era and post-Mao era politics through the same analytical framework, and just as important to be able to study Chinese politics through the same framework as other political systems. 249 Žižek (2002a) has noted that totalitarianism is mired in a liberal-democratic notion of normalcy. 250 An example is how for the Mahathir administration in Malaysia the use of emergency measures without legitimisation risked being perceived as an abuse of power (Collins 2005, 578-579). 248

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understanding enlighten us? In the case of the socialist dictatorship of the proletariat, the exception is not from a legal order, but the moment of crafting a classless and, as a result, stateless society. In the CCP’s contemporary official doctrine of a ‘harmonious society’, this end goal still remains. Lenin (2004 [1917], 13-18) famously argued for the withering away of the state in three stages:251 “The first stage—the bourgeois state: in capitalist society, it is the bourgeoisie that needs the state. The second stage—the state of the dictatorship of the proletariat: during the period of transition from capitalism to communism, it is the proletariat that needs the state. The third stage—the communist society: the state is not necessary, it withers away.” This doctrine entails that the state is a state of exception; thereby the state of the dictatorship of the proletariat is the state of exception that is used to effect the stateless state of existence. For Agamben (2005: 2), modern totalitarianism is a form of legal civil war that allows for the elimination of not only political adversaries but whole categories of people; what for Marx was a class struggle, turns in modern totalitarian regimes into a constant war which can only end when the ‘People’ and the people are merged into a classless society or a messianic state (Agamben 2001, 31).252 The state of exception is the means to accomplish this. In these terms, the Chinese case presents the state operating in a state of exception: the state is the means to eliminate the state through the elimination of classes and thus achieve the ‘withering away’ of the state itself, as classes and the civil war between them would cease to exist. Yet, as regards Dutton’s (2005) argument to the end of the political in China, classes, clearly, still remain in the People’s Republic.253 This might mean that the PRC remains, too, a state of exception, as it has classes and it is formally a state. For Schmitt (1996), the political would only end when there came to be only one state, and the ‘possibility of real physical killing’ was no longer possible: for Schmitt, the mere possibility of antagonistic contradiction entails the political. Along this line of thought, the political should remain in China, regardless of the frequency of external or internal enemy definition. Moving beyond the definition of enemies, in Schmitt’s terms, Mao appears to have sought the continual renewal of the nomos i.e., the pure immediacy of rule unmediated by law.254 The transition from Maoist politics to post-Mao politics is then, perhaps, a transition from the constant renewal of the nomos, in terms of exceptional politics, to settling the state down and ruling it through law. It is also a transition from constituting power to The original idea of the state withering away is from Engels, but it seems that Lenin’s explanation of what this means vis-à-vis the state and the revolution has been more influential, for example, in the Polemics (1965, 448). 252 Agamben (2005, 2) also notes how the state of exception is closely connected to civil war, insurrection and resistance. While various sovereigns have the possibility to limit the rights of citizens during ‘states of siege’ or ‘emergency’, the counterpoint for such rights is the right of citizens to resist the sovereign (Agamben 2005, 10-11; cf., Ojakangas 2002). For example, the constitution of the German Federal Republic institutionally securitises the democratic constitution, as its Article 20 states that “against anyone who aims to abolish that order, all Germans have a right of resistance, if no other remedies are possible” (quoted in Agamben 2005, 11). 253 Deng’s post-Mao analysis of the Chinese society and state, suggests that China operates in a ‘normative interregnum’ (cf., Huysmans 2006b, 14) where the pre-PRC order is no longer valid, yet the communist order is not yet born; for Deng, the Chinese state cannot wither away until China has moved on from the ‘primary stage of socialism’, which will take ‘a hundred years’, or ‘a very long time.’ 254 Totalitarian rule seems to favour, if not even necessitate, state structures that are in flux (for example, Adolf Hitler ruled under a state of exception, or Ausnahmezustand, until the very end in 1945). 251

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constituted power i.e., a transition from revolution to state (cf., Agamben 1998, 41-42).255 While the PRC continues to become more and more constituted e.g., in the form of its legal system becoming more extensive and predictable, the party still retains its potential of prerogative. Similarly to what Agamben (ibid.) suggests in both the cases of Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union, the party-state structure of the Chinese political order can be viewed as a means to retain constitutive power within a constituted power.256 Thus the CCP in the PRC seems to concur with the paradox of sovereignty that Schmitt (2005, 7) identified, since the sovereign is both outside and inside the legal order; it is in the remit of the sovereign to decide if the constitution is to be suspended in toto. Furthermore, there remain classes in the PRC, so that the state as exception would still needed in respect of Lenin’s (2004 [1917]) theory of the withering away of the state; ergo, the potential for the political in Schmitt’s sense, and the possibility to define inner hostis, remain in China. Yet Dutton’s observation on the reduction of the all-pervasiveness of seeking internal enemies still holds true in post-Mao China too. Dutton (2005, 19-20) himself recognises that there are still instances of internal enemy definition in China, but defining them is no longer the ‘rule’, but now the exception. In sum, this means that another explanation is needed rather than the ‘end of the political.’257 As such, perhaps it is not necessary to essentialise the dyad, but to examine the use of asymmetric political concepts through other means.

6.3. Applying the Theory of Securitisation to the Study of Non-Democratic Political Orders

In contrast to the empirical cases studied here, the vast majority of literature on the practice of securitisation has focused on political systems that can be considered more or less democratic. This is probably due to a large extent to the ‘Europeanness’ of the approach (Huysmans 1998a, 499-502), as it was after all induced from European politics.258 While this European aspect is manifest in both the theoretical formulations and empirical applications of the CopS approach, it has to be noted that the originators of the theory did not intend for it to be only applicable to Europe or democratic systems: national security is an immensely convenient tool to justify actions and policies – in all types of states (Buzan 1991, 11; see also Buzan et al. 1998). Indeed, Huysmans (1998a) argues that se-

In the case of the Cultural Revolution as a dissolution of the rules set up to rule the CCP, the question remains: was Mao afraid of losing the constitutive power of the revolution, or of losing his own position of authority and influence. Interesting as this question is, it is beyond the remit of this present study. 256 The Chinese system of ‘invisible ministries’ or xitongs (系统, xìtǒng), that informally connect legally separate segments of the state bureaucracy (Lieberthal 2004) appears to have a similar function. In this kind of a system, neither the sovereignty nor its constituting power can be located wholly within or without the juridico-legal state system of the PRC. 257 Questions arise, such as: Why was martial law declared in 1989 for parts of Beijing, when the Chinese state is supposed to be a state of exception, and the CCP retains a prerogative position? Was a decade of post-Mao politics enough to reify the Chinese state beyond an exception, or was the declaration of martial law more about gaining legitimacy for actions that broke the moral rules of leadership? Would the overt use of exceptional power in the form of force been too costly for the leadership that could no longer rely on the charisma and popularity Mao commanded two decades before? And here it is notable that even Mao used the language of threats during the Cultural Revolution to legitimise the dissolution of rules (see Case I). 258 Wæver (2004a, 2) also identifies the context-boundedness of the development of the CopS approach, in addition to the development of the other ‘European’ critical schools of security studies (see also CASE 2006). 255

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curitisation theory is a framework that can, and should, be put to the test outside Europe. The applicability of the approach beyond Europe has also been noted by Hayward Alker (2006, 73) who maintains that it allows and encourages comparative historical/empirical investigation into securitisation/desecuritisation practices, in democratic, authoritarian and totalitarian societies and politics.259 While the application of the approach to all types of political systems has been promoted, the normative push of the research program has been towards democracy; although securitisation theorists have been reluctant to be normative in the manner that Critical Security Studies proposes, the built-in ethics of the approach is clearly a democratic impulse.260 Indeed, although the originators of the theory of securitisation intended it to be applicable to non-democracies, a certain preference, or even ‘bias’261 towards democratic decision-making can be detected in the ‘paradigmatic understanding’262 of the theory: the practice of securitisation has been understood as a means of naturalising politics, a means to avert certain issues beyond the democratic process of government. In this understanding, security issues represent a type of special politics, which legitimises the use

Some appliers of securitisation theory beyond Europe have criticised the ‘Eurocentricism’ of the CopS (e.g., Caballero-Anthony & Emmers 2006, 5-6). Nils Bubandt (2005) has similarly criticised the universal premise of concepts like ‘human security.’ Just as sociologists of modernity seem to make an argument for a ‘genuine’ modernity, Bubandt sees global security discourses as producing a hegemonic understanding of security. He argues for ‘vernacular security’ or multiple securities: understandings of security vary on the local, national and global level and these understandings intersect but are not always compatible (see Muna 2006 for a similar argument). Bubandt (2005) is indeed correct to emphasise the social constructedness of securities and insecurities. Most of his arguments are, however, already present in the CopS approach when combined with the sectors and levels of security complex theory. Felix Ciuta’s (2009) argument that the CopS does not ‘listen’ to what the objects of study have to say about the meaning of security does not seem to hit its target squarely, as Wæver (1989b, 301) has for instance argued that security means different things to different societies at different times, because the core fears of societies, or social groups, are unique and relate to vulnerabilities and historical experiences. Similarly, Buzan et al. (1998, 27) state that their “claim is that it is possible to dig into the practice connected to this concept of security in international relations (which is distinct from other concepts of security) and find a characteristic pattern with an inner logic.” As security is what security does, it is possible to use the approach to study securitisation in various contexts and various levels. Indeed, it seems that many critics of the theory of securitisation do not take the sectors and levels of Regional Security Complex Theory (Buzan 1991; Buzan et al. 1998; Buzan & Wæver 2003; Buzan & Wæver 2009) into account when they criticise the CopS. Using an anthropological approach, Kent (2006, 346) agrees with Bubandt and criticises most security theories as inherently ethnocentric. Claire Wilkinson (2007) uses the ‘Westphalian straitjacket’, coined by Buzan and Little (2001), as the gist of her critique of the CopS approach when applied outside Europe. Like Bubandt, she argues that the Euro-American understanding of the state and society is taken as unproblematic or even normative in the study of ‘states’ and ‘societies’ elsewhere, and if empirical results conflict with IR theories, similarities with ‘Westphalia’ are emphasised. Alexandra Kent (2006) shares this concern of assuming European understandings of security in studies of Cambodia, but while Curley (2004) criticises the CopS approach of Eurocentricism, she finds that it resonates with the discussion of illegal immigration as an issue of non-traditional security in Northeast Asia, in her survey on theoretical approaches to analyse the securitisation of migration. See also Curley & Wong (2008a). The CopS is not alone with its European emphasis, which is present even more significantly in the Critical Approaches to Security in Europe Networked Manifesto (CASE 2006). Consequently, it too has provoked similar criticism (e.g., Walker 2007; Behnke 2007; Salter 2007). 260 See the ‘Eriksson debate’ (Eriksson, 1999 onwards), Huysmans (2002) and Wæver (2003); on the distinction between the normativity of Critical Security Studies and securitisation analysis, see Taureck (2006a), CASE (2006), and Floyd (2007a). 261 See for example Laustsen & Wæver (2000), Taureck (2006a), and CASE (2006); even critiques of securitisation theory display the same tendency, see Huysmans (1998b), Aradau (2004), Balzacq (2005), Muna (2006); still some criticise the Copenhagen School of dismissing democracy (Bigo 2002). 262 In the sense Phillip Huang (1991, 308) uses it. 259

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of ‘special procedures’ through necessities of survival (Buzan et al. 1998, 36). This built-in ethical push towards democracy – hence desecuritisation – should not, however, limit the study of securitisation to democratic political systems. If Securitisation Studies is to be an encompassing research programme, it should take into account security speech and politics in all types of political systems. As such, the main theorists of the theory have understood all types of political systems as applicable for analysis within the framework, as evidenced in their analysis of security complexes around the globe (cf., Buzan & Wæver 2003), but they have not spelled out how this might be accomplished beyond its abstract idea. Unfortunately, the majority of both critics and appliers of the theory seem to assume that the theory is only applicable in democratic societies. The argument goes263 that totalitarian or other non-democratic political systems do not need political legitimacy in the same way as democracies do. The leaders of totalitarian systems can rule by force, without special justification. There is no need to move security issues away from the democratic process into ‘special politics’, as there is no democratic process to begin with. However, when non-democratic political systems are examined, it is noticeable that the above assumption is not always the case (cf., Arendt 1976; Jahn et al. 1987; Wæver 1989b). Indeed, a more obtainable reasoning is that all governments must exercise a minimum of both persuasion and control, and that security arguments are used to achieve both.264 As Christian Davenport (2005, xv) points out, authoritarian regimes usually frame repression as a necessity arising from some political threat, not something that is done because it can be done. Legitimacy is perhaps the most significant element in the survival of any social institution and all governments must exercise a minimum of both persuasion and coercion in order to survive (Wiberg 1988, 120). All societies require some form of ritual, as without such devices no polity can survive and retain the acquiescence of its members (Edelman 1972, 3). This is applicable to both democratic and non-democratic systems; even the most despotic states are headed by individuals who depend on the favourable beliefs of some key figures in the polity. Even tyrants need people to do their bidding, and loyal actors and subjects are important in totalitarian systems (Elo 2005, 128-131). In the long term, purely coercive rule is impossible and even brutal oppression can turn into a disadvantage for the oppressor. Authoritarian regimes too have to legitimise their use of extraordinary measures (Holm 2004, 219), and security is a strong legitimator even in non-democratic political systems. But does security have a similar function in non-democratic political systems, as it does in democratic ones? Why would it seem that the current form of securitisation theory does not function in the analysis of these systems? What is ‘special politics’ when no democratic process exists from which to move security issues away from? What is the political function of security in non-democratic systems? Can we still utilise the concept of securitisation in analysing the security politics of non-democracies? Yes we can, but further categories of securitisation acts have to be introduced. As Caballero-Anthony & Emmers (2006) and Wilkinson (2007, 13) also emphasise, an examination of the impact This argument has been presented to the present author at conferences and in referee comments. Collins (2005, 578-579) for example notes how the Mahathir administration of Malaysia needed public legitimisation with its use of the Internal Security Act to detain university personnel in 1987, as the use of emergency measures alone risked being perceived as an abuse of power. 263 264

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of operationalising European concepts as deduced from politics in a liberal-democratic order in specific non-European and non-democratic contexts must be made. Based on illocutionary logic (Searle and Vanderveken 1985), I propose here that the complex act of securitisation can contain several kinds of perlocutionary intentions and effects, and thus, that securitisation can be utilised for a range of political purposes. The explication of the concept of securitisation and its more complex categorisation allows the precision and usefulness in the liberal democratic context to be retained, whilst honing the theory conceptually in order to utilise it to analyse security issues and politics in non-democratic contexts. To move from one social and political context to another, an explication that is based on illocutionary logic is required so as to be able to move up and down on the ‘ladder of generality.’ Security serves various political functions in various contexts. If the purpose of Securitisation Studies is to gain an increasingly precise understanding of who can securitise (actors), which issues (threats), for whom (referent objects), why, with what kinds of effects, and under which conditions (i.e., what explains when securitisation has been successful) (Buzan et al. 1998, 32; Buzan & Wæver 2003), it becomes useful to investigate security speech in as many contexts as possible. Moving from context to context, however, means that we have to be careful not to distort our concepts. One possible candidate for such distortion is the notion of ‘special politics’, largely left undefined by Buzan et al. (1998, 36). This notion seems to be closely related to the tripartite classification of: 1) non-political issues – which are outside of the purview of the state, 2) political issues – which are on the agenda of ‘regular politics’ and 3) security issues – which is the arena of ‘special politics’ i.e., non-democratic decision making due to necessities of survival (cf., Buzan et al. 1998, 29).265 Due to the Euro-emphasis of empirical securitisation studies conducted to date, this understanding easily premises democracy as the norm of politics,266 as securitisation is often seen as a means to move issues beyond the democratic process of government. Yet also states which have no democracy, have security issues.267 Thereby, how are we to deal with the social construction of security issues in these states, and what is ‘special politics’ in non-democratic systems?268

Mouffe (2005, 2-3) has criticised the kind of thinking that separates the political into a sphere or sector of activity in the way the CopS does. Instead, she suggests that the political is a dimension that is inherent in the ontology of human beings. See also Jutila (2006, 171-174) on the problems of the understanding of politics of the CopS. He suggests that Kari Palonen’s distinction of politics as a sphere, and politics as activity, should be the method to conceptualise politics. In my view, as I have already reasoned above, the securitisation theory framework can be used together with a variety of approaches to or theories of politics. 266 Balzacq (2010a, 67) goes even so far as to suggest that securitised issues have to be parliamentary issues, a move that would remove securitisation from Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union, as well as the PRC. 267 This is already most clear from Buzan & Wæver (2003) who use securitisation theory to discuss all the regional security complexes around the globe, as studies which utilise securitisation theory in Asia highlight. See for example Emmers (2003; 2004; 2007), Curley (2004), Collins (2005), Caballero-Anthony et al. (2006), Paltemaa & Vuori (2006), Jackson (2006), Wilkinson (2007), Elliott (2007), Haacke & Williams (2008), Curley & Wong (2008a), and Barthwal-Datta (2009). Critical studies of security in Asia that utilise the other European critical ‘schools’ of security studies seem to be much fewer in number. An exception here is Burke & McDonald (2007). See Alagappa (1998), Pettiford & Curley (1999), Bubandt (2005), and Kent (2006) for critical views that do not apply any of the CASE approaches. 268 This is often understood as breaking the rules of liberal democratic decision-making. The model of securitisation does not, however, necessitate this kind of thinking. As Collins (2005, 571) also notes, special procedures or emergency measures may take various forms according to the socio-political system. He argues that an extraordinary or emergency measure is an action that goes beyond the remit of the usual measures used by the securitising actor. Such measures could include, for example, the imposition of martial law or special legislation 265

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It is important to repeat here that in order to avoid premising any form of politics as the norm within the theory of securitisation,269 ‘special politics’ cannot be defined very specifically; yet, it can be postulated that all societies have ‘rules.’ These ‘rules’ are products of historical and social contingencies, as are the referent objects and threats in security. When security logic and rhetoric is utilised to legitimate the breaking of these rules, we have a case of securitisation. (Buzan et al. 1998, 24.) If security can be used in democracies to relieve decision makers from the democratic process, in some other political systems, decision makers can also then be relieved of some other constraints they would usually have to take into account, for instance, morality or the infallibility of leadership. However, I propose here that security is not always about ‘special politics’ in the sense of breaking rules. In totalitarian socialist systems, struggle and antagonistic contradictions among enemies can sometimes be considered ‘normal politics’, or even politics which follows the ‘rules.’270 In these situations, security speech can be utilised for other purposes than to legitimise the breaking of rules. Security can, for example, be used to reproduce the political order and to control society. Furthermore, it is often difficult to distinguish between ‘normal’ and ‘special’ politics in authoritarian states, in which most opposition has been suppressed and where the army, which often holds the real power, remains highly secretive (cf., Emmers 2007).271 Accordingly, the study of Chinese politics undertaken in this present study is also problematic, as the party there remains secretive of its political processes, and ‘emergencies’ have been dominant in many political campaigns or even leadership eras (see Part II). Similarly, the official and formal description of power relations in the Chinese constitution does not have real relevance to the de facto analysis of Chinese politics, which can be well described as ‘informal’ (Baum 1995; Lieberthal 2004). Studies in other non-democratic political orders have revealed similar problems. From her analysis of Algerian politics, Ulla Holm (2004, 219) concludes that in these types of systems it is not easy to analyse who is securitising what, and how successful this securitisation is. For Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan, Nicole J. Jackson (2006, 312) identifies the same problem: decision-making structures are closed and the authoritarian political leaders are able to make rapid decisions in constant ‘emergency mode.’ Tajikistan poses a further problem due to its ‘fluctuating’ political system. Jackson (2006) contends that this makes the application of securitisation theory difficult or impossible in analysing states with little or no contested politics.272 For Malaysia, Joseph Chinyong Liow (2006, 52, 57)

(e.g., the Internal Security Act in Malaysia or the Patriot Act in the USA). Curley (2008, 30-31) also discusses the issue of what it means to move from ‘normal’ to ‘special’ politics in authoritarian or quasi-democratic political orders. See also Liow (2006, 61-62) and Curley & Wong (2008c, 180-181). 269 The intention here is to keep the hard core of securitisation theory abstract enough that it can be adjusted via its protective belt to work together with various approaches to politics (e.g., productive, reproductive, and allocatory views), and perhaps even within various research traditions of IR (e.g., realism, constructivism, and postmodernism). 270 Dutton (2005) in a way argues for this in his analysis of Mao-era policing in China. 271 While public legitimacy is one of the keys to success in democratic political orders, it is good to keep in mind that not all issues of security are made public even in liberal democracies: “Some security practices are not legitimised in public by security discourse because they are not out in the public at all (e.g., the ‘black programs’ in the United States, which are not presented in the budget), but this is actually a very clear case of security logic (Buzan et al. 1998, 28).” 272 It has to be remembered that regardless of how uncontested or strong some authoritarian leadership is

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argues that politics and security cannot be clearly distinguished, as the government is firmly in control of the parameters of socio-political discursive spaces of the public domain. He argues that in these types of authoritarian or pseudo-democratic political landscapes, securitisation does not have to be negotiated in a public political space; since in these types of systems the ‘state’ can deem what is kept in or out of the public domain.273 Holm (2004, 220) agrees that even though it is nearly impossible to identify who is the real actor behind securitisation processes in authoritarian systems, it is possible to analyse how the logic of legitimisation through securitisation functions through analysis of official programmes, laws and statements. Indeed, according to Jadwiga Staniszkis (1992, 84), legitimisation arguments determine the philosophy of rule in real political orders. Such arguments determine, to a significant degree, the nature of institutional structures in the political sphere and inform the language which authorities use to formulate problems and suggest solutions. Most security arguments fall under this category of requests for legitimacy (Wæver 1997a). Although in prerogative states,274 legitimisation arguments do not always actually serve legitimisation functions (but, for example, the functions of autocommunication or control), as they may not have been accepted by society. They can nonetheless have important consequences for the political process, and they may even result in the ensnaring of authoritarian leaderships.275 Because security arguments are so powerful, it is not in their nature to remain hidden (Wæver 1995) even though secrecy is a major feature of actual security policies.276 The authoritative construction of security is needed in authoritarian or totalitarian systems to create a security reality. In most cases, this construction has to be public in order to have the legitimising, reifying, disciplining, or other function desired. In Algeria, for example, one difficulty of measuring the support for the securitisation of the survival of the state/regime is that elections have very rarely been fair (Holm 2004, 219). But as Holm also notes, even authoritarian regimes have to legitimise their use of or seems to be, securitisation can always fail as an open social process without any finite criteria of success. Further, to raise an issue on the agenda is only one of the functions of securitisation. See Chapter 6.3.2. below. 273 I argue that the strand of securitisation for control (see Chapter 6.3.2.4. below) provides an answer for Liow’s (2006) criticism of the CopS’s apparent assumption of an open political space where securitisation would have to be negotiated. While even ‘bull-dozing’ acts of securitisation may be used as a form of legitimisation, the function of control may be more prominent here. The argument I present here is supported by Sayed Fauzan Riyadi’s (unpublished) application of the five strands of securitisation (Vuori 2008b) to study the functions of securitisation in Malaysia. It should also be noted that the ‘general public’ may not be the only relevant audience for securitisation; there may be political audiences in Malaysia that have to be convinced of the security nature of an issue in order to provide legitimacy for certain policies, even if this is not actually the ‘general public’ but the President himself instead. 274 Although the prerogative state relieves itself of the obligation to adhere to any legal formulas, and the authorities themselves (still intersubjectively) decide when a crisis prevails (Stanizskis 1992, 12-13, 79-82), the prerogative state is not omnipotent, as it also needs some degree of legitimacy and legitimisation, including self-legitimisation by the authorities (cf., Wæver 1989b; Wæver 1995; Holm 2004; Elo 2005). 275 A good example of this from an eroding post-totalitarian socialist setting was the social movement that facilitated the collapse of East Germany in 1989. The ruling party SED tried to frame the demonstrators as counter-revolutionaries, but failed and finally had to cede power. Wæver (1989b; 1995) has emphasised that the fall of the SED was, inter alia, due to the failure of the securitisation moves of the ruling party. Some have also attributed the fall of the Indonesian New Order to the undermining of popular belief in the legitimacy of the state and its security project (Bubandt 2005, 287). Even the Kyrgyzstan government failed in its countersecuritisation moves preceding its overthrow in 2005 (Wilkinson 2007, 18). 276 Cf., Foucault’s (2007, 261-266) discussion of coup d’états.

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‘extraordinary’ measures. A failure in this legitimisation can be detected in demonstrations and riots, intra-elite revolts, palace coups, or active non-participation (cf., Wæver 1989b; Wæver 1995; Staniszkis 1992). This kind of active passivity and resistance is frequent in China, albeit on an uncoordinated level.277 Although apathy translates into legitimacy (Wiberg 1988), active passivity is a sign of something else e.g., a form of resistance. Of course, ‘security threats’ could be eliminated without public securitisation, but this would entail different costs in terms of legitimacy for example. Indeed, the use of force signals weakness in politics (Edelman 1972, 114).278 Securitisation theory focuses its attention precisely on those cases where actors deem it prudent to have a public securitisation discourse, but the theory does not claim that there would necessarily have to be securitisation acts in order to have deeds that go beyond ‘special politics’, a point which some critics would seem to have missed (e.g., Wilkinson 2007, 21; Emmers 2007, 112; Barthwal-Datta 2009). Security arguments need not be used merely to achieve immediate results, but to gain the acquiescence of those whose lasting support or compliance is needed. 6.3.1. Varieties of Speech Act Theory

As the above has already shown us, there has been a wide variety of criticisms of the CopS approach, much of which has arisen from empirical application to contexts that have gone beyond the original European one. Hence I argue here that the explication of the logic of securitisation acts shows how the original formulation of the theory represents only one type of securitisation, and that the increase in extension of the concept allows the incorporation of most of the ‘anomalies’ identified by critics into the theory whilst retaining the insights of the original formulation. Accordingly, I will explicate the concept of securitisation through the illocutionary logic of John Searle and Daniel Vanderveken (1985). I reason that this meta-language is sufficiently ‘near-universal’ (cf., Wierzbicka 1991) to make cross-cultural analysis of securitisation speech acts possible. The explication of the concept and opening up of the complexity of securitisation speech acts provide a more exact bearing of the various functions of securitisation as a form of politics. The various ‘strands’ of securitisation form a ‘grammar’ for it and are about the ‘langue’ of securitisation (the ‘vocabulary’ or the ‘parole’ of securitisation is specific for actually occurring ‘speech’ and securitisation moves). The new categorisation of securitisation speech acts raises the concept of securitisation to a higher level of generality, which entails an increased extension for the concept. In order to provide the foundation for my argument, some basics of speech act theory as such has to be discussed. See O’Brien (1994; 1996) on how Chinese peasants use ‘rightful resistance’ as a form of protest, Tanner (2004) on how prevalent ‘mass incidents’ are in contemporary China. 278 As Wæver (1995, 80) notes: “the other side of the [securitisation] move will, in most cases, be at least the price of some loss of prestige as a result of needing to use this special resort (‘national security was threatened’) or, in the case of failure, the act backfires and raises questions about the viability and reputation of the regime.” As he further notes, a securitisation move is like raising a bet: the investment can be successful or fail miserably. 277

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The point of departure for this present study is the premise that speech acts are the basic form of human communicative interaction. The concept and theory of speech acts is fairly recent, yet the idea that people do things by talking, that they perform different kinds of acts by speaking has a much longer intellectual history; this avenue of thought stretches back at least to the stoics (Wierzbicka 1991, 197). Ideas similar to that of speech acts were also put forward by scholars like Josef Schächter (1973), Ludwig Wittgenstein (1999a), and Mikhail Bakhtin (1986). However, it was John L. Austin (1975) who presented the conception in the most systematic form and transferred it into the field of linguistics.279 Speech act theory contains three types of speech acts: locutionary (an act of saying something),280 illocutionary (an act in saying something), and perlocutionary (an act by saying something) (Austin 1975). John R. Searle (e.g., 1969) is the leading developer of Austin’s theory or language philosophy, but social theorists such as Jürgen Habermas (1979; 1984),281 Pierre Bourdieu (e.g., 1991)282 and Judith

Wittgenstein and Austin have perhaps been two of the most important sources of inspiration for 20th century linguistic philosophy, which has been divided into two trends: the logical trend of Frege and Russell which studies how words relate to things, while the trend of ordinary language analysis studies how and for which purposes words are used in discourse (Vanderveken & Kubo 2002, 3). Speech act theory has also had an impact on various social theories, as noted by Onuf (1989, 82) for example. Skinner (2002) is an example of how speech act theory has influenced the study of the history of political ideas and concepts. 280 For Austin (1975, 94-95), locutionary acts consisted of phonetic acts, phatic acts, and rhetic acts. For him, locutions also had both a sense and a reference. Searle (1973, 141-145) departs from Austin’s separation of locutionary and illocutionary acts, by using his own distinction between illocutionary and propositional acts. This difference is more than a taxonomical preference and involves important philosophical issues. Searle (ibid., 147-148) notes how Austin (1975, 95) had inadvertently characterised rhetic acts as illocutionary acts. Searle continues to argue that no sentence can be force-neutral; every sentence has some illocutionary force-potential built into its meaning. According to Searle, there is no way to abstract (Austin had noted that locutionary and illocutionary acts are abstractions of the whole speech act) a rhetic act in the utterance of a complete sentence, which does not abstract an illocutionary act as well, since a rhetic act is always an illocutionary act of one kind or another. Searle (ibid., 153) lists three locutionary-illocutionary distinctions: 1) The distinction between a certain aspect of trying and succeeding in performing an illocutionary act (securing uptake etc. from Austin), 2) The distinction between the literal meaning of the sentence and what the speaker means (by way of illocutionary force) when uttered, and 3) The distinction between propositional acts and illocutionary acts (there is also a fourth distinction between the illocutionary act performed and what was implied by its performance). Forguson (1973, 160) disagrees with the destructive aspects of Searle’s (1973) critique of Austin’s (1975) distinction between locutionary and illocutionary speech acts. In the present study, the locutionary aspects of speech acts as well as their possible ‘sense and reference’ (Frege 1966) can be omitted from the discussion, as the illocutionary, and to an extent the perlocutionary aspects are more relevant. 281 Habermas’s interest in speech acts is connected to his theory of communicative action. He divides speech acts into perlocutionary and illocutionary acts, where perlocutions are forms of strategic action and illocutions communicative action. The problem with his distinction is that he does not seem to take into account that even the most communicative forms of illocutions e.g., argumentation, can have perlocutionary intentions, and aims e.g., convincingness. 282 For Pierre Bourdieu (1991, 72-75), performative utterances are effects of symbolic domination. The power of different speakers depends on their symbolic capital i.e., the recognition they receive from a group. This symbolic capital, be it institutionalised or informal, can only function if there is a convergence of social conditions distinct from the linguistic logic of discourse. Appropriate senders and receivers have to be present in the social situation. Speech acts are acts of institution, and they are inseparable from the existence of an institution defining the conditions, which have to be fulfilled for the ‘magic’ of the words to operate. For Bourdieu then, the conditions of felicity are social conditions; the real source of the ‘magic’ of performative utterances lies in the ‘mystery of ministry’, where the representative gives a biological body for the constituted body of the aggregate of individuals. According to Bourdieu, the power of speech lies in social institutions rather than in words themselves, as his point was to counter some structural linguists’ overemphasis of the determinacy of linguistic rules. Countering one overemphasis, however, can lead to an excess of another kind: Bourdieu’s approach can be criticised as being too formal in terms of social institutions. Indeed, Butler has emphasises the indeterminacy of identities, and thereby of social institutions, which can be contested and refused. 279

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Butler (e.g., 1997)283 have also provided their own view on speech acts.284 The approach to speech acts applied in the present study follows that of Searle and Vanderveken (1985), with some insights taken from Bourdieu (1991).285 John Austin (1975) and John Searle (1969) have argued that speaking a language is rule-governed behaviour286 and that all human languages share a set of constitutive rules that lie underneath the conventional semantic structures of different languages.287 Language (as the ability) thus logically precedes different languages and cultures. Human languages, to the extent they are inter-translatable, can be regarded as different conventional realisations of the same underlying rules (Searle 1969, 36-37). Thus, illocutionary speech acts, such as securitisation, are an example of practices that derive from these universal rules. This then, is the premise that makes it possible to apply the theory of securitisation to the study of Chinese politics: if security issues are constituted through a process of speech acts, then they should also be constituted through the same mechanism in all societies, even though not all societies or languages share the same particular types of speech acts. Austin (1975) argues that illocutions, unlike perlocutions, are contingent: they are done conforming to conventions. These conventions are historicised and dependent on social and cultural factors. However, even though security means different things to different societies, as the core fears of a group or nation are unique and relate to vulnerabilities and historical experiences (Wæver 1989b, 301), the constitution and perlocutionary effects of security are based on the universality of speech acts.288

Judith Butler’s (1999) Foucault-inspired concept of performativity, proposes that core discourses are learned and then repetitively repeated, and that this imbues people with identities within systems of difference, rather than that they would have some essential identity beyond the performance of one. Butler (1993, 95) argues that it is not the ‘subject’ that iterates, but that it is the repetition that “enables a subject and constitutes the temporal condition for the subject. This iterability implies that ‘performance’ is not a singular ‘act’ or event, but a ritualized production.” The possibility of iterability shows that the subject is underdetermined, and that thereby it can be contested and remain incoherent. She (Butler 1997) uses speech act theory to underline the indeterminacy of meaning in pragmatic speech situations. Butler (2006) further, argues that the performative meaning of words cannot be concluded in the abstract, but that their performativity is context-bound. Butler emphasises the iterability of performatives, and presents identities as underdetermined in systems of difference. However, she remains vague on the difference between performativity and performance. 284 There is a large literature on speech acts in philosophy and linguistics. See for example Strawson (1964), Bach & Harnish (1979), Derrida (1988), Wierzbicka (1991), and Sbisà (2001; 2002) for varying views on speech acts. Speech act theory has also been applied to the study of conceptual history (e.g., Skinner 2002), production of social norms (e.g., Onuf 1989), Chinese politics (e.g., Schoenhals 1992), and of course, the social construction of security (e.g., Wæver 1995). The CopS seems to draw on Austin and Derrida’s (1988) interpretation of Austin (and criticism of Searle) with a twist of Bourdieu, while maintaining a distance from Habermas. The most explicit critical treatment (i.e., Balzacq 2005; 2010a) seems to be inclined towards Bourdieu and Habermas. The understanding of speech acts here follows the line of Searle and Daniel Vanderveken (Searle & Vanderveken 1985) with some influences from Bourdieu. 285 It is good to note again that the intention here is not to resolve debates on speech act theory, but to apply them it in order to enhance securitisation theory. 286 This is also emphasised by Peter Winch (2008, xiii). 287 This premise is contested; see for example Kemmerling (2002). 288 Concomitantly with the philosophy of science applied here: the study is conducted ‘as if’ there were such things as ‘speech acts’, and ‘as if’ they share some ‘near universal’ features. 283

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6.3.1.1. Speech Acts, Semantics, and Pragmatics Austin’s work was an inspiration for the now mostly defunct ‘generative semantics’ (Wierzbicka 1991, 18) which proposed that all sentences contain clauses that identify the nature of the speech act performed through the means of the sentence (see e.g., Katz 1977; Holdcroft 1978). Similar to the deeper lines of thought reminiscent of the idea of performatives, this type of analysis of sentences had already been proposed by Roger Bacon in the thirteenth century, and Paul of Venice in the Fourteenth (Nuchelmans 1973; Wierzbicka 1991). While the generative analysis of illocutionary verbs has lost most of its adherents (see e.g., Searle 1973), the idea that illocutionary force is a part of an utterance’s semantic structure has prevailed in linguistics. Many have attacked this understanding by emphasising the indeterminacy of utterances with the argument that analysts cannot reconstruct performatives (cf., Derrida 1988). However, Wierzbicka (1991, 199) disagrees with this view, which would result in illocutionary force being outside linguistics in the domain of ‘fuzzy’ pragmatics instead.289 She argues that most of the time people know what other people are saying to them, and that there are, to a large extent, unmistakable linguistic clues as to what kind of an act a speaker is committing with their utterance. For example, in addition to intonation there are innumerable linguistic indicators of illocutionary force, beyond illocutionary verbs. What is ineffective is not the identification of illocutionary force, but the models in terms of which linguists have tried to analyse illocutionary forces. What is needed is a framework that operates with sufficiently elaborate components. I contend that the illocutionary logic of Searle and Vanderveken (1985) is just such a framework.290 Indeed, the decomposition of illocutionary forces into more specific components solves the ‘insuperable syntactic and semantic difficulties’ that the ‘performative hypothesis’ of ‘generative semantics’ was confronted with (Wierzbicka 1991, 202, 252-253). The difference between semantics and pragmatics can be seen in at least three ways (Leech 1983, 6). ‘Complementarism’ divides the study of signs into syntax, semantics, and pragmatics. The problem with this view is that syntactic and morphological devices carry meanings in natural languages (Wierzbicka 1991, 16) i.e., natural languages do not separate denotational and pragmatic meanings. Wittgenstein’s (1999a) language philosophy launched ‘pragmaticism’ by not asking for the meaning, but asking for the use instead. Wittgenstein however did not provide any kind of rigorous framework to describe and compare languages across ‘language games’; in fact, his approach lacked an analytical metalanguage. Generative semantics was in vogue in the 1970s when it tried to demonstrate that illocutionary force is an aspect of the semantic structure of utterances (e.g., Katz 1977)291 – a point of view sometimes called ‘semanticism.’ This approach also lacked a methodology that would have delineated the field of semantics and provided coherence to it, thereby the approach eventually led to a ‘self-admitted defeat’ (Wierzbicka 1991, 18). As these three views of pragmatics and semantics have all displayed severe difficulties, See Footnote 96 of Chapter 3 on Derrida’s point of the perpetual openness of interpretation and how this is related to in the present study. 290 For an earlier but less elaborate and partial classification of illocutionary forces, see Schiffer (1972). 291 This is noticeable in Quentin Skinner’s essays on speech acts written in the 1970s (see Skinner 2002). 289

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Wierzbicka (1991, 18) suggests that we should divide pragmatics into two types. On the one hand there is linguistic pragmatics, which deals with the coherent and integrated description of linguistic competence. On the other hand, there is another form of pragmatics that deals with social and psychological domains. These two aspects of pragmatics are relevant for this present study as well. Illocutionary logic is a form of linguistic pragmatics. This can be used to model the illocutionary grammar of the various strands of securitisation speech acts. The sociological aspect of pragmatism comes into play when the grammatical models are used to analyse actually occurred speech. The analysis of securitisation processes requires means and methods that go beyond linguistic analysis; structured social fields of practice are a relevant aspect to achieve real or pragmatic securitisation. 6.3.1.2. The Illocutionary Logic of Speech Acts

In an autobiographical introduction, Searle (2002b, 4) states that the objective of his early work on speech acts was to develop a general theory of the philosophy of language. His theory stated that speaking in a language was a matter of performing illocutionary speech acts with certain intentions, according to constitutive rules. These constitutive rules have the form “X counts as Y in context C” (Searle 1969, 35). In developing his theory, Searle (1979; 1983) moved on to argue that there are only five elementary types of speech acts, or in his technical terminology, five basic illocutionary points. 292 These are: 1) assertives (e.g., statements, explanations and assertions) in which the speaker commits herself to, in varying degrees, the truth of the expressed proposition; the speaker thus presents a proposition as representing an actual state of affairs in the world of the utterance (Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 37-38); 2) Directives (e.g., orders, requests and commands) in which the speaker tries to get the hearer to do something; in directives the speaker attempts to get the hearer to carry out the course of action represented by the propositional content (Ibid.); 3) Commissives (e.g., promises, threats, and guarantees) where the speaker is committed to doing something, committed to some future course of action (Ibid.); 4) Expressives (e.g., apologies, thanks and congratulations) in which the speaker expresses her feelings and attitudes about some state of affairs specified by the propositional content (Ibid.); and 5) Declarations (e.g., declaring war, pronouncing wedlock and adjourning a meeting) where the declaration of the speaker brings about changes in the world through her utterances so that the world changes to match the propositional content, solely by virtue of the successful performance of the utterance (Ibid.). Searle and Vanderveken (1985; see also Vanderveken 2002a; 2002b) make arguments towards the universality of their illocutionary logic. However, Anna Wierzbicka (1991) has criticised Searle (1975) of anglocentricism.293 According to her, Searle departs from Searle thus makes a strong argument about the basic illocutionary uses of language, i.e., that language can only be used in five ways (in the illocutionary sense). Searle (1983) justified this strong claim about the nature of human language in his work on the analysis of meaning. This argument was then developed further together with Daniel Vanderveken (Searle & Vanderveken 1985) when they established the foundations of illocutionary logic. 293 The same tendency is evident in many other treatises in the field of language philosophy, even linguistics; see e.g., Grice (1975), Holdcroft (1978), and Leech (1983). 292

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the English language and makes assumptions and claims of universality across languages and cultures without proper empirical study, which amounts to Anglo-Saxon ethnocentricism.294 Indeed, ‘requests’ are only possible in the English language, as ‘translation is impossible’;295 languages are self-contained systems (unlike texts, which are intertextual) and no words or constructions can have absolute equivalents in the structures of difference of various languages. But as soon as the notion of absolute equivalents and universals is abandoned, partial equivalents and ‘partial universals’ become more apparent. Even though two languages do not have identical networks of relationships of signs, some correspondences between the networks of relationships of two different languages can be expected to be discovered. (Wierzbicka 1991, 10.) Thus, commonplace illocutionary verbs of the English language may not appear at all in other languages.296 While the same illocutionary verbs do not feature in all languages, we should not confuse illocutionary forces with illocutionary verbs; verbs are language specific, but illocutionary forces may have broader universality across languages than certain verbs.297 Wierzbicka (1991) also argues that the way out of the dilemma of ethnocentricism is to develop a technical, artificial and (natural) language independent of semantic metalanguage, and to decompose the elements of illocutionary force. Searle and Vanderveken’s illocutionary logic is viewed here to achieve such a metalanguage to a sufficient degree to be utilised in this present study as the metalanguage that allows conceptual travel without stretching. It is good to keep in mind here that all grammars are incomplete. Indeed, the five elementary types of speech acts proposed by John Searle (1979) and Daniel Vanderveken (2002a; 2002b) cannot cover all of the complex acts that are constantly committed in actual speech. 298 However, the categorisation of elementary speech acts can be utilised Itkonen (1983) similarly argues that instead of the kind of transcendental deduction Vanderveken (2002a, 63) calls for, pragmatic linguistics should be based on the study of actually occurred speech. However, it is important to remember that Searle is not a linguist, but a philosopher of language and it is not the task of philosophers to compare different languages, or to be aware of differences and similarities between them. 295 See Footnote 62 of the Introduction. 296 Not all languages allow thanking, for example (Wierzbicka 1991, 160), while some languages deal with the colour spectrum with two words (Berlin & Kay 1969; Heiskala 2000, 148). 297 Searle (1973) already criticised Austin (1975) for confusing the two, when Searle developed his own taxonomy of illocutionary acts. Austin (1975, 148-164) classified illocutionary forces into four categories: 1) the verdictive is an exercise of judgement, 2) the exercitive is an assertion of influence or exercising power, 3) the commissive is an assuming of an obligation or declaring of an intention, 4) the behabitive is the adopting of an attitude, and 5) the expositive is the clarifying of reasons, arguments, and communications. 298 For criticisms of the taxonomy of Searle and Vanderveken, see e.g., Kannetzky (2002) and Siebel (2002). Searle and Vandeveken (1985) argue that the five illocutionary points they postulate are the only illocutionary points possible. While this may be the case today, new illocutionary points may evolve or be developed in the future. De Sousa Melo (2002, 117) argues that Searle has adopted an evolutionist approach to the mind, and that for Searle, intentionality is a natural pre-linguistic property that develops as the organism evolves. If this is the case, then it may be too strong to argue, along with Searle and Vanderveken, that the illocutionary points they have postulated are the only possible ones, as it may be possible that humans develop new ways to use language, in ways not conceived of at present; that more illocutionary points cannot be posited than Searle and Vanderveken does not need entail that this would forever be so. This point was also alluded to by Wittgenstein (1999a): old meanings and uses can disappear as they become obsolete and forgotten, or new ones appear; if it is impossible to construct a theory of all possible language games (Vanderveken & Kubo 2002, 19), it may equally be impossible to construct a theory of illocutionary acts that would ‘last for ever.’ Indeed, even Austin (1975) referred to more primitive forms of language with their prior limitations. If humanity as a species has evolved, our capacity for language may also evolve and thus bring in new illocutionary points. Language and evolution should be considered open ended, and theoretisations of language are only tools with which to understand and explain language as a human action, not be a permanent truth about language and the practices that utilise it. 294

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to analyse complex speech acts. Stephen C. Levinson (1980, 20) notes, that on the one hand, several sentences together can actually constitute one single speech act, while on the other, a single utterance may contain several speech acts.299 Furthermore, speech acts can form sequences, where complex acts can have elementary acts as their components (Wunderlich 1980, 293-296), and where the perlocutionary object of one illocution can be the sequel of another. Dieter Wunderlich (1980, 293-296) argues that speech acts are organised within certain variable discourse patterns: thus, a complex speech unit consists of several acts with several stages performed in sequence. Speech acts within these sequences may also possibly utilise parts of the propositional contents provided by the preceding utterances in the sequence. The structure of complex speech units is due to their complex functions and aims. Typical complex speech units include, for instance, narration, argumentation and description. Wierzbicka (1991, 149) argues that complex ‘speech events’ should be treated in the same manner as simple speech acts. Despite variances in length, function, and structure, many such events and acts share similar linguistic natures, and their analysis requires a unified descriptive framework. In my view, illocutionary logic provides us with just that. Searle and Vanderveken (1985) term the logical theory they have developed for the analysis of illocutionary acts, illocutionary logic. They set as its objective the formalisation of the logical properties of illocutionary forces. For them, the task of illocutionary logic is to study the entire range of possible illocutionary forces, in whatever manner they may be realised in particular natural languages and utterances of them. It is thus interested in all possible illocutionary forces, and not just in the actual realisations of these possibilities in actual speech and in actual languages.300 For Searle and Vanderveken (1985, 1; see also Vanderveken & Kubo 2002) illocutionary acts are the minimal unit of human communication. Whenever a speaker utters a sentence in an appropriate context with certain intentions, she performs one or more illocutionary acts. An illocutionary act consists of an illocutionary force F, and propositional content P, which means that sentences can have the same propositional content but different illocutionary forces (e.g., an order and a prediction), and that two sentences can have the same illocutionary force, but different propositional contents. Some linguists have seen this as leading in an irresolvable problem of indeterminacy regarding the illocutionary force of utterances.301 Wierzbicka (1991) however, argues that there are various semantic markers for illocutionary forces, and that these can be interpreted by linguistic analysts. Indeed, most of the time, people seem to make sense of what others are doing when they commit illocutionary acts. Language is often viewed as a tool for human communication. However, language has many uses beyond communication: it is a tool for human interaction (Wittgenstein

Vanderveken and Kubo (2002, 7) term these, illocutionary conjunctions. Also Skinner (2002, 134) identifies this phenomenon without using technical language. 300 This reminds once again of the different tasks behind philosophy and science in general and language philosophy and linguistics in particular. While illocutionary logic is utilised in the present study, the objective and task here is not only to explicate the logic of securitisation speech acts, but also to study actually occurred speech. Thus, the theoretical part of this present study engages in the theoretical and intuitive discussion of illocutionary logic, while its empirical part investigates actually occurred speech that has realised illocutionary forces i.e., how securitisation speech acts have been achieved in the PRC. 301 Derrida (1988) plays with this vis-à-vis Searle’s philosophy on speech acts. 299

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1999a; Wierzbicka 1991, 453).302 Speech act theory argues that people interact with language by infusion of the language they use with illocutionary forces, which are used to produce effects in other people. For example, Searle and Vanderveken (1985, 11-12) argue that a successful illocutionary speech act will always produce, at minimum, the effect of understanding the utterance in the hearer. Utterances often produce – and indeed most of the time are meant to produce – other effects in addition to the effect of understanding. These effects can affect the feelings, attitudes and subsequent behaviour of the hearer(s). Such effects are called perlocutionary effects (Austin 1975), and the act of their production is called the perlocutionary act. For example, by making a statement (illocutionary aspect), a speaker may convince or persuade (perlocutionary aspect) her audience, or by making a promise (illocutionary aspect) she may reassure or create expectations (perlocutionary aspect) in her audience. Perlocutionary effects may be achieved intentionally or unintentionally. It is possible to achieve perlocutionary effects without speaking at all i.e., they are not essentially linguistic; unlike illocutions, perlocutions do not follow conventions (Austin 1975). Because perlocutionary acts are bound to ‘other minds’ and subsequent effects, they cannot be conventional i.e., there cannot be a convention that such and such a sign counts as convincing.303 The success or failure of speech acts is not a binary division. Searle (1969) argues that Austin’s distinction between felicitous and infelicitous speech acts fails to distinguish between those speech acts which are successful but defective and those which are not even successful. In place of felicity and infelicity he proposes that a speech act may be unsuccessful, successful but defective or successful and nondefective (Searle and Vanderveken 1985, 10). The conditions for a successful and nondefective performance of an illocution contain seven categories; for Searle and Vanderveken (1985, 20-21; originally Vanderveken 1980), illocutionary forces are uniquely determined once each of the following are specified:304 I) Illocutionary point (Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 13-15): Each type of illocution has a point or purpose internal to it being an act of that type. If the act is successful, this point is achieved. The illocutionary point is achieved on the propositional content, as the illocutionary point can only be achieved as part of a complete speech act of the form F(P). According to Searle and Vanderveken (1985, 37-38; Searle 1979), just as there are only five elementary types of speech acts, accordingly, there are only five illocutionary points:305 1) the assertive point, to say how things are: thus the speaker presents a proposition as representing an actual state of affairs in the world of the utterance; 2) the com-

Even C. W. K. Mundle (1970, 78, 262) recognises the assimilation of words and tools as the most fertile of Wittgenstein’s similes, in his criticism on linguistic philosophy. The simile of language as a tool-box is important here as it was an inspiration and an influence for Austin as well. 303 For the various perlocutionary intentions of securitisation acts, see Chapter 6.3.2. below. How the lack of conventionality in perlocutionary acts is a problem for Balzacq’s (2005; 2010a) understanding of securitisation as a ‘pragmatic act’ was demonstrated in Chapter 6.2.3. 304 For how these aspects of illocutionary force can be utilised to define various strands of securitisation speech acts, see Chapter 6.3.2. As the present study is interested in the intersubjective construction of security, sincerity conditions (features 6 and 7) can be omitted, as the intersubjective dimension of human interaction is of interest here, although Searle has been interested in the individual’s point of view. 305 I.e., the force of assertion, the force of commitment to future action, the force of a linguistic attempt to get someone to act, the force of declaration, and the force of the expression of an attitude (Vanderveken & Kubo 2002, 6). 302

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missive point, to commit the speaker to doing something: thus the speaker commits to carrying out the course of action represented by the propositional content; 3) the directive point, to try to get other people to do things: in utterances with the directive point the speaker attempts to get the hearer to carry out the course of action represented by the propositional content; 4) the declarative point, to change the world by saying so: thus the speaker brings about the state of affairs represented by the propositional content solely by virtue of her successful performance of the speech act; and 5) the expressive point, to express feelings and attitudes: thus the speaker expresses some psychological attitude on the state of affairs represented by the propositional content. II) Degree of strength of the illocutionary point (Searle and Vanderveken 1985, 15): Different illocutionary acts often achieve the same illocutionary point but with different degrees of strength (e.g., request and insist). Some illocutionary forces require that their point is expressed by a certain degree of force, their characteristic degree of strength. III) Mode of achievement (Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 15-16): Some illocutionary acts require special procedures or conditions for their illocutionary points to be achieved (e.g., a position of authority and command [invoking authority in the act]). These are called the modes of achievement of an illocutionary point. When force F requires a mode of achievement it is called the characteristic mode of achievement.

IV) Propositional content conditions (Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 16): Conditions imposed on the propositional content of illocutionary acts by the illocutionary force of the act are called propositional content conditions (e.g., a past promise cannot be made). V) Preparatory conditions (Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 16-18): Most illocutionary acts can be successful and nondefective only if certain conditions apply. Such conditions necessary for the successful and nondefective performance of an illocutionary act are called preparatory conditions. In the performance of a speech act the speaker presupposes the satisfaction of these preparatory conditions. These conditions are not psychological, but certain sorts of states of affairs. Speakers and hearers internalise the rules that determine the preparatory conditions, but the conditions must not be psychological themselves. Many preparatory conditions are determined by illocutionary points. For example: all acts whose point is to get someone to do something (orders, requests, commands etc.) have a preparatory condition that the hearer is able to do the directed act. VI) Sincerity conditions (Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 18-19): When one performs an illocutionary act with a propositional content, one also expresses a certain psychological state with the same content. Since it is always possible to express a psychological state that one does not have, sincerity and insincerity in speech acts can be distinguished. An insincere speech act is defective but not necessarily unsuccessful.

VII) Degree of strength of the sincerity conditions (Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 19-20): Analogous to the illocutionary point being achieved with different degrees of strength, the same psychological state can be expressed with different degrees of strength. 192

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The force of an utterance is a matter of the illocutionary intentions of the speaker, but whether or not an illocutionary act with the intended force is successfully and nondefectively performed involves a great deal more than just intentions (Searle and Vanderveken 1985, 21-23).306 Illocutionary logic defines a further set of conditions that have to be satisfied in order to achieve successful illocutionary speech acts. Austin (1975) calls the most prominent of these conditions illocutionary uptake, which includes conditions for correctly understanding the utterance (e.g., attention and language ability). The seven features of illocutionary force are here reduced to four types of necessary and sufficient conditions for the successful and nondefective performance of an elementary illocution; assuming that all the conditions necessary and sufficient for hearer understanding are satisfied when the utterance is made, an illocutionary act of the type F(P) is successfully and nondefectively performed in a context of utterance if, and only if (Searle and Vanderveken 1985): The speaker succeeds in achieving in that context, the illocutionary point of F on the proposition P, with the required characteristic mode of achievement and degree of strength of illocutionary point of F. She expresses the proposition P, and that proposition satisfies the propositional content conditions imposed by F.

The preparatory conditions of the illocution and the propositional presuppositions obtain in the world of the utterance, and the speaker presupposes that they obtain. She expresses and possesses the psychological state determined by F, with the characteristic degree of strength of the sincerity conditions of F.307

For Bourdieu (1991, 72-75) the conditions of felicity are primarily social conditions and performative utterances are effects of symbolic domination. He emphasised that linguistic exchanges are situated encounters between agents endowed with socially constructed resources and competencies.308 Speech act situations are situated in ’fields’, where the ’social magic’ of speech acts is a derivative, not of their internal rules or their content, but of the extra linguistic social structures and social, or symbolic ‘capital’ of the agents involved in the activity.309 The efficacy of performative utterances is inseparable from the

Holdcroft (1978, 4) similarly emphasises the relevance of the context of utterances in determining which illocutionary act is being performed; for him, this depends largely on certain features of the context of the utterance. For example, while someone may mean something by uttering a sentence, this someone may fail to perform some illocutionary act should the requisite authority to perform that utterance be missing (ibid., 51). Thereby, the author of a text may at times matter after all (cf., Barthes 1979, 73-78; Foucault 1979c, 141-160; Derrida 1976, 6-100). 307 For the present study, this aspect can be omitted from the analysis for the aforementioned reasons. 308 Sbisà (2001) similarly emphasises the role of ‘power’, inclusive of competence, in how illocutionary force operates in degrees. 309 It is interesting to compare this with Carl Schmitt’s (2005, 31-32) argument that constitutive decisions emanate from nothingness. For Schmitt, the legal force of a decision is different from the result of substantiation. Legal prescriptions only describe how formal decisions should be made, not who should make them; the question of competence cannot be answered by the legal quality of a maxim. Indeed, “to answer questions of competence by referring to the material is to assume that one’s audience is a fool” (ibid., 32-33). Alongside the 306

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institutions which define the conditions (e.g., place, time, agent) that have to be fulfilled in order for the utterance to be effective. (cf., Bourdieu 1991, 72-75.) While striving for transcendental deduction (Vanderveken 2002a), in Searle and Vanderveken’s (1985) illocutionary logic, the context of utterances is one of the determinants of the illocutionary acts being performed; illocutionary acts are performed at the moment of utterance by uttering an appropriate utterance (i.e., producing an appropriate sign) in an adequate context of utterance (Vanderveken & Kubo 2002, 4). For Searle & Vanderveken (1985, 2728), a context of an utterance consists of five elements and sets of elements viz. 1) speaker, 2) hearer, 3) time, 4) place, and 5) those various other features of the speaker, hearer, time and place that are relevant to the performance of the speech acts. Particularly important are the psychological states – e.g., intentions, desires, beliefs – of the speaker and hearer. These other features form the world of the utterance. Here the notion of physical possibility is also relevant, as the abilities of the speaker and the hearer often enter in the preparatory conditions of the illocutionary act (ibid. 30). While socio-political aspects are quintessential aspects of real speech in real situations, I contend that the socio-political study of language use should also have an illocutionary foundation. Such a foundation will make the kind of analysis of speech possible, which is sufficiently culture-independent to allow cross-cultural comparisons, but without conceptual stretching.

6.3.2. Strands of Securitisation – Explicating the Concept of Securitisation for Conceptual Travel

As securitisation is a complex illocutionary speech act, its illocutionary force is uniquely defined (Vanderveken 1980) through the specification of its: 1) illocutionary point, 2) preparatory conditions, 3) the mode of achievement of its illocutionary point, 4) the degree of strength of its illocutionary point, 5) its propositional content conditions, 6) its sincerity conditions, and 7) the degree of strength of its sincerity conditions (see previous chapter). Since we are interested in securitisation from an intersubjective point of view, sincerity conditions can be left out of our analysis (features 6 and 7).310 This concurs with Kannetzsky’s (2002) and Kemmerling’s (2002) criticism of Searle.311 Searle is mainly interested in speech acts from an individual’s point of view, which makes sincerity conditions relevant to his analysis, but less so for other points of view. The criteria for the successful and nondefective performance of securitisation speech acts then depend on the first five of the seven features of illocutionary force. A difference in illocutionary force i.e., in the features of the illocutionary force of speech acts, will mean a different speech question of substantive correctness stands the question of competence (ibid., 34-35). This is what Austin (1975, 34) means with the statement: “The particular persons and circ*mstances in a given case must be appropriate for the invocation of the particular procedure invoked.” Just as with legal decisions, felicitous speech acts require both correct grammar and appropriate social capital/competence to achieve the desired force of the utterance. It is however important to keep in mind that not all speech acts are ritualistic: while some perlocutionary acts have a conventional outcome, not all do. 310 This is implicit in the original formulations of securitisation theory, but some critics (e.g., Balzacq 2005) seem to have overlooked this. As influenced by Karup Pedersen and Jacques Derrida, Wæver (1989c; 2004a; 2005; 2007a) has emphasised the impossibility of studying what politicians really think through discourse analysis. 311 Already Holdcroft (1978, 42) noted that an insincere statement is still a statement.

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Chapter 6 Strand of securitisation

Raising an issue onto the agenda

Legitimating future acts (Wæver’s original strand) Deterrence Control

Legitimating past acts or reproducing a security status

Elementary Illocutionary Perlocutionary speech act Temporality point aim sequence

Degree of strength

Claim Warn e.g., suggest, urge, propose

Directive

Agreement

Future

Has to be argued

Claim Warn Request

Directive

Legitimacy

Future

Has to be argued

Declarative

Intimidation/ Deterrence

Future

Declaration: Requires formal authority

Claim Warn Declare

Claim Warn Require Claim Warn Explain

Directive

Obedience/ Discipline

Future

Compelling: Requires formal authority and a reason

Assertive

Legitimacy

Past

Has to be argued

Table 2: The Five Strands of Securitisation.

act. This implies that if there are differences in illocutionary force, there are different strands of securitisation. As was already noted above, the force of an utterance is a matter of the illocutionary intentions of the speaker, but whether or not an illocutionary act with the intended force is successfully and nondefectively performed involves far more than just intentions. It must be kept in mind that to achieve a security status for an issue requires more than the linguistically felicitous performance of the securitisation speech act. Nevertheless, neither the linguistic nor the social felicity conditions of securitisation are entirely determinant: no individual can be guaranteed the success of securitisation, as this is in the remit of the audience (Buzan et al. 1998, 31; cf., Wæver 1997a; 2000).312 Both the linguistic and social felicity conditions are necessary, but neither is a sufficient condition for successful securitisation. However, this does not make it any less prudent to formulate the linguistic rules of securitisation as explicitly as possible. Based on the illocutionary logic briefly presented above it can be seen that the type of securitisation Wæver has argued for is only one strand of securitisation; as security speech is analysed, it can be seen that there are differences in the illocutionary force of the speech acts utilised in constructing security realities. The type of securitisation presented by Wæver aims to legitimise future acts. Wæver’s securitisation can be considered to be a complex speech act like argumentation, and it can be divided into three sequential elementary speech acts: 1) claim, 2) warning, and 3) request. In total, there are at least five strands of securitisation viz. securitisation 1) for raising an issue onto the agenda, 2) for legitimating future acts, 3) for deterrence, 4) for control, and 5) for legitimating past acts, Wæver has emphasised the ‘openness’ and equal status of the success and failure of securitisation, which some critics and appliers have overlooked. For Wæver, in an Arendtian way, the nature of politics seems to be based on a general openness. (cf., Derrida 1988; Arendt 1976.) 312

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or for reproducing the security status of an issue (i.e., post hoc securitisation) (Table 2). Security can be utilised to achieve several political aims. Each strand of securitising speech acts, or securitisation moves, consists of a sequence of separate elementary speech acts (e.g., claim – warn – request). As the preparatory and other conditions differ in the variants, they are thereby different, yet closely related illocutionary speech acts (as are promising and pledging for example). The strands of securitisation share ‘family resemblances’ (Wittgenstein 1999a). In my view, the semantic metalanguage provided by illocutionary logic allows this family to be seen from the resemblances.313 6.3.2.1. Securitisation for Raising an Issue onto the Agenda

Securitising actors are often presumed to be political decision makers with formal positions of authority, and thereby to have the possibility to put their proposed measures into effect to counter the threat they claim exists.314 Furthermore, securitisation acts are often understood as a means to legitimise policies that either go beyond ‘normal’, or somehow ‘break the rules’ of the regular ebb and flow of political debate and practice; as such, securitisation is understood to create space for ‘special procedures’ by state authorities. But just as there can be a variety of securitisation speech acts, there can also be a variety of securitising actors: not all securitising speech is uttered by the powers that be, who also do not always have to be state powers. Those outside official authority can utilise securitisation speech to achieve certain aims, provided they have sufficient socio-political capital. One such aim can be to raise an issue onto the agenda of decision makers.315 In this strand of securitisation, securitising actors should be in a position to raise such issues; they could be e.g., scholars, politicians, bureaucrats or journalists,316 while the audiences Indeed, all of the strands of securitisation are illocutionary acts of securitisation. The emphasis here is on how – via illocutionary logic – we can discern how various types of acts within this family can be deployed for various purposes. It is, however, good to keep in mind that they all draw on the social institution/modality/ rationality of security, irrespective of variation in their illocutionary points, perlocutionary aims, temporalities, and degrees of illocutionary force. 314 Barthwal-Datta (2009) criticises the CopS approach for doing this: she argues that the CopS does not take into account securitising actors beyond the state. This strand of securitisation however answers her criticism as it shows how actors without formal authority to enact security can also utilise security speech. Haacke & Williams (2008, 780) also point out that while the CopS suggests that security fields are in favour of state actors, the theory allows for non-state actors to assume the role of a securitising actor (cf., Buzan & Wæver 2003, 44-45). Salter (2008, 337) points out how popular audiences of securitisation may not only accept securitisation but even initiate the expansion of governmental power. 315 De Wilde (2008, 596) makes a distinction between private (e.g., parties, NGOs, social movements) and public (e.g., governments, IGOs, local governments) securitising actors. Private securitising actors often attempt to attract public attention to the issue they present, while public securitising actors usually aim to legitimise extraordinary actions, or to set priorities among competing issues on the agenda. Public securitising actors usually have more resources than private securitising actors, and public actors often merely reproduce institutionalised security discourses. 316 Melissa G. Curley (2004, 18) argues, for example, that in the early 2000s, representatives of the People’s Liberation Army were making moves towards securitising the North Korean migration issue via border security with national integrity and sovereignty as the referent objects. Barthwal-Datta (2009, 296), who has studied the role of newspapers in Bangladesh, uses language very similar to that used here to describe some securitisation moves’ function as raising an issue onto the agenda: “it is unlikely that The Daily Star, New Age, or The Bangladesh Daily would be identified as securitising actors, and their attempts to raise the issue of misgovernance as a threat to the security of Bangladeshi society would not appear in the security analysis it [the CopS approach] produces.” Her analysis of the securitisation moves of these papers supports the argument here, and the present strand shows how it is possible to incorporate the type of analysis she does into the general framework of securitisation theory. This also reveals how the refined 313

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of securitisation could include decision makers or constituencies, for example. The perlocutionary effect intended by the strand, is to convince decision makers of the urgency of a threat, so that they will agree to raise the issue onto their agenda and effect the suggested measures. The illocutionary point of this type of securitisation is directive, as the point is to try to get other people to do things, to get the hearer to carry out the course of action as represented by the propositional content e.g., to do X in order to repel threat Y. This complex speech act consists of a sequence of three elementary speech acts viz. claim, warn, and urge, illustrated here in a similar format as John Searle (1969, 6667) did in his classic study on speech acts.317 The first elementary act of such complex sequences is claiming, formally illustrated in Box 1: something is an existential threat for a referent object that should continue to exist. The illocutionary point318 of claiming is assertive. Claiming concerns taking a stand on something; in the case of securitisation, on something which is represented as an existential threat for a referent object. Most illocutionary acts can be successful and nondefective, only if certain conditions apply. These conditions are called preparatory conditions (Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 16-18), which are certain sorts of states of affairs. In claiming, the speaker has to present, or have proof for the truth of her claim and it should not be obvious to both the speaker and the hearer that the hearer knows the truth of the claim already, or does not need to be reminded etc. Claim

Propositional Any claim (C). content

Types of rule Preparatory Essential

1) Speaker (S) has proof (reasons etc.) for the truth of C. 2) It is not obvious to both S and hearer (H) that H knows (e.g., needs no reminder etc.) that C. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that C represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 1: Claim speech act in securitisation (cf., Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 183).

The second speech act in a sequence of a securitisation move, illustrated in Box 2, is warning: the threat is realised, if something is not done. A warning can either be a directive or an assertive about the state of affairs (which is presupposed not to be in the interest of the hearer) represented in the propositional content of the utterance. One can warn that such and such is the case or warn someone to do, or not to do something. In securitisation, the securitising actor warns with a view to get action in regard to a threat. The securitising actor asserts (warns) of a certain state of affairs that requires action. The preparatory conditions for a warning include the possibility that the state or event warned of, could happen, that it is not in the hearer’s interest, and that it is not obvious to both the speaker framework is able to capture securitisation moves, and thereby also securitising actors, within a wider scope than the original formulation of the theory. 317 The explication of the elementary speech acts in the ‘boxes’ below are from Searle (1969) or derivations from it or from Searle & Vanderveken (1985). 318 Each type of illocution has a point or purpose internal to it being an act of that type. If the act is successful, this point is achieved.

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and hearer that the event or state warned of will occur in any case. The third speech act of this strand of securitisation can vary, depending on the mode of achievement of its illocutionary point, the degree of strength of its illocutionary point, and its propositional content conditions. A securitising actor could, for example, recommend, suggest, request, deplore or insist that decision makers take action. The point of this third, directive elementary speech act is to get someone to do something, to get the issue onto the agenda and the proposed measures into effect (to paraphrase the essence of the argument: ‘deal with this problem [with these measures] before it is too late and we will not be around to correct our mistake’). The preparatory conditions and modes of achievement depend on which directive is used. All of the possible directives share the preparatory conditions of the hearer as able to do the directed act, and that it must not be obvious that the hearer would do the directed act on her own accord. Box 3 illustrates the speech act of urging in securitisation for raising an issue onto the agenda. Warn

Propositional content Future event, state etc. (E). Types of rule

Preparatory Essential

1) H has reason to believe that E will occur and that it is not in H’s interest. 2) It is not obvious to both S and H that E will occur in any case. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that E is not in H’s best interest.

Box 2: Warn speech act in securitisation (cf., Searle 1969, 67). Urge

Propositional content Future act (A) of H. Types of rule

Preparatory Essential

1) S believes H is able to do A. 2) S has a reason (R) for H to do A. 3) It is not obvious to both S and H, that H would do A in the normal course of events. Counts as an attempt to get H to do A by virtue of R.

Box 3: Urge speech act in securitisation for raising an issue onto the agenda (cf., Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 200).

As has already been noted, empirical instances of actually occurred ‘speech’ cannot ‘close’ grammars off or ‘refute’ them. However, empirical illustrations may elucidate the abstract grammars of securitising moves presented here. It may therefore be appropriate to illustrate securitisation moves for raising an issue onto the agenda here with the “statement” of the “Emergency Committee of Atomic Scientists”, led by Albert Einstein,319 which Other trustees of the Committee included Harold C. Urey, Hans A. Bethe, Thorfin R. Hogness, Philip M. Morse, Linus Paulig, Leo Zilard, and Victor F. Weisskopf. 319

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appeared in the sixth issue of the third volume of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists in 1947. This statement was bound to the ‘unveiling’ of the Doomsday Clock, which has arguably become a widely recognised symbol of the total anti-nuclear macrosecuritisation process.320 As a symbol, the Clock evokes and thereby facilitates all of the crucial ingredients involved in a securitisation ‘plot’: the lateness of the hour (urgency) and impending doom (existential threat), as well as the possibility to reverse course by moving the hands of time far away from midnight (way out). This evocative image was anchored and interwoven into the textual securitisation move of the Atomic Scientists. The statement consisted of a three part claim (Box 4), a two part warning (Box 5), and an urge (Box 6): the statement claimed that “1) Atomic bombs can now be made cheaply and in large numbers. They will become more destructive. 2) There is no military defence against atomic bombs, and none is to be expected. 3) Other nations can rediscover our secret processes by themselves”; the statement warned that “4) Preparedness against atomic war is futile and, if attempted, will ruin the structure of our social order. 5) If war breaks out, atomic bombs will be used, and they will surely destroy our civilization”; and the statement urged that “6) There is no solution to this problem except international control of atomic energy, and ultimately, the elimination of war.” The claimed threat in this initial securitisation move was the use of atomic weapons, which jeopardised the referent objects of “our social order” and “our civilization.” A way out of this urgent and dangerous situation was also presented in the form of international control of atomic energy, and the eventual abolition of war. The structure of the statement follows the grammar of a securitisation move for raising an issue onto the agenda, as detailed above. The structure of the statement is supported by its stated intentions, and the authority in whose name the statement was made. The securitising actor of this initial move321 was the Emergency Committee of Atomic Scientists. The symbolic capital of this particular group of scientists322 was enhanced in the statement by the claim that ‘all scientists accept the facts’ listed in the statement. As the word emergency in the name of the Committee suggests, this move was presented as urgent indeed. The evident audience of the securitisation was “the public,” but in a democracy, public opinion is understood to influence public policy, thus, while “the Committee does not propose to make government policy, either on the national or international level,” the intention was rather to influence public policy, as the Committee’s stated “purpose is to make available an understanding of the atomic era on which such policy must depend.” The editorial of the same Bulletin (Rabinowitch 1947, 137-138) elaborated on the statement of the Committee. The “intrusion” of scientists into national and international affairs was inspired and justified by the “necessity for a factual, realistic attitude as a basis See Vuori (2010a) for a history and analysis of resets of the Doomsday Clock. The idea of resetting the Clock in accordance with trends in world events was only initiated in 1949, when the Soviet Union conducted its first nuclear tests, and the Clock has been reset in accordance with the Bulletin’s perceptions of the world for over 60 years. That the securitisation moves have spanned seven decades reveals that their politics of securitisation have not been that successful vis-à-vis their object of concern, namely the abolition or strict international control of nuclear weapons. 322 Einstein’s symbolic capital had had a major influence in the initiation of work towards building an atomic weapon. Einstein lamented that the biggest mistake of his life was to sign the letter written by Leo Szilard which requested funding from President Roosevelt to initiate research towards sustaining a nuclear chain reaction. 320 321

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of political decisions of our statesmen and political thinking of our citizens.”323 The proposed remedy of the Committee was ‘special’, or ‘broke the rules’, as it would entail “the sacrifice of American sovereignty” in the form of the submission of US atomic research and industry to be under international authority, as well as the renunciation of a veto right.324 This proposition went against the two other paths that were debated at the time, namely ‘keeping the secret of the atomic bomb’, and ‘let’s destroy the bombs.’ “To achieve security and survival of America” the US would have to sacrifice its belief in the supreme virtue of private enterprise and national sovereignty, while the Soviet Union would have to sacrifice its belief in the supreme virtue of socialistic isolationism in the capitalist world. “Both sides must take risks – the alternative being an almost complete certainty of a catastrophe for both of them.” I speech act: claim

Propositional content

Atomic bombs can now be made cheaply and in large numbers, they will become more destructive, there is no military defence against atomic bombs (none is to be expected), and other nations can rediscover the secret processes of constructing atomic bombs by themselves.

1) The status of the scientists as the developers of the atomic weapons functions as proof of their claims. Preparatory condition 2) It is not obvious that the public knows that there is no decontent fence against atomic bombs, or that other states would be able to produce them in large numbers. Essential content

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that other nations beyond the United States will be able to produce large numbers of very destructive atomic bombs for which there is no defence represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 4: The claim speech act in the Statement of the Emergency Committee of Atomic Scientists.

The example of the Atomic Scientists reveals that not all securitising acts need to be about legitimising future acts, and that not all securitising moves need to be committed by speakers with the authority to effect their suggested ‘remedies.’ The Atomic Scientists literally created a global threat, that of the possibility of thermonuclear annihilation. But the scientists lacked the authority of ‘deciding’ on the ‘exception’; instead, they had to convince others of the necessity of their suggested remedies for dealing with existential threats. The discussion of the role of scientists, or ‘whether scientist should be on top or on tap’ (Simpson 1960) in political decision making has also been a major feature of the Bulletin through the decades of its publication. 324 The ‘radicality’ of the proposed remedies of the Atomic Scientists is also apparent in a later text connected to the 1969 reset of the Doomsday Clock. Eugene Rabinowitch (1969, 2, 16) was calling for the breaking of the rules of national sovereignty, calling for a new international political Ordnung: “What is needed is no less than [...] an international revolution against the worldwide establishment of sovereign nations”. In addition to this ultimate goal, the reset editorials have also proposed more limited and practical suggestions for going forward, like arms reductions and other means of increasing confidence between the nuclear powers. 323

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II speech act: warn

Propositional content

Preparatory condition content Essential content

Preparedness against atomic war is futile and, if attempted, will ruin the structure of the United States’ social order; If war breaks out, atomic bombs will be used, and they will surely destroy the civilization of the United States.

1) The public has a reason to believe atomic bombs would be used in a future war on the United States (the United States had used atomic bombs itself) and that this would not be in their best interest. 2) It is not obvious that preparedness against atomic war would be futile. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that atomic war or preparation for waging atomic war is not in the best interest of the United States’ general public.

Box 5: The warn speech act in the Statement of the Emergency Committee of Atomic Scientists. III speech act: urge

Propositional content

There is no solution to this problem except international control of atomic energy, and ultimately, the elimination of war.

Essential content

Counts as an attempt to get the United States to achieve international control of atomic energy by virtue of preventing the ruin of the US social order.

1) The United States could achieve international control of atomic energy. 2) The Atomic Scientists have a reason for the United States to Preparatory condition achieve international control of atomic energy (this would precontent vent the use of atomic weapons against the US and the ruin of its social order). 3) It is not obvious that the United States would try to achieve international control of atomic energy of its own accord.

Box 6: The urge speech act in the Statement of the Emergency Committee of Atomic Scientists. 6.3.2.2. Securitisation for Legitimating Future Acts

The type of securitisation introduced by Wæver can be called securitisation for legitimating future acts. This strand aims at the perlocutionary effect of legitimating future acts of the securitising actor. The audience in this case are the evaluators of the political legitimacy of the actions of the actor e.g., voters, journalists, competing factions etc., while securitising actors are politically responsible325 decision makers or a person who acts Counter to what Balzacq (2010a, 67) suggests, this responsibility however need not have to be to a parliament.

325

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on behalf of decision makers. The aim of this strand is to justify actions that would otherwise be judged illegitimate by the evaluators of legitimacy. The illocutionary point of this securitisation act is directive e.g., accept that X is done in order to repel threat Y. The speech act leaves room for disagreement i.e., the audience has the opportunity to reject the legitimacy of the future acts of the speaker. This strand of securitisation also consists of three sequential, elementary speech acts. The first two are the same as in securitisation for raising an issue onto the agenda i.e., claim (Box 1) and warn (Box 2). The third act, illustrated here in Box 7, is a request: accept that something is done so the threat will not come to pass. The request in securitisation is that for the acceptance of a future act to ward off the threat i.e., the future act of the hearer, requested by the speaker, is the acceptance of a future act to ward off the threat. A request is a directive illocution that allows for the possibility of refusal. As acceptance cannot be forced (as the success i.e., perlocutionary effect of securitisation is in the remit of the hearer), it has to be argued in a certain sense.326 The preparatory conditions of a request include that the hearer is able to do the act requested, and that it is not obvious that the hearer would do the act on her own accord without the request. Request

Propositional content Future A of H. Types of rule

Preparatory Essential

1) H is able to do A and S believes H is able to do A. 2) It is not obvious to both S and H that H would do A in the normal course of events of her own accord. Counts as an attempt to get H to do A.

Box 7: Request speech act in securitisation for legitimating future action (cf., Searle 1969, 66).

The strand of securitisation for legitimating future acts can be illustrated here by George W. Bush’s (PBS 2001) televised speech after a cabinet meeting on September 12 2001. The speech followed the September 11 attacks in New York and Washington which provided a sense of imminent danger and crisis. President Bush claimed (Box 8) that “The deliberate and deadly attacks, which were carried out yesterday against our country, were more than acts of terror. They were acts of war.” This claim alone would raise the issue under discussion to a top priority. Bush underlined the gravity of the events by warning (Box 9) that “Freedom and democracy are under attack. The American people need to know we’re facing a different enemy than we have ever faced.” This warning entails that if the ‘American people’ do not act, freedom and democracy – the oft repeated core values of It is logically possible that the same security means could be carried out without securitisation, but this would be a different scenario, with different costs in terms of legitimacy. In a case of securitisation, the securitising actor wants to handle the claimed challenge by gaining acceptance through the specific securitisation operations, which entail threats, survival, ‘necessity’, and countermeasures. This will only make sense in a situation where acceptance of the securitisation (but not of the measure as such, if implemented in a non-securitised manner) cannot be forced, but depends on some kind of acceptance. 326

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the United States that it is willing to proselytise even abroad – would be in jeopardy: “This enemy attacked not just our people but all freedom-loving people everywhere in the world.” To deal with such threats demands extraordinary efforts: “This will require our country to unite in steadfast determination and resolve.”

Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

I speech act: claim

The September 11 attacks were more than act of terror, they were acts of war.

1) Proof of the attacks was evident from the continuous news coverage on the attacks. 2) It is not obvious that the attacks were more than acts of terror. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the attacks in New York and Washington being acts of war represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 8: The claim speech act in President Bush’s September 12 speech (PBS 2001). II speech act: warn

Freedom and democracy are under attack, and the American Propositional content people need to know they are facing a different enemy than they have ever faced. 1) The American people have a reason to believe freedom and democracy could be under attack (the United States had never Preparatory condition been attacked like this before) and that this would not be in content their best interest. 2) It is not obvious that the attacks in New York and Washington were an attack on freedom and democracy. Essential content

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that freedom and democracy being under attack is not in the best interest of the American people.

Box 9: The warn speech act in President Bush’s September 12 speech (PBS 2001).

The final segment of the President’s speech describes how the United States is mobilising its resources to combat the threat. Accordingly, the speech counts as an attempt to gain legitimacy for the future acts that are not ‘business as usual’ but go beyond it (Box 10): “The United States of America will use all our resources to conquer this enemy.” The element of the future was pre-eminently present: “This battle will take time and resolve, but make no mistake about it, we will win.” The sense of emergency was also emphasised: “The federal government and all our agencies are conducting business, but it is not business as usual. We are operating on heightened security alert. America is going forward, and as we do so, we must remain keenly aware of the threats to our country.” These elements of the speech set the founding for the legitimacy of future acts: “This morning, I am sending to 203

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Congress a request for emergency funding authority so that we are prepared to spend whatever it takes to rescue victims, to help the citizens of New York City and Washington, D. C., respond to this tragedy, and to protect our national security.” The prevailing self-image of the US facilitated the request for legitimacy: “This will be a monumental struggle of good versus evil, but good will prevail.” President Bush’s speeches on September 11 and 12 defined the mood of world politics for the first decade of the 21st century. The claimed threat and the warning were used to legitimise extraordinary measures in the United States (e.g., the Patriot Act) and the use of force in Afghanistan and Iraq, as well as the rendition of suspects and the detention of ‘enemy combatants’ at Camp Delta in the Guantanámo naval base, in violation of the Geneva Conventions on the treatment of prisoners of war.327 The claims and warnings of these initial speech acts and their numerous maintenances were expanded into the macrosecuritisation discourse of the ‘Global War on Terror’ (Buzan & Wæver 2009). These speech acts formed the basis for the legitimisation of various extraordinary measures, and similarly had major inter-unit effects both domestically and internationally. III speech act: request

Propositional content

Preparatory condition content Essential content

The country should unite in steadfast determination and resolve: all resources should be used, the government and its agencies should operate on heightened security alert, everyone should be keenly aware of threats, and Congress should authorise the use of emergency funding in order to respond to the tragedy and to protect national security.

1) The American people, the federal government and Congress are able to do what the President requests. 2) It is not obvious that the American people, federal agencies and Congress would do what the President requests on their own accord. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the hearers consider the country uniting, using all its resources, operating under heightened alert, and Congress authorising emergency funding as legitimate.

Box 10: The request speech act in President Bush’s September 12 speech (PBS 2001). 6.3.2.3. Securitisation for Deterrence

Some security discourse is not aimed at legitimisation or to effecting certain action to repel the claimed threat, but rather the repulsion of threats through the deterrent effect of securitisation acts. The intimidation effect of the special status of security issues may deter the threat without further resort to special procedures, so that the mere possibility of future special procedures may be sufficient.328 This type of securitisation can be The US policies on enemy combatants and their imprisonment in Guantanámo has been a common example of ‘exceptionality’ in 21st century world politics (see e.g., Butler 2006; Neal 2006). 328 Indeed, as Russett et al. (2006, 107, 129) note, threats may not have to be carried out if the actor has a 327

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termed securitisation for deterrence. The perlocutionary intention of this strand is intimidation and deterrence; here securitisation functions as a warning about possible future acts.329 Securitising actors who use this strand have to have an official position, or de facto control of subordinates e.g., leader of a state or a movement, so their authority can be invoked in the speech act. In this strand, the securitisation is actually aimed at the threat itself; the audience of securitisation is the threat e.g., another state, secessionist group, or protesters who may not recognise the authority of the securitising actor.330 The illocutionary point of this strand of securitisation is declarative. The point of a declarative is to change the world by saying so: in utterances with the declarative point the speaker effects the state of affairs represented by the propositional content solely in virtue of her successful performance of the speech act (Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 37-38) e.g., Y is a threat to Z. This requires that the speaker is in a position, where she is able to invoke the kind of authority that achieves this effect. This strand of securitisation also begins with a claim (Box 1) and a warning (Box 2), but they are followed by a declaration, which brings about the state of affairs of the claim. By declaring that something is a threat to a referent object i.e., an issue of security, the securitising actor gains special powers, which in turn are intended to deter the threats targeted in the securitisation. The aim is to repel the threat through the deterrent effect of possible future action (‘this is a problem that has to be dealt with before it is too late and we will not be around to correct our mistake’). As is also apparent from its illustration in Box 11, the preparatory conditions of a declaration include that the speaker is in a position where she can issue effective declarations and that the consequence of the declaration is not already in effect. The strand of securitisation for deterrence that contains a declaration speech act can be illustrated here with the United Nations Security Council Resolution 1377 (S/ RES/1377 [2001]) that dealt with ‘threats to international peace and security caused by terrorist acts.’331 The resolution refers to three previous resolutions (S/RES/1269 [1999]; S/RES/1368 [2001]; S/RES/1373 [2001]) that also deal with the issue of terrorism. The resolution analysed here is the third resolution that followed the September 11 attacks on the United States. Those attacks were deemed as acts of international terrorism in the previous resolutions, which claim is recalled in the resolution 1377. With condemnation reputation or a track record of using force. The mere hint of punishment may be enough to bring about the desired action, namely compulsion or deterrence. 329 The deterrent effect is based on issues being labelled with ‘security’ having subsequent consequences on how issues are dealt with: “when states or nations securitise an issue – ‘correctly’ or not – it is a political fact that has consequences, because this securitisation will cause the actor to operate in a different mode than he or she would have otherwise” (Buzan et al. 1998, 30). The reasonability, or even plausibility, of one actor’s securitisation may have an effect on how other actors respond to it, yet an authoritative securitisation does change the mode in which the issue is responded to and perhaps even dealt with. 330 This is one of the features of this strand of securitisation that distinguishes it from the strand of securitisation for control: securitisation for control can compel while securitisation for deterrence cannot, as the ‘target’ of the securitisation may not necessarily be under the authority of the securitising actor. Authoritatively changing the social world, or the ‘conjuring of authoritative social magic’, may affect social or political actors beyond the authority of the securitising actor by changing the ‘situation.’ 331 See Bothe (2008) and Wæver (2008a, 104-105) on how ‘international peace and security’ have been used in the UN Security Council to transform issues into issues of security. The power of this ‘social magic’ is endowed to the Security Council in Articles 24 and 39, whereby it is obligated to “determine the existence of any threat to the peace, breach of the peace, or act of aggression.”

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of the attacks that occurred on 11 September 2001, resolution 1368 at the same time made the claim (Box 12) that those attacks were acts of terrorism, which were a threat to international peace and security: “The Security Council […] unequivocally condemns in the strongest terms the horrifying terrorist attacks which took place on 11 September 2001 in New York, Washington, D.C. and Pennsylvania and regards such acts, like any act of international terrorism, as a threat to international peace and security” (S/RES/1368). Declare

Propositional content Any proposition (P). Types of rule

Preparatory

1) S is in a position where she has the power to declare that P. 2) P is not already in effect.

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that P becomes the state of affairs. Box 11: Declare speech act in securitisation for deterrence (cf., Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 205-206). Essential

I speech act: claim

Propositional content

The September 11 attacks were an act of international terrorism, which are threats to international peace and security.

Essential content

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the attacks being acts of international terrorism, and thereby threats to international peace and security represents an actual state of affairs.

1) Proof of the attacks was evident from the continuous news Preparatory condition coverage on the attacks. content 2) It is not obvious that the attacks were threats to international peace and security.

Box 12: The claim speech act in the UN Security Council Resolution 1368 (2001).

Resolution 1377 (2001) reaffirmed this claim, and warned (Box 13) of the dangers of international terrorism to individuals, states and to global stability and prosperity: “The Security Council […] [u]nderlines that acts of terrorism endanger innocent lives and the dignity and security of human beings everywhere, threaten the social and economic development of all States and undermine global stability and prosperity.” The claim already made in previous resolutions and the warning reiterated here, are the justification for the declarations (Box 14) that form the crux of the resolution: “The Security Council […] [d] eclares that acts of international terrorism constitute one of the most serious threats to international peace and security in the twenty-first century, [and] [f]urther declares that acts of international terrorism constitute a challenge to all States and to all of humanity.” 332

The empirical illustration of resolution 1377 shows how the models developed in the present study are artificial models: even though it is argued here that the resolution follows the ‘grammar’ of securitisation, the elementary speech acts that constitute an act of securitisation do not follow each other in the order presented in the model. That the declarations of the resolution precede the warning does not matter: all of the elements 332

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II speech act: warn

Propositional content

Acts of terrorism endanger innocent lives and the dignity and security of human beings everywhere, threaten the social and economic development of all states and undermine global stability and prosperity.

1) The members of the United Nations have a reason to believe acts of terrorism could endanger lives and stability (there had Preparatory condition been such resolutions before) and that this would not be in content their best interest. 2) It is not obvious that the attacks of September 11 2001 endangered global stability and prosperity. Essential content

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that acts of terrorism are not in the best interest of the members of the UN.

Box 13: The warn speech act in the UN Security Council Resolution 1377 (2001). III speech act: declare

Propositional content

Preparatory condition content

Essential content

Acts of international terrorism constitute one of the most serious threats to international peace and security in the 21st century and acts of international terrorism constitute a challenge to all States and to all of humanity.

1) The UN Security Council is in a position where it has the possibility to declare something as a threat to international peace and security and as a challenge to all states and all of humanity. 2) Acts of terrorism were not already considered to be the most serious threat to international peace and security in the 21st century or a challenge to all states and to all of humanity. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the attacks receiving the status of a serious threat to international peace and security, and a challenge to all States and to all of humanity becomes the state of affairs.

Box 14: The declare speech act in the UN Security Council Resolution 1377 (2001).

While calling and inviting states and the Counter-Terrorism Committee to do things, the declarative nature of this securitisation act also serves the function of deterrence: by declaring acts of terrorism to constitute one the most serious threats to international peace and security, and by imbuing the attacks of September 11 2001 with this political status, the Security Council indicates its willingness to act and thus makes it a “political fact that of securitisation are present in the resolution and the context it refers to (e.g., previous resolutions). That the models of the strands of securitisation attempt to be parsimonious does not suggest that actually occurring speech that is inferred to entail securitisation acts would be as neat, tidy, or even logical (cf., Wilkinson 2007); securitisation is an artificial analytical concept, and not part of a ‘folk-taxonomy.’

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has consequences, because this securitisation will cause the actor to operate in a different mode than he or she would have otherwise” (Buzan et al. 1998, 30). While authorising states to do things, it is also a signal to both state and non-state actors to desist from further such acts or ‘face the consequences.’ These resolutions were part of the basis for the invasion of Afghanistan, and an important aspect of the ‘Global War on Terror’ macrosecuritisation discourse. 6.3.2.4. Securitisation for Control

Security is an effective means of control, as survival is primary and justifies drastic measures and strict discipline.333 This strand of securitisation for control, aims at the perlocutionary effect of obedience to the directives of the securitising actor. The audience of securitisation here are those under the authority of the securitising actor e.g., members of a party or citizens of a state, while the securitising actor is someone in a formal position to authorise compelling directives.334 The aim is to get the audience to do the acts required by the actor or to forbid them from doing certain acts. The illocutionary point of this strand of securitisation speech act is directive e.g., it is required that you do X and/or cease doing Q, in order to repel threat Y. This speech act requires that X be done and/or Q not be done any longer; requiring does not leave room for disagreement. This is why the securitising actor has to have both formal authority and a reason (a threat in relation to a legitimate referent object) for her directive. Initially, securitisation for control begins with the elementary speech acts of claiming (Box 1) and warning (Box 2), by which the issue is constructed as one of security. These two acts are followed by the speech act of requiring, as illustrated in Box 15. Requiring is a directive which gives no option for refusal, and thus, it has a greater degree of strength than requesting or even telling. Requiring also has the extra preparatory condition of the need for something to be done, a specific reason for requiring the act (Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 201). The reason for requiring acts (or desisting acts) in securitisation is the security threat as warned of in the previous speech act, combined with the authority of the speaker or some other formal authority (the law or the UN security council, for example). The aim is to legitimise and to provide a reason for the actions required, within the securitisation speech act (‘these measures are required to deal with the problem before it is too late and we will not be around to correct our mistake’). The strand of securitisation for control is illustrated here with the press releases and statements of the North-Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) secretary general Lord Robertson that invoked article five of the Washington Treaty335 for the first time in the history of NATO in response to the attacks of September 11 2001.336 The initial statement of While distancing herself from the idea that securitisation would be limited to being an instrument of state elites, Roxanne Lynn Doty (1999, 73) also suggests that securitisation “is an instrument that power holders can use to gain control over an issue.” While she does not go into detail on the perlocutionary implications of this take on securitisation, her succinct discussion of securitisation implicitly supports the argument made here that securitisation can have various political functions. 334 This separates this strand from that of securitisation for deterrence, as in that strand, the target (e.g., another state) of the act is not under the authority of the speaker. 335 Article 5 of the Washington Treaty stipulates that an armed attack against one, or several members, shall be considered as an attack against all. 336 It would be interesting to analyse the discussions that went on in the various classified meetings at NATO 333

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the secretary general (NATO PR/CP[2001]121) on September 11 2001 contained a claim (Box 16) that the attacks were directed against democracy, and that the international community and the members of NATO need to unite their forces to fight terrorism: “These barbaric acts constitute intolerable aggression against democracy and underline the need for the international community and the members of the Alliance to unite their forces in fighting the scourge of terrorism.” In another press release (NATO PR/CP[2001]122) on September 11 the secretary general stated that “If it is determined that this attack was directed from abroad against the United States, it shall be regarded as an action covered by Article 5 of the Washington Treaty.”

Propositional content Types of rule

Preparatory Essential

Require

Future A of H.

1) H is able to do A. 2) It is not obvious to both S and H that H would do A in the normal course of events on her own accord. 3) There is R for H to do A.

Counts as an undertaking to get H to do A by virtue of R.

Box 15: Require speech act in securitisation for control (cf., Searle & Vanderveken 1985, 201). In a press release (NATO PR/CP[2001]124) on September 12, the North Atlantic Council referred to the initial establishment of NATO: “The commitment to collective self-defence embodied in the Washington Treaty was first entered into in circ*mstances very different from those that exist now, but it remains no less valid and no less essential today, in a world subject to the scourge of international terrorism.” Previous statements of the Heads of State and Government of NATO were also presented as important: “When the Heads of State and Government of NATO met in Washington in 1999, they paid tribute to the success of the Alliance in ensuring the freedom of its members during the Cold War and in making possible a Europe that was whole and free.” There has, however, been a qualitative change: “But they also recognised the existence of a wide variety of risks to security, some of them quite unlike those that had called NATO into existence. More specifically, they condemned terrorism as a serious threat to peace and stability and reaffirmed their determination to combat it in accordance with their commitments to one another, their international commitments and national legislation.” The press release relied on the above institutionalised securitisation of the need for NATO as a form of collective defence, even in the post-Cold War era. This institutionalised basis was the foundation for the warning (Box 17) contained in the press release: “The Council agreed that if it is determined that this attack was directed from abroad against the United States, it shall be regarded as an action covered by to see whether and how the possible securitisation arguments evolved in these meetings, and who raised them. The press releases and statements however provide us with the final result of the meetings, and as such, they can function as an illustration of an act of securitisation that does not allow refusal.

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Article 5 of the Washington Treaty, which states that an armed attack against one or more of the Allies in Europe or North America shall be considered an attack against them all.” I speech act: claim

Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

The September 11 attacks constitute an intolerable aggression against democracy; the international community and the members of NATO need to unite their forces to fight terrorism.

1) Proof of the attacks was evident from the continuous news coverage on the attacks. 2) It is not obvious that the attacks were directed at democracy, nor that the international community or the members of NATO should unite their forces to fight terrorism. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the September 11 attacks being attacks on democracy represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 16: The claim speech act in the NATO Secretary General’s statement (NATO PR/ CP[2001]121). II speech act: warn

Propositional content

Attacks directed at the United States from abroad are attacks on all NATO members.

Essential content

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the attacks of September 11 2001 are not in the best interest of the members of NATO.

1) The members of NATO have a reason to believe attacks on the US from abroad could be attacks on all NATO members (the Preparatory condition Washington Treaty stipulates this) and that this would not be in content their best interest. 2) It is not obvious that the attacks of September 11 2001 were attacks on all NATO members.

Box 17: The warning speech act in the North Atlantic Council’s statement (NATO PR/ CP[2001]124).

Thereafter, a statement by the secretary general (NATO Speech October 2 2001) on October 2 2001 declared that the attacks of September 11 2001 had indeed been attacks from abroad, and that therefore Article five was in effect. In his statement, Lord Robertson claimed that there was sufficient evidence to show the attacks had been committed by the Al-Qaeda network. While the various briefings on this evidence were classified, he drew the conclusions of this evidence: “On the basis of this briefing, it has now been determined that the attack against the United States on 11 September was directed from abroad and shall therefore be regarded as an action covered by Article 5 of the Washington Treaty, 210

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which states that an armed attack on one or more of the Allies in Europe or North America shall be considered an attack against them all.” While another statement by the secretary general (NATO Speech October 4 2001) on October 4 formally noted that the US requested certain deeds from its allies, these requests actually had the power of requirements since Article five was in force (Box 18): “Following its decision to invoke Article 5 of the Washington Treaty in the wake of the 11 September attacks against the United States, the NATO Allies agreed today – at the request of the United States – to take eight measures, individually and collectively, to expand the options available in the campaign against terrorism.”337 While the possible securitisation process within the North Atlantic Council is classified, the press releases and speeches analysed here concur with the grammar of securitisation for control. By invoking Article Five, the North Atlantic Council gained the power to compel and require its members to act in accordance with its decisions without the possibility of refusal. This process of securitisation within NATO was part of the broader securitisation of the September 11 attacks on the US and demonstrates how the same ‘event’ can be securitised with various functions and with various effects. To date (2011), NATO is still engaged in an armed conflict in Afghanistan, in operations that can be argued are one of the effects this process of securitisation has had on interunit relations. Propositional content Preparatory condition content

Essential content

III speech act: Require

Nato Allies have to take eight measures to expand the options available in the campaign against terrorism.

1) NATO Allies are able to carry out the measures requested by the US and agreed to by the North Atlantic Council. 2) It is not obvious that NATO Allies would carry out the measures on their own in the normal course of events. 3) The measures are part of the campaign against terrorism under Article Five of the Washington Treaty that has been invoked (reason for carrying out the tasks).

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the tasks be carried out as part of the campaign against terrorism in virtue of the evocation of Article 5.

Box 18: The require speech act in the Secretary Generals statement (NATO Speech October 4 2001). The eight measures were (NATO Speech October 4 2001): the enhancing of intelligence sharing and co-operation, both bilaterally and in the appropriate NATO bodies, relating to the threats posed by terrorism and the actions to be taken against it; the providing, individually or collectively as appropriate and according to their capabilities, of assistance to Allies and other states which are, or may be, subject to increased terrorist threats as a result of their support for the campaign against terrorism; the taking of necessary measures to provide increased security for facilities of the United States and other Allies on their territory; the backfilling of selected Allied assets in NATO’s area of responsibility that are required to directly support operations against terrorism; the providing of blanket overflight clearances for the United States and other Allies’ aircraft, in accordance with the necessary air traffic arrangements and national procedures, for military flights related to operations against terrorism; the providing of access for the United States and other Allies to ports and airfields on the territory of NATO nations for operations against terrorism, including for refuelling, in accordance with national procedures. 337

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6.3.2.5. Securitisation for Legitimating Past Acts Not all security discourse is about the future. Sometimes actions already taken covertly or even in public, are legitimised through a security argument.338 The security nature of some issues also has to be reproduced and maintained. This type of securitisation can be called securitisation for legitimating past acts, reproducing securitisation, or post-hoc securitisation. This strand of post-hoc securitisation aims at the perlocutionary effect of the legitimisation of past acts of the securitising actor e.g., a politically responsible decision maker, while the audience are the evaluators of political legitimacy. The perlocutionary aim is the justification of actions normally deemed illegitimate. This is a different type of speech act compared to the one which legitimises future actions, as the actions here have already occurred (i.e., it has different preparatory conditions). This strand can be used to reproduce security, to remind people, or to construct a post-hoc security status for an issue.339 The illocutionary point of this variant of securitisation is assertive, the point is to say how things are: in utterances with the assertive point the speaker presents a proposition as representing an actual state of affairs in the world of the utterance e.g., we did X to secure Z. This strand also begins with a claim (Box 1) and a warning (Box 2), but they are followed by an explanation, illustrated here in Box 19. The securitising actor attempts to convince the audience that her past actions, which went beyond the scope of everyday politics, were legitimate due to the repulsion of an acute and relevant threat (‘we dealt with the problem [with these measures] before it was too late and we would not have been around to correct our mistake’). Explaining is an assertive that has the perlocutionary intention to convince the hearer of the reasons for a past event, in this case an act by the speaker. The preparatory conditions of explaining include that the speaker has done the act and that it is not obvious to the hearer why the speaker did so.

The CopS has suggested that security arguments are about the future (Wæver 1995; Buzan et al. 1998, 32). Wilkinson (2007; 2010) criticises this, in addition to arguing that securitisation processes are not as neat as the original formulation of securitisation by the CopS would suggest. Mak (2006, 79) similarly asks whether the Mahathir administration which securitised the problem of Malaysia’s porous maritime borders in public only after definite policy actions, constitutes a securitisation move with a ‘specific rhetorical structure.’ I contend that the strand of post-hoc securitisation presented here refutes Wilkinson’s (2007, 20, 22) claim that securitisation processes would have to be modelled in a linear fashion within securitisation theory, or that there would not be theoretical vocabulary to reflect the dynamics of ‘unedited’ and nonlinear processes (see already Vuori 2003). I similarly reason that the strand provides an answer for Mak (2006, 79): securitisation is also possible after the fact. This strand of securitisation shows how security arguments can also be used after the fact, and that securitisation processes need not be understood as being as ‘neat’ as the original formulation of the processes suggested. This strand of securitisation therefore increases the scope of the types of securitisation moves that can be identified and analysed within the framework. 339 Wilkinson (2007, 17-21; see also 2010) identifies precisely this type of belated incorporation of events and even actors into a securitisation argument for the legitimacy of acts beyond ’normal politics’ in her analysis of the securitisation process in Kyrgystan’s overthrow of the government in 2005; the overthrow was conclusively deemed an issue of security only after the overthrow was a fact (while the ‘excessive’ acts were committed before a conclusive securitisation, the new leadership had the urge to securitise the overthrown government after the fact i.e., a security argument was still used to legitimise past acts). 338

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Types of rule

Propositional content Preparatory Essential

Explain

R for past A of S.

1) S has done A. 2) It is not obvious to H why S did A.

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that R represents the actual state of affairs.

Box 19: Explain speech act in securitisation for reproducing securitisation (derived from Searle 1969, 66-67).

This strand of securitisation can be illustrated with UK Prime Minister Tony Blair’s (BBC News 5.3.2004) speech where he legitimated the United Kingdom’s participation in the Iraq war with a claim that Iraq represented an existential threat for the UK and an explanation that this threat was acute and demanded immediate and drastic action. As Paul Roe (2008) has shown, the danger of Iraqi weapons of mass destruction had already been established as a danger for the United Kingdom in the 1990s. In 2002, the Blair Labour government used the language of threats and danger in order to necessitate military action against Iraq. While the general public accepted the negative image of Saddam Hussein, this was not enough to legitimise the use of force, a situation which Roe (2008, 624) calls ‘identification and non-mobilisation.’ The publication of official documents which assessed the threat of weapons of mass destruction as likely, influenced the views of the parliament via impressions of public opinion on the matter, and eventually the security nature of the issue was deemed significant enough to warrant military mobilisation and bellicose engagement with Iraq in March 2003. Massive anti-war demonstrations, including the ‘not in my name’ campaign (Collins 2005), and opinion polls, however, clearly indicated that large segments of the British public did not support the decision to go to war with Iraq. This is why Blair had to reiterate the reasons for engagement in the war. This is where the discourse sample used here came into play. Blair’s March 2004 speech contains a claim (Box 20) that represented the issue of Iraq as an existential threat to the UK: “It is because it was in March 2003 and remains my fervent view that the nature of the global threat we face in Britain and round the world is real and existential and it is the task of leadership to expose it and fight it, whatever the political cost.” In the same breath, Blair also warned (Box 21) that the country would be in jeopardy if this threat were ignored: “And that the true danger is not to any single politician’s reputation, but to our country if we now ignore this threat or erase it from the agenda in embarrassment at the difficulties it causes.” Blair finally explains (Box 22) why he led the UK to war: it was because the existential threat was urgent. “We were saying this is urgent; we have to act.” With these three elements in place, the speech concurs with the grammar of post-hoc securitisation presented above. In the speech Blair also made it clear why he had to reiterate that the war was launched due to an existential threat: “The real point is that those who disagree with the war, disagree fundamentally with the judgement that led to war.” The legitimacy of the war was based on the threat: “[T]he key point is that it is the threat that is the issue. The characteri213

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sation of the threat is where the difference lies. Here is where I feel so passionately that we are in mortal danger of mistaking the nature of the new world in which we live.” This means that not all had accepted the Blair securitisation of the issue, and that is why he had to continue to make securitisation moves involving past issues, as well as future events in the form of continuing the war effort. “Their argument is one I understand totally. It is that Iraq posed no direct, immediate threat to Britain; and that Iraq’s WMD, even on our own case, was not serious enough to warrant war. […] In other words, they disagreed then and disagree now fundamentally with the characterisation of the threat.”

Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

I speech act: claim

The nature of the global threat Britain and others round the world face is real and existential and it is the task of the UK’s leadership to expose it and fight it, whatever the political cost.

1) Blair presents various types of proof for his claim in the speech. 2) It is not obvious that the UK faces an existential threat, or that the invasion of Iraq would be a means to combat such a threat.

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the UK being threatened by a real and existential threat represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 20: The claim speech act in Tony Blair’s speech (BBC 5.3.2004). II speech act: warn

Propositional content

The country is in danger if the threat is ignored or erased from the agenda.

Essential content

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the UK is in danger, and that therefore to ignore the threat or erase it from the agenda, is not in the best interest of the people of the UK.

1) People in the UK have a reason to believe the country could be in danger (there have been terrorist attacks) and that this would Preparatory condition not be in their best interest. content 2) It is not obvious that the threat being ignored or erased from the agenda would occur in any case.

Box 21: The warn speech act in Tony Blair’s speech (BBC 5.3.2004).

In order to explain why Iraq was an existential threat, Blair presented various types of evidence on Iraq’s military capabilities and intentions. In addition, Blair facilitated his claims of existential threats with the events of September 11th 2001, as well as with global threats that defined the 2000s:340 “The threat we face is not conventional. It is a challenge Curiously Blair also linked the war in Iraq with the threats posed by Islamists, and justifies the actions of the UK with the protection of freedom and human rights with a security continuum: “Containment will not work in the face of the global threat that confronts us. The terrorists have no intention of being contained. […] But we 340

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of a different nature from anything the world has faced before. It is to the world’s security, what globalisation is to the world’s economy. It was defined not by Iraq but by September 11th. September 11th did not create the threat Saddam posed.”341 While not claiming that Saddam Hussein had something to do with the attacks on the US, the two were still linked together as threats in the ‘new’ world of unconventional threats. “From September 11th on, I could see the threat plainly. Here were terrorists prepared to bring about Armageddon.” This kind of talk facilitated the representation of Iraq as reaching for weapons of mass destruction as a threat similar to that of Islamists bent on world destruction. “The global threat to our security was clear. So was our duty: to act to eliminate it.” In such a world wrought with danger, Blair explained that the decision to go to war was a necessity of survival: “leadership is about deciding.” III speech act: explain

Propositional content

The urgency of the threat and the need for acting on it was the reason for invading Iraq.

Essential content

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the urgency of the threat the UK was facing and the urgent need for action being the reason for invading Iraq represents the actual state of affairs.

Preparatory condition 1) Iraq was invaded. content 2) It is not obvious why Iraq had to be invaded.

Box 22: The explain speech act in Tony Blair’s speech (BBC 5.3.2004).

According to Roe (2008, 631), Blair’s post-hoc maintenance of securitisation regarding the Iraq question was sufficient for the parliament to agree to the prime minister’s decision to go to war. This supports the argument that security is not always about the future; the security nature of an issue may have to be maintained, and sometimes it may be necessary to remind others of the acuteness of the securitisation when the process began. Including this strand in the model of securitisation allows the study of the various stages of real processes of securitisation as the process continues and as securitisation moves change shape. Indeed, Blair’s speech also warned about the future: “[I]t is monstrously premature to think the threat has passed. The risk remains in the balance here and abroad. […] This war is not ended. It may only be at the end of its first phase. […] The threat is there and demands our attention.” Thus, securitisation moves can change their shape, and can be built on or used to support each other.

surely have a duty and a right to prevent the threat materialising; and we surely have a responsibility to act when a nation’s people are subjected to a regime such as Saddam’s. […] This agenda must be robust in tackling the security threat that this Islamic extremism poses; and fair to all peoples by promoting their human rights, wherever they are.” 341 The speech works within the GWoT macrosecuritisation discourse (Buzan & Wæver 2009; Buzan 2006; see Chapter 5.3.2).

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6.4. Conclusions for the Development of Securitisation Theory The main contributions of the present study are theoretical and methodological. I have reasoned and argued that the explication of the concept of securitisation via illocutionary logic increases the extension of the concept (see Figure 7) in a way that allows its application to a broader set of socio-political contexts, political orders, and types of actors (e.g., formal/informal authority and state/non-state) while still retaining its previous possibilities of application. As this broadening allows for the incorporation of various ‘anomalies’ identified by critical appliers of the framework, the explication advances the research programme of Securitisation Studies. Such an explication of the concept of securitisation allows for the analysis of various types of securitisation discourse in various kinds of social and political contexts. Indeed, at least five strands of securitisation can be explicated: securitisation 1) for raising an issue onto the agenda, 2) for legitimating future acts, 3) for deterrence, 4) for control, and 5) for legitimating past acts, or for reproducing the security status of an issue (i.e., post hoc securitisation). I contend that the grammar of these various securitisation moves is a means to infer certain types of political functions securitisation arguments can exhibit. Thereby, this provides an answer for one of the research problems set for the present study: the analysis of elementary speech acts can be used to infer the political function of complex speech acts of securitisation. As a result, the theory of securitisation can be deployed in the type of conceptual analysis which, for example, Quentin Skinner (2002) promotes: the theory can be used to infer what speech acts do, and thereby, it can be used to infer what they mean. This concomitantly provides a means to analyse conceptual change as regards security rationales in different time periods as well as between different socio-political contexts. To sum up my main methodological argument, my reasoning is that speech act logic and the explicated strands of securitisation as proposed here, can be used to infer political functions of security speech, even in the absence of the word ‘security’. A ‘security rationale’, or ‘security modality’, dependent on a fairly stable constellation of meanings, makes this possible. While this approach cannot be used to gain access to the ‘true’ intentions or the sincerity of speakers (as speech acts rely on conventional sets of rules and practices), once such relevant rules are apparent in a certain context, it is possible to infer what the particular discourse sample means. An examination of what is entailed in the ‘security rationale’ may eventually allow assumptions of what the particular act of securitisation was used for. Certain caveats are in order however. While illocutionary speech acts are conventional, perlocutionary effects are not: the same illocutionary acts may not always produce the same perlocutionary effects on different hearers, or even on the same hearer in different situations. Moreover, illocutionary speech acts may have unintended perlocutionary effects. While the approach to the functions of security speech operates under the assumption of strategically behaving speakers, the situation of the communicative interaction is viewed as open. The speaker cannot decide what the hearer understands, or interprets; e.g., one person’s reassurance remains another’s threat. Yet, because the ‘security rationale’ is fairly constant, we can assume what the meaning of the speech acts is. It must further be kept in mind that discourse samples that contain illocutionary acts may not reveal 216

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Figure 7: The increased extension of the explicated concept of securitisation that includes the five strands of securitisation. much of the perlocutionary effects of such acts, as most types of acts of securitisation do not have conventional consequences. The analysis of perlocutionary effects of securitisation requires means beyond the analysis of illocutionary speech acts, as does the analysis of the success of the politics of such moves. Yet, irrespective of the perlocutionary ‘success’ of illocutionary acts, the act in the utterance of an illocution may already transform a situation: a securitising actor commits to a status transformation for the issue concerned in voicing ‘security’, which on its own may already have consequences in certain social settings.

Beyond the above methodological problem, I demonstrated how the functions of securitisation may vary along with the type of securitisation act committed. Securitisation can be used variously to argue for raising an issue onto the agenda, to provide legitimacy for future or past acts, as a means of control, and as a form of deterrence. This variety of functions also entails that actors without formal authority to enact security measures can also speak security. Indeed, securitisation arguments can have multiple important political functions. In addition to the various functions of the strands of securitisation given above, securitisation provides an image of decision makers who know “how to go on” (Wittgenstein 1999a, § 323). As Murray Edelman (1972, 76) has noted, the efficacy of politics is not to be found in the verifiable positive or negative consequences of political lines or decisions, but rather in a politician’s ability to convey the impression of knowing what is to be done. To make a security argument is a means to create just such an impression. The above understanding of the purposes or functions of acts of securitisation avoids the formation of an orthodoxa within Securitisation Studies: securitisation can be about more than just legitimating the breaking of rules, or enacting extraordinary measures. 217

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This also shows how securitisation is different from Schmitt’s decisionism: the theoretical part demonstrated that while Schmitt’s ‘political’ can be seen as one way to wield asymmetric political concepts, the theory of securitisation does not equate Schmitt’s political. While in some situations and political orders, certain types of political actors can ‘decide’ on, for example, martial law in the way it is codified into law, in more general terms, securitisation is an open social process that for most of the time has to be argued or explained in some way.

After engagement with a variety of criticisms of the CopS approach to securitisation, new answers have been provided to deal with various aspects of this criticism. My reasoning was that the ‘model of securitisation’ should not be too tied to certain types of political orders, or even theories of politics. This means that it has to remain fairly abstract, and that empirical appliers have to provide their own operationalisations in accordance with their approach to politics in general, and the political order they examine in particular. For example, when viewed from a reproductive viewpoint to politics, who has to be convinced of the securityness of an issue, varies not only from one type of political order to another, but within types of political orders, and even within particular political orders. The shape of acts of securitisation can change as the process develops, and different moves may have various audiences. The relevant audience(s) of securitisation depends on the function(s) the securitisation act is intended to serve. It would not make sense to define the audience in the theory in a specific way, since audiences are dependent on the socio-historical situation: who has to be convinced of the necessity of security action, changes with the cultural and political systems in which the securitisation occurs. What can be stated within the model, is that an audience has to be such that it has the ability to provide the securitising actor with whatever that person is seeking to accomplish by the securitisation e.g., in the Wæverian model, legitimacy for actions that go beyond regular liberal-democratic practices of policymaking. The specific audiences have to be operationalised in each empirical analysis. Whilst there is a vast amount of literature on securitisation, its opposite corollary i.e., desecuritisation, has not received as much attention, leaving the concept ‘undertheorised.’ The position I took on desecuritisation was one where desecuritisation is viewed as a counter-move to securitisation, as if they were part of a game. The discussion of desecuritisation was also linked to the issue of the constitution and termination of social facts, with securitisation and desecuritisation having opposite roles. Further, the combination of securitisation/desecuritisation with identity frame theory allows the study of social dynamics of both securitisation and desecuritisation as political mobilisation, and the suppression of political mobilisation. Similarly to the undertheoretisation of desecuritisation, the issue of the criteria for either the success or failure of securitisation has also raised much debate. On this, I demonstrated how securitisation, and not security, should be considered a speech act. I furthermore reasoned how perception of threats, securitisation and security action are logically, and at times also practically, separate. This is why studies of securitisation should commence from securitisation moves, and why security action cannot be a sufficient or a necessary criterion for the success, or, the lack of action, for the failure of securitisation. In my view, this provides an answer to some of the critical points raised: the success of 218

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specific illocutionary acts of securitisation should be evaluated by study of their perlocutionary effects. Beyond specific speech acts, the success of the politics of securitisation requires investigations beyond the study of discourse samples that manifest securitisation moves. To study illocutionary moves cannot inform whether or not such have been ‘successful’, as this would depend on the perlocutionary effects of illocutions. Similarly, the success of the politics of securitisation is an issue beyond illocutionary speech act analysis. I have also argued that the possibility of ‘silence’ is positive for the theory, as a theory, since it provides it with an explanatory potential. By investigating Chinese official discourse on the Cold War, anti-nuclear issues, the global war on terror, and global climate change, I demonstrated how securitisation discourses that are in place in some political contexts, can be non-existent in others. That securitisation discourses are not present everywhere where sought, means that the theory can help comprehend, and even, at times, explain some aspects of the political dynamics of such situations. This also means that empirical assumptions derived from the theory may be ‘falsified.’ The theory of securitisation has been viewed and applied here as a constitutive theory, from a middle-ground position: securitisation concerns illocutionary force and perlocutionary effects, whereby images, signs and nonverbal acts can be used to perform illocutionary acts and also can have perlocutionary effects. Images, however, usually require anchorage if an illocutionary act is involved (perlocutionary effects may come about even without intentional illocutionary acts). This is one example of how the context of utterance is important in processes of securitisation. However, in my view, the study of securitisation has to be based on illocutionary linguistics, so as to avoid conceptual stretching and to allow the identification of discourses of securitisation. Thus, what is required is a combination of an artificial model together with empirical analysis. The illocutionary aspect of securitisation is important in order for analysts to be able to infer political functions, even meaning from ‘security speech.’ My reasoning is that the analysis of illocutionary acts of securitisation should be the foundation of securitisation theory, but that other socio-linguistic methods may be necessary in order to assess the perlocutionary effects i.e., the success or failure of such acts. Some strands of securitisation may have conventional perlocutionary outcomes, but most do not. Securitisation is an illocutionary act; the ‘success’ of securitisation, however, depends on perlocutionary effects. From such a viewpoint, the normative dilemma of analysing securitisation for emancipation is somewhat mitigated: securitisation moves and their analysis have different forces. While the perlocutionary aspect is important in respect to the ‘success’ of securitisation, and particularly the success of the politics of securitisation, it is also important not the let go of the illocutionary aspect of securitisation. Not all strands of securitisation have conventional perlocutionary outcomes, but they all are illocutionarily conventional. Securitisation can, for example, have the convention of the imbuement of legitimacy. Yet this convention is not deterministic because legitimacy cannot be ‘forced’ in the sense that a marriage is ‘forced’ once the appropriate ceremonies of a wedding are conducted by the appropriate people. If acts of securitisation did not have conventionally expected consequences, they would not be used: there has to be some expectation of what will result from a securitisation move, and the strands of securitisation reveal that such assumptions can be plural. A similar expectation of consequence applies to many other 219

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types of speech acts, e.g., to apologies: an apology has a conventional consequence, yet an apology may or may not be accepted, which makes the apologising actor vulnerable to refusal. Further examination of the relation of legitimacy and securitisation may elucidate the matter here. Successful securitisation is by convention legitimate. Thereby, in committing an act of securitisation, a securitising actor makes a move towards the position of legitimacy. If the move is not contested or resisted and thereby refused (apathy equals legitimacy), and is otherwise felicitously performed (with the proper grammar and the appropriate social assets and so on), the actor gains what the convention of securitisation provides. To make such a move is not only about communication: there has to be the convention, and to evoke such a convention already means to do something in its evocation. In conclusion, I contend that the reinforcement of the linguistic root of securitisation theory will take the research programme of Securitisation Studies forward. Going down the linguistic root of the theory will strengthen it and can allow branching out both in terms of combining the theory with other approaches, such as Regional Security Complex Theory, theories of mobilisation, the study of asymmetric political concepts, even democratic peace theory, and in terms of providing the necessary meta-language to conduct cross-cultural/political/temporal analyses of securitisation processes via the explicated grammar.

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Part II: Political Security in the People’s Republic of China

Acknowledgements Chapter 10. builds on earlier versions of “Security as Justification: An Analysis of Deng Xiaoping’s Speech to the Martial Law Troops in Beijing on the Ninth of June 1989” (2003), Politologiske Studier – Kina, 6,(2): 105-118, “How Cheap is Identity Talk? A Framework of Identity Frames and Security Discourse for the Analysis of Repression and Legitimization of Social Movements in Mainland China” (2006), Issues and Studies 42,(3): 47–86, and “Illocutionary Logic and Strands of Securitisation – Applying the Theory of Securitisation to the Study of Non-Democratic Political Orders” (2008), European Journal of International Relations 14,(1): 65-99. Chapter 11. builds on a shorter version titled “Religion Bites: Falungong, Securitization/ Desecuritization in the People’s Republic of China”, in Thierry Balzacq (ed.) Securitization Theory: How Security Problems Emerge and Dissolve (London, Routledge, 2010): 186211.

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7. Securitisation in the Chinese Political Context

Who are our enemies? Who are our friends? This is a question of the first importance for the revolution. - Mao Zedong

An empirical analysis of securitisation processes requires an abstract metalanguage that allows for distance from the particular contexts and situations that empirical entities reside in. However, in order to comprehend our of data, such abstractions have to be operationalised and contextualised. Non-democratic political orders such as the People’s Republic of China can be studied through the framework of securitisation theory, but this requires that the specificity of political, social, and temporal environments and contexts have to be taken into account, both in terms of the prevalent political practices and the possibilities of conducting practical research. In accordance, I will provide some historical, social, and institutional contexts to aid in the analysis and interpretation of the empirical case studies. As the majority of empirical studies of securitisation have been conducted in political contexts other than the People’s Republic of China, it is necessary to reflect on certain features of Chinese history and political institutions. These include the institutionalised ‘master signifieds’ of security that have been prevalent in China, general official security narratives, as well as features of the political order. Although this study does not aim to be a comprehensive overview of Chinese politics, but to focus on the political function of securitisation processes, a historical narrative does eventually emerge as the cases under scrutiny belong to different decades and leadership-eras.1 From this viewpoint, I argue that an examination of cases from different periods of Chinese politics may reveal durable patterns of rhetorical techniques and underlying constitutive logics used in securitisation and resistance to it in mainland Chinese politics. Providing a complete genealogy or a fully fledged anthropological study of Chinese security, and the major security crises or threats during the periods studied here, on all levels, and in all sectors of security, would obviously be beyond the scope of a single study. The focus here is on the domestic level and political sector of security.2 The political sector is assumed to provide the greatest contrast to the original liberal-democratic context of the theory of securitisation, and thus the case studies deal with this sector. 1 A historical narrative spanning 60 years of the PRC is provided in Paltemaa & Vuori (forthcoming). 2 A brief macro-level discussion was already presented in Chapter 6.2.2.

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7.1. Chinese Security Narratives In China, ‘security’ usually translates as ānquán (安全).3 However, the ancient Chinese did not have the concept ānquán, but used the concept ān (安; peace/peaceful) which was the opposite of wēi (危; danger/dangerous). An can also be understood as a verb: to make calm, to pacify. During the time when Sunzi (2005) was written, quán (全) had the meaning of ’retaining immunity’ or ‘remaining unharmed’ (Nojonen 2008). Classical Chinese texts on ‘security’ emphasise that a leader should be prepared for calamities even during peaceful times.4 Zhouyi advises (Nojonen 2008, 70-71): “When danger threatens, a ruler secures his position. When disaster threatens, a ruler secures his existence. When chaos threatens, a ruler takes command of the situation. That is why a ruler will not forget danger during peaceful times, disaster while in power, or chaos after having control of a country. This is how a ruler secures himself and guarantees the existence of the state.” Similar ideas are expressed by Zhuge Liang (Nojonen 2008, 230-231): “If one does not contemplate danger during peace and if one does not realise the horrors when occupation is near, it is like swallows making their nests into curtains or fish playing in cooking pots. In such a case destruction will not wait even for the first sunset.”5 Modern Chinese dictionaries define ānquán as the opposite of wēi and describe it as ‘without peril’, ‘not being menaced’, or ‘not causing mishaps’, for example. Although ānquán can be translated into English as both ‘safety’ and ‘security’, ānquán is the concept that is used in China when national security is discussed (by using the abstract concept); in the context of national security, the characteristic attribute of security is a lack of peril (没有危险, méiyǒu wēixiǎn), even though ānquán has several uses in other contexts. (刘跃进2004, 43-45.) National security (国家安全, guójiā ānquán) is a concept that came into being only after other ‘modern’ concepts were introduced to China e.g., the ‘nation state.’6 As was already noted in Part I, ‘security’ has not had a fixed meaning even in Europe, and the problems of translation are evident there as well. While an exact match for the word security may be absent from various languages and societies, there seem to be concerns that deal with the same problem as ‘security’. In the context of East Asia, while there was no shared concept for ‘security’ in the pre-20th century, the concept of ‘disorder’ (in Chinese, 乱, luàn) could function as an antonym for security (Radtke 2008, 204).7 Indeed, many East-Asian societies and political orders have been concerned with issues of ‘stabil3 The Japanese modern term of security Anzen-hoshō (安全保障) is quite similar to the Chinese ānquán (in Chinese 安全保障, ānquán bǎozhàng, translates as a security guarantee or the safeguarding or ensuring of security). Similarly to Chinese, Anzen on its own means safety or freedom from damage, while hoshō means guarantee. (Okamoto & Okamoto 2008, 235.) 4 As Nojonen (2008) and Radtke (2008) note, Chinese classical lore on the formation and maintenance of empires and kingdoms has had a significant effect on Chinese thinking on stratagems as well as security. While Mao was well versed in Chinese classics, the contemporary cinema industry on the Mainland produces one historical epoch-film after another which perpetuates the spread of lore on ancient Chinese kingdoms. 5 I thank Matti Nojonen for his help with this paragraph. 6 The concept of securitisation has been translated into Chinese as ānquánhuà (安全化), with the literal meaning of being transformed or changed into security. See 巴瑞布赞, 奥利维夫, 迪怀尔德 (2002) for the Chinese version of Buzan et al. (1998). 7 The idea of such disorder or luàn (乱) is reminiscent of the Roman concept of a tumult. A tumult could be the result of either external or internal disorder (tumultus has the same root as tumor, which meant ‘swelling’, or fermentation) (Agamben 2005, 42).

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ity and unity’. Just as in contemporary Europe, where politicians may claim to serve the interests of security, many East-Asian leaders have legitimised their activities with the prevention of ‘disorder.’ Indeed, a ‘security rationale’ may be manifest somewhere without the use of the word ‘security’.

7.1.1. Institutionalised Security in China

As has already been noted, in order for an issue to be securitised or for it to follow the logic of security, the word ‘security’ itself does not have to be used. Certain words or concepts (e.g., terrorism) automatically allude to the logic of danger, vulnerability, and fear and therefore the necessity to combat them does not need to be argued each and every time. The use of such watchwords, or institutionalised securitisation as Buzan et al. (1998, 27-29) term the phenomenon, reduces the need for elaborate arguments on the securityness of specific cases. Indeed, the continuous use of watchwords (like ‘counterrevolution’, ‘socialism’, or ‘terrorism’) can be seen as an indicator of a successfully institutionalised securitisation.8 Politicians can proclaim to be maintaining ‘security’, which is favourable compared to insecurity or outright chaos. Murray Edelman (1972, 9) has noted that governments which force unwelcome changes in their subjects’ behaviour have the greatest need for reassuring symbols. Security as ‘stability and unity’ is especially potent in China where ‘chaos’ or ‘turmoil’ has been a recurrent fear throughout different eras of politics (Pye 1992, 12-16; Buzan & Wæver 2003, 140, 152). In China, stability and unity are not merely slogans of leadership: they are embedded in the Chinese ‘collective memory’ through many forms of culture and tradition.9 According to Lucien Pye (1985, 185), both in Confucianism10 and in the PRC the myth of the paramount leader is the main source of legitimacy: the most important cultural factor that shapes Chinese politics and the ability to maintain a centralised authority system has been the “exaggerated ideal of the great man as leader – the emperor, generalissimo, chairman – who is an amplification of the Confucian model of the father as the ultimate authority in the family.”11 The fear of chaos has often led to an overwhelming emphasis on ideological consensus in China. Indeed, the restoration of harmony (和谐, héxié) was of major importance in Confucian philosophy. However, China is not unique in terms of a political order that em-

This was especially prevalent during the Cold War, as for example noted by Murray Edelman (1972 [1964], 15): “’USSR’ and ‘Khrushchev’ can come to stand so repeatedly for danger that adaptive thinking becomes unlikely, and political actions that accept the USSR or Khrushchev as reasonable or as potential associates are met with hostility.” While this passage was about the US. in the 1960s, the same could be said about the PRC of the 1960s as well. 9 The patriotic education campaign after 1989 has presented the CCP as a saviour of the nation in various course materials in the form of stories about heroes of the revolution and the struggle against Japan (see e.g., Hughes 2006, 73-76; Wang 2008). These stories present the CCP as the bringer of the Motherland to light from the century of humiliation by foreign powers. When China has been unified, it has been strong, whereas when China has been in disarray, it has been dominated by foreign powers. This is meant to infuse students with a strong sense of ‘stability and unity’ under the leadership of the CCP as equated with patriotism and love of the Motherland. 10 See Lee (2008) on the role of security in Confucian thought in Korea. 11 Interestingly, the party secretary of the CCP and President of the People’s Republic, Hu Jintao, has not been labelled the ‘core’ of the ‘fourth generation of leadership.’ Combined with the at least outward stability of recent leadership transitions, this may indicate that legitimacy may be shifting from the leader to the ‘leadership’ within the party. 8

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phasises stability. In Malaysia, for example, the fear of ethnic conflict has also been a naturalised element of state officials’ ’security mindset’; ethnic strife could lead to political instability which, in turn, could undermine the economic successes Malaysia has achieved after its independence. The delicately balanced relations among the ethnic groups in Malaysia have been institutionally securitised and codified through the National Security Act of 1960. This institutionalisation has been naturalised through decades of ‘emergencies’ that have formed daily processes of embedded security practices. In fact, the wartime colonial governance model has been adopted as the ‘permanent’ governing practice of Malaysia. (Shamsul 2007.) Similar practices have been employed in Indonesia where ‘subversive forces’ from ‘certain quarters of society’ served an important political function to legitimise a rationalist form of ‘political paranoia’ during the Suharto era. The fear that the New Order maintained was that of a subversive (i.e., communist) force from within, which would destroy the harmony of the ‘people-state’ and bring about the dreaded ‘mad disorder.’ (Bubandt 2005, 282, 284.) In the post-Suharto period of the 2000s, the replacement of communism with Islamist extremism has not been successful as a securitisation strategy in Indonesia (Emmers 2003; Bubandt 2005; cf., Kivimäki 2007). In imperial China, many rituals and doctrines that dissented from the Confucian cosmological order became targets of government suppression; religious sectarian groups, beliefs and rituals which the authorities deemed heterodox, were a major governmental concern (Shek 1990, 87).12 Patsy Rahn (2002) sees this as even forming a historical ‘ruler-sectarian paradigm.’ Accordingly, China has experienced an impressive number of quasi-religious popular uprisings: in the 18th and 19th centuries almost every popular uprising was in some way related to religious movements (Yang 1961). In addition to causing unrest and civil strife, these religiously justified uprisings actually questioned the cosmological order the imperial system was based on and thereby the whole political system of rule.13 Barend ter Haar (2002) argues that the CCP has retained the practice of dividing people into categories of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ from China’s imperial era. Such categorisations have been used to legitimise the use of violence, which has been a regular aspect of Chinese social life and politics, even before the 20th century. This violent aspect of Chinese society is dismissed in much cultural literature on China that emphasises the harmonious elements of Chinese philosophy and religions. According to ter Haar, the Yin-Yang principle is used to hide the presence of violent conflict in China, as well as the fact that more often than not harmony is not achieved, and even when it is, harmony is a result of the subjugation of the many by the few. The use of asymmetric political concepts has indeed been prevalent in the PRC. For instance, labels such as ‘reactionaries’, ‘class enemies’, ‘bad elements’, ‘splittists’, ‘extremists’, and ‘imperialists’ carry a national security connotation (some do Wasserstrom (2003, 263) describes a similar pattern. A significant aspect of the various ‘heterodox’ popular uprisings has been that the majority of participants were peasants. Indeed, mobilised peasants have been a force to contend with in China. Mao also argued that the peasantry was the most important resource for the communist revolution in Chinese conditions. The peasantry has retained a prominent position in the threat horizon of the CCP. While inner-party threat discourses and purges have focused on revisionism and counter-revolution, domestic threat assessments beyond revisionism in the party have been tempered by readings of Chinese history. MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 270-271) argue that the most serious domestic threat to CCP rule has been estimated to be peasant rebellion. 12 13

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mestically and others internationally).14 Counter-revolution has also been synonymous with national security, and the concept of counter-revolution has been institutionally securitised i.e., security implications ‘automatically’ follow from its authoritative use. After Deng Xiaoping had gained supremacy in the power struggles following Mao Zedong’s death in 1976, the major legislative reform accomplished in 1979 immediately addressed the issue of counter-revolutionary crimes. The new criminal law operated to prevent excesses prevalent during the Cultural Revolution by, for example, prohibiting unlawful incarceration, the forced extraction of confessions, and the wilful fabrication of criminal charges. This law limited the applicability of counter-revolutionary crimes, and also restricted capital punishment for crimes committed “under particularly odious circ*mstances” or for those that caused “particularly serious danger” to the state (Baum 1995, 84). The restriction of the range of counterrevolutionary crimes operated to curtail excessive practices, for example, the 1967 decree that defined any “malicious attack” against a party leader as counter-revolutionary (Baum 1995, 414). While rendering the extremes – at times bordering the absurd – of the Cultural Revolution less likely, at the same time, the 1979 legislation removed the right of people to question socialism, for example, with big character posters, so that public opposition to the Four Cardinal Principles (四項基本原則, sì xiàng jīběn yuánzé) defined by Deng earlier the same year could be deemed a counter-revolutionary crime.15 Some two decades later, the connection of counter-revolution and national security became explicit with the 1997 reformulation of the former “counter-revolutionary” penal code, originally adopted in 1951, that now refers to crimes of “jeopardising national security” (He 2001, 121; Dutton 2005, 271). In the original penal code, counter-revolutionary crimes, such as counter-revolutionary rumour mongering or counter-revolutionary murder, were defined as acts to the purpose of overthrowing the political power of the dictatorship of the proletariat and the socialist system, or otherwise jeopardising the country. Contemporary crimes that ‘jeopardise national security’ have retained the same maximum penalty of death.16

MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 304) note how during the Cultural Revolution, almost anything could be ‘upgraded’ to a more serious crime by adding the attribute of ‘underground’. This implied a degree of organisation – which often was not the case. Similarly, any undesired activity that involved more than one or two people could be labelled as activity carried out by a ‘gang.’ Deng’s (1995b, 176-177) speech that promulgated the Four Cardinal Principles identified the enemy that the ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’ was directed against, as an amalgam of “counter-revolutionaries, enemy agents, criminals and other bad elements of all kinds who undermine socialist public order, as well as new exploiters who engage in corruption, embezzlement, speculation and profiteering.” The existence of such institutionalised enemies made the continued existence of the state and its systems of control legitimate: “so long as class struggle exists and so long as imperialism and hegemonism exist, it is inconceivable that the dictatorial function of the state should wither away, that the standing army, public security organs, courts and prisons should wither away. […] The fact of the matter is that socialism cannot be defended or built up without the dictatorship of the proletariat.” 15 The cardinal principles set the limits of permitted dissidence, with patriotism as one of the main guiding principles. Deng (1995c) also set three historical tasks that would be used as a measure to define the success and legitimacy of the post-Mao order: 1) to oppose hegemonism and strive for world peace, 2) the unification of China, and 3) the step up of economic construction. For Deng (1995b, 176), “socialism and socialism alone can save China.” 16 In addition to this new legislation on the endangerment of national security, the Chinese authorities passed other laws with national security implications in the late 1990s. To gain further legitimacy for its campaign against the Falungong, the government legislated to prohibit “heretical cults.” As part of this new law, religious crimes could now be classified as crimes endangering national security. Religious crimes are deemed serious as 14

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7.1.2. Official Chinese Foreign and Security Policy Narratives on Domestic and International Threats

Beyond institutionalised security or the various watchwords for it, ‘Chinese security’ can be examined as a historical narrative. Such a narrative demonstrates the persistence of certain preoccupations that stem from ‘Chinese experiences’, but also the effect of general developments in China’s international environment. Indeed, this narrative is closely connected to the macrosecuritisation discourses already discussed above. As the previous examination of these discourses indicated, certain issues may or may not be portrayed as matters of concern vis-à-vis security. Therefore it is prudent to also include periods of politics that have not been overridden by such concerns in the general narrative of security in China. The founding speeches of the PRC form an appropriate point to begin an introduction of Chinese national security concerns. Mao Zedong (1949a) listed the main ‘security goods’ the Communist Party and the People’s Republic should strive for in his opening speech to the First Plenum of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference on September 21, 1949. The Plenum, which also took the authority of a National People’s Congress, concluded with the declaration of the People’s Republic of China on October 1, 1949 (Mao 1949b). In his opening speech, Mao (1949a) was concerned with the sovereignty and territorial integrity of the newly founded People’s Republic: “Our revolutionary work is not completed, the People’s War of Liberation and the people’s revolutionary movement are still forging ahead and we must keep up our efforts. […] Our national defence will be consolidated and no imperialists will ever again be allowed to invade our land. Our people’s armed forces must be maintained and developed with the heroic and steeled People’s Liberation Army as the foundation.” He described the century of humiliation at the hands of foreign powers and declared that this would no longer be the case under the new order – an order which would bring about a strong civilisation and a capable nation. The Chinese falling behind other nations “was due entirely to oppression and exploitation by foreign imperialism and domestic reactionary governments. For over a century our forefathers never stopped waging unyielding struggles against domestic and foreign oppressors. […] Ours will no longer be a nation subject to insult and humiliation. We have stood up. […] The era in which the Chinese people were regarded as uncivilized is now ended. We shall emerge in the world as a nation with an advanced culture.” Mao further called for continued vigilance against the Guomindang, the former ruling regime and “the reactionary running dog of imperialism backed by American imperialism”, and other foreign reactionary imperialist forces: “After there is peace and order throughout the country, they are sure to engage in sabotage and create disturbances by one means or another and every day and every minute they will try to stage a come-back. This is inevitable and beyond all doubt, and under no circ*mstances must we relax our vigilance. […] Let the domestic and foreign reactionaries tremble before us! Let them say we are no good at this and no good at that.” Mao (1949a) also aligned the People’s Republic with the Soviet Union and the ‘New Democracies’, in accordance with the emerged global pattern of the Cold War. He reasoned that China would have to rely on this alignment until such crimes can carry a sentence of life imprisonment or even the death penalty.

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its military power would be sufficient to repel foreign threats: “Internationally, we must unite with all peace-loving and freedom-loving countries and peoples, and first of all with the Soviet Union and the New Democracies, so that we shall not stand alone in our struggle to safeguard these fruits of victory and to thwart the plots of domestic and foreign enemies for restoration. […] We will have not only a powerful army but also a powerful air force and a powerful navy.” Political security was also a concern. Mao (1949a) declared that ‘people’s democratic dictatorship’ had been the means to achieve the People’s Republic, and that this should be maintained: “Our state system, the people’s democratic dictatorship, is a powerful weapon for safeguarding the fruits of victory of the people’s revolution and for thwarting the plots of domestic and foreign enemies for restoration, and this weapon we must firmly grasp. […] As long as we persist in the people’s democratic dictatorship and unite with our foreign friends, we shall always be victorious.” The Chinese concept of security during the entire PR-era has consistently relied on this set of basic considerations introduced by Mao, that is, the basic fears and vulnerabilities of the PRC have remained fairly constant. Although the official Chinese security ‘concept’ has undergone changes in its content and implications for policy, it has retained a preoccupation with sovereignty, territorial integrity, maintenance of the political order,17 and a realpolitik stance in foreign affairs. These basic elements of the Chinese security concept have been and are influenced by the external political context, the PRC’s determination of and identification with the world order, and perhaps most importantly, by the needs of its domestic economic and social stability. While the threat of a major war subsided in Chinese national security analysis by the mid 1980s, only in the 1990s have official Chinese security documents and statements begun to reflect broader understandings of security beyond the military and political sectors, and the role of these ideas is still fairly minimal. In the context of the general discursive stability of security preoccupations in China, the communist era can be divided into five periods or stages. Wu Baiyi (2001) calls four of them the pro-Soviet period (1949-1957), opposition to both superpowers (1958-1970), the united front of counterhegemony (1971-1981) and the non-aligned security stance (1982-1991).18 The post-Cold War period in turn could be described as the drive for a multipolar world (1992-). As the four cases investigated in this study fall into the last four of these periods, it is good to examine the distal contexts of national security beyond the cases themselves. During the pro-Soviet period period, having just secured a victory in the civil war, the Communist Party was preoccupied with the safety of its territory, consolidation of the new regime, and the nation’s ideological unification.19 The unity of the Communist bloc and belief in Soviet assistance were seen as the guarantors of Chinese international security until the regime could be consolidated so that China would rise Although in recent times these have faded into the background since China has not been under direct military threat. 18 Howard (2001) also concurs with Wu’s historical analysis; see also Ong (2007) for a similar periodisation. Chinese foreign policy in the same period is usually divided into three periods: alignment with the Soviet Union (1949-1960), revolutionary self-reliance and confrontation with both super-powers (1961-1972), and participation as a swing player in the strategic triangle (1972-1989) (Nathan & Ross 1997, xiii). 19 These have remained major issues to this day, with a border demarcation under discussion with India, the Taiwan issue festering periodically, and some island conflicts occasionally flaring up. 17

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from its ‘century of shame’. In the mid 1950s, there seemed to be optimism as regards the success of the revolution. While the CCP had gone through many rectifications, and would continue to do so, there was a brief respite in these campaigns. Consequently, ideological security was not the primary concern here. While China under Mao can be characterised with a sense of almost constant crisis, the Eighth Party Congress in 1956 declared that the ‘stormiest’ phase of the revolution was behind and that the majority of private property had been socialised. In his speech, Mao declared that the contradiction between the proletariat and the bourgeoisie was essentially erased: “contradictions among the proletariat and the bourgeoisie have been basically solved” (Central Research Department of History 1986, 277).20 In this situation, the task for the party was to invest in production and industrialisation, no longer in the discovery and elimination of class enemies or revisionists. Similarly, in 1957, one of Mao’s most famous speeches on the correct handling of contradictions among the people emphasised that “never before has our country been as united as it is today. […] The days of national disunity and chaos which the people detested are gone, never to return.”21 Such an impression of lessened contradictions was also evident in Mao’s instigation of the leadership system of the ‘two fronts’, where Mao would leave the everyday management of the country to the collective leadership. However, this interlude proved to be short-lived as already the massive rectification campaigns of the late 1950s demonstrate. China’s international relations during the first period were characterised by close relations with the Soviet Union. Such friendly relations did not last long, however. The first realignment of the Chinese security concept was directly linked to the Sino-Soviet split, whereby China began to ‘oppose both superpowers’, or to “fight with two fists”, as Deng Xiaoping phrased Mao’s line of the period. This realignment went against the macrosecuritisation pattern of the Cold War, and it took some time to realise the significance and seriousness of the ‘Sino-Soviet split’. For China, ideological competition and the threat of war with both superpowers were the dominant features of this period. The fear of immediate, large-scale nuclear strikes drove the Chinese to develop nuclear weapons of their own, after Soviet assistance was withdrawn in the late 1950s. China then emphasised its role as a compatriot of Asian, African, and European underdeveloped states. This was later expressed through Mao’s theory of the three worlds.22 The Sino-Soviet split culminated in armed border conflict at the end of the 1960s. Such a real possibility of war seemed to push Mao to re-evaluate the worth of ‘fighting with two fists’. Even though Chinese domestic politics was still suffering from the effects of the Cultural Revolution, as the 1970s began, Chinese foreign policy and security perceptions began to be dominated by a realpolitik approach. While Mao’s rhetoric remained radical in foreign affairs, even actively revolutionary Maoist movements abroad were abandoned Still, some remnants of the old system remained: “the major contradiction still existing in China was between the advanced socialist system and the backward production forces in society” (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 3). 21 A back door of continued resistance by ‘bad elements’ in society was kept ajar even here: there remained the possibility of contradictions even among the people which would turn those into among enemies. “[T]his does not mean that contradictions no longer exist in our society […] we are confronted with two types of social contradictions – those between ourselves and the enemy and those among the people.” The purpose of the dictatorship of the proletariat was defined by Mao as enabling the protection of the country from both internal and external enemies. 22 Ironically, it was Deng Xiaoping who presented Mao’s thesis to the UN general assembly in 1974, two years before he would once again be purged by Mao and the ’Gang of Four’ (see Deng 2002, 264-269). 20

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in exchange for diplomatic recognition and support for China’s UN-seat by the governments the Maoists were combating (Van Ness 1970; Tow 1994, 123).23 The greatest foreign security threat was perceived as Soviet expansionism, particularly after the 1969 border conflict with the Soviet Union. The period of the ‘united front’ with the US that lasted through the 1970s displayed how China worked against Cold War assumptions to an even greater degree. Relations with the Soviet Union were also key for the third realignment of the Chinese security concept in the 1980s. China found itself in a new situation as it no longer confronted any serious external threats. The 1970s had seen the PRC attaining the Chinese UN-seat, including permanent membership in its security council, and the diplomatic recognition of the US. Thereafter, in the 1980s, the Soviet leadership began a rapprochement with China. Economic reforms begun in the late 1970s received wide support and the Chinese leadership perceived its security environment to be the best since the founding of the PRC (Deng 1993b, 126-129). This fourth period (of the the non-aligned security stance) provided signs of adjustment to China´s inherited security concept. Deng Xiaoping and his supporters contended that the country needed a peaceful international environment in which it could concentrate on economic development. This, in turn, paved the way for a more comprehensive conception of security in China. In the aftermath of the end of the Cold War, Chinese policy planners quietly began to amend the country’s security strategy. The first sign of this was the modification of China’s military doctrine after the 1991 Persian Gulf War. The State Council also began to publish White Papers on its foreign and security policies. Such documents outlined a renewed security concept in China. This ‘New Security Concept’ was officially introduced in April 1996 when the “Shanghai Five” mechanism was initiated. The concept has become prevalent in numerous international statements and White Papers. For example, in the May 2002 Position Paper on Cooperation in the Field of Non-Traditional Security Issues, the Chinese authorities emphasise that “terrorism, illicit drugs, HIV/AIDS, piracy, illegal migration, environmental security, economy security, information security, and other non-traditional security issues are more pronounced.” The new security concept thereby contains political, defence, diplomacy, economic, energy, transnational crime, and environmental issues, as well as geopolitical, ethnic, religious and other ones (cf., Information Office 2004; 2006). Uncontrolled population growth, disparities in economic opportunities, migration pressures, environmental degradation, drug trafficking, epidemics, and international terrorism have received unprecedented attention in Chinese security speech.24 This has been accelerated by events like the Asian financial crisis and 9/11, and to a lesser extent by epidemics like SARS/avian flu (Cheng 2006, 91).25 While there have been rectification campaigns in post-Mao China, their frequency and intensity have lessened to a great degree. Perhaps consequently, security has not always The Republic of China was still the representative of China in the UN. In line with this new concept China signed the Declaration of ASEAN and China on Cooperation in the Field of Non-Traditional Security Issues, which stated that current priorities of the parties are “combating trafficking in illegal drugs, people smuggling including trafficking in women and children, sea piracy, terrorism, arms smuggling, money laundering, international economic crime, and cyber crime”, in November 2002. (Joint Declaration 2002.) 25 Interestingly, in the aftermath of the desecuritisation of the Cold War macrosecuritisation, China presaged the ‘war on terror’ macrosecuritisation with the priority the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation would give to Central Asian terrorism. 23 24

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been the most prominent issue on the post-Mao agenda. With the absence of grand and salient external challenges since the mid 1980s, domestic stability has become the main ‘security good’ pursued by the contemporary CCP (Swaine 2004; cf., Information Office 2006). While the security of the CCP and the political security (i.e., existence of the political system in China as the PRC) of the state are intertwined, as Martin I. Wayne (2008, 65) notes, the contemporary CCP confronts more threats than the state in China. This partly explains why threats to the CCP have also been presented as threats to the PRC and to the stability and unity of Chinese society: the greater the threat, the greater the ‘prize’, be it measured in terms of legitimacy or social control. According to Ayoob (1995) and Alagappa (1998) the most frequent threats to state security in post-colonial and developing states generally emanate from within the states themselves, rather than from international sources, the most important facilitating condition of which is a failure of political leadership. Since at least the mid 1980s, internal threats have also been overriding in Chinese ‘security perceptions’, as is evident from public statements by Chinese political leaders (see e.g., Deng 1993b, 126-129). In such respect, Wayne (2008, 23) has noted that even though Chinese authorities have represented the Xinjiang insurgency as springing from foreign influences, that is, ‘Western elements’ in the mid 1990s, and then ‘Islamist forces’ in the 2000s, the root causes and majority of activities are domestic.26 The preoccupation with domestic stability is also evident in China’s position on a ‘multipolar world’ in the post-cold War era. In this fifth period, ideological differences have been considered less important and national interests,27 especially of the economic kind, have became central. All in all, while non-traditional security issues nowadays receive While the Chinese authorities claim that Xinjiang has been under some form of Chinese rule for millennia, independent historical studies show that Uyghurs have not always been under Chinese rule. Yet, the various uprisings and violent incidents throughout the centuries do not form a constant or singular pattern of seeking independence, but instead have had varying motives and reasons behind them. The majority of Western discussion in the media, and even some academic discussions, explain the contemporary violence as a reaction to Chinese policies concerning the practice of religion and indigenous culture in Xinjiang. Wayne (2008) and Gardner Bovigndon (2004) depart from this avenue of thought. While Bovigndon sees Chinese policies on ‘regional autonomy’ as the principal source of unrest, Wayne sees a connection to developments in the neighbouring region as having a major impact. It is important to note that while the unrest of the 1990s and 2000s has received the greatest media attention outside China, the greatest PRC-era sporadic outbursts of violence and unrest in Xinjiang correlate with unrest throughout the rest of China, namely the Great leap Forward, the Democracy Wall Movement, and the unrest of 1989 (Millward 2004). The various insurgencies in Xinjiang have had international dimensions from the dynastic eras until the most recent military operations of the United States. Bovigndon (2004, 9-12) identifies three types of international influences in Xinjiang politics. Firstly, the Soviet Union provided a model and a mirror for Chinese policies. Indeed, Soviet influence in Xinjiang was already great during the Republican Era, and the Bingtuan were originally set up to counter and possibly even fight this influence in the 1950s. While the Soviet Union, with its own approach to ‘minority issues’ worked as a positive and negative model for the CCP, in the 1990s the ‘success’ of ousting the Soviet Union from Afghanistan, and the independence of Central Asian states provided Xinjiang separatists with a ‘positive model’: perhaps “East-Turkistan” could achieve the same in China. In addition to this model effect, the military operations in Central Asia provided Xinjiang insurgents with opportunities to train, acquire arms, and gain veterans. 27 The Chinese notion of national interest is contested, but it is seen to be guided by materialist theory and to aim at practical interests. In the Mao-era, in accordance with Marxist ideas, national interest was understood to be the interest of the ruling class. In the post-Mao era the national interest is evoked in Chinese discussions to be a reaction against the ‘revolutionary diplomacy’ of Mao. National interest is now seen to represent the ruling class and the nation. In Chinese, both the nation and the state are often understood to refer to the same thing, guójiā (国家; the state). Current mainstream Chinese IR thinking views the national interest in international relations as sui generis and separated from domestic politics. (Yong 1998, 312-313.) 26

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attention in Chinese security documents, the real shift of focus has been away from the military-political sector and towards economic security. Contemporary Chinese political realists tend to emphasise economic and technological development over pure military force (Yong 1998, 314-315). Economic security is understood as measures to ensure the country’s economic stability and sustained development, and thereby to guarantee its ‘comprehensive power.’ Economic security is not only relevant for the national economy but it also entails societal and individual safety. Chinese economists tend to insist, however, that economic issues have security implications only when they affect the security of society, national sovereignty, and military or diplomatic capabilities (Wu 2001, 279). As China is increasingly involved in world affairs, it has to confront an increasingly complex environment that includes new and prolific threats. Moreover, the more China engages with other states and non-state actors, the more obligations it also assumes. Some Chinese IR scholars have thus argued that global threats and survival require new forms of globalist thinking (Yong 1998, 319). For example, 倪世雄 (2001) lists globalist perspectives among the five paradigms of Chinese IR scholarship. Traditional military threats have subsided, but political, economic, and ideological challenges are represented as having intensified for China. Technological developments too present Chinese security planners and decision-makers with further challenges.28 China’s position on the global climate change macrosecuritisation supports these kinds of observations.

7.2. The Chinese Political Order and Functional Actors in Securitisation Processes

Beyond the context of institutionalised security and prominent fears and vulnerabilities, the empirical study of securitisation has to take into account the nature of the political order, the mechanisms through which both politics and government are engaged in that order. As has already been noted, securitisation, its contestation and even resistance to it can be affected by political orders and diagrams of power. Without knowledge of the role and functionality of the CCP, it is not possible to comprehend Chinese politics; it is important to realise how the power of the CCP has been constituted and the PRC has been set up as a diagram of power. As could be discerned from the overview of Chinese security narratives above, ideological threats have remained a major concern for the PRC. This can be seen in both the types of institutionalised master signifiers of threats, as well as in the legitimisation of foreign policy lines, even though, at times, actual policy has strikingly gone against their face value. Thereby, examination of the ‘nature’ of the Chinese political order may provide an understanding as to why ideology has had such a major impact on the construction of political threats in the PRC.

7.2.1. Totalitarianism and Post-Totalitarianism

There has been much debate on the ‘nature’ or ‘type’ of the Chinese political order under the leadership of the Communist Party. Some view it as totalitarian, while others as For how the Chinese authorities manage and control the Internet, see Paltemaa & Vuori (2009) and Vuori & Paltemaa (draft). 28

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merely authoritarian.29 The transition from China under Mao to the various post-Mao leaderships is often considered key here, especially as post-Mao China has embraced a form of ‘market socialism with Chinese characteristics’. The problem with the debate on the nature of the Chinese political orders is that the term ‘totalitarianism’ has its roots as a journalistic label,30 and it has been used to denigrate the political orders and societies that have been attributed with it, especially in the US.31 Here however, the term is used analytically, and as such, it can be observed that the Chinese order does concur with features of more recent models of totalitarianism. Furthermore, in my view, the transition from Mao’s rule to the post-Mao order has not been one from totalitarianism to authoritarianism, but one from totalitarianism to posttotalitarianism.32 Examination of the structural logic of totalitarian orders, and what post-totalitarianism entails will help us comprehend how Chinese politics operate and how securitisation functions there. Exploration of the variety of these orders is also important because the original totalitarian model33 came under severe criticism and was to a large extent abandoned in China Studies by the late 1970s for its inability to explain the internal developments of claimed totalitarian orders and how these regimes actually operated in Eastern Europe and China.34 However, the concept should not be totally discarded, and accordingly, a recent modification of the totalitarian model by Sujian Guo (1998; 2000) has been The classic debate on totalitarianism in Mao’s China was between Benjamin Schwartz (1960) and Karl A. Wittfogel (1960a; 1960b) (see also Wittfogel et al. 1960). Similar problems of cross-cultural comparisons are evident in an exchange between Maria Chang (1979) and Lloyd Eastman (1979) on pre-Mao China and fascism (for a discussion see Wakeman [1997]). 30 The first recorded mention of the term would seem to date from 1923 when the Italian journalist Giovanni Amendola used the term to describe Mussolini’s attempts to suppress political opposition at that time (Nevanlinna 2002, 93). However, it was in the Cold War athmosphere following the Second World War that the term was popularised as a concept in political science (Brooker 2000, 8), and its usage came to encompass the whole Socialist Bloc, inclusive of the PRC. 31 Totalitarianism has, as a rule, been used to denigrate those political regimes it has been ascribed to, rather than as an analytical concept (Žižek 2002a, 4); totalitarianism and authoritarianism have often been used as political terms to label undesirable regimes. In this present study, however, they are only used as analytical concepts in a three-fold categorisation of political systems i.e., democratic, authoritarian and totalitarian. Authoritarian systems are exclusionary regimes in which the government attempts to control the number and nature of legitimate political actors in society (Dickson 1994). Totalitarianism has the same feutures, but also others (see Guo 2000; Elo 2005). On the political use of totalitarianism, see Žižek (2002a, 4) and Elo (2005, 42-44). 32 See Vuori (2007) and Paltemaa & Vuori (2009). 33 A classic treatise on the ‘totalitarian syndrome’, or model, was offered by Carl J. Friedrich and Zbigniew K. Brzezinski (1956) as they argued that totalitarian dictatorships were a ‘new species of autocracy’ and an ‘adaptation of autocracy to twentieth-century industrial society.’ The totalitarian model encapsulated the idea of a total control of individuals. It sought to dissolve their private lives and thought, and believed that social life could be altered without limits (Friedrich & Brzezinski 1956, 15-16). Friedrich & Brzezinski listed six features in their understanding of the totalitarian syndrome: 1) an elaborative transformative ideology, 2) a ruling single mass party led by one individual, 3) the use of physical and mental terror against enemies of the system, 4) “a technologically conditioned, near-complete monopoly of control, in the hands of the party or the government, of all means of effective mass communication, such as the press, radio, and motion pictures,” 5) “a similarly technologically conditioned, near-complete monopoly of the effective use of weapons of armed combat,” and 6) central control of the economy. Carl Schmitt (1933) was influential in this respect with his division of qualitative and quantitative totalitarianism. In the former the society engulfs the state, while in the latter the state dominates and presides over society. 34 See Brooker (2000) for an example of this criticism. See Guo (2000) and Elo (2005) for updated models of totalitarian political systems, which also demonstrate the continued use of the term within comparative politics. 29

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particularly useful for the present study. Guo (1998; 2000) refined the classical model of totalitarianism (Friedrich & Brzezinski 1956) through a focus on the structure of totalitarian systems and by examination of the real system of the PRC.35 His model, inspired by Imre Lakatos’s (1970) model of research programmes, makes a distinction between the hard core of the system and its other operational features. According to Guo, the fundamental features of the core have to be part of a real system in order for its totalitarian nature to be sustained. Thus, the hard core defines the limits of totalitarianism; if the core is compromised the system loses its totalitarian ‘nature’, which would equal system change.36 The hard core of a totalitarian system consists of an ideology that is presented as the only correct and allowed world-view, and which at the same time defines the set objectives of the system. The ideology thus legitimises the totalitarian political system: the actions and policies of the power holders are legitimate and correct because they aim to attain the objectives set by the ideology.37 (Guo 1998; 2000.) The construction of antagonistic others and the revolutionary legitimisation of the prerogative state, are major features of the dynamic of totalitarian political orders. The ideology also makes the use of force possible: having only one accepted ideology also legitimises the use of force in its protection. The core consists of three elements: A) an absolutist ideology and inevitable goal, B) ideological commitment and C) a dictatorial party-state system. A fourth feature is the protective belt of action means: in the Chinese context, the repeated and massive use of state and peer-terror, mass mobilisation, as well as control over information and media, education, culture, economy, means of production, military forces and weapons.38 There have been three major paradigms to analyse the structure of power in socialist political orders, viz. 1) the totalitarian power scheme (Friedrich & Brzezinski 1956), 2) the state/class conception (Castoriadis 1985; Djilas 1966), and 3) the authoritarian regime idea (Rigby 1970). The merits and problems of these various paradigms will not be examined in depth here (for criticisms, see Staniszkis 1992, 62-88 and Elo 2005 for example) as the intention in this present study is not to construct a comprehensive theory of totalitarianism. Within the paradigm of the totalitarian approach, in addition to Friedrich and Brzezinski, Arendt (1976) and Linz (2000) have been oft-cited. Arendt treats totalitarianism as a specific existential situation, while Linz contrasts totalitarian and autocratic power structures. Sujian Guo (2000) focuses on the structural aspect of totalitarianism, while Kimmo Elo (2005) has studied the dynamics of the totalitarian system. 36 Jadwiga Staniszkis (1992, 12-13, 79-82) terms this distinction between the core of the system and the measures required for its protection, as the duality of the prerogative and the normative state. For her, the prerogative state is guided more by the functional rationality of self-reproduction than by any ideological vision. In effect, the transformation of ideology can be a means to retain the totalitarian prerogative state. Such transformations e.g., the introduction of Deng Xiaoping theory into the canon of Chinese ideology (Kauppinen 2005), illustrate how the prerogative state is not omnipotent, for it also requires some degree of legitimacy and legitimisation (including self-legitimisation by the authorities) (cf., Wæver 1989b; Wæver 1995; Holm 2004; Elo 2005). 37 The structural logic of totalitarianism modelled by Guo concurs with the logic of securitisation. By labelling a matter as a threat to the existence of the system and state, the use of any measures to resolve the issue becomes justified. In other words, certain issues can be moved into an area of special politics by labelling them as issues of security i.e., matters of (regime) survival. The hard core of totalitarian political systems is institutionally securitised, as it cannot be compromised without the loss of the ‘nature’ of the system. Even though threats to the system are automatically issues of national security, specific issues will still have to be specifically securitised as threats to it. What is constructed as national security reveals something about the speaker’s values and motives, and thereby the nature of the political order the authoritative speaker is part of. 38 China is not unique in protecting the core of its political system. Indeed, I have argued that all political orders tend to securitise their core values (Vuori 2007). Such securitisations seem to arise more frequently in socialist systems, which are legitimised through a ‘self-posited prerequisite of historiosophic subjectivity’ of the leading party (Staniszkis 1992, 13-14): severe problems arise when such subjectivities are expressed at a lower level. This is closely tied to revolutionary legitimacy. If other progressive identities or subjects emerge, the party has 35

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This core is protected through the adaptation and use of the action means and methods on this protective belt of the system. The elements on the protective belt are dependent on the resources available to, and the socio-historical situation of a real system. This means that it is unhelpful to define such elements conclusively within the model, as they are constantly under a process of revision and adaptation.39 It is as if Deng Xiaoping (1995b, 174) had operationalised the core principles of the abstract notion of totalitarian models, when he promulgated the ‘Four Cardinal Principles’ of the Communist Party in 1979. These principles that could not be violated whilst almost any other principles of the party were sacrificeable for the sake of economic growth consisted of four phrases: 1) keeping to the socialist road, 2) upholding the ‘people’s democratic dictatorship’, 3) leadership by the Communist Party, and 4) Marxism-Leninism-Mao Zedong Thought. These principles concur with the features of a totalitarian order, and they have been consistently referred to whenever the Chinese authorities have framed certain issues as a political threat to the PRC:40 they have been a consistent referent of political security in the post-Mao era. The transition from Mao’s China to post-Mao China may be viewed as a transition from revolution to the state i.e., from constitutive power to constituted power. Here, the Four Cardinal Principles form the core of such a post-totalitarian order. Indeed, despite being at times mere lip-service or ‘autocommunication’, official ideology is still crucial for the legitimacy of a post-totalitarian political order, and its control over society. The body of these fundamental principles, universal truths and official norms, involves a small number of core elements that define the order’s ‘essence’ and play a major role in its unification. This core has to be sustained in order to maintain the order’s essence, legitimise the leadership of the authorities, and their proclaimed historical mission. For example Hughes (2006, 9) observes how Chinese leaders have continued to legitimise their rule with what has become known as ‘Deng Xiaoping Theory’, which has its origins in the legitimacy crisis of the party overseeing the introduction of market reforms. The four cardinal principles are at the core of ‘Deng Xiaoping Theory.’ Any threat to this core is a threat to the existence of the party and the state. To label social movements, forms of behaviour or even individuals as threats to these principles is a very powerful tool to constrain and suppress political opponents, religious practices or dissident movements, since after the successful securitisation of an issue, the full brunt of the action means can be brought to bear on whichever issue deemed as a threat. However, use of any action means and methods from the protective belt will be a form of special politics, not the norm. In a totalitara limited range of options, where an ‘enemy’ is often required or called for: the party’s historiosophic identity has to be expressed in struggle, or more precisely, in repression (ibid.). Revolutionary legitimisation excludes the legalised existence of other arguments of legitimate political subjectivity. Nevertheless, the manifestation of such opposing arguments cannot be entirely eliminated, which is why such political orders may shift to the use of ‘security practices’ rather than ‘total discipline’ (cf., Foucault 2007). This kind of cyclical ‘regulation by crisis’ suspends the institutional system and allows its temporary realignment as contrary to the normal functioning of the system. This temporarily restores equilibrium, and maintains the illusion of control. The inertness of the political structure is revealed by repeated political crises, which paradoxically stabilises and reproduces the system. 39 Just as in the preparation for martial law in Poland in 1981 (Staniszkis 1992, 82-83), the Communist party in China developed a set of extraordinary legal regulations (the so called cult legislation) as it began its campaign against the Falungong in 1999 (see Case IV below). The prerogative state changed the form of the normative state in order to reproduce and secure itself politically. 40 See Cases II and III below, as well as Paltemaa & Vuori (2006).

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ian system all issues are politicised (Elo 2005), everything is within the purview of the state, but not all issues are securitised, and not all politics is about survival.41 In addition to the structure of totalitarian orders, their dynamism has also been a focus of attention in the development of understandings and models of totalitarianism. The change of such dynamism is also at the core in the transition from Mao’s rule to the post-Mao China of reform. For example Robert Tucker (1961, 284-286) emphasised the commitment to social transformation as a central characteristic of a totalitarian order. He noted that an important feature to differentiate sub-types of totalitarian orders was their motivation to undertake revolutionary politics, which he called ‘revolutionary dynamism.’ If a regime in charge of such a political order loses this, it will become an ‘extinct movement-regime’, but which could, nevertheless, survive for long after and ‘exercise power in order to exercise power.’ Tucker therefore noted that instead of facing extinction, a totalitarian order based on a revolutionary movement might go through an alteration of its dynamism as a result of a qualitative change in the motivation of revolutionary politics.42 This loss of revolutionary momentum described by Tucker is aptly captured by Václav Havel (1992), who argued that the initial totalitarian order applied to most of the Socialist states in Europe at the beginning of the Cold War, was replaced with a post-totalitarian order as the new political systems settled. In post-totalitarianism, ideology no longer has any great influence on people, but still plays its part in the system.43 Ideology will still set some aspects of the public transcript (Scott 1990) of the ‘powerful’ as it binds what they can and what, conversely, the powerless sometimes must do and say. The post-totalitarian order aims for harmony and peace,44 the obedience of its subjects in the system, without overt use of coercion; the post-totalitarian order relies more on ‘symbolic violence’ (Bourdieu 1977). Thereby, to defy or otherwise exceed �� the expected conformity and discipline will be regarded as an attack on the system itself i.e., on the core values of the system which define its nature. The influence of individuals, even their ‘lifestyles’, can be tolerated if they are in tune with the direction the order is heading (Buruma 2001). In this way, the forms and limits of the landscape of conformity may change, with top leaders defining the broad strokes and ‘security professionals’ modulating the limits of the allowed. In this case, citizens do not have to believe in the system, but merely comply with it to a degree that will not jeopardise the ‘official truth’ which remains rhetorically committed to the original ideology of the totalitarian order. Such ‘rituals of complicity’ become more important than the ideological zeal that may have

Although the professionals who comprise the protective belt of action means (e.g., the secret police), define and target citizens and activities for security measures, in the case of new phenomena, or activities on a massscale, the authorities have to engage in security speech in order to mobilise the system and label the specific targets of the security measures. The public performance of such acts also serves as a form of legitimisation speech, even if this were mere autocommunication. 42 Tucker did not use the label totalitarian, but ‘revolutionary mass-movement regimes under single-party auspices.’ See also Elo (2005) for a recent thesis on the dynamism of totalitarian systems. 43 Staniszkis (1992) and Havel (1992) argue that the transition from totalitarianism to post-totalitarianism did not undermine the prerogative nature of power in the European socialist systems. This also seems to be the case in China, where the prerogative state has become more pragmatic. As is clear from the everyday politics and society of contemporary China, it is not the letter of ideology, but the interests of the authorities in their own reproduction (through the maintenance of ‘stability and unity’), which is decisive now. 44 Of note, Hu Jintao (e.g., 2007) has emphasised ‘Harmonious Society’ as the end goal of “Socialism with Chinese characteristics’. 41

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driven the initial totalitarian stage. At this stage, the political order will no longer actively control all that it can, but it is sufficient to control what is necessary to perpetuate the system (cf., Foucault 2007). In China’s post-Mao era, this has translated as ‘maintaining stability and unity’, ‘upholding the four cardinal principles’, and more recently, striving for a ‘harmonious society.’ Conformity is necessary for the system, because if too many subjects cease to comply, the symbolic order will crumble and lead to system change.45 Totalitarian leaderships often frame themselves as the savior and guarantor of the nation and thus exclude any alternative representations of the state, political or social orders and actors within it (Holm 2004). For example, the leadership in China presents itself as the sole guardian of, as Vivienne Shue (1994) puts it, ‘benevolence, truth and glory’. The nation is also built on a narrative or myth of struggle, with a pantheon of national heroes ranging from glorious workers to its intellectual founding fathers. The reification of an encircled ‘us’ by the regime renews discipline, legitimates the use of repression, and maintains a crucial link between the leadership and the people (cf., Bourdieu 1991). This also informs the images and labels the leadership is likely to give to those it deems to be its enemies. However, this is not a black-and-white question for freedom is also a technique of government, one of governing through the absence of political government (Foucault 2007, 48-49; Huysmans 2006a, 92-93). Autocratic leaderships may not want to eliminate all opposing identities entirely, since antagonistic struggle is useful in managing and maintaining the system as well as for renewing discipline.46 Total suppression may also prove too costly with respect to other objectives of the regime. Therefore, if dissidence can be surveilled, and thereby its effects limited, it may be allowed to continue. This is a matter of risk calculation and the setting of levels of tolerated disobedience or resistance, a matter of managing the system, a matter of governance. The analysis of freedom as a technique of government demonstrates that the social dynamic of freedom creates structures, which are beyond the grasp of individual actors: The social dynamic governs more effectively than sovereign interventions, even with the use of force. This is apparent in China’s internet-control practices, but also, for example, in the belief that secret police ‘are everywhere’ in Xinjiang (Wayne 2008). If the agencies engaged in this free interaction remain compliant with the officially declared reality, and practice autonomous discipline, the need for the totalitarian system diminishes and it is replaced by a post-totalitarian system; while discipline allows nothing to escape, security ‘lets things happen’ (Foucault 2007, 45). If individuals and the social dynamic they create comply with the core values of the political order, they can be left to practice self This is where the Internet poses the greatest danger from the point of view of the authorities: a single dissident may potentially encourage vast numbers as her symbolic resistance has the potential to be reproduced with a speed that can overcome the technologies and procedures of surveillance and censorship. In this respect, the ‘rhizome’ of networked communication becomes especially threatening to the authorities’ grasp of control (cf., Bogard 2006). As such, the CCP has, however, had good reason to set up its new, networked milieu to circulate information, which has been deemed a necessity for continued economic growth. The CCP has had the need to maintain economic growth, as prosperous citizens appear to be willing not to ‘rock the boat’, and keep, so to speak, ‘living the lie’ instead. In this respect, Huxley’s (1998) ‘soma’ seems more preferable and efficient to Orwell’s (1992) ‘Big Brother’, although both principles are still at work in the PRC. Soma, however, seems to be winning, as much of post-Mao political legitimacy has been invested in the continuing rise in living standards. 46 Even ‘Big Brother’ had his Goldstein (Orwell 1992). 45

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governance.47 However, panoptic practices ensure that individuals do not step out of line; security professionals will constantly modulate the limit of (excessive) freedom.48 While totalitarian political orders are transformative and employ forced-draft methods to achieve their ideological goals at almost any human and social cost, post-totalitarian political orders have lost this momentum and thorough ideological commitment. Nevertheless, post-totalitarian orders may still cling to the forms of its previous totalitarian order, and its ideology remains the basis of its self-legitimisation. Indeed, this transformative process can be seen in China in many fields of life e.g., in the politics of technology,49 propaganda work,50or even religion.51

7.2.2. The Party-State

The previous sub-chapter laid out the Chinese political order in terms of its ‘nature’, so that the role of the party-state, in terms of the practical organisation of politics and in-

Of course, there is no ‘secret document’ in a ‘safe’ in Zhongnanhai, and there is even no authentic freedom for the leadership of the party itself: the authorities are as much inmates in the system as their subordinates, although their autonomy may be comparatively greater, and what is expected of them is a different category of subjugation. Patric McGoohan’s allegorical television show “The Prisoner” (1967, Everyman Pictures) is very enlightening here. 48 For example, if the Chinese ‘online Panopticon’ functions well, access to online environments can be allowed. Similarly, citizens of the post-totalitarian system exercise both self-control and repression of themself through, in effect, ‘living the lie’, and complying with the officially declared reality (Havel 1992). Such bifurcation of official realities and the actual situation is quite evident, for example, both in class-status being defined by class origin rather than class relations, and in the ‘floating populations’ of rurally registered people who actually live in cities, numbering at over a hundred million. The power of panoptic practices should also not be overemphasised, as such systems can only observe the ‘inmates’ who remain in the ‘prison’ (Lyon 1994; 2007). In such respect, as even the Chinese online Panopticon in not perfect, the authorities employ other techniques of government beyond surveillance. While utilising Foucault’s concept of discipline, the problematics of Internet-control can be approached through the concept of the ‘politics of insecurity’ (Huysmans 2006a): by decentralising the modulation of safe and insecure to ‘security professionals’ (e.g., a secret police and internet sensors) the CCP can ‘let things happen’ and rely on security practices instead of total discipline. The argument here is that the Chinese authorities have endeavoured to set up an online China in a way that makes it less likely that individuals can ‘leave’ the Chinese post-totalitarian order via ICT-networks. As Maria Los (2006, 71) has argued, the ultimate feature of totalitarian domination is the absence of exit. By relying on security (in Foucault’s sense) and the post-totalitarian order, discipline does not, however, have to be complete; local resistance and individual ’lifestyles’ can be tolerated for as long the levels and limits set by the ’Party’ and its security professionals are not breached. The logic of governmentality guides the other techniques and practices of government, so as to keep the probabilities of organised and effective resistance low. For various criticisms of the limits of a panoptic understanding of surveillance, see Lyon (2006). Terry Gilliam’s film Brazil (1985, Embassy International Pictures) also approaches the possibilities of escape from and resistance to such a system. 49 Technology, for example, ceases to serve the same socially transformative function as it formerly had in totalitarianism, yet it remains important as a means to protect the core values of the system; under a posttotalitarian order even forms of technology that could jeopardise the system can be tolerated if they serve the other stated objectives of the order, but still only if their application can be controlled (see Paltemaa & Vuori 2009). 50 The transition from a totalitarian to a post-totalitarian political order is also evident in the Chinese propaganda-system which no longer focuses as much on how its citizens think, but more on what they think about. The lesson drawn from the 1989 ‘disturbances’ (see Case III below), and of the first decade of the reform period, was that the party had to reinforce its propaganda work. The premier leader of the 1990s, Jiang Zemin indeed underlined the importance of ‘thought work’ and ‘agenda setting.’ See for example, Chan (2002) and Brady (2008) on the development of the Chinese propaganda-system in post-1989 China. 51 Lai (2006) discusses the changing role and position of religion in the transition from totalitarianism to post-totalitarianism. 47

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stitutionalised power as well as the practical level to conduct politics, may now be considered. While I do not deal with the issues of bureaucratic politics or the role of Chinese security experts in how security realities are established, it is useful to get some sense of the styles of politicking prevalent in the PRC.52 Succinctly put, a characteristic feature of the Chinese political order is the ‘party-state’, which refers to the parallel structures of both the party and the state, at various levels of social organisation. In this dual structure, the party is dominant as regards the actual state organs, and party structures also penetrate deeper into society than the state structures do. The same individuals will usually occupy the top positions in both structures, and the party thus retains its control over the political order and is able to prevent the emergence of political competitors. On the formal state side, the highest authority in China is the National People’s Congress (NPC), which convenes once every four years. The NPC delegates its authority to the State Council, which, effectively, is equivalent to the cabinet of the PRC. On the party side, the highest formal authority is the Party Congress, which meets infrequently. The Congress delegates its authority to the Central Committee, which in turn delegates it to the Politburo. In practice the most authoritative party, and thereby party-state organ, is the Standing Committee of the CCP. While the delegates in the party and people’s congresses number in the thousands, the Standing Committee has only some 20 members. Such a dual structure of delegation is repeated at lower levels of administration and governance. The party-state has been a characteristic feature of the Chinese political order. However, it has not been stable throughout the PRC era. The exceptionality of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution (see Case I below), is evident in the fact that the party and the state in effect fused into one, and the exception being that it was the party that was ‘shut down’ as ad-hoc ‘revolutionary’ committees seized power from party bureaucrats. The post-Mao order, under the authority of Deng Xiaoping, resuscitated the party (see Case II below), and since the late 1970s, the party-state has been a relatively stable diagram of power. When examined more closely, it soon becomes apparent that the Chinese bureaucratic system is the largest in recorded human history, and accordingly has perhaps the most complex ‘matrix’ of bureaucratic relations of authority. Some of these are formal, while many are ‘informal’, which is another major characteristic of the Chinese political order. Such a situation has been termed a system of ‘fragmented authoritarianism’ (Lieberthal 2004, 187), which works along vertical ‘strips’ (条, tiáo) and horizontal ‘chunks’ (块, kuài) within the bureaucracy; the relationships of authority between the vertical and the horizontal are not always clear, and informal personal connections may play a key role in how the system is actually managed.53 When bureaucratic and political communication has been geared to flow from top to bottom, this kind of a system creates many difficul For general insights into the ‘sausage factory’ of Chinese governance and policymaking, see for example Lieberthal & Oksenberg (1988), Lieberthal & Lampton (1992), Saich (2001), Unger (2002), and Lieberthal (2004); see for example Barnouin & Yu (1998) for a study of how the exceptional politics of the Cultural Revolution affected the Foreign Ministry, and Lu (1997) on the dynamics of foreign policy decision-making in the PRC. 53 The general principle is that the Centre decides on issues where the authority is not clear, and decisions are delegated to as low a level of administration as possible. 52

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ties for good governance, as lower level administrators and politicians have an interest in falsifying information, and further, there is no trustworthy system to receive information from outside the bureaucracy ‘matrix.’ While the bureaucratic system is immense, and the de jure authoritative party and state decision making bodies include a great number of people, the number of de facto leaders in the PRC is only around 20-30. Accordingly, the study of Chinese politics has largely consisted of the study of elite and informal politics, aptly called ‘Zhongnanhaiology’ after ‘Kremnology’ that concerned the outside analysis of elite politics of the Soviet Union. A common framework here has been ‘factionalism’ (see for example Unger 2002). Indeed, inter-personal relations are an important aspect of Chinese factional politics. It is however very difficult to characterise the various factions with descriptions such as ‘conservative’ or ‘liberal’, as these may have confusing connotations derivative of their use in other political orders, and because such labels would not be consistent throughout different eras of Chinese politics e.g., a ‘radical’ reformer of the 1950s could be labelled a ‘conservative’ in the 1980s, even though their proposals may have remained quite similar. While the Chinese political order has its own political beltway and bureaucratic politics beyond what China scholars call factional or informal politics, these bureaucratic dynamics will not affect the cases investigated in this present study to the degree they would in instances that deal with, for example, issues that concern illegal immigration as a security problem in Europe.54 The cases studied here are examples of the types of crises that the formulation of securitisation theory originally focused its attention on: these cases are closer to the ‘spectacular’ rather than ‘mundane’ politics of security and securitisation.

7.2.3. Functions of Propaganda

Propaganda is an essential element for the functioning of the Chinese system of the partystate. It is important to realise here that propaganda, or public relations as it is officially translated by the Chinese Communist Party today (see Brady 2008), has not been understood in the negative or even pejorative sense that it has in Europe and the US. Propaganda in China has been considered legitimate as it has served an essentially educational function to integrate various elements of society. Whereas Western political discourse is meant to appease constituents, Chinese political discourse is meant to be persuasive. This persuasiveness arises out of (moral) justification. According to Guo Xuezhi (2002), political legitimacy in China since the dynastic eras has emanated from moral superiority. Chinese political discourse is also very ideological and it is crafted to appear unchanging and universal. Godwin Chu (1977) has argued that Chinese political communication differs from that of the West by being explicitly normative and value-oriented, that is, oriented toward altering the values of its audience. The aim is to teach and bind the audience to a certain ideological position, rather than to disseminate information. Despite aesthetic transformations, this is still largely the case for party propaganda. Alan Kluver For example, bureaucratic support for the students in 1989 (see Case III below) does not equal bureaucratic politics in the sense of some branch of government benefiting from some issues being identified as security issues. 54

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(1996, 130-134) lists three types of audiences for Chinese propaganda, viz. I) officials for whom official language is a game and a tool for social impact, II) intellectuals for whom official language is a tool of aggression and defense, and III) the masses for whom official language is transformatory in that it legitimises and delegitimises different forms of action.55 The Chinese propaganda system also has an international dimension and function, and is divided into three sections, namely internal party propaganda, domestic propaganda and foreign propaganda (Shambaugh 2007). As such, propaganda in China has been an important tool to create a political lexicon that has defined and restricted political discourse (Starr 1973, 127-43). Michael Schoenhals (1992) argues that this formation of a strictly defined official language is the strongest means of political control in China. The government issues official lists (Schoenhals 1991) of ‘scientific’ formulations of phrases which implies a tight connection between the signifier and the signified. Through these lists, form and content become one. This restricts language to ‘what is’ instead of ‘what could be’; the use of formalised language is a means for the deliberate formation of hegemonic discourses and a way to violently circ*mscribe the society’s rhetorical space and its social reality. Accordingly, �� the Communist Party has authoritative positions from which official security issues are phrased. The paramount leader has a key role in the ‘trickle down effect’ of official propaganda (Shambaugh 1992) and (even in the era of commercial media) also a major role in the construction of security issues. The role of the paramount leader is central in defining the ‘formulations’ (提法, tífǎ) and ‘lines’ (路线, lùxiàn) that have a constraining effect on the discourse that follows them. A certain definition or label of an issue justifies certain political actions, and conversely denies certain forms of behavior. Political security has been a major constricting discourse and practice throughout the PRC-era.56 Bourdieu (1991) emphasised that a distinctive characteristic of the ‘political field’ is that professionals engaged in it have to regularly appeal to non-professional groups or forces that lie outside it. Politicians have to regularly renew and secure their support, their ‘political capital’, which will then enable them to be successful in their engagements and battles with other politicians and professionals of the field. Because the power of politicians is symbolic, they must constantly nourish and sustain a bond of belief and trust with those outside the field, who, in turn, provide those within the field with their power. In socialist systems, ‘autocommunication’ is often utilised for this purpose, so that, instead of the provision of new information, the purpose of communication is to maintain the political order by repetition of political ‘mantras’ or ‘codes’ (Lotman 1990; cf., Palmujoki 1995). In China, conformity to this mantra has been used as an indication of loyalty to the party, and to leading factions within it. Party cadres have to show public deference to the official line, or ‘public transcripts’ as James C. Scott (1990) would phrase it.57 Lucien Pye (1981; Baum 1996 concurs) has noted how words in China are not only political objects, but loyalty tests in a system defined by inter-factional struggle. Political The legitimate forms of action in this context refer to the legitimate forms of action of the masses, i.e., what the regime allows or does not allow to be done or said. 56 See Dutton (2005) for a history of policing and defining the ‘enemy’ in China. 57 While neither ‘public’ nor ‘hidden transcripts’ are more ‘authentic’ than the others, or free from other forms of power relations or effects of domination, what Scott’s (1990) work illuminates is that scripts, roles and forms of domination vary from ‘stage’ to ‘stage.’ ‘Where you stand depends on where you sit’ (Allison & Zelikow 1999). For a critique of Scott’s understanding of power, see Mitchell (1990). 55

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loyalties are measured through the extent the official line is followed. During the Mao-era, although citizens did not have the means to influence politicians, they were nevertheless very active in keeping up with ‘politics’, as missing the latest twist in the formulation of certain issues could have had dire consequences (Nathan 1985). Even though Chinese politics has been very secretive, and the ‘masses’ have not been permitted access to the processes that go on behind the great spectacles58 of Chinese politics, Chinese leaders have often appealed to the masses for support in this or that campaign.59 Even though the leadership is engaged in a ‘dictatorship of the class enemy’ they still have to appeal to the progressive masses, which have ‘democracy.’ Argumentation is not only about intellectual acceptance, it is also about creating a basis for action (Perelman 1996, 19): people are truly convinced after they are willing to take action. Although autocratic systems may not support genuine interaction, they do require participation in the ‘ritual of complicity’ (Havel 1992). 7.2.4. The Media as a Functional Actor

As was already noted, while bureaucratic politics is not a concern here, the diagram of power of the Chinese political order does contain some ‘functional actors’ that are pertinent for some of the cases studied here. Proclamations and discourses evident in Chinese mass media can be used as indicators of official and authoritative views to a greater degree than, for example, in Europe, which arises from its role of as a ‘functional actor’ in China. Mao Zedong was keenly aware of the usefulness and importance of mass communication: after the declaration of the People’s Republic, one of the first orders of business for the Chinese Communist Party was the establishment of a radio-system that could be received in even the remotest of Chinese villages. It was deemed to be of utmost importance that all Chinese could follow the exploits of the CCP and its leadership as saviors of China. Media professionals were given a dual role right from the beginning of the PRC. Journalists and Xinhua, the news agency of New China, were given the task of disseminating propaganda to educate the masses. The Chinese media became the ‘mouthpiece’ (喉舌, hóushé) of the CCP, but in Maoist ideology, the mouthpiece of the party was also considered to be the mouthpiece of the people (Lee 1990).�� In addition to dissemination of propaganda, the second task of the Chinese media has been to report to party authorities on social conditions in the country and help in party rectification. This has assumed various degrees of secrecy, and it has been ideologically ‘raw’, that is, it has not always followed official formulations. The most sensitive of such reports, Reference News (参考消息, cānkǎo xiāoxi) and Internal Reference Final Proofs (内部参考清样, nèibù cānkǎo qīngyàng), have been received only by the top leaders. This function of the media The political spectacle refers to the creation and circulation of symbols in political processes; politics appears as a drama where meaning is conferred through crisis situations, emergencies, rituals and myths. These form a moving panorama of a world that the mass public never really touches, but which can have major effects on their daily lives, and which they have to fear or cheer. (Edelman 1972.) Interestingly, Chinese media outlets have been restricted to 20% bad news: the Chinese authorities have wanted control of both the ‘positive’ and the ‘negative’ spectacles presented to the Chinese public. This is very similar to Stalin’s Soviet Union where there was no bad news (Žižek 2002b). 59 As Radtke (2008, 203) notes, security speech on both internal and external aspects of security has been the preserve of elites in China. 58

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has been considered very important. For example, during the heights of the social and political chaos of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, when party and state authorities were ‘under attack by the masses’, Mao still received and read his Final Proofs and was quite aware of what actually occurred at the grass-roots level, while he kept other leaders out of the loop (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 79-81).60 Through this innerparty news, journalists have been able to serve a function of criticism.61 This critique of the party’s policies and social conditions has however not been allowed to be viewed by the Chinese public. Being aware of the dual role of journalists and other media-professionals is very important in order to understand the functioning of the Chinese media where, for example, pre-censorship has been relatively low.62 This has been accomplished through the nomenclature system, and by making editors and editor-in-chiefs responsible for the articles of those below them, and, recently, service providers for online content on their servers. This has meant that while journalists have indeed often pushed the boundaries of what can be said and published, the editors have at times been more interested in ‘safe’ reporting. The dual role has also meant that while the propaganda departments have issued lists of correct phrasings and definitions of political issues that have defined how issues are presented to the public, journalists have had greater opportunities to report on actual events and problems through the Reference News. Chinese reporters have had a dual channel to affect securitisation processes. While publishing, they have had opportunities to challenge official lines, or to present ‘hidden transcripts’ for wide audiences.63 While writing within the party-system, they have had the opportunity to report on situations that officials may have deemed threatening to Mao even set up an ad hoc intelligence collection service in the spring of 1966 to supplement the established inner news, and in August he began receiving Rapid Reports (快报, kuàibào) which at times came out hourly for only a handful of the top leaders (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 80-81). 61 The function to report on social conditions to the party is also evident in contemporary online environments. In addition to journalists, the special Bureau of Information and Public Opinion under the party’s Publicity Department, and the Centre for the Study of public Opinion under the State Council, have been tasked with reporting on online developments (Tao 2007). These bureaus that represent both aspects of the party-state, have been assigned with the duty to surveil, analyse, and report events and trends on major Internet sites, both state-run and commercial, to the Party Central Committee and its Politburo. These offices issue daily and weekly reports on current issues in the virtual realm, as well as special reports on major incidents, as they emerge. Like the Reference News, these reports keep the leadership aware of developments, which allows quick responses when necessary. The Internet Bureau of the Party’s Publicity Department (former Propaganda Department) and the Internet Propaganda Administrative Bureau of the State Council, head the propaganda and media censorship effort for Internet-based media (Tao 2007, 4-6). Chinese online media censorship regulations issued by the two bureaus, form an evolving and constantly updated body of administrative guidelines (entitled ‘information advisories’) and orders on allowed online contents. The basic principle is that all Internet-based media companies require licences which allow them to distribute only news already published by official media. No independent news gathering or editing is allowed for private media outlets. As for state-run media, it is officially a part of the party-state propaganda machine. Information advisories guide online news work by ordering how and which news items should be published and which not, which sources to use for news, as well as regulating the lifespans of on-going online debates. Media companies that do not follow these regulations are punished by fines, cancellations of operating licenses and arrests of journalists (Tao 2007). 62 See for example Zhao (1998; 2000) on the role of the effects of marketisation on Chinese media and on the dual role of Chinese journalists. 63 The party seems to tolerate hidden transcripts, as long as they remain hidden. People can say what they want using English on university campuses for example, but when a foreigner is observing radical views, someone will soon informatively whisper in his ear that should those things be said in a tea-house, the speaker’s ‘number would be up’ (personal experience 2004). 60

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the party or the revolution. In this way, journalists have pushed the boundaries of the ‘sayable’ in China, yet paradoxically, they have also functioned as ‘watchdogs’ for the central authorities, for example, by reporting on infringements by local authorities. Thus, to write critical reports on social conditions does not necessarily entail political dissidence; even critical and investigative journalists can be loyal to the party and its aims.64 Along with the reforms which have been undertaken in Chinese society since the late 1970s, its media field too has undergone major transformations. The media has been significantly liberalised from the situation in 1978 when it was commonly quipped that China had ‘two dailies and one magazine.’65 By 2007, though, there were already 700 television stations, 8000 magazines and 2000 dailies whose circulation was more than 100 million. In 2008, China became the largest ‘netizen’ population in the world with 253 million online users (Internet Usage and Population in Asia, June 30. 2008). The plurality of voices in online environments is even greater than those in other types of media, for example, at the end of 2008, it has been estimated that there were some 100 million blogs and 50 million bloggers (China Daily 6.1.2009). However, even though the range and variety of media operators has increased significantly, the liberalisation of the media field remains limited as it has mainly focused on financial issues, so that this pluralisation of outlets and voices permitted in the Chinese media has not meant the complete relinquishment of political control.66 In terms of control, this pluralisation has brought with it a shift from disciplinary to security practices (cf., Foucault 2007), and, in terms of propaganda, an emphasis on ‘thought work’ (思想工作, sīxiǎng gōngzuò) and ‘agenda setting’ (舆论导, yúlùn dǎoxiàng). Compared to the Maoera though, the party has significantly loosened its grip on the mass media in China. Such relinguishment of control has created more space and opportunities for identity ascriptions, and thereby for the contestation of and resistance to securitisation in the context of various processes.

However, the autonomy of journalists has been very limited or conditional, as Elin Sæther (2008) terms the possibilities for critical journalism in China. 65 These were Renmin ribao, Jiefang ribao, and Hongqi. 66 In the mid 1990s the party decided to gradually remove financial support of the media and to liberalise its ownership together with the general trend of the times, which forced media outlets to seek funding from the market. The shift to an open market has meant that media outlets have had to begin competing for consumers, which has had an effect on the content presented in the media. For example, this liberalisation produced a great variety of life-style magazines and programs. The party however retained its censorship practices and the dual role demanded of journalists. This was achieved through a complex and multi-layered web of ownership, rules, regulations and controls. The party and state propaganda and later public relations bureaus, for example, constantly issued their instructions on correct formulations of sensitive issues. Similarly, who could write, and what could be written about was constantly modulated, too. For example, Xinhua retained the exclusive right to publish news that concerned China as a whole. The careers of journalists were linked to good performance records, which meant that any trouble with censors could have ramifications on one’s career. In practice, the party also nominated or at least accepted the nominations for leading editors in media companies. Further, stories have also been censored after the fact, journalists have been imprisoned (e.g., 31 journalists were in prison in 2007), editors dismissed (e.g., in Southern Weekend, 南方周末, nánfāng zhōumò), and even whole papers closed down (e.g., the World Economic Herald). Indeed, as regards the freedom of the press, Reporters without Borders have consistently listed China in the last quarter of its listing of 169 states i.e., among states with least freedom of the press. 64

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7.2.5. The People’s Liberation Army as a Functional Actor

The People’s Liberation Army (PLA) is a prime example of how the party exercises control over the political order and Chinese society as a whole.67 While there is both a state Central Military Affairs Commission and a Party Military Affairs Commission, the latter is totally dominant.68 The party’s control over the ‘gun’ was an essential aspect of Mao’s political views. Accordingly, the party and the PLA have developed a symbiotic relationship so that political loyalty to the party has at times been considered vastly more important than military expertise.69 After the revolution, most leading party figures were veterans of the anti-Japanese and civil wars, which fused the party and the military even more strongly. This symbiotic relationship is similarly evident in that the PLA has formal quotas of representatives in political organs. The PLA is the final practical guarantor of the CCP and, as such, has at times been called in to deal with threats in a ‘brute’ manner. In this sense it is a key functional actor in the most severe instances of securitisation in the PRC. Major refusal on such occasions by the PLA would quite likely mean the collapse of the CCP, or at least of the factions attempting to mobilise the PLA. The effective political influence of the PLA has varied in Chinese politics. During the Cultural Revolution, not all PLA units acquiesced to be ‘seized’ by revolutionary committees, and even fought with the Red Guards. However, during the worsened split with the Soviet Union, the PLA was called in to restore order, which entailed that the PLA effectively took over many state functions. Deng Xiaoping’s policy was to reduce the influence of the PLA e.g., to cut back on its opportunities for autonomous economic activities, and to make being ‘expert’ more important than being ‘red.’ However, the 1989 securitisation process worked against these aims, when Deng had to call in many political favours and grant more influence to some leading military figures.70 The effects of 1989 were, however, short lived as the need for a professional and technologically more capable military became apparent in the way the US has been able to conduct itself in military operations since the early 1990s. Jiang Zemin, who was the first military leader in China who did not have military experience himself, effectively followed Deng’s line as he worked towards the separation of the civilian and military See the 1996 special issue of The China Quarterly (146), especially Joffe (1996) and Swaine (1996) on partyarmy relations in China, Lieberthal (2004) on how the PLA is situated within the party and state bureaucratic system, Shambaugh (2002) for an extensive study of the PLA modernisation, and Blasko (2006) for a concise presentation of the structure, tasks, and capabilities of the PLA. 68 The commission also seems to have a key role in the way leadership transition has been established in post-Mao China. In this arrangement, the commission is led by the departing party leader for a period, whilst the new premier leader takes hold of the other leading positions in the party and the state. This pattern was set by Deng Xiaoping and repeated by Jiang Zemin. 69 Joffe (1996) characterises the party-army relationship with six characteristics at the turn of the millennium, viz.: 1) integration at the top, 2) separation at the bottom, 3) modernisation and professionalism of the PLA, 4) political control of the PLA by the CCP, 5) command and control of forces by the PLA, and 6) non-interventionism by the PLA. It seems that while various politicians have at times used the PLA for their own machinations, which may have increased the political clout of the PLA, there does not appear to be a tradition of the PLA inserting itself into politics beyond bureaucratic interests of the various branches of the armed forces. 70 The 1989 and 1966 cases show how the PLA has been actively called in to ‘protect the motherland’ against domestic enemies. In less ‘exceptional’ situations, the PLA is mostly tasked with protecting China from foreign threats. Domestic security is a task for the Ministry of Public Security (公安部, gōng’ānbù) and the Ministry of State Security (国家安全部, guójiā ānquán bù). 67

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aspects of governance. He was able to prove his doubters wrong, taking a firm grip on the PLA.71 With Hu Jintao, this policy line of professionalisation has continued.

See You (2002) on Jiang’s relations with the PLA.

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8. Case I: The Beginning of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution

We should guard against an internal revolt, prevent a counter-revolutionary coup d’état.

- Lin Biao

The Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution represents one of the most paradoxical developments in Chinese politics.1 Even though the Chinese political order of the time conformed to a type of totalitarianism, the supreme – and excessively idolised – leader seemingly turned power over to the streets. Mao called on the ‘masses’ to attack the party establishment, provoking China into internal conflicts that escalated to the use of force in the extent of making civil war a real possibility. Considering the size of China, the number of those who suffered during the various mass-campaigns of the Cultural Revolution can be counted in the millions. The colourful and extravagant campaigns were also noted outside China and inspired political foment around the world in the late 1960s. The Cultural Revolution has been studied from a variety of perspectives. For example, Barbara Barnouin & Yu Changgen (1993) and MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008) provide comprehensive political histories of the period, while MacFarquhar (1974; 1983; 1997) studies the historical developments of China that preceded this period.2 In addition the general historical developments of the Cultural Revolution, there have also been historical studies that approach it on a micro level. Thurston (1990) is a study of the use of violence

Michael Schoenhals (2002) questions the need for a label of the ’Cultural Revolution’ for a period of Chinese politics. He argues that this label portrays either the period 1966-1968 or 1966-1976 as unique and a special form of Chinese politics (the 1981 official resolution of party history [Beijing Review 1995c, 63-66] divides the Cultural Revolution into three stages, viz. May 1966 to April 1969 [most turbulent period with purges of leadership], April 1969 to August 1973 [the Lin Biao affair], and August 1973 to October 1976 [struggle over succession]). Schoenhals argues that instead of ‘unique politics’, the era of the Cultural Revolution should be seen as just Chinese politics. In accordance, the title of his article [Schoenhals 2002] on this issue was supposed to read: “Is the Cultural Revolution really necessary” – and, not ‘was’ [it necessary] into which the editors of the volume changed it; email correspondence 2004). This viewpoint is implicitly supported in this study as well: the Cultural Revolution should be studied just like any other period of Chinese politics. Here the focus is on the developments from late 1965 to late 1966 when the Cultural Revolution and its leadership purges at the highest echelons of the party were instigated via securitisation arguments. As MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 188) note, Mao’s preferences were at times similarly paradoxical, as demonstrated by the fact that he seemed to relish upheaval (乱, luàn) and accordingly turned the party inside out while criticising bureaucratism and ‘ecclecticism’ during the CR, yet also appreciated the benefits of having a properly functioning bureaucracy that could provide him with information and service. 2 There have also been significant publications of Cultural Revolution documents in Chinese e.g., in the Cultural Revolution Database, but also as translations e.g., Myers et al. (1986; 1989; 1995a; 1995b), and Schoenhals (1991; 1996). 1

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during the Cultural Revolution, Han (2000) is an example of studies that concentrate on the village level, while Esherick et al. (2006) contains a series of articles with various historical perspectives. Further, the use of language, whether at the level of speech acts or a broader discourse and narrative, has also been the focus for studies on the Cultural Revolution. Schoenhals (1992), for example, includes chapters on the Cultural Revolution that approach Chinese politics via the theory of speech acts. More general views on the operation of discourse and narratives are provided by Apter & Saich (1994), who examine revolutionary discourse in Mao’s republic in general. Chong (2002) presents studies of the master narratives of the Cultural Revolution and various counternarratives that have worked against them. Perry & Li (2003) discuss the rude use of language of the Red Guards. Dutton (2005), in his study of policing in Chinese politics, places the Cultural Revolution into the wider history of the CCP. I do not attempt to provide a grand explanation for the Cultural Revolution, or for Chinese Politics in general for that matter,3 but to study the use and function of security arguments as a ‘technique’ of power and political struggle during these years. The Cultural Revolution has been the most dramatic Chinese expression of state-sponsored efforts to stimulate and shape confrontational politics – but it was not the last (Perry 2007, 9-10). Thus, the political processes labelled under the Cultural Revolution involved a great variety of issues, but the focus here will be limited only to security arguments; the Cultural Revolution was not just about security, but a distinct security argument can be detected in the early speeches which set the political process underway. This kind of analysis is necessary to understand the function of security arguments in Chinese politics. Although there have been many changes, there are also continuities that span both the Mao and the postMao eras of Chinese politics. These should not be underestimated (cf., Perry 2007, 9). The case study on the Cultural Revolution begins my investigation of how specific but grand scale or ‘spectacular’ security issues have been constituted in the political sector of security in the PRC. Of interest here is what ‘security’ meant for the CCP in the late 1960s, how ‘security’ was used politically, and what the socio-political context was like in the moves studied here.

8.1. The Historical and Socio-Political Context of the Beginning of the Cultural Revolution

There have been many interpretations of the reasons for the so -called Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution.4 As Michael Schoenhals (1996, 3) has noted however, one searches As has already been noted, Michael Dutton (2005), for example, explains the entirety of Chinese revolutionary politics (1926-1976) with the friend-enemy dyad of Carl Schmitt (1996). For Dutton, the Cultural Revolution was a manifestation of the political, which ended with this period of Chinese politics; Dutton argues that the reform era no longer contains the political in terms of defining internal enemies. I however contend that this totalising method to interpret Chinese politics is perhaps not the most appropriate: if one follows Schmitt’s metaphysics of the political, arguably the political will remain the political, regardless of the tactics and means of leadership struggles? Instead, looking at both the Mao-era and the political eras following it through the same analytical framework (e.g., the theory of securitisation) will enable the assessment of whether there has been significant change in terms of the constitution of internal political ‘enemies’ or ‘threats’, without subscribtion to an apriori metaphysical theory of the political. 4 Some view the Cultural Revolution as a power struggle between Mao and the other leading members of the party while others emphasise the ideological differences between the factions. See for example MacFarquhar 3

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in vain for a blueprint or a distinct manifesto that would explain the need for this Revolution. Contemporary explanations from leading politicians can be found scattered around speeches, editorials and inner documents of the party.5 Barnouin & Yu (1993, 175, 199) find that the most systematic presentations for the necessity, purpose and achievements of the Cultural Revolution, can be found in Lin Biao’s speeches.6 Beyond the various contemporary political speeches that outlined motivations and necessities for the Revolution, scholars have found (distinct) ideological and political motivations that underlined its launch.7 Firstly, in the late 1950s Mao’s ideological thinking became more radical (Barnouin & Yu 1993, vii-viii, 2). For Mao, even the success of the revolution did not guarantee that there would not be any ideological differences or conflicts in China (e.g., Mao 1957); ideological differences could only be solved through class struggle, which became one of the main slogans for the period (e.g., The Polemic 1965). Furthermore, Mao seemed to prefer to retain the ‘creative moment’, and resist the sluggishness and revisionist tendencies of bureaucracy through the means of a continuous revolution. Together with the polemics with the Soviet Union8 these lines of thought resulted in a belief that not only Chinese society, but the party itself was vulnerable to revisionism. Consequently, Mao continued to subject the party to various rectification campaigns right up to his demise. Like the Polemics, the beginning of the CR is closely connected with developments in the Soviet Union which had severe effects on Sino-Soviet relations. Khrushchev’s repudiation of Stalinism9 put the veneration of Stalin, and by extension, of Mao too, into question. Furthermore, Khrushchev’s views on how the relations between the two blocs of the Cold War should be engaged played an important role here:10 peaceful transition to socialism and the dissenting view of Lenin’s peaceful coexistence did not fit Mao’s views (1974; 1983), MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008), Dittmer (1974), Schrecker (1991), and Dietrich (1998). 5 For example, as the turmoil on the streets was coming to an end and shifted to the period of greatest state terror that was expanded beyond the party apparatus to uncover undesirables inside and outside the party, Mao legitimised the Cultural Revolution at the 12th Plenum of the Eight Party Congress in October 1968 thus: “the current Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution was absolutely necessary and most timely for the consolidation of the dictatorship of the proletariat, the prevention of capitalist restoration and the building of socialism” (quoted in Barnouin & Yu 1993, 172). While the analysis here is focused on the launch of the CR, this speech demonstrates how a post-hoc security argument to justify the CR was maintained throughout its duration. 6 The most systematic is Lin Biao’s six-hour report to the Ninth Party Congress in 1969, in which he outlined the history of the CR and argued for two reasons to continue the CR: 1) the socialist revolution had not yet been ‘carried out to the end’ nor had class struggle ceased in the ideological and political fields, and 2) the revolution still had a ‘thousand and one’ tasks to fulfil, including mass criticism, repudiation, purification of class ranks and consolidation of the party organisation (Lin 1989). 7 See MacFarquhar (1974; 1983; 1997) for historical studies of the background developments that preceded the Cultural Revolution. 8 These exchanges are collected in The Polemic on the General Line of the International Communist Movement (1965). 9 E.g., “On the pretext of ‘combating the personality cult’, Khruschev has defamed the dictatorship of the proletariat and the socialist system and thus in fact paved the way for the restoration of capitalism in the Soviet Union. In completely negating Stalin, he has in fact negated Marxism-Leninism which was upheld by Stalin and opened the floodgates for the revisionist deluge.” (The Polemic 1965, 439.) 10 E.g., “Under the signpost ‘peaceful coexistence’, Krushchev has been colluding with US. imperialism, wrecking the socialist camp and the international communist movement, opposing the revolutionary struggles of the oppressed peoples and nations, practicing great-power chauvinism and national egoism and betraying proletarian internationalism.” (The Polemic 1965, 440.) The continuation of Khrushchev’s ‘line’ even after he was deposed by coup, gave even more reasons for Mao to be alarmed, for he might also share Khrushchev’s fate.

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of the world.11 Such dissenting views, combined with Mao’s radical thinking led to the ‘polemics’ between the two Communist Parties. The most important example of those here is the ninth polemic ‘On Khrushchev’s Phoney Communism and Historical Lessons for the World’ (The Polemic 1965, 415-480) that established a major foundation to justify the Cultural Revolution (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 7). Importantly, it already included a security argument in the form of a “black vision of a possible liquidation of Communism” (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 12),12 which would be used to legitimise the coming Cultural Revolution. Indeed, the polemic identified a great danger for Communism: “[Class struggle] is a protracted, repeated, torturous and complex struggle. […] It is a struggle that decides the fate of a socialist society.” (The Polemic 1965, 423.) “History furnishes a number of examples in which proletarian rule suffered defeat as a result of armed suppression by the bourgeoisie [e.g., the Paris Commune and the Hungarian Soviet Republic]. In contemporary times [i.e., the Hungarian 1956 uprising], the rule of the proletariat was almost overthrown.” (Ibid., 468.) “In short, it [i.e., whether the CCP and the PRC will remain in the hands of proletarian revolutionaries and whether they will continue to march along the correct road of Marxism-Leninism, and whether the emergence of Khrushchev’s revisionism will be prevented] is an extremely important question, a matter of life and death for our Party and our country.” (Ibid., 478.) As if in accordance with the ‘grammar of securitisation’, the argument of the ninth polemic was that the downfall of socialism was not inevitable nor insoluble: “the restoration of capitalism in the socialist countries and their degeneration into capitalist countries are certainly not unavoidable” (The Polemic 1965, 470). The polemic also provided a ‘way out’ of this perilous situation in the form of Mao Zedong’s fifteen theories and policies (ibid., 471-479).13 The threat discourse legitimised Mao’s policies which otherwise See Feng (2005) on Mao’s ‘operational code’ and ‘worldviews.’ “As long as imperialism exists, the proletariat in the socialist countries will have to struggle both against the bourgeoisie at home and against international imperialism. Imperialism will seize every opportunity and try to undertake armed intervention against the socialist countries or to bring about their peaceful disintegration. It will do its utmost to destroy the socialist countries or to make them degenerate into capitalist countries. The international class struggle will inevitably find its reflection within the socialist countries.” (The Polemic 1965, 422-423.) In addition to the history of purges within the party, these kinds of statements based on Lenin’s theories would provide the necessary resonance for the manner in which the securitisation of specific party representatives would develop from 1966 onwards. 13 When examined from a distance from the tactics of Mao’s politics, the threat of Soviet revisionism was part of the wider macrosecuritisation patterns of the Cold War. John Foster Dulles had proposed the doctrine of ‘peaceful evolution’ as the most appropriate means to effect regime change in Communist states for the United States. “Kruschev’s revisionism entirely caters to the policy of ‘peaceful evolution’ which US. imperialism is pursuing with regard to the Soviet Union and other socialist countries” (The Polemic 1965, 466). However, China was against this principle from the outset, just as Mao was against Khrushchev’s ‘peaceful coexistence’ with the US. ‘Peaceful evolution’ (和平演变, hépíng yǎnbiàn) has remained a major concern and a threatening subject even in post-Mao China. This becomes evident, for example, in Deng’s (1993e) speech in 1989: “The West really wants unrest in China. It wants turmoil not only in China but also in the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe. The United States and some other Western countries are trying to bring about a peaceful evolution towards capitalism in socialist countries. The United States has coined an expression: waging a world war without gun smoke. We should be on guard against this. Capitalists want to defeat socialists in the long run. In the past they used weapons, atomic bombs and hydrogen bombs, but they were opposed by the peoples of the world. So now they are trying peaceful evolution. The affairs of other countries are not our business, but we have to look after our own. China will get nowhere if it does not build and uphold socialism. Without leadership by the Communist Party, without socialism and without the policies of reform and opening to the outside world, the country would be doomed. Without them, how could China have gotten where it is today?” In this avenue of thought, the PRC could not be allowed to succumb in the way the Soviet Union had fallen apart in the 1990s. 11 12

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mainly concerned domestic issues. Indeed, Mao apparently retained a perception of a constant danger of capitalist restoration that even approached a form of paranoia: the purpose of the Cultural Revolution was to ‘combat and prevent revisionism’ (反修防修, fǎn xiū fáng xiū) i.e., the prime objective of the CR was to expose and eliminate enemies within the party (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 22-23). However, the problems with the Soviet Union, whilst perhaps contributing to Mao’s motivations, were not the only motivations to launch the CR. Firstly, it would seem that Mao wanted to retain the ‘creative moment’, and continue the revolution and the establishment of new ‘Ordnungs’ (cf., Schmitt 1996).14 A second factor that has been viewed as a contribution to the launch of the CR was the cult of personality developed to idolise Mao (Barnouin & Yu 1993, vii-viii).15 The increased idolisation of Mao strengthened the third factor that played into the CR: Mao had become increasingly alienated from other party leaders (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 83). Beyond the initiation of the CR, there are also factors that have been viewed as contributing to its duration. These include the authority Mao was able to wield without question as well as the tradition of struggle of the CCP which cadres easily fell back on:16 “normal differences among comrades inside the party came to be regarded as manifestations of the revisionist line or of the struggle between the two lines” (Beijing Review 1995c [1981], 69). Whichever the ‘real’ motivations of Mao may have been, the Cultural Revolution was a means to deal with even the highest level of party cadres. Such means to manage the party leadership increased the factional divisions and competition, making them one of the characteristic features of the period.17 The struggles between radical and conservative factions that pledged their loyalty to the Chairman shook the political order to its core and roots. While ideology was ostensibly what the CR was about, in effect, it played little part in the factional struggles at the top or at the root of factional divisions.18 What Mao’s ‘real’ motives were is not of interest here, nor do I claim to present an explanation Nevanlinna (2002, 116) emphasises that the state is merely a façade for the non-totalitarian world; totalitarian rule almost necessitates that the structures of the state do not solidify. In a letter to Jiang Qing dated July 8 1966, Mao expressed that he desired to create ‘great disorder under heaven’ in order to achieve ‘great order under heaven’, and which would be achieved by extraordinary means (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 52). 15 This cult of Mao was a means for Lin Biao to eventually rise to the position of heir apparent. Lin’s rise began in 1960 when Mao seemed to approve of Lin’s adulation of Mao in the military. In 1964 this success led to the editing of the ‘little red book’ which contained quotes from Mao. However, by the turn of the 1970s Lin’s line of excessive idolisation no longer worked, and his number seemed to be up, which may have contributed to the ‘Lin Biao Affair’ i.e., his attempted coup and defection (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 199-246; MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 324-336). 16 See Dutton (2005) for a history of purges of inner enemies within the party. 17 The main division line between ‘conservatives’ and ‘radicals’ on the issue of the Cultural Revolution was over whether it should be an orderly mass campaign, or a revolt against the party establishment. Mao seemed to need the support of the radicals and the ‘masses’, as most veteran cadres were against the destruction of the party establishment (and thus their systems of support) and the promotion of anarchism. 18 When Mao was recalling the ‘all-round civil war’ which the Cultural Revolution had escalated into by the autumn of 1967, he commented to Edgar Snow on the factionalism of the time: “everywhere people were fighting, dividing into two factions; there were two factions in every factory, every school, in every province, in every county; every ministry was like that, the Foreign Ministry was split into two factions […] the Foreign Ministry was in chaos […] In July and August 1967, nothing could be done; there was massive upheaval throughout the country.” (Quoted in MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 199.) For Dutton (2005) this was a quintessential example of the Schmittian friend-enemy dyad; the question was: who was the enemy to be suppressed. The inspiration for the friend-enemy distinction more likely emanated from Lenin’s Kossack dictum of Kto, Kogo (кто кого?), or ‘Who, whom?’ (i.e., ‘who will prevail over whom’) (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 201). See Barnouin & Yu (1998) for a study of the Cultural Revolution in the Foreign Ministry of the PRC. 14

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for why he elected to pursue the line of politics he did. Instead, what is analysed in this chapter are his tactics in the pursuit of his politics, and especially how securitisation discourses played a part in these tactics.

8.2. The Tactics of Political Singularisation and the Legitimisation of Rule-Breaking

As already noted, the Cultural Revolution has been interpreted both as a line struggle within the party and as a means to purge and reset its top leadership. While Mao’s social and political authority was essential to launch and maintain the process, he was not its sole architect. The Leftist faction that came to dominate the Cultural Revolution Group tried to steer the movement in various directions. Even this faction, however, was not united, but at times divided between Lin Biao’s faction and Jiang Qing’s radical faction. While these groups used various tactics in their struggles to gain Mao’s favour, and thus an improved standing in the party hierarchies, of relevance here are security arguments in these power-plays, and the identity frames that were used in them. The party and even the People’s Republic had already witnessed several ‘line struggles’ and purges or ‘rectifications’ (see e.g., Dutton 2005).19 To label someone a leader of an erroneous line, or even the head of hidden ‘headquarters’, was a pre-existant practice within the party. Such tactics involved a security logic: those who were unwilling to abide by the Leninist principles of centralist democracy constituted a threat to the party.20 In terms of securitisation theory, there was a set of ‘master signifiers’ that had been ‘institutionally securitised’ in the previous purges the party had been through. Names and labels given to ourselves and others matter a great deal as they articulate people’s relations to others (Koselleck 2004b, 155-157). The use of such master signifiers is an example of how ‘asymmetric’ classifications are used in Chinese politics. The use of concepts like ‘erroneous lines’ excludes certain groups from the core of the party and thus, concomitantly, creates a unity within it. This serves the purpose of ‘political and social singularisation’ (ibid., 156). A prime example of such tactics is the singling out of Peng Zhen, a leading figure in the party and a political opponent of Mao. With the help of Jiang Qing, Mao would seem to have set an elaborate trap for Peng, who remained unaware until it was too late.21 Of con-

Mao termed the purge of Peng Dehuai as the eight line struggle, of Liu Shaoqi as the ninth, and the struggle against Lin Biao as one between ‘two headquarters’ and the tenth line struggle. Jiang Qing’s attempt to label Zhou Enlai as the instigator of an 11th line struggle in the mid 1970s was unsuccessful, even though the pi-Lin pi-Kong (批林批孔, pī-Lín pī-Kǒng) campaign (criticise Lin Biao and Confucius) of 1974 received the addition of pi Zhou Gong (批周公, pī-Zhōu Gōng), which alluded to Zhou Enlai. 20 It is important to note that the purges of Yang Shangkun and Luo Ruiqing that were at the hinge of the launch of the Cultural Revolution were not based on a security argument. Yang was formally dismissed (without any evidence presented) on charges of bugging Mao’s quarters, leaking party secrets, committing serious errors, and maintaining ‘extremely suspicious links’ with Luo Ruiqing, the PLA chief of staff (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 36-37). In the desecuritisation of the ‘enemies’ of the CR, all of the charges against Yang were declared to be political frame-ups. Luo was purged on the grounds of not ‘putting prominence to politics’ as well as his ‘reluctance to report to Lin Biao on a regular basis’ (ibid., 19-23). Mao however equated the ‘eclecticism’, or putting similar emphasis on political and professional matters, that Luo was charged with, with revisionism as eclecticism did not follow the enemy-friend dyad. For Mao, “revisionism is not wanting struggle, and not wanting revolution” (quoted in ibid., 24). Luo’s subsequent attempted suicide functioned as clear evidence of his resistance to the party (ibid., 27). 21 This trap was set by publishing a critique (Yao 1986) of Wu Han’s play Hai Rui Dismissed from Office (Wu 19

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sequence for this study is that the use of the grammar of securitisation was the final stage in this tactic to purge Peng and the others (i.e., Luo Ruiqing, Lu Dingyi, Yang Shangkun and his wife); to label them as security threats was a move that placed their fate unreservedly in the hands of Mao. Further, the tactic also provided a simple legitimisation narrative for the general public: sudden changes in the consolidated party leadership need not be interpreted as a sign of factional power-plays, but rather as a necessity for national security and the survival of the revolution. The unity of the party would be maintained, and the singling out of forces within, but in league against it, served precisely this function. In such processes of singularisation, exclusive claims at generality are made through self-definition, including identity imputations and frames. These effect counterconcepts, which discriminate against the ‘excluded’ (Koselleck 2004b, 156). Thereby the excluded are imbued with negative identities. The People’s Republic had seen a plethora of various rectification movements that purged the party of ‘Rightists’ and other ‘reactionaries’, and furthered the struggle against ’class enemies.’22 Such labels functioned to deny the reciprocity of mutual recognition, by which the Cultural Revolution would appear to have been just another rectification campaign. However, it went further than any previous campaigns and ‘broke the rules’ that had otherwise guided the People’s Republic since its inception. Overall, the Cultural Revolution appeared as a means to combat dangerous threats, whether they appeared in the form of counter-revolutionaries and spies or insects, mice and sparrows, all of which required violent combat in order to achieve victory and the consolidation of the continuous revolution. Thus, political enemies were designated as ‘evil demons and tigers’,23 which is a modus operandi that has been transported from the imperial into the PRC-era in, if not explicit forms after Mao’s times, at least its op-

1986) without the authorisation of the Propaganda Department; the trap was set in a way that Peng would get into trouble either by neglect of the article or by it’s endorsem*nt (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 17). To protect Wu (and himself), Peng did not allow the central publication of the article. However, Lin Biao authorised its publication in the Liberation Army Daily, which labelled the play as “an anti-party, anti-socialist and anti-Mao Zedong Thought poisonous weed which should be criticised” (quoted in Barnouin & Yu 1993, 56). Peng’s reaction was to authorise the ‘February Outline Report’ (中共中央 1966a), which he interpreted as approved by Mao. However, when Peng eventually realised that Mao had been behind the whole affair, it was already too late: Peng’s fate had been sealed all along. Already in April 1966, Mao had declared the Outline to be a “reversal of the relations between the enemy and ourselves, putting one into the position of the other” (quoted in Barnouin & Yu 1993, 61). From that time onwards, there would be no academic or artistic issues that could be separate from politics; both were considered concerned with class struggle. The way Mao dealt with Peng Zhen, later the ‘February Adverse Current’ in 1967, and eventually with Lin Biao at Lushan in 1970, brings to mind the tactical ploy or stratagem recommended by Chinese strategic classic Tai Gong (Nojonen 2008, 173): “Offer your opponent the things he likes, and abide by his will. Thus you increase his arrogance, and he will inevitably develop habits that he likes. This way you can direct his actions, and you will gain opportunities to do away with him.” 22 These include the Anti Corruption Campaign 1951-1952 (三反, sānfǎn), the New Anti Corruption Campaign 1953 (新三反运动, xīn sānfǎn yùndòng), the campaign to oppose corruption, speculation, waste, fragmentism and bureaucracy 1953 (五反运动, wǔfǎn yùndòng), the Rectification Campaign 1954 (干部整风运动, gànbù zhěngfēng yùndòng), the anti-corruption campaign among tax-collectors 1955 (税务部门反贪污运动, shuìwù bùmén tānwū yùndòng), another Rectification Campaign 1957 (整风运动, zhěngfēng yùndòng), and the AntiRightist movement 1957 (反右派运动, fǎnyòupài yùndòng). In fact, the Cultural Revolution was preceded by an anti-corruption campaign almost every year. (Han 2000, 14.) 23 Tigers were understood as animals with a close connection to demons in traditional Chinese folk-beliefs (Haar 2002). See 人民日报 (1.6.1966) for an example of the use of ‘demonic’ metaphors in Cultural Revolution political discourse.

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erational logic (ter Haar 1997; 2002). This ‘demonological paradigm’ has been used in China to form a dyad of an ‘us’ (天下, tiānxià; all under heaven) and an inhuman ‘them’ (妖怪, yāoguài; demons) that has legitimised most severe violent acts (ter Haar 2002, 36, 47).24 During the Cultural Revolution, the youth, in the form of the Red Guards, were to be the ones to carry out violent struggle against the threats that endangered China (Thurston 1990). In this way, the CCP utilised identity frames with cultural resonance at the local level in order to make its national level discourse more effective. As Barend ter Haar (2002, 56-57), in terms very close to the grammar of securitisation, notes: “This discourse [the demonological paradigm] helped create an other that could be dealt with aggressively outside the customary channels for solving political conflicts, which were perceived as too gradual.” Indeed, after Mao’s call to “bombard the headquarters” (毛泽东),25 many peasants used the opportunity to ‘settle old scores’ with local administrators (see for example Han 2000). The CCP has claimed to be against all forms of anti-scientific superstitions, inclusive of many anti-demonic practices prevalent in Chinese folk-beliefs. Yet, the party has not been adverse to the option to label some individuals or social groups as ‘bad elements’ for removal from society, and even elimination by means of drastic violence (Haar 2002, 54).26 As evidenced by the frequency of purges within the CCP and in Chinese society in general (see for example Dutton 2005), the practice of ‘demonising’ individuals has not vanished: ‘demons’ were replaced with ‘struggle’ and ‘counter-revolution’ (ter Haar 2002, 54). Indeed, during the Mao era, which frequently utilised the grammatical relationships of the demonological paradigm, counter-revolution was a violent threat that had to be responded to with equal counterviolence. Even though the threat was different to that of the imperial era, violence remained the means with which to deal with it i.e., the means to exorcise the ‘evil.’27 The actual referent of the threat that China faced was left

For example, from 1850 onwards the Taipings referred to both external conflict and internal strife in demonic terms; the Taipings were the divine army needed to combat demons, while individuals who ranged from local opponents to the Manchus were represented as demons (Haar 2002, 47; see also Haar 1997). While Chinese sectarian scriptures often portray apocalyptic destruction as a cosmic event principally carried out by spirits and demons, some sectarians, like the Taipings, have felt compelled to commit violent acts to expedite the arrival of the millennium (Shek 1990, 103). Not all Chinese sectarian groups have rebelled or become violent. Similarly, not all millenarian religious groups have used violence (Rinehart 2006, 26). Yet, the urgent and immediate eschatology of sectarian groups makes their potential for subversion greater than orthodox forms of religion (ibid., 108). 25 Mao scribbled his own ’big character poster’ (毛泽东 1966) on an old issue of Beijing Daily at the August 1966 11th Plenum of the 8th Central Committee which witnessed the largest leadership change in 20 years at the top of the party (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008). The crux of Mao’s poster was the identification of the ‘bourgeois headquarters headed by Liu Shaoqi.’ Mao’s ‘poster’ was circulated at the Plenum, and published nationally a year later when Liu’s purge was already public knowledge (People’s Daily August 5 1967). 26 Cf., Schmitt’s (1996) concept of hostis: all systems retain the possibility to decide upon inner enemies. 27 This demonological paradigm may also explain Mao’s use of quasi-religious language like ‘ox-monsters’, ‘snake-demons’, ‘evil spirits’, and ‘poisonous weeds’ in his political rhetoric, and practices like ‘loyalty dances’ that were prevalent in Maoist politics (Perry & Selden 2003b). Such concepts and practices have long traditions. Awareness of demonic folklore was widespread and provided cultural resonance for the steering popular traditions into support for the CCP. For example, the ox-demon (牛鬼, niúguǐ) which appears in many folk tales, was used to dehumanise people; in the CCP’s usage it labelled its targets as being a threat to society as well as backward, in a time when there was a call to “smash the old and build the new” (Haar 2002, 56). Public morality has been connected to notions of security on the level of individuals or smaller segments of society in China: the deceased were believed to become avengeful ghosts or forces of protection, depending on the behaviour of individuals and groups in respect of correct morality (Radtke 2008, 204). 24

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open, which allowed its convenient use in various situations.28 Indeed, the logic and legitimisation of the CR suggested that the struggle of the progressives had not ended with the victory in the civil war and the consolidation of the CCP; it was to continue with violent means for the sake of the revolution, and eventually Mao Zedong.29 Thereafter, the securitisation of various top-party representatives allowed and facilitated their legitimate removal from the leadership and their securitisation then served the factional struggle and inner-party politics of the time. In general, the security aspect of the Cultural Revolution served to construct an enemy within society and the legitimisation of a greater degree of violence against this enemy than would have otherwise been normally permissable. Beyond the use of violence, the securitising arguments legitimised further ‘breaking of rules’. In early 1966, the Communist Party had total control of Chinese politics and society. Yet, counter to this objective and practice, the Cultural Revolution allowed unmediated attacks on party officials and institutions. Mao seemingly ceded power to the ‘streets’ with his policy of ‘seizure of power’, until the crackdown on the Red Guard movement in 1968.30 These practices and the mass campaigns of terror directed to expose revisionists Political legitimacy in some other Asian societies also depends on the exercise of political power in ways that resonate with religious notions of righteousness and world order, for example in Cambodia (Kent 2006, 350-351). 28 Recall Murray Edelman’s (1972) argument of the obscurity of threats as a useful political tool. 29 Anne Thurston (1990) has analysed the use of violence during the Cultural Revolution from three levels: 1) a permissive level that contained the long-term, underlying factors that make the use of violence possible, 2) the proximate level, i.e., those social and ideological conditions that foster and legitimise violence, and 3) the immediate conditions that lead individuals to act violently. The focus of securitisation theory and this analysis has been at the second level. 30 For example, the big character poster that criticised the university authorities at Beida University of sabotage against the Cultural Revolution could have been deemed as a political crime in 1966. Before this apparently unmediated attack, criticism of authorities had always been organised and initiated by the authorities themselves. Mao nonetheless hailed this as the “first Marxist-Leninist big character poster” (Mao 1966). The handling of the Beida incident by sending ‘work teams’ as a standard operating procedure to deal with the issue, was to be one of the undoings of Liu Shaoqi in 1967; despite the prior purge of Peng Zhen and the others, Liu Shaoqi did not seem to perceive the Cultural Revolution as a new kind of mass campaign, or even as a threat to himself. In endorsing the formulations of the ‘May 16 Circular’ (中发 267), he did not recognise himself as ‘one of the representatives of the bourgeois who had sneaked into the party.’ Nor did Liu try to adhere to his decision to send in the work teams to deal with the Beida incident, when Mao declared this to be the wrong line of action. See MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 63-65) on the issue of work teams. The power seizure policy of 1967 revealed that Mao had a design for an entirely new state machine (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 108-109); it seems that Mao’s plan was to replace the old state organs of power with ‘revolutionary committees’ based on ‘great alliances of all revolutionary organisations’ (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 239). The youth of China had been brought up in a culture of violence (see Thurston 1990); as MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 131) note, the destruction the Red Guards was allowed to wreak went against the normally controlled and calibrated political violence of the party. Massive unrest seems to have been Mao’s goal, as he toasted “to the unfolding of nationwide all-round civil war” on his 73th birthday in December 1966 (quoted in ibid., 155). In the end, most power seizures failed, and the military increased its influence, for example, in the form of the militarisation of ministries; even the ‘revolutionary committees’ retained the distinction between the revolutionary masses and the party vanguard (ibid., 160, 170-171, 240). The ‘new political system’ Mao had envisaged turned out to be a modification of the old, mainly manned by officers of the PLA (ibid., 247). The PLA played a dual role during the CR: on the one hand it had the responsibility to maintain order, while on the other it played a crucial role in the power seizures. Some segments of government (e.g., ministries of public security and the national media) were off limits for the Red Guards; rectification movements within the PLA were also at times restricted, especially in units close to border regions. The PLA was, however, not consistent in how it played along with the power seizures, which succeeded in some places while failed in others (some PLA units fought with Red Guards, even before they were called to ‘restore order’). The Cultural Revolution Group tried to use the power seizures to gain a power-base in the PLA, but this was not completely successful;

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of one sort or another put into question the whole basis of the political order. Indeed, it would seem that Mao desired to replace the whole system with personal leadership. Mao was the self-evident hero of the revolution, but replacement of the collective leadership was a drastic measure. Since the Long March, the apex of CCP leadership had remained relatively stable with leadership changes of only secondary importance. The seventh Party Congress in 1945 had established the basic patterns of power structures within the party that lasted for some two decades until the CR was instigated.31 In the mid 1950s, the revolution seemed consolidated enough to allow the party to focus on more practical matters.32 In 1958 Mao had defined his own role in the party as retirement to the ‘second front’ of principal leadership and handing over to Liu Shaoqi and other leading cadres the day-to-day operations of the party and the state. However, in the early 1960s, it seems that Mao chose to break with this set pattern (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 25); the targets of the purges concluded as part of the CR clearly went beyond the ‘usual suspects’ of previous rectification campaigns (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 41).33 By August 1966, with the CR as his tool, Mao was able to replace the agreed-upon method

many provincial commanders still preferred to maintain ‘law-and-order.’ (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 174-183.) In terms of securitisation theory, the PLA was an important functional actor on the level of practice in this process of securitisation and the politics that followed. 31 Mao was elected as the Chairman of the Central Committee, the Politburo, and the secretariat, which included Liu Shaoqi, Zhou Enlai, Zhu De, and Ren Bishi. After the foundation of the PRC, Mao became the head of state with Liu Shaoqi as his deputy and Zhou Enlai as the third in the state hierarchy. This structure remained fairly stable until the CR. Indeed, Mao remarked to British Field Marshal Montgomery in 1961 that Liu’s position as his successor had been firmly established since the seventh Party Congress (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 37). 32 In September 1956, the Eighth Party Congress had declared that the socialist system had been essentially established: “contradictions among the proletariat and the bourgeoisie have been basically solved” (Central Research Department of History 1986, 277), even though there still remained some remnants of the old system: “the major contradiction still existing in China was between the advanced socialist system and the backward production forces in society.” (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 3.) Mao (1957) began his 1957 speech on the correct handling of contradictions among the people by emphasising that “never before has our country been as united as it is today. […] The days of national disunity and chaos which the people detested are gone, never to return.” In this situation, the task for the party was the development of production and industrialisation, not the hunting down of class enemies or revisionists. In this spirit of normalisation, even the reference to Mao Zedong thought was removed from the party constitution by Deng Xiaoping (only to be reinserted again in the constitution at the Ninth Party Congress in 1969 [The Constitution 1986]). By the start of the anti-Rightist campaign, at the latest, Mao had, however, changed his view on this issue (see Dutton 2005, 189-191). In 1959 he used language that would become characteristic of the Cultural Revolution: “The struggle at the Lushan conference is a class struggle, a continuation of the life and death struggle between the two major antagonistic classes – the bourgeois and the proletarian classes.” (Quoted in Barnouin & Yu 1993, 10.) The implications of this line of thought would become evident in the latter half of the 1960s. 33 MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 46-47) note how many party cadres found the accusation against Peng, Luo, Lu and Yang of being anti-party, hard to believe (in addition to providing many examples of how leading cadres did not see the CR going beyond the anti-Rightist Movement e.g., ibid., 58, 72-73). Liu Shaoqi among others explained away this apparent contradiction by presenting revisionists as hiding under the banner of the party. The issue of such revisionism sneaking into the party was an issue of class struggle that was ‘independent of man’s will.’ This line of argumentation was already evident in the polemics with the Soviet Union: “The class struggle in socialist society is inevitably reflected in the Communist Party. The bourgeoisie and international imperialism both understand that in order to make a socialist country to degenerate into a capitalist country, it is first necessary to make the Communist Party degenerate into a revisionist party. The old and new bourgeois elements […] constitute the social basis of revisionism, and they use every possible means to find agents within the Communist Party.” (The Polemic 1965, 423-424.) In practice however, it was only with Mao’s authority that revisionists could be uncovered; only Mao could ‘decide’ who the revisionists at the top of the party were (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 48). While the other leaders who were purged as revisionists came under Mao’s fire unsuspectedly, it seems that only Lin Biao was proactive in becoming a target of campaigning by planning Mao’s assassination and trying to defect.

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of rule, the collective leadership with himself.34 In February 1967 the Central Committee ceased to function and was de facto replaced by the Cultural Revolution Group.35 While Mao was in a position of unquestionable power even as the CR was launched, he none the less operated with security arguments to purge the top leadership. It would appear that such purges, without special justification, would have been viewed as an abuse of power, even in Mao’s case. This may be one practical function for the use of ‘singularising’ identities and concepts i.e., for the securitisation of several top leaders of the party as counter-revolutionaries.

8.3. The Securitisation Process

The opening salvoes of the Cultural Revolution burst into the cultural sphere when Mao began to criticise the opera Hai Rui Dismissed from Office (Wu 1986),36 and Yang Shangkun was dismissed from his post in 1965. The ‘Five Man Group in Charge of the Cultural Revolution’ was against the interpretation of the play in a political way and proposed in the so called ‘February Outline’ (中共中央 1966a) that it should be treated as an ‘academic issue’. The targeting blasts from Mao in late 1965 were followed with more explicit and ferocious attacks in May 1966, when the Central Committee decided to revoke the ‘Outline Report on Current Academic Discussions made by the Five-member Cultural Revolution Group’, to dissolve the ‘Group of Five in Charge of the Cultural Revolution’ and its offices, and to set up a new Cultural Revolution Group directly under the Standing Committee of the Political Bureau (中发 267).37

The August 1968 Plenum of the Central Committee raised Lin Biao to second rank within the party, expelled Liu Shaoqi from the party, and at the same time terminated the division between the first and the second ‘front’ of the party. The police and security forces were also forced to ‘break the rules’ with regard to the activities of the Red Guards, which in effect resulted in the collapse of the entire public security system (Dutton 2005, 220-221). Instead of the defence of the party, the referent object had shifted to Mao and Lin Biao by January 1967 (ibid., 224). 35 In line with the exceptionality of the CR, after the 11th plenum Zhou Enlai chaired meetings of the Central Caucus Revolution Group (中央碰头会议, zhōngyāng pèngtóuhuìyì; CCRG) which was an administrative body that had no mention in the party constitution (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 99). The CCRG formally rose above the State Council at the Twelfth Plenum of 1968 (ibid., 279). While the CCRG worked together with Lin Biao to produce and maintain the securitisation discourse in the early years of the Cultural Revolution, in terms of securitisation theory, this leadership group was ‘creating space’ for the Central Case Examination Group, which worked as the practical tool to foment violence against the targets specified in the general securitisation of ‘revisionists’ and ‘counter-revolutionaries.’ Established in 1966 as an ad-hoc committee to investigate the cases of Peng, Luo, Lu and Yang, the Group was abolished by the Third Plenum of the Eleventh Central Committee, after it had prepared the cases of Jiang Qing, Zhang Chunqiao, Yao Wenyuan and Wang Hongwen, in 1978. See Schoenhals (1996, 93-94) and MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 281-284) on how this organ with a permanent staff of thousands, worked in practice. 36 Political satire was in vogue in the early 1960s China. Those in the literary field could use the metaphorical language of satire to criticise Mao and the party leadership. Mao also recognised the use of satirical novels and plays as ‘anti-party’ weapons. (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 16-22.) Ironically, Mao at first seemed to endorse the history of Hai Rui in 1959-1962, and as a result, Wu Han’s play was published in 1961 (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 15). It was only after Jiang Qing’s repeated efforts and as the political environment shifted that the play became a veiled target and a means to launch political purges at the top level. (It appears that Kang Sheng eventually convinced Mao in 1964 that the play established a parallel between Peng Dehuai who had been purged in 1959 and Hai Rui, and that this represented an attempt to reverse Peng’s verdict.) See Barnouin & Yu (1993, 51-72) on the detailed developments of the interpretation and function of the play. 37 In addition to the onerous contents of this circular Mao already operated through exceptional measures: he bypassed the official line of command and instructed Kang Sheng and Chen Boda to transmit orders to the party 34

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This decision was presented in the ‘May 16 Circular’ (中发 267), which already contained elements of security.38 It claimed (Box 23) that “while feigning compliance, the outline actually opposes and stubbornly resists the great Cultural Revolution. […] Using the banner of ‘under the guidance of Mao Zedong thought’ as cover, the outline actually attempts to open up a way opposed to Mao Zedong thought, that is the way of modern revisionism, the way for the restoration of capitalism.” Peng Zhen, a leading figure in the party and a political opponent of Mao, was singled out as the true author of the Outline. The authors of the Outline were then labelled as “a bunch of counter-revolutionaries opposing the communist party and the people.” Their activities were presented as fierce : “their struggle against us is one of life and death, and there is no question of equality. Therefore, our struggle against them, too, can be nothing but a life-and-death struggle, and our relation with them can in no way be one of equality.” An element of the future was also present: “Far from being a minor issue, the struggle against this revisionist line is an issue of prime importance having a vital bearing on the destiny and future of our party and state, on the future complexion of our party and state, and on the world revolution.”39 I speech act: claim

Propositional content

Peng Zhen and the others are revisionists, opposed to Mao Zedong Thought, and trying to restore Capitalism.

Essential content

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that Peng Zhen and others are opposing Mao Zedong Thought and trying to restore Capitalism represents an actual state of affairs.

Preparatory condition content

1) The circular lists the main errors of the ‘February Outline.’ 2) It is not obvious that the ‘Outline’ was in error (Peng Zhen and the ‘Group of Five’ were leading party members).

Box 23: The claim speech act in the May 16 circular (中发 267).

The Circular further warned (Box 24) that the bourgeoisie had infiltrated the party and were planning to restore capitalism and turn the dictatorship of the proletariat into a dictatorship of the bourgeoisie: “Those representatives of the bourgeoisie who have sneaked into the party, the government, the army, and various cultural circles are a bunch of counter-revolutionary revisionists.” The dimension of the future is important here: “Once conditions are ripe, they will seize political power and turn the dictatorship of the proletariat into a dictatorship of the bourgeoisie.” The Circular not only listed struggles already won, but it warned of future ones to come: “Some of them we have already seen through, others we have not.” The warning also utilised the status of Khrushchev as a signifier of institutionalised securitisation as the issue was about the threat of revisionism becoming a reality

secretariat to draft the circular to revoke the February Outline, and instructed the Politburo to hold an enlarged meeting that comprised of more radicals (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 64). 38 Deng Xiaoping and Zhou Enlai had already distanced themselves from Peng Zhen at this point, as it was they who made the proposal to Mao within the Politburo Standing Committee that a new circular should be drafted to annul the ‘February Outline’ (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 33). 39 The issue of world revolution shows how the discourse of the time functioned as a part of the greater Cold War macrosecuritisation discourse.

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in the CCP as well, which should be prevented at any cost: “Some are still trusted by us and are being trained as our successors, Khrushchev-like people are still nestling beside us. Party committees at all levels must pay full attention to this matter.” II speech act: warn

Propositional content

Preparatory condition content Essential content

Representatives of the Bourgeoisie who have sneaked into the party will seize political power and turn the dictatorship of the proletariat into a dictatorship of the bourgeoisie, once conditions are ripe.

1) Party cadres have reason to believe that the bourgeoisie within the party could turn the dictatorship of the proletariat into a dictatorship of the bourgeoisie, and that it is not in their best interest. 2) It is not obvious that the dictatorship of the proletariat would be turned into a dictatorship of the bourgeoisie.

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the bourgeoisie turning the dictatorship of the proletariat into a dictatorship of the bourgeoisie is not in the cadres’ best interest.

Box 24: The warning speech act in the May 16 circular (中发 267).

Finally, the Circular required (Box 25) that party-members take action in order to prevent the restoration of capitalism i.e., to secure the revolution and the sovereignty of the socialist regime: “Party committees at all levels must immediately stop carrying out the ‘Outline Report on the Current Academic Discussion made by the Group of Five in Charge of the Cultural Revolution.’ The whole party must follow Comrade Mao Zedong’s instructions, hold high the great banner of the proletarian Cultural Revolution, thoroughly expose the reactionary bourgeois stand of those so-called ‘academic authorities’ who oppose the party and socialism, thoroughly criticise and repudiate the reactionary bourgeois ideas in the sphere of academic work, education, journalism, literature and art, and publishing, and seize the leadership in these cultural spheres.” The means to achieve this would be to purge the leadership of the CCP: “To achieve this, it is necessary at the same time to criticise and repudiate those representatives of the bourgeoisie who have sneaked into the party, the government, the army, and all spheres of culture, to clear them out or transfer some of them to other positions.” The Circular summoned both the authority and socio-political capital of the Central Committee to brand the issue of the ‘February Outline’ as one of the security of the revolution and the socialist system in this move of securitisation for control. It was on this basis that the purges of the ‘pragmatist’ faction were founded. As MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 38) note, the purge of Peng and the others was a ‘hinge event’: it was the last that preceded the CR and was at the same time the first purge of the CR.

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Propositional content

Preparatory condition content

Essential content

III speech act: Require

Party committees at all levels must immediately stop carrying out the ‘Outline’ and expose the reactionary bourgeoisie, and seize the leadership in cultural spheres.

1) Party members are able to carry out the requirements of the circular. 2) It is not obvious that party members would carry out the requirements on their own in the normal course of events. 3) The requirements are necessary to prevent the restoration of Capitalism (the reason for carrying out the requirements). Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the requirements of the circular be carried out in virtue of exposing the bourgeoisie in the party and thereby preventing the restoration of Capitalism.

Box 25: The requirement speech act in the May 16 circular (中发 267).

8.3.1. Lin’s May 18 Speech to the Enlarged Session of the Politburo

Lin Biao’s (林彪 1966) May 18 speech drove the security argument of the May 16 Circular to its conclusion.40 Lin claimed and warned that Peng Zhen and the others (Luo Ruiqing, Lu Dingyi and Yang Shangkun plus his wife)41 were planning a counter-revolutionary coup d’état. Lin facilitated his claim and warning by recalling at length the Chinese imperial history of prior successive coups to gain political power: “From our national history of successive states with very short periods of ten, twenty, thirty, fifty years between coups, we see that there are many cases of losing state power.” Not only that, but Lin also listed statistics of frequently occurring coups around the world: “Today, coup d’états have turned into a general mood. Coups have become a common practice in the world.” Lin also tied the issue of Peng and the others together with the ‘counter-revolutionaries’ that had already been ‘ferreted out’ by the party: “Luckily, during these past years we have crushed one by one, […] and destroyed great sentries like Peng Dehuai and Zhang Wentian.” Lin ( 林彪 1966) then claimed (Box 26) that the greatest issue in the question of Peng Zhen and the others under discussion, was the security of the revolution and the socialist state: “The biggest issue is preventing a counter-revolutionary coup d’état, guarding against subversion, guarding against ’bitter repeated hits.’”

Lin who did not like to read books or documents, had 16 experts whose task was to read books and documents on Chinese history and philosophy as well as on foreign affairs and to brief him on these matters. These helped Lin interpret Mao’s historical quotes, allow him to use such himself, and to provide material for his major speeches that he mostly wrote himself. (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 206-207.) 41 This later named ’Peng-Luo-Lu-Yang anti-party clique’ was (coincidentally?) in charge of the capital, propaganda, daily control of the PLA, and the CCP’s paper flow; as well as remnants of the ’Yan’an roundtable’ (MacFarquhar 1983, 470-472). This comprehensive grasp of power was among the facts Lin listed as evidencing their complicity in the bourgeois coup plot. 40

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Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

I speech act: claim

Peng Zhen and the other revisionists are planning a coup d’état.

1) Li gives evidence of this by reporting Mao’s findings, citing statistics of coups, and reminding about the Chinese history of successive coups. 2) It is not obvious that Peng Zhen and other leading Party members are planning a coup. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that Peng Zhen and others planning a coup represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 26: The claim speech act in Lin Biao’s May 18 speech (林彪 1966).

Furthermore, Lin warned (Box 27) against turning a blind eye to revisionism, and urged to remain on guard at all times (especially when the situation seemed good): “We can not turn a deaf ear or a blind eye or be indifferent. Not to struggle arduously, forgetting these kinds of issues, not to see the essence of issues, would be a blunder. Not to be on guard invites great trouble.” Lin argued that the bourgeoisie was constantly planning to retake political power and to subvert the socialist state. Therefore politics should be kept in mind, so as not to make a mistake leading to the loss of state power: “After the victorious revolution we already captured state power, many comrades do not consider state power per se as an issue, for them it is merely an issue of construction, an issue of education, an issue of tackling with Jiang Jieshi [Chiang Kaishek], dealing with the US, but not thinking about wresting state power can lead to losing state power, the dictatorship of the proletariat can still change into the dictatorship of the bourgeoisie.”42

Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

II speech act: warn

State power can be lost and the dictatorship of the proletariat can turn into the dictatorship of the bourgeoisie.

1) The politburo has reason to believe there could be a coup (there have been coups in the past, for example) and that it is not in their best interest. 2) It is not obvious that there would be a coup. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that state power being lost (which would happen if things remain the same) is not in the politburo’s interests.

Box 27: The warning speech act of Lin’s May 18 speech (林彪 1966).

However, the issue of a counter-revolutionary coup was not inevitable. As Wæver (Buzan et al. 1998; Wæver 1995) has noted, (most) security arguments are about the future: the security argument warns of the danger of inaction and presents the way out of the threat.

This is an example of the way Lin used his research staff to relate Chinese classics to his political speeches in the style of Mao Zedong. 42

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Lin appears to have been following such an avenue of thought (林彪 1966): “[W]e cannot slacken our ideology, in operations we should adopt specific measures to have the ability to prevent disasters before they happen. We should grasp the capitalist representatives, the time bomb and the landmine,43 to discover them beforehand, to dig them out and eradicate them.” The party should retain its vigilance as the counter-revolutionaries remain a threat: “If this is not done, one day, at a mature and opportune time, there will be a counterrevolutionary coup d’état, perhaps during a natural disaster, perhaps during war, perhaps a century after Mao Zedong, these kinds of political crisis may come about.” His speech also contained the element of two possible futures: “Of course there are two prospects. Their scheme is not certain to succeed, is not certain of victory, and is not sure to be realized. […] They can succeed, they can be defeated.” For Lin, success at all critical junctions entailed keeping up a constant guard against counter-revolutionaries: “If we do not pay attention, if all are scatterbrains, they can succeed. If we are on guard they can not succeed. They want to chop our heads off, unreliable! In the event they want to start something, make a counter-revolutionary coup, we will chop their heads off. At any time, no matter how good the situation, there is always a gloomy side. When times are good, you must see the gloomy side. If there is no bad, good can not be considered as good. The reason for good being good is bad. The reason for bad being bad is that there is good.” After presenting such a dangerous situation with the possibility of dire consequences: “From this great mass of evidence we can see that we should guard against an internal revolt, prevent a counter-revolutionary coup d’état”, Lin then requested (Box 28) that the members of the standing committee remain vigilant and keep their guard up: “We must use Mao Zedong Thought as a weapon to criticise and expose various kinds of revisionism, criticise and expose the representatives of the bourgeoisie on all fronts and in every department, ferret out the bourgeoisie thought beating the gong of capitalism, to carry the great proletarian cultural revolution to the end, and to carry the socialist revolution to the end.” Such deeds would provide security: “This will guarantee us against revisionism, avoid capitalist restoration. This is the utmost essence, the crux of the issue. In practice this meant opposition to Peng Zhen and the others, to maintain Mao Zedong Thought and Chairman Mao as the absolute ruler of the party and the state. Lin’s argument conforms with the grammar of a securitisation move for legitimating future acts. The acceptance of such a move would provide legitimacy for continued struggle, to purge leading party members, and for the supreme position of Chairman Mao (林彪 1966): “After this struggle there will not be a sense of peace. There are still some people with private ownership and the conception of the exploiting class, deeply rooted and permeated into every cell of their being. They want to play tricks at all times, to improve their guard.” The security argument of a coming coup allowed Mao to gain the upper hand in the factional struggles. This was necessitated by the dire situation: “We must grasp politics and not let go, grasp and apply Mao Zedong’s works. This is a demand of the revolution. This is a demand of the situation, a demand of the struggle against the enemy, a demand of war preparedness, a demand of thoroughly obtaining the victory of the great proletarian cultural revolution, a demand of guarding against and opposing revisionism, and it is a demand of guarding against capitalist restoration. […] If we do not direct our actions ac Zhou Enlai also referred to the purge of the ‘Peng-Luo-Lu,Yang anti-party clique’ as the removal of a ‘time bomb’ in his speech on May 21, 1966 (quoted in MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 37-38). 43

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cording to the needs of the revolution, it will inevitably lead to great errors, it will inevitably lead to defeat.”44

Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

III speech act: request

The Politburo should prevent a counter-revolutionary coup d’état by grasping politics and Mao Zedong Thought, and by criticising and repudiating Peng Zhen and the others. 1) The politburo is able to do what Lin requests. 2) It is not obvious that the politburo would do what Lin requests of their own accord. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the politburo being on guard, grasping Mao Zedong Thought, and repudiating Peng Zhen and the others, is legitimate and becomes an actual state of affairs.

Box 28: The request speech act in Lin’s May 18 speech (林彪 1966).

While not an indicator of the ‘success’ of the securitisation (cf., the discussion on three ‘(t) ions’ above), the gravity of the speeches and of the purge is evident in that it was accompanied by the securing of Beijing with military forces. In addition to troop movements, a special task force, the Capital Work Team, was set up and military and public security personnel were reorganised in order to respond to Mao’s concerns over the security of the capital (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 49-51). Mao could have ordered these movements and dealt with the other leaders with force,45 but chose to use security arguments to curb the leaders who appeared not to follow his vision of continuous revolution. Thus, from the point of view of Securitisation Studies, it is precisely this line of operation that makes the beginning of the Cultural Revolution relevant.

8.3.2. Lin Biao’s October 25 Speech

In the most systematic attempt at explaining the ‘need’ for a Cultural Revolution that the top leadership had made in 1966 up to that point (Schoenhals 1996, 3), Lin Biao (中发 542) claimed (Box 29) that the Cultural Revolution was an issue of the very survival of the revolution:46 “The result [of the superstructure not catching up with changes in The emphasis of Mao’s thought as the weapon against the counter-revolutionaries also paved the way for the personality cult of Mao: “Mao Zedong thought is the beacon of humanity, the most penetrating weapon of the world revolution, it is the universal truth of the entire world. […] Chairman Mao is a genius […] everything the Chairman says is the truth, one of the Chairman’s words outstrips the meaning of ten thousand of our sentences.” (林彪 1966.) 45 He probably would have been successful, for example, in sidelining his opponents without recourse to the language of coups and emergencies by asking them to step down in private. 46 Mao convened a Central Committee working conference in October, right on the heels of a Red Flag editorial which had identified two opposing political lines within the party for the general public. The as yet unidentified representatives of the reactionary bourgeois line would become clear after this working conference, with the purpose of ‘thoroughly criticising and repudiating’ this reactionary line. While Liu Shaoqi still remained as part of the ‘people’ in October, the April 1 1967 Red Flag article, which identified him as the ‘top party person in power taking the capitalist road,’ marked his final and deadly fall from the top of the party. 44

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the economic base] will be the restoration of capitalism and the subversion of the people’s democratic dictatorship, which protects the system of public ownership.” Not only that, but China would once more be subjugated by foreign powers: “The socialist system of public ownership will be overturned, and China will become ruled by revisionists and regress to a semi-feudal and semi-colonial status.” The Cultural Revolution would be the answer: “Thus to carry out a Great Cultural Revolution or not is a major political question that will decide whether or not proletarian political power can be consolidated and the fruits of revolution can be developed. It is a major political question that will decide the success and failure of our revolution.”

Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

I speech act: claim

Carrying out a Great Cultural Revolution or not is a major political question that will decide the success or failure of the revolution.

1) Li provides reasons for why preventing new social productive forces from developing would lead to the restoration of capitalism and the subversion of the people’s democratic dictatorship. 2) It is not obvious that capitalism will be restored.

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that whether or not to carry out a Cultural Revolution being a major political question that decides the success or failure of the revolution represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 29: The claim speech act in Lin Biao’s October 25 speech (中发 542).

Lin facilitated his claim with references to Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union, which were portrayed as having already regressed to bourgeois restoration: “If we do not grasp this point, the development that has occurred in the Soviet Union and Yugoslavia will also take place here.” Without the Cultural Revolution, China would end up in the same position as well: “Unless we firmly grasp the Cultural Revolution and unless we carry the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution through to the end, we too will end up changing our colour midway.” Lin also emphasised his claim by warning (Box 30) that without the Cultural Revolution the fruits of the socialist revolution would be lost and the People’s Republic would be subverted by revisionism: “It must be realised that without the successful unfolding of the Cultural Revolution and ideological construction, the fruits we have gained in the first two great constructions [political construction and economic construction] will be lost. Thus it is incumbent on us to emulate Chairman Mao’s launching of a cultural revolution on a massive scale.” Finally, Lin explained (Box 31) the purge of Pen Zhen and the others: “Inside our party, there are also people hoping to be restored to rule. Peng [Zhen], Luo [Ruiqing], Lu [Dingyi], and Yang [Shangkun] are such types, who contemplate in vein the launching of a counterrevolutionary coup. If we had not undertaken this Cultural Revolution or if we had not gone after them, they would have come to attack us.” He called for renewed struggle and the

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carrying on of the Cultural Revolution with the threat of a counter-revolutionary coup i.e., loss of state power: “These [reactionary letters and handbills] are all signs of people hoping to be ‘restored to rule.’ When the time is ripe, these nasty types will come out and stir up trouble and rebel against the people. […] Therefore we must go for them and strike at them. If we do not attack them, they will attack us.” (中发 542.) Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

II speech act: warn

Without the successful unfolding of the Cultural Revolution the gains of the two great constructions will be lost.

1) The politburo has reason to believe capitalism could be restored and the fruits of the revolution could be lost and that it is not in their best interest. 2) It is not obvious that capitalism would be restored in any case. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that not to launch a Cultural Revolution on a massive scale is not in the politburo’s best interest.

Box 30: The warn speech act in Lin Biao’s October 25 speech (中发 542). III speech act: explain

Propositional content

To prevent a counter-revolutionary coup was the reason to purge Peng Zhen and the others.

Essential content

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the purge of Peng Zhen and the others having been a preventive measure against a counter-revolutionary coup, represents the actual state of affairs.

Preparatory condition content

1) The purges had been made. 2) It is not obvious why the purges had to be made.

Box 31: The explain speech act in Lin Biao’s October 25 speech (中发 542).

Lin’s October 25 1966 speech provided the template for the post-hoc maintenance of the securitisation argument: this pattern would be used over and over again as one rectification campaign after another would come to define the next decade of Chinese politics. The purge of Peng Zhen and the others paved the way to eliminate Liu Shaoqi from the party. As the CR moved on, Liu was – in an increasingly systematic manner – criticised in order to destroy his popular image. Mao’s first heir apparent, and a veteran of the revolutionary war, was vilified as a major revisionist and the leader of the ‘dark headquarters’ whose aim was the restoration of capitalism. While the Cultural Revolution initially targeted ‘enemies’ within the party, by the 1970s, ‘undesirables’ were sought after even beyond the party on a massive scale. Once the threat discourse had served its purpose to legitimise the purge of most topleaders from the party, the effects of the Cultural Revolution spread outwards to finally 266

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encompass almost the entirety of Chinese society. For example, in January 1970, Mao linked the Soviet threat to class struggle within China, and launched yet another campaign (the ‘one smash, three antis’). The line of the campaign deemed it imperative to eliminate counter-revolutionaries before a Soviet onslaught (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 190191). Another example is the campaign that targeted the ‘Counter-revolutionary May 16 Conspiracy’ and investigated 10 million people nationwide.47 Current CCP historians present this campaign as an effort to ‘ferret out’ non-existent class-enemies (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 221). If this is indeed so, then the fact that a non-existent conspiracy was successfully securitised, and had such massive consequences, only highlights the point that an issue can become a security concern regardless of whether or not there is a ‘real’ threat.48

8.3.3. Public Securitisation at the Start of the Cultural Revolution

The Chinese propaganda system is divided into three sections: internal party propaganda, domestic propaganda, and foreign propaganda (Shambaugh 2007). This distinction between internal party and domestic propaganda was also apparent in the process of securitisation at the early stages of the Cultural Revolution. The criticism of Wu Han that served as the opportunity to begin the process of purges in the top leadership only became public in April 1966. Lin’s speeches and the May 16 circular analysed above were initially restricted to inner-party circulation only. Although the May 16 circular was disseminated for cadres together with the February Outline with the instruction to study and compare them, the issue was not initially propagated to the greater public (see 中发 267).49 In the Wenhui daily, Jiang Qing wrote an article which repudiated the February Outline (中共中央 1966a), and the May 16 Circular was eventually published in Renmin ribao on May 18 1967 as ‘A Great Historical Document” (中发 160). The security argument contained in it was maintained until the re-evaluation of the Cultural Revolution era (e.g., the May 16 circular was celebrated both in Renmin ribao and Red Flag also on the second and 10th anniversaries of its issuance; 人民日报 16.5.1976).50 ‘Cleansing the class ranks’ was a campaign that targeted some 36 million people with 750000 to 1.5 million people killed in order to ‘resolve contradictions between the enemy and us’ (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 253-262). 48 The use of torture to impose upon the victim being interrogated the correct nature of their crimes, may have played no small role in ‘uncovering’ alleged hidden networks of this ‘May 16 Conspiracy.’ See Dutton (e.g., 2005, 14, 34-41) on past practices in the use of false intelligence created as a result of torture in previous rectification campaigns within the party. The cycle of extorting confessions to which to then give credence even has it own concept: 逼供信 (bī-gòng-xìn). Such practices magnify the sense of threat and breed excesses as ‘phantom menaces’ can begin to be found almost anywhere. Ironically, most of the 1966 beneficiaries of the Cultural Revolution within the top leadership, were identified as the conspiracy’s main culprits (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 233); for example, in the late summer of 1970, Chen Boda was accused of being a ‘sinister backstage boss’ of the conspiracy (ibid., 237). In 1972, he was formally labelled a “GMD anti-Communist element, Trotskyite, renegade, special agent, and revisionist, guilty of the most heinous crimes” (quoted in ibid., 356). The use of security watchwords was common in everyday exchanges, and even the most banal acts could be interpreted as a form of revisionism, and thereby, as a threat to the revolution. 49 The circular received the second-highest level of classification (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 41). However, the children of many leading cadres who had been involved in the Red Guard Movement also received information on the contents of documents such as the May 16 Circular, and this unofficial information circulated widely among the Red Guards (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008). 50 The institutionalised securitisation formulated in the May 16 circular was also used in the securitisation of 47

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The wider public saw the beginning of the Cultural Revolution as a mass-campaign against corruption. On June 2, 1966, a commentary appeared in Renmin ribao, entitled A great revolution that touches the people to their very souls (Peking Review 10.6.1966).51 It hailed the ‘big-character poster’ put up by Nie Yuanzi and six others of the Philosophy Department of Beijing University on May 25, as the first Marxist-Leninist poster in the whole country.52 This poster was reproduced in full in major newspapers across the country. It proclaimed that the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution was a struggle between the antagonistic world outlook of the proletariat and the bourgeoisie, which invariably resulted in one vanquishing the other. This revolution, the editorial declared, was a serious struggle to shatter all schemes for the ideological restoration of capitalism. Specifically, the revolution was supposed to accomplish the following: 1) to dig out the ideological roots of revisionism, 2) to strengthen the dictatorship of the proletariat, and 3) to defend Mao Zedong thought. Another public turning point was the publication of the Decision Concerning the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution in August 1966 (the so called 16 points; 中共中央 1966b), which turned the student movement into a mass movement that encompassed all spheres of society. The crux of the issue was bourgeois infiltration even at the highest levels (中共中央 1966b): “At present, our objective is to struggle against and overthrow those persons in authority who are taking the capitalist road, to criticise and repudiate the reactionary bourgeois academic ‘authorities’ and the ideology of the bourgeoisie and all other exploiting classes and to transform education, literature and art and all other parts of the superstructure not in correspondence with the socialist economic base, so as to facilitate the consolidation and development of the socialist system.” The ‘enemy’ was once again identified: “Who are our enemies? […] Concentrate all forces to strike at the handful of ultra-reactionary bourgeois rightists and counter-revolutionary revisionists, and expose and criticise to the full their crimes against the party, against socialism and against Mao Zedong thought so as to isolate them to the maximum.” The sixteen points presented a general crisis of bourgeois infiltration: “The main targets of the present movement are those within the party who are in authority and are taking the capitalist road.” However, the Cultural Revolution went beyond the ‘usual suspects’ of previous rectification campaigns. When the May 16 Circular of 1966 was published in 1967, Zhou Enlai’s comments on May 21 helped to identify the ‘targets’ of the movement which would focus on “the center, rather than the localities, the domestic scene rather than the international one, inside rather than outside the party, and higher levels rather than lower levels. […] The stress will be on the inside and at the top.” (Quoted in MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 41.) These formulations identified the levels of the securitisation: the CR was used to purge almost all of the top leadership of the party. In 1976, a decade after its original issuance, when the circular was celebrated, the nature of the Cultural Revolution as national security was still maintained (人民日报 16.5.1976): “If the Cultural Revolution had not taken place, it would not have taken long before a counter-revolutionary restoration on a national scale would inevitably occur, our party would turn into a revisionist party, and the 1976 Tiananmen Incident (see Case II). 51 The reorganisation of the Beijing Party committee and the Central Military Commission was made public on June 4. 52 See MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 55-58) for a background story of the poster.

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the whole of China would change color.” Indeed, the decade of the Cultural Revolution was characterised by the continuous hunt for enemies that had sneaked into the party.

8.4. Desecuritising the Targets of Securitisation – Managing Official History

Mao’s supreme position in the party may be a significant contributing factor for why it seems that there was almost no resistance to the securitisation discourses that became dominant during the period.53 As MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 43) note, many of those who refused to accept the fate of being subjected to ‘class struggle’, turned to suicide. In contrast to some of the later cases examined here, instead of the formation of a desecuritisation or counter-securitisation counter-discourse, many simply used suicide as a form of ‘resistance’ (to commit suicide was often taken as evidence of resistance to the party, or of being anti-party).54 The historical record indicates that Liu Shaoqi and the other leading party-members purged on ‘security grounds’ would seem to have not offered much of a struggle (MacFarquhar 1983, 470-472).55 While this was the general

See MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 262-268) for examples of the excesses the Mao cult. Even when someone thought loyalty dances and formalised ritual ways of speaking were monotonous and ridiculous, not to play along with such rituals of complicity would have run the risk of being classified as a class enemy. 54 See Thurston (1990) on suicide as a form of violence during the CR. The situation in 1960s and 1970s China was completely different to that of the 1990s or even the 1980s. During the Cultural Revolution, dissidents had immense difficulties to get their voices heard, and if this did occur beyond a mere handful, the likelihood of extreme punishment increased with every new person ‘in the know’ (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 350). The CCP propaganda machine was an important functional actor in effecting the dominant security realities of the Cultural Revolution. The resources of this machine and the general landscape of conformity made dissidence on a larger scale, a virtual impossibility. The opportunities for dissidence and more lasting counter-discourses only became more tenable in the ‘period of reform.’ This is even evident in the way dissidents with high profiles were dealt with. During the Cultural Revolution dissidents were usually executed, but, for example, Wei Jingsheng received prison terms instead. Similarly for leaders who lost factional struggles: Liu Shaoqi died in prison, largely due to lack of medical treatment, yet Zhao Ziyang died under semi-house arrest but was allowed hobbies and medical care. 55 Peng Zhen tried to manouvre to the best of his ability in his defence of Wu Han in 1965, but as he lacked the crucial information that it was Mao who was behind the attacks on the play, his resistance to the faction of Jiang Qing failed step by step. Once the securitisation discourse, as analysed here, was presented to the Central Committee and the Politburo, it was too late and Peng yielded. His final form of resistance came as part of his self-criticism in his denial to be anti-party: “as for attempting a coup and subversion of the Centre, and having illicit relations with foreign countries, even in a dream I could not have thought of such things” (quoted in Barnouin & Yu 1993, 70). However, Peng’s denial counted for nothing as even his closest associate, Liu Shaoqi, made no attempt to prevent Peng’s purge in the enlarged Politburo meeting. No-one seemed to dare stand up against Mao, as even the May 16 Circular was adopted without a single change; indeed, the entire Politburo agreed with Mao’s distortions of the facts that most were aware of. For example, the circular claimed that the February Outline was “concocted […] behind the back of Comrade Kang Sheng”, that Peng “did not make it clear that it was being sent to the Central Committee for examination as an official document”, and that it did not “get the approval of Comrade Mao Zedong” (中发 267), when most of those present knew very well that Kang had indeed participated in the meeting to prepare the report and that the draft had been approved by the Standing Committee, and that Peng had shown it to Mao (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 29 note how Mao raised only two formal objections to Peng’s initial text, and agreed to its circulation in the name of the Center). Further, private comments made by Liu Shaoqi and Deng Xiaoping indicate that they were unhappy with the way the Cultural Revolution was launched, but their bewilderment similarly indicates that they were not aware of Mao’s machinations; Mao operated behind the backs of the people who were formally in charge of both the ‘first front’ and the state. (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 63.) Liu similarly did not resist his own repudiation as the ‘top party person taking the capitalist road’ until after several struggle sessions against him in the summer of 1967 when he wrote that he would no longer accept accusations of being against the party, against socialism and Mao Zedong Thought. Thereby he was formally 53

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trend, and although there was no major counter-discourse to the Cultural Revolution nor for its fundamental reasons, until after Mao’s death, not all leaders submitted to their political (and in some cases physical) demise without a fight. Three of the most important of such incidents are the ‘February Adverse Current’, the ‘Wuhan Incident,’56 and the ‘Lin Biao Affair.’

Mao’s policy of power seizures that went beyond the purge of individual leaders did meet with some resistance within the party apparatus. In January and February 1967 a number of leading military and party figures voiced their anger on the policy, but this criticism did not target Mao directly; it was focused on the activities of the Cultural Revolution Group.57 During a meeting of the Central Caucus some veteran cadres queried whether it was correct to direct the CR at the party and whether so many revolutionary veterans should be subjected to attacks and humiliation, and if order and stability should be maintained in the army (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 117; MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 191). Some even defended deposed leaders. For example, Chen Yi (quoted in Barnouin & Yu 1993, 117) pointed out that “they [Liu Shaoqi, Peng Zhen, Bo Yibo, Liu Lantao, and An Ziwen] never opposed Chairman Mao.” Such reactions of veteran cadres demonstrate the extent to which Mao was ‘breaking the rules’: these cadres attempted to preserve the established order and its procedural rules as they saw how the Red Guards were, in practice, dismantling the party.58 Mao disliked this criticism from veteran cadres, since they seemed to call into question the wisdom of the whole Cultural Revolution (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 185). He even went so far as to threaten to start a new guerrilla war together with Lin Biao against the cadres who wanted to denigrate the CR and, thereby, to restore Liu Shaoqi

expelled from the party as a “traitor, renegade, and scab” in November 1968 (New China News Agency 1986), and died a year later imprisoned as an evacuee from the assumed Soviet attack of 1969 (Mao 1974b [1969], 285; Barnouin & Yu 1993, 91-92; Barnouin & Yu 1998, 93-95; MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 277-278). Chen Shaomin was the only leading cadre who resisted Liu’s dismissal from the party, simply by not raising her hand in the 12th Plenum in 1968. As a result, she later lost her posts in the party and the National People’s Congress (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 174-175). 56 The Wuhan Incident, deemed as a counter-revolutionary revolt by Lin Biao and the CCRG, was the “most spectacular uprising against the Cultural Revolution by members of the Chinese politico-military establishment” (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 214). Armed clashes between factions in Wuhan had occurred while Mao was stationed there. This incident is a prime example of just how warlike the ‘civil war’ Mao was fomenting really was. In August 1967 there were 20 to 30 daily reports of armed clashes (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 216). 57 Mao had criticised Jiang Qing for overstepping her authority, but he had also ordered that such criticism of her and the other members of the Cultural Revolution Group, should only come from within the group. However, the old guard disregarded this order and attacked the Group in meetings of the Central Caucus. (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 191.) 58 In the discussions that prepared for the Resolution on Party History (Beijing Review 1995c [1981]) which repudiated the Cultural Revolution in 1981, some suggested that the party had ceased to exist for a period of time after the Twelfth Plenum. Deng however argued that while the regular activities of the party had indeed stopped temporarily, the party nevertheless still existed. (Selected works of Deng Xiaoping 1975-1982, 276-296.) This testifies to just how ‘exceptional’ the policies following the securitisation discourses of the Cultural Revolution were. The Resolution itself emphasises how Mao ‘broke the rules’ (Beijing Review 1995c [1981], 62, 64): “inner-party life came to a stand still, and many activists and large numbers of the basic masses whom the party had long relied on were rejected. […] Mao Zedong’s personal leadership characterised by ‘Left errors’ took the place of the collective leadership of the Central Committee, and the cult of Comrade Mao Zedong was frenziedly pushed to the extreme. […] Such was the outcome of the ‘Cultural Revolution’ which overturned a series of fundamental party principles.”

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and Deng Xiaoping, even capitalism (Barnouin &Yu 1993, 118).59 The cadres’ response to this was self-criticisms, which had the effect that the excesses of the CR would neither be assessed nor criticised during Mao’s lifetime. Most of the leading cadres who criticised the CR were labelled as ‘Black Generals’ (黑干将, hēi gànjiàng) of the ‘February Adverse Current.’ (Ibid., 118-120.) Lin Biao labelled the incident as “the most serious anti-Party event after the 11th Plenum of the CC and represented ‘a rehearsal of capitalist restoration’” in his keynote speech at the 12th Plenum in October 1968 (quoted in Barnouin & Yu 1993, 174; see also MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 185, 274-275).60 The result of the ‘countercurrent’ was the further weakening of the Politburo’s role, to the benefit of the Cultural Revolution Group, and especially Jiang Qing.61 Mao’s reaction and subsequent handling of the ‘adverse current’ helped Lin reach the zenith of his career at the Ninth Party Congress in which the Constitution of the Communist Party of China (1986) was revised to, among other things, name him as Mao’s successor. However, Lin soon fell out of favour with Mao, and eventually died under mysterious circ*mstances while apparently trying to defect to the Soviet Union. It would seem that unlike most other leaders disposed of by Mao, Lin did not idly wait for his turn, but he, or his son, made plans for the assassination of Mao. The plan did not succeed, as Lin had insufficient support even within the Army that was his main support base.62 Lin’s position had relied too heavily on being the chief acolyte of the cult of Mao, so that Lin, who had ironically warned at the onset of the CR in 1966 of a coup d’état, was himself accused of launching one in August 1970 (Barnouin & Yu 1993, 221).63 Lin’s defection and death gave the public impression that also the second of Mao’s hand-picked heir apparents had transpired to be ‘capitalist roaders’ of the worst kind. In addition to discrediting the infallibility of Mao,64 the Lin affair seemed to accelerate the deterioration of Mao’s already weak health. The last campaigns carried out as part of the “If someone opposes the CCRG, I will resolutely oppose him! You attempt to negate the Great Cultural Revolution, but you shall not succeed! Comrade Ye Qun, you tell Lin Biao that he is not safe either. Some people are trying to grab his power, and he should be prepared. If this Great Cultural Revolution fails, he and I will withdraw from Beijing and go back to the Jinggang Mountains to fight a guerrilla war.” (Quoted in MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 195.) 60 Kang Sheng supported Lin’s formulation, while Chen Boda viewed it as an attempted “subversion of the dictatorship of the proletariat” (quoted in MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 196). Most of the key players of the ‘February Adverse Current’ were however permitted membership of the Ninth Central Committee in 1969 (ibid., 294). 61 The CCRG ceased to function after the Ninth Party Congress where the most important members of the group were promoted to the CC and the Politburo, and Lin Biao was named as the heir apparent in the new Party Constitution (The Constitution 1986). 62 See Kau (1975), Barnouin & Yu (1993, 199-246), and MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 324-336) for details of the ’Lin Biao affair.’ 63 In 1972 Lin received his formal verdict: “at every stage in the history of China’s revolution, at every crucial stage in the two-line struggle within the party, Lin Biao always stood on the side of the erreneous line, opposed Chairman Mao’s revolutionary line, resisted Chairman Mao’s strategic policies, and more than once plotted to usurp Chairman Mao’s leadership.” Zhang Chunqiao and Yao Wenyuan mobilised the Central Propaganda Group to declare that: “extensive documentation shows that the bandit Lin was a Soviet revisionist special agent boss who remained deeply hidden for a long time.” (Quoted in MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 346-347.) 64 In his attempts to shield some veteran cadres during the period of struggle sessions, Zhou Enlai noted that “Chairman Mao observed Liu Shaoqi for over twenty years; only then did he write his big-character poster” (quoted in MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 196). After the same was repeated with Lin Biao, although not meant as a criticism of Mao, many in China must have been bewildered on why their ‘great helmsman’ would have chosen the worst capitalist roaders for his closest comrades in arms, while the rest of the nation was mobilised to ferret their very followers out. 59

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CR could thus no longer enjoy the charismatic leadership of Mao and his ‘close comrade in arms’, who had turned out to be a ‘bourgeois careerist, conspirator, double-dealer, renegade and traitor.’ Lin’s fall led to a massive factional reorganisation, and the ‘criticise Lin Biao and Confucius’ campaign became a prelude to the power-grab attempts that would follow Mao’s death in 1976 (see Case II).

The power-struggles that followed Mao’s demise have had an important effect on how the Cultural Revolution has been represented in official histories. The radical faction (文革派, wéngé pài) of Jiang Qing had risen to power from outside the established party structures on the wave of the CR. As such, Jiang and her faction had an invested interest to continue the CR, even beyond Mao’s reign. Conversely, the older party cadres (老头, lǎotóu pài), had the opposite objective: they desired to remove Jiang Qing, and the Cultural Revolution. The victory of Deng Xiaoping’s faction in this struggle determined the judgement of the CR in its aftermath. Lowell Dittmer (2002, 5) has identified five stages, or shifts, in the use of the ‘Cultural Revolution’ in ‘making the past serve the present’ i.e., in reinterpreting past political events in terms that favour the contemporary political situation. These stages are the period of Hua Guofeng’s rule when the CR was tacitly discontinued yet still overtly defended (1976-1978),65 the period in which the CR was explicitly discontinued and implicitly criticised (1978-1980),66 the period of controversy between explicit repudiation of the CR and an implicit defence of it in the form of periodical ideological tightening (1980-1983),67 the period when the campaign to ‘totally negate’ the CR was in place (1984-1986), and the post-Tiananmen period which has been characterised by official total repudiation and effective silence (1990-).68 While reflecting political situations and being affected by other major events, these periods also coincide with the desecuritisation of the ‘targets’ of the Cultural Revolution. The first period was that of the struggle for Mao’s legacy after his death in 1976. This was also the time that the trial of Jiang Qing’s faction was being prepared. Deng also began to rehabilitate cadres who had been purged during the Cultural Revolution.The Central

E.g., by Hua’s line of the ‘two whatevers.’ For example the Third Plenum of the 11th Central Committee that officially desecuritised the 1976 Tiananmen incident did not also desecuritise the Cultural Revolution: “Comrade Mao Zedong initiated this great revolutionary primarily in the light of the fact that the Soviet Union had turned revisionist and for the purpose of opposing revisionism and preventing its occurrance. As for the shortcomings and mistakes in the actual course of the revolution, they should be summed up at the appropriate time.” (Dittmer 2002, 7). While the tone became increasingly critical, in 1979 an authoritative criticism of the CR had to be toned with a comment on the necessity to combat revisionism: “The Cultural Revolution was launched with the aim of preventing and combating revisionism. […] But the point is that, when the Cultural Revolution was launched, the estimate made of the situation within the party and the country ran counter to reality, no accurate definition was given of revisionism, and erroneous policies and methods of struggle were adopted, deviating from the principle of democratic centralism.” (Xinhua 28.9.1979.) 67 It seems that the criticism of the Cultural Revolution tempered the opportunities for criticism that emanated from the ‘left’ of the party (Dittmer 2002, 14). 68 Perhaps ironically, the securitisation of the 1989 student movement worked towards the desecuritisation and silence of the Cultural Revolution in that attempts to rehabilitate the need for the Cultural Revolution were suppressed: it was not permissible to renew legitimisation of ‘excessive democracy’ right on the heels of suppressing a popular movement that was presented to parallel the chaos of the Cultural Revolution. In a June 1991 Politburo meeting Jiang Zemin set the official line: “Any attempt to rehabilitate the Cultural Revolution in any way goes counter to the will of the public, the party, and the army” (quoted in Dittmer 2002, 19). 65 66

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Advisory Commission was set up to allow older cadres some ‘honour’ as they retired.69 Thus, unlike Mao and even Hua, beyond the ‘Gang of Four’, Deng did not instigate any major purges of the radical faction. The most important rehabilitation was that of Liu Shaoqi, which was finally granted in 1980.70 The Central Discipline Inspection Commission71 declared that Liu’s sentence in 1968 had been “the biggest frame-up the CCP had ever known in its history, which had been created out of thin air by fabricating materials, forging evidence, extorting confessions, withholding testimony.” Liu was desecuritised with an objectivist strategy:72 “It is now clear that the danger of so-called right revisionism did not actually appear in our party before 1966” (Renmin ribao 3.4.1980). Mao’s thought was thereby separated from Mao the person and those others that had exploited it; it was these individuals who had committed mistakes and not the party or the ‘thought’ itself. By July 1980, Deng had put forth the line that described the Cultural Revolution as essentially negative and placed responsibility for it directly on Mao’s personal mistakes (Dittmer 2002, 11). The rehabilitation of most of the victims of the Cultural Revolution coincided with the trial of the ‘Gang of Four.’73 As a chapter-title given in MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 454) suggests, the trial of the Gang and the ‘Lin Biao Clique’, as well as the rehabilitation of past ‘transgressors’ was somewhat akin to an ‘exorcism of the Cultural Revolution.’ However, most of the everyday crimes committed during the Cultural Revolution were still not investigated, and many still try to petition the government over injustices committed during the 1960-1970s today. Deng tried to provide some semblance of solace to the general public through the 1981 Resolution on Party History (Beijing Review 1995c [1981], 63) in which Mao was depicted as “a leader laboring under a misapprehension.” Although Mao was criticised for making mistakes (his misapprehension was “capitalized on by counter-revolutionary cliques, led to domestic turmoil and brought catastrophe to the party, the state and the whole people”), he still remained the founder and greatest hero of the People’s Republic.74 After Mao’s demise and the political power struggles that ensued, most leading members purged during the Cultural Revolution have been rehabilitated, albeit some posthumously. Although there has been no thorough reassessment of the era, the party has desecuritised the previous targets of securitisation at the beginning of the Cultural Revo This Commission would however have an ironic role to play in the securitisation process of 1989. See the document 中国共产党第十一届中央委员会第五次全体会议关于为刘少奇同志平反的决议 (2002 [1980]); Xinhua (12.3.1980). 71 See also Dittmer (2002, 11) and MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 454). 72 The leaders of the ‘February adverse current’ and of the 1976 ‘incident’ were also rehabilitated and their posts returned in 1979. The shift towards the repudiation of the CR was also evident in the rehabilitation of Peng Dehuai in 1978 only becoming ‘sayable’ – with its implication that Mao must then have been wrong – in 1979. (Dittmer 2002, 7-8.) 73 See Case II on how this is connected to the desecuritisation of the Tiananmen Incident of 1976. The decision to put the ‘Gang’ on trial was made in the 16th Session of the Standing Committee of the Fifth NPC in which Hua Guofeng resigned from the position of premier (he was replaced by Zhao Ziyang). For a transcript of the trial, see Beijing Review (1995b [1980]) and New China News Agency (1995 [1980]). 74 The Resolution (Beijing Review 1995c [1981], 66) emphasised that Mao, “[i]n his later years, he still remained alert to safeguarding the security of our party, stood up to the pressure of the social-imperialists, pursued a correct foreign policy, firmly supported the just struggles of all peoples, outlined the correct strategy of the three worlds and advanced the important principle that China would never seek hegemony.” In addition to the resolution, the Sixth Plenum was important as Hua Guofeng resigned from the post of Chairman of the Central Committee to be replaced by Hu Yaobang. 69 70

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lution, by use of the ‘objectivist strategy’ (i.e., a matter is claimed not to be a security threat; Huysmans 1995, 65-67), as is evident in official party history (CCP CC Party History Research Centre 1991, 324): “Based on the ‘Left’ point of view and confused understanding of the enemy and the people, these unrealistic demands and assessments provided the chief reason for launching the ‘Cultural Revolution.’ Much of the blame was placed on Lin Biao: “[H]e spilt preposterous lies that there were people within the party who attempted to stage a coup d’état, creating an atmosphere of terror in the party.” Even in the moderate language of the 1981 ‘Resolution on Party History’ (Beijing Review 1995c [1981], 6061): the Cultural Revolution brought about “the most serious setback and heaviest losses suffered by the party, the state and the people since the founding of the People’s Republic.” These losses were accredited to Mao’s “entirely erroneous appraisal of the […] political situation in the party and the state.” As if in accordance with an ‘objectivist strategy’, the resolution declared that Mao’s misperceptions “conformed neither to Marxism-Leninism nor to Chinese reality.”75 The party had not been threatened by a counter-revolutionary coup after all.

8.5. Conclusions of Analysis: Justification of Exceptionality

The analysis of the case of the Cultural Revolution indicates that there was a distinct security argument which gave the impetus to the political processes that have been labelled the Cultural Revolution: it was legitimate to remove large parts of the top leadership and for the ‘masses’ to attack party authorities because counter-revolutionaries had ‘sneaked’ into the party. The threat of a coup was used as the basis to legitimise the ‘Cultural Revolution’ that ‘broke the rules’ of the constituted political order of the CCP and the PRC. The Cultural Revolution was not only about security, yet this security argument and the confrontational politics of the era influenced the political struggles which contained elements of regime, or political security. In the initial stages of the launch of his campaign, Mao remained behind the scenes, and thereby allowed his political opponents to commit to political lines that he could later deem as mistaken or even counter-revolutionary. Accordingly, it was Lin Biao who was the speaking actor in most of the important instances of securitisation moves. With Mao’s approval, these moves had drastic consequences for their targets: most of the leadership of the party was removed from their posts, and some even perished in the ‘struggles’ waged against them. While all did not agree on the line of the Cultural Revolution, no clear counter-discourse that would have deployed security rationale apparently emerged before Mao’s death. Even during the foment that could be described as civil war, actions were directed against various factions and the Red Guards, and not the Cultural Revolution itself. The PLA can be viewed as a functional actor here, since the line of power seizures was not altogether successful, as not all units of the military acquiesced to be taken over. After Mao’s death, the legacy of the Cultural Revolution was the key to determine who would gain the political spoils. As Jiang Qing’s radical faction lost this battle, the Cultural Dittmer (2002, 13) notes how the resolutions’ main criticisms of the Cultural Revolution were: 1) that ‘revisionism’ was not validly defined, 2) that it confused antagonistic and non-antagonistic contradictions, 3) that it attacked the party, and 4) that it was all critique without any constructive program. 75

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Revolution was eventually deemed as having been operated under false pretences, or ‘misapprehensions’ which were utilised by ‘counter-revolutionary cliques.’ Accordingly, most of the ‘targets’ (e.g., Peng Zhen and Liu Shaoqi) of the securitisation moves of 1966 were desecuritised in the 1980s at the latest. This way of handling the CR concurs with a general political tradition of ‘using the past to ‘serve the present’ i.e., to use reinterpretations of history to legitimise current lines of policy.76 In the case of the CR, instead of ‘impartial’ truth commissions it was the party that assessed the CR period, and produced the interpretations that would become dominant. Indeed, the desecuritisation of the ‘targets’ of the Cultural Revolution is clearly an instance of the political use of interpretations of history. Therefore, it can be enquired: does the framework of securitisation/desecuritisation bring anything new to the analysis of such instances?

My reasoning is that the framework of securitisation/desecuritisation can illuminate and help to get a grasp of how history is made to serve the present in China. While this phenomenon is recognised and has been analysed extensively, the framework can be used to analyse the details of the functions such reinterpretations serve. Conversely, analyses of reinterpretations of previously securitised issues can aid to understand how desecuritisation occurs, and how protagonists of desecuritisation in other circ*mstances may perhaps make their moves more successful. Although the Cultural Revolution could also have been dealt with by merely allowing it to ‘wither away’, the method it was actually dealt with demonstrates how overt desecuritisation may be useful, or even necessary politics. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, most Chinese were strongly opposed to the continuation of the types of policies that had characterised the Cultural Revolution, and Deng Xiaoping was able to utilise this sentiment to solidify his position in the party. This becomes evident not only in the desecuritisation of the 1976 Tiananmen incident (see Case II), but also in the overall repudiation of the Cultural Revolution. By desecuritising Liu Shaoqi, Deng effectively also desecuritised himself and his policy line to accelerate reforms that went in the face of Mao’s ideological positions. At the same time though, Deng had to be cautious so as not to weaken the position of the party. The answer to this conundrum was to recognise the mistakes of the man, but not of his ‘thought.’77 Indeed, before repudiating his mistakes, Deng canonised Mao’s thought in 1979 in the form of the ‘four cardinal principles.’ The official silence maintained on assessments of the Cultural Revolution since 1991 effectively demonstrates the success of desecuritisation. Although the status of the CR has remained a sensitive issue, this sensitivity is not about whether the estimates of threats to national security were accurate or not, but rather the sensitivity emanates from the view that perhaps it was the party, or at least its representatives, that was actually more threatening to the nation than those who were labelled and punished as counter-revolutionaries. While the CR’s status and pundits have been desecuritised, instances of securitisation in the 1980s demonstrate that the category and possibility remain; 1980s mass-campaigns like those against ‘spiritual pollution’ and ‘bourgeois liberalism’ retain Zhou Enlai (1989 [1975], 295) was explicit on this principle in his report to the Fourth NPC in 1976. For example, the party resolution on some issues in the history of the party (Beijing Review 1995c, 61) formulates that “these erroneous ‘Left’ theses, upon which Comrade Mao Zedong based himself in initiating the ‘Cultural Revolution’, were obviously inconsistent with the system of Mao Zedong Thought […] these theses must be thoroughly distinguished from Mao Zedong Thought.” 76 77

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and maintain the ‘grammar’, the category, and possibility for political threats to national stability and unity, and thereby threats to national security (see Case III). Beyond the question of desecuritisation and the management of official history, analysis of the Cultural Revolution through the framework of securitisation theory is relevant for the study of the Cultural Revolution, as well as for studies of the use of asymmetric political concepts in Chinese politics. That we can gain insights on the Cultural Revolution through this framework demonstrates how we do not need to consider the CR as a unique period or form of Chinese politics (cf., Schoenhals 2002), but that we can study it like any others. By analysing these political processes through the same analytical framework, we can also see that the types of issues that were institutionally securitised during the CR as well as the general logic of its operation have endured beyond the label of the Cultural Revolution, as will be demonstrated by the analysis of the other cases below.78 Indeed, the Cultural Revolution had an immense effect on Chinese politics and society that still reverberates today. The downfall of Liu Shaoqi and Lin Biao revealed that these two heir apparents, handpicked by Mao himself, had transpired to be ‘counter-revolutionaries’ of the worst kind. In addition, some 75 percent of the full or alternate members of the Central Committee had come under suspicion of being ‘counter-revolutionaries’ or ‘traitors’ by the Eleventh Plenum in October 1968 when Mao planned to bring the initial stage of the Cultural Revolution to an end (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 273). The humiliation many party cadres were subjected to, even those in the highest positions, effectively destroyed much of the authority of the CCP. Combined with the experiences at the general level of society, trust and respect for the party plummeted, particularly in the view that formerly it was considered infallible: no longer would everything the party said be feared and respected as ‘great, glorious, and correct’. Such a decline is also apparent in the other cases studied here. Mao listed the Cultural Revolution as the second of his great achievements. Yet it was a failure in terms of the ideological tasks Mao had imbued it with. For example, Jiang Zemin’s (2002) doctrine of the ‘Three Represents’ as well as Hu Jintao’s ‘principles of honour and disgrace’ (see Mille 2007) fly right in the face of Mao’s polemics with the Communist Party of the Soviet Union on the issue of the ‘party of the whole people’ and the ‘state of the whole people’ (The Polemic 1965). Mao’s utopian fantasies that turned out to be disastrous in both industrial production (the Great Leap) and general governance of society (the Cultural Revolution), paradoxically allowed the pragmatic Deng to release himself from the shackles of ideological purity and most other orthodoxies. Indeed, for Deng, the only orthodoxy that remained was encapsulated in the form of the Four Cardinal Principles (Deng 1995b). After the Cultural Revolution, some people dared to think, speak, and act more than before, which became even more evident in 1976 (‘Tiananmen Incident’), 1978 (‘Democracy Wall’), and during the student movements of the 1980s, and eventually in 1989 (‘counter-revolutionary rebellion’). Today, ‘mass incidents’ (群体性事件, qúntǐxìng shìjiàn) are counted in tens of thousands.

This view is alternatively supported by Perry (2007) and argued against by Dutton (2005).

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9. Case II: The Counter-Revolutionary Political Incident at Tiananmen Square 1976

A small handful of class enemies used the Qingming festival’s mourning of premier Zhou as a pretence for creating a counter-revolutionary political incident in a premeditated, organised and planned manner. - Renmin Ribao

In the mid 1970s, the two top leaders of China, Mao Zedong and Zhou Enlai, were in poor health. In anticipation of Mao’s death, those factions that had survived the Cultural Revolution were now jockeying for positions. Overall, Chinese society was in a pitiful state after a decade of mass campaigns and struggles. In this context, the year 1976 came to see a great amount of social unrest, and it witnessed the largest autonomous social mobilisation in the period of the PRC. This mobilisation culminated in the so called Tiananmen Incident in April. While the 1976 ‘Tiananmen Incident’ is usually alluded to in broader historical studies, it has not been the focus of academic interest to the same extent as the other cases presented here have.1 Indeed, as Frederick C. Teiwes and Warren Sun (2004, 211-212) note, outside China, the 1976 Tiananmen Incident has remained underanalysed. However, the developments of 1976 were an important episode in the transition from the Mao- to the post-Mao era of Chinese politics. As in all the other cases in this study, securitising discourses played a significant role here as well. Overall, the 1976 Tiananmen Incident has often been viewed as a result of the factional struggles between radical leftists and Deng’s pragmatists. As Teiwes & Sun (2004, 217) summarise, the ‘incident’ emerged as a result of 1) popular determination to honour Zhou; 2) Mao-generated constraints for such activities; 3) discontent with the strengthening of the Leftist line; 4) long-term erosion of Mao’s authority among the general pub-

See for example Garside (1981), which is a contemporary eye-witness account from a foreign journalist stationed in Beijing at the time of the ‘incident’; Black & Munro (1993) contains a chapter on the 1976 events; Baum (1996) links the incident into the context of dealing with the Cultural Revolution and Mao’s legacy; MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 413-430) show how the incident played into the final stages of the Cultural Revolution; Teiwes & Sun (2004) present a recent historical account of the events and politics. The Cultural Revolution Database contains documents that relate to the 1976 Incident, as do Myers et al. (1989 and 1995a). 两次天安门事件 (1989) provides documents and a comparison to the 1989 ‘Tiananmen Incident.’ Hook et al. (1976) contains contemporary accounts and documents of the events. 1

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lic; and 5) anger against the radical faction within the Politburo. In other words, people had had their fill of the radical policies and campaigns of the Cultural Revolution, and were angered when they were denied the opportunity to show their respect and support for a more rational and pragmatic line, represented by Zhou Enlai and Deng Xiaoping. The anger and discontent resulted in an unprecedented type of social foment in the PRC. While Mao had manipulated the ‘masses’ to mobilise a decade before, events on the streets of major Chinese cities this time round would affect elite politics in an autonomous fashion. The purges that had initiated the Cultural Revolution ten years before have been deemed a ‘hinge-event’ (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008). From this viewpoint, the 1976 Incident is another hinge-event, as it was one of the last processes of securitisation connected with the Cultural Revolution. Its desecuritisation is similarly connected with the desecuritisation of the ‘culprits’ of the Cultural Revolution; the desecuritisation was one of the means Deng Xiaoping used to solidify his hold on power in the power-struggles following Mao’s death. Here, the Incident and its subsequent role in Chinese politics serves as an example of how the politics of securitisation can fail, even when the grammar of securitisation has been followed to the letter by experienced securitisers possessing the necessary formal authority for initiating an official security discourse. The 1976 Incident is also a hinge in the sense that it begins to display elements of contestation, which will continue to increase as the examination of the cases progresses in this study. The analysis of the securitisation of activities on Tiananmen Square in 1976 and their subsequent desecuritisation is used here to investigate how securitisation arguments become part of Chinese authorities’ responses to challenges to their hegemony. Beyond this general question (and with which the other cases of this study deal with too), of particular interest here is how and why the politics of securitisation can fail in China.

9.1. The Historical and Socio-Political Context of the ‘CounterRevolutionary Political Incident’

The history of the People’s Republic knows two counter-revolutionary Tiananmen incidents, those of 1976 and 1989.2 The battle over who would control Mao’s legacy already raged while Mao still lived. With the setback of the betrayal of Lin Biao, Wang Hongwen turning out to be easily controlled by Jiang Qing, and Zhou Enlai in bad health, Mao allowed Deng Xiaoping to return to the higher echelons of the party and the state in 1973.3 Deng effectively took over the positions of Zhou when he was hospitalised. However, Deng’s pragmatist line began to veer too far away from the Cultural Revolution with his proposals on China’s development strategy and the reform of scientific research. In order to fight back, the radical faction began to call Deng’s initiatives the ‘three poisonous weeds.’ The faction continued their anti-Deng manoeuvring with metaphorical attacks

The very first ’incident’ on Tiananmen Square actually happened already on October 31 1972 when thousands of Beijing residents dug up decorative flowers from the Monument of the People’s Heroes (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 376-438). While Zhou Enlai took this event to be serious sign of possible trouble, it did not receive the same kind of attention nor public securitisation as the ‘incidents’ of 1976 and 1989 did. 3 Mao was already manoeuvring to reduce the increased influence of the PLA and to keep Jiang Qing’s faction in line, for which Deng was appropriate. Accordingly, Mao forced Jiang Qing and Wang Hongwen to present self-criticisms of supporting factionalism in 1974 (see MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 399-400). 2

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on Zhou and Deng in the press (e.g., by using the pi-Lin, pi-Kong, pi-Zhou –campaign; 批林批孔批周). By late 1975, Mao seemed to agree that Deng was trying to reverse ‘correct verdicts’ and thus undermine the Cultural Revolution (see e.g., Renmin ribao 10.3.1976). The leftists used the media to further charge Deng with being anti-Mao and anti-Cultural Revolution (see e.g., Renmin ribao 10.3.1976; 28.3.1976). The proximate development towards the 1976 Incident began with Zhou Enlai’s death on January 8 1976. He had been one of the most revered and popular politicians in China,4 with a political career that spanned half a century, half of which as the premier of the PRC. The ‘four modernisations’ (Zhou 1989 [1975]) was one of the final policy lines Zhou launched in 1975, and as such he was the symbol of reform in the mid 1970s.5 The news of Zhou’s death6 dominated Chinese media for a week with unprecedented demonstrations of respect for a Chinese leader both nationally and internationally (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 415). After Zhou, Deng Xiaoping became the living symbol of this policy line.7 Deng (1989 [1976]) gave a eulogy for Zhou on January 15, but after this he was sidelined from the position of Acting Premier. In his stead, the obscure and factionally neutral Hua Guofeng was appointed as Acting Premier, against the designs of Jiang’s faction. The movement to ‘beat back the right-deviationist wind to reverse correct verdicts’ targeted Deng (see e.g., Renmin ribao 10.3.1976 and 28.3.1976). This campaign was particularly unpopular; people had had enough of mass campaigns against revisionists. Mao appeared quite cold towards Zhou, as he conspicuously did not attend Zhou’s funeral (e.g., Baum 1996, 27), and also limited mourning to a minimum.8 Such acts only further added to the disillusionment with both Mao and his Cultural Revolution that had begun with the Lin Biao Affair at the latest. The pragmatist line of reform Deng represented was more favoured than the lines present in official media. The radical faction appeared to be out of touch with the mood which supported reform. After the initial period of mourning, the Chinese media, controlled by the radical faction, began to suppress the mourning for Zhou and rather emphasise the political struggle against Deng.9 In March they launched a veiled campaign against Zhou and Deng through an article in the Wenhui bao (quoted in MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 421) implying that Zhou was a ‘capitalist roader’ who had helped an ‘unrepentant’ Deng Xiaoping return to power: “that capitalist roader inside the party helped the still unrepentant capitalist roader onto the stage.”10 This and other moves that discredited Zhou and Deng were not As he remains to date. This is apparent from a Xinhua poll of schoolchildren ages 13-18 on the top ten heroes conducted in 2005 (Xinhuanet 27.5.2005). 5 There had been earlier attempts at more pragmatist reform, particularly by Chen Yun in the 1950s before the Great Leap Forward. See Paltemaa & Vuori (2009) on the ebb and flow of the Chinese politics of technology. 6 See ‘Obituary for Zhou Enlai’ (1989 [1976]). 7 Having been sidelined for most of the Cultural Revolution added to Deng’s popularity as he could not be blamed for the excesses of the past ten years, and seemed too to have defied the madness of the radicals. 8 After the initial period of mourning the ‘five no’s’ were implemented: no black armbands, no wreaths, no mourning halls, no memorial activities, and no handing out of photos. Such prohibitions were not adhered to well. 9 The faction seemed just as remote from reality, when it claimed that the rescue efforts after the Tangshan earthquake on July 28 that left 242000 people dead, more than 160000 injured and a million homeless were used to suppress the campaign against Deng Xiaoping (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 435-436). 10 Teiwes & Sun (2004, 216) suggest that the article may have been a local move, as it displayed the lack of coordination and control of the radical faction, soon to be generally known as the ‘Gang of Four.’ This lack of 4

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received well and protesters surrounded the offices of Wenhui bao to demand an explanation. In Zhou’s home city, on the campus of Nanjing University, large slogans and posters were posted up that censured the paper and the ‘conspirators’ who were claimed to be trying to ‘usurp power.’ The protestors compared these conspirators to Khrushchev, who had long since become a byword for the betrayal of the socialist revolution. Jiang Qing and others of the ‘Shanghai Gang’ were named without recourse to methaphor.11 Mass protests which commemorated Zhou but opposed the ‘conspirators’ spread throughout the city. The heads of the party in Jiangsu province (where Nanjing is situated) who were not supporters of the radical faction, did not suppress the demonstrations.12 In contrast, news of the events in Nanjing was blacked out in the radical faction controlled media. This however did not prevent unofficial messages from reaching the capital, e.g., in the form of texts painted on traincars. By the end of March, more mass movements that commemorated Zhou (and showed support for Deng) also broke out in most other major cities. The movements and especially the events in Nanjing alarmed the radical faction. Measures to end these unauthorised mourning activities were discussed in a Politburo meeting on April 1t 1976, along with the future plans to continue the anti-Deng campaign. Of relevance here is that the events in Nanjing were not securitised, nor was there any decision to use force to suppress them. As a result, this emergency meeting failed to quell the movement.13 The social foment reached its peak during the Qingming festival (清明, Qīngmíng) on April 4 1976, when several hundred thousand people progressed to place commemoration wreaths and poems at the Monument of the People’s Heroes on Tiananmen Square. This was an expression of open defiance to the radical faction, led by Jiang Qing. Mao had condemned the ‘use of the dead to oppress the living’ in 1966, when some half a million people had arrived for a memorial ceremony to Tianjin cadres who had committed suicide after being submitted to struggle sessions (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 172).14 The Red Guards had, however, retained the tradition of ‘sweeping the graves’ of revolutionary heroes, and the greatest monument for such heroes was the Monument coordination may be accounted for as hubris especially exhibited by Jiang Qing after wielding the power of the Cultural Revolution for a decade. 11 In Nanjing, Wang Hongwen was mostly not named as a member of the ‘Gang of conspirators’ (Teiwes & Sun 2004). 12 See Garside (1981, 110-129) for a description of events in Nanjing. 13 Before Nanjing was put back under ‘control’ 600-700000 people had taken to the streets (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 421-422). 14 The wreaths that commemorated Zhou Enlai on the Monument of the People’s Heroes were juxtaposed with the portrait of Mao on Tiananmen Gate, an act which symbolised the two lines of pragmatism and continuous struggle represented by the two long-time leaders. The same symbolic move was repeated by the student movement of 1989 when first the image of Hu Yaobang, and later even more provocatively, the ‘Goddess of Democracy’ were poised against the same image of Mao (see Case III). The unauthorised placement of wreaths violated the symbolic order the party had constructed on the Square that represented the place where the people could meet their leaders. However, China is not unique in state leaders’ funerals being used as a form of political protest or resistance. Agamben (2005, 67-68) draws attention to the tumults that often accompanied the funerals of Roman state leaders; public mourning has many times produced a period of social ‘anomie’ that has broken or temporarily subverted the social order, and which has similarly been approved or tolerated by state and religious authorities (Labour Day ‘celebrations’ and ‘carnivals’ could be another example of anomie in Europe that have an institutionalised nature).

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of the People’s Heroes on Tiananmen Square. The Qingming festival provided an opportunity for Beijing residents to voice their shared grievances with the radical faction and to show not-quite-so veiled support for Deng and a policy line of reform; Mao and the radical faction had stifled the opportunity to sufficiently express grief over the loss of the pragmatist leader who represented rational socialism. Mao’s weak health combined with the return of Deng signalled an end to the Mao-era, and the festival provided a political opportunity to voice the direction one wanted China to take – for those usually without voice. The situation in Beijing was highly problematic for the radical faction. Not only had the people seemingly autonomously mobilised in mass numbers15 in support of Zhou Enlai16, but some of the slogans and poems on the Monument of the People’s Heroes were directly critical and attacked Jiang Qing and her faction. In reaction to this, the Politburo convened for another emergency session on April 4.17 As Wu De, the mayor of Beijing at the time noted in his report on events on the square, there had never before been such a spontaneous movement in the capital since the inception of the People’s Republic. Wu connected the event to Deng Xiaoping, but proposed further investigation and emphasised that the wreaths were not significant. At this point the events were still not deemed as counter-revolutionary i.e., they were not yet securitised.18 During the same meeting, in the late evening, Renmin ribao journalists reported from the square that anti-Jiang Qing sentiments were being expressed there. Wu, who was against forceful action, had to acquiesce to the will of the Politburo, and some people were subsequently arrested on the square. Jiang proposed the mobilisation of troops to the square but the rest of the Politburo insisted that the use of force should be limited to security forces and the militia. Wu also had to acquiesce to the overnight removal of the troublesome wreaths. 19 As Teiwes & Sun (2004, 226-227) note, it was a highly irregular, but crucial, decision for the Politburo to remove the wreaths and mobilise security forces into the vicinity of the Square, without authorisation or even reference to Mao. More in accordance with standard operating procedures, the meeting decided to inform Mao of the events on the square in terms that would underline their seriousness. Mao’s nephew Mao Yuanxin20 told Mao that some of the poems were trying to split the centre, that they attacked the Chairman directly, that the dead were being used to exert power over the living, and that there had to be a hidden mastermind or ‘club’ organising the events, matters which all Beijing municipal authorities estimated that some two million people had visited the square by April 4 (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 424). 16 In comparison, as a Hungarian reporter noted at the time, not a single flower had been placed on the Monument after Kang Sheng had died shortly before Zhou (Hook et al. 1976, 662). 17 See the document ‘中央政治局四月四日会议记录及毛远新关于中央政治局四月四日讨论天安门事件情况给毛泽东的报告’ (2002 [1976]); see also MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 424) and Teiwes & Sun (2004, 224). 18 As Teiwes & Sun (2004, 224) note, to shift the description of the events from merely noting counter-revolutionary aspects to actually label them a counter-revolutionary incident as such would have meant, and indeed did mean, a significant escalation in seriousness and the likelihood of the use of force. 19 See the document ‘中央政治局四月四日会议记录及毛远新关于中央政治局四月四日讨论天安门事件情况给毛泽东的报告’ (2002 [1976]); see also Baum (1996, 33-34) and Teiwes & Sun (2004, 224-225). 20 Mao’s various ailments were at this point so severe that his nephew was the means of communication used between the chairman and the other leaders. 15

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called for immediate measures.21 Accordingly, the Politburo made a securitisation move to raise the issue onto the agenda, which Mao accepted.22 On the morning of April 5 when the wreaths had already been removed, Mao gave three directives to be transmitted by his nephew to the Politburo:23 1) the events were a “counter-revolutionary rebellion” ( 反革命暴乱, fǎngémìng bàoluàn), 2) the Politburo had the authority to use force, but no firearms or combat troops,24 and 3) Deng should be placed under investigation.25 In the meantime, the most visible of the measures the Politburo had taken to resolve the issue was the physical removal of the wreaths from the Square during the night between April 4 and 5, and then denial of access to the Square. In the early hours of 5 April two hundred trucks drove into the square and unceremoniously removed the wreaths. Anyone who protested against this at the time was arrested. No explanation for the removal of the wreaths was given. The normal practice during the Qingming festival was and is to leave such memorials in place for a week. Beijing residents who had brought their wreaths to Tiananmen had defied the will of their supreme ruler and could therefore expect to be branded as counter-revolutionaries. Yet most of the poems and inscriptions brought to Tiananmen were simple eulogies to Zhou.26 Others expressed defiance and anger at those bent on the destruction of his political legacy of rational or pragmatic socialism, and there were numerous warnings against Khrushchev-type plotters. The removal of the wreaths was perceived as an insult both to Zhou and the people, and news of the arrests also increased the potential for unrest.27 When those who returned to the square found the wreaths gone, protest began and demonstration became increasingly passionate. Some even turned violent by overturning and burning security vehicles and the command centre of security forces on the square. As these events unfolded on the Square, the Politburo still debated the level of force to respond with, that Mao had authorised. Wu De had to once again accede, and drafted a speech that was repeatedly broadcast on the square on the evening of April 5 (人民日报 8.4.1976b). The decision to take forceful measures to quell the protests had now been made. Once the hackled security forces took action in the afternoon and evening, the protests were suppressed with the use of five battalions of PLA personnel, three thousand security officers and ten thousand militiamen all armed with clubs.28 The subsequent

See the document ‘中央政治局四月四日会议记录及毛远新关于中央政治局四月四日讨论天安门事件情况给毛泽东的报告’ (2002 [1976]); see also MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 424-425). Deng (2002, 397) reports that Mao legitimised some of these measures, after the fact. Mao’s nephew briefed Mao on the events of April 5 the next morning, describing how the ‘enemy’ had set ablase buildings and vehicles in addition to spreading ‘counter-revolutionary propaganda’; with Deng being compared to Imre Nagy of the Hungarian 1956 uprising. On April 7 Mao ordered the removal of Deng and the appointment of Hua as the premier instead (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 427-428). 22 While the radical faction had been in power for ten years, they wielded little capital that did not emanate from Mao; nor would the formal positions of the radical faction even imbue them with power and authority once Mao was gone. 23 See the document ’毛泽东对毛远新关于四月六日中央政治局讨论天安门事件情况报告的批语’ (2002a [1976]); see also Baum (1996, 35) and Teiwes & Sun (2004, 227-228). 24 Mao had been informed of the disagreements on the level of force that should be used within the Politburo. 25 Mao did not accept that Deng was the mastermind behind the events, without any proof. 26 Some of the poems were published in 1979 as part of the desecuritisation of the incident (see Xiao 1979). 27 See Garside (1981, 110-129) for a contemporary eye-witness account of the events. 28 See Baum (1996, 34) and Teiwes & Sun (2004) on the disagreements even within the radical faction on how much force should be used to quell the ‘counter-revolutionary activity.’ The operation seemed restrained, as the immediate security action did not apparently result in any serious injuries (两次天安门事件 1989; Baum 21

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nationwide crackdown lasted until late May.29 Approximately, four thousand people were detained for a short period, while the most severe punishments extended to some 60 executions (He 2001). 30

9.2. The Radicals’ Tactics: Bad Elements and Revisionist Masterminds

The radical faction of Jiang Qing already positioned itself for the post-Mao era and it therefore did its uttermost to sideline Deng Xiaoping and discredit the pragmatist Zhou Enlai. Since Jiang had risen to her position from outside the party establishment, she needed the Cultural Revolution’s ‘exceptionality’ to maintain her position. The Tiananmen Incident was the final move that allowed Deng to once again be dismissed. However, the securitisation of this incident was not as trouble free as the securitisation of leading cadres a decade earlier. Unlike then, the question was now of a nationwide, indeterminate social movement that was not led by any of the leading factions, even though it opposed Jiang. In hindsight, it does not seem that the protests were coordinated, but were the result of a shared grievance and an opportunity to express it. Discrediting Zhou was similarly not an easy task as he was the only member of the Standing Committee who had endured the Cultural Revolution. The radicals followed the practices of the institutionalised securitisation of the Cultural Revolution and described Deng as a member of the same brand of enemies who had already been purged. This line is evident, for example, in a 人民日报 (18.4.1976) article which lists the ‘lessons learned’ from the incident: “it shows that the bourgeoisie is to be found inside the Communist Party. The twoline struggle in the party is a life-and-death struggle between the two antagonistic classes – the proletariat and the bourgeoisie.” The message was that ‘Capitalist roaders’ were still within the party, that there was a need for continued struggle, and that the measures already taken (e.g., suppression of the incident, and Deng’s dismissal) were legitimate. The publication of the ‘May 16 Circular’ in 人民日报 (16.5.1976), ten years after its original issuance, worked towards the same goal: the commentary portrayed the dismissals of Liu Shaoqi and Deng Xiaoping as part of a continuous struggle: “Deng Xiaoping, the arch unrepentant party capitalist roader, played the commander’s role in vehemently stirring up the right deviationist wind which culminated in the counter-revolutionary political incident at Tiananmen Square. Before the Great Cultural Revolution he was the No. 2 chieftain of Liu Shaoqi’s bourgeois headquarters.” As to the Incident itself, the radicals employed the tactic of ‘bad elements’. The purpose was to divide the participants of the protests into a minority of ‘bad elements’ and a majority of hapless, but innocent people, who were only misled by the minority (e.g., 人民日报 8.4.1976b): “a tiny handful of bad elements with ulterior motives made use of the Qingming Festival to deliberately create a political incident.” The plausibility of such 1996, 402-403; Teiwes & Sun 2004, 229). MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 427) report that 59 people were jailed with only three left uncleared of the charges of counter-revolution, when the verdict of the ‘incident’ was overturned. Baum’s (1996, 36) number of four thousand arrests presumably refers to the whole campaign, as other sources indicate that there were only some hundred people left on the Square as the militia operation began. 29 There had been ‘counter-revolutionary disturbances’ in other cities as well in early April. In Hunan, one ‘activist’ was killed by a mob of ‘counter-revolutionaries’ (Hook et al. 1976, 667-669). 30 MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008 431-432) note how inconsistent the numbers of the detained and jailed during this campaign are, as varying from between 10000 losing their lives, to merely 390 arrested.

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claims was in question however: the securitisation of the incident was not easy because it was difficult to explain why the incident could last as long as it did, if it indeed merely was instigated by ‘a handful of bad elements’. Nevertheless, such problems did not concern the Politburo, which followed this tactic in the legitimisation of the decision to dismiss Deng and promote Hua Guofeng (人民日报 18.4.1976): “The whole nation warmly supports the two resolutions of the party central committee, vehemently denounces the counter-revolutionary activities of a handful of class enemies, and indignantly criticises the crimes of Deng Xiaoping in attempting to subvert the dictatorship of the proletariat and restore capitalism.” 31 The nationwide crackdown that followed the suppression of the incident was reinforced by a series of articles in 人民日报 (e.g., 10.4.1976; 18.4.1976; 16.5.1976). For example, the April 10 editorial titled “A Great Victory” depicted Deng Xiaoping as both saved and deposed by Chairman Mao with language that followed the formulation of the first editorial: “a counter-revolutionary political incident was perpetrated at Tian’anmen Square by a handful of class enemies who openly hoisted the ensign of supporting Deng Xioping and carried out counter-revolutionary activities. This was by no means accidental. […] They tried to hoodwink the masses and created disturbances. They were extremely insidious and ruthless!” The editorial explained the actions of the militia as defence against ‘insidious counter-revolutionaries’: “No matter how frenziedly this handful of class enemies behaved, they could not withstand a single blow and they disintegrated in no time when confronted by the revolutionary masses and the powerful dictatorship of the proletariat.” Such articles sought to provide further evidence of a counter-revolutionary current that was swiftly quelled in April, and Deng Xiaoping was depicted as the Imre Nagy –like mastermind behind this current. The post-hoc maintenance of the securitisation of the ‘Incident’, put the ‘disturbances’ on a security continuum of counter-revolutionary events and ‘masterminds’ (人民日报 16.5.1976): “In the past decade we have waged struggles against Liu Shaoqi, Lin Biao, and Deng Xiaoping. All these struggles have proved that the bourgeoisie is indeed inside the Communist Party. […] The crux of the matter here lies in the fact that these capitalist roaders are persons in power who have sneaked into the very structure of the dictatorship of the proletariat.” The nature of the 1956 Hungarian uprising that had been used as a negative example since the Anti-Rightist Movement following the ‘Hundred Flowers period’, and throughout the Cultural Revolution, was once more harnessed in attempts to discredit Deng Xiaoping. However, the editorials and other articles failed to provide evidence for such claims. The attempted securitisation did not convince: legitimacy for the Central Committee’s decision to remove Deng Xiaoping’s positions within and outside the party was not ensured. Indeed, Deng remained the last living symbol of pragmatism and rationality among the highest echelons of the party.

31 The removal of Deng was portrayed as crucial (人民日报 18.4.1976): “The small number of people who were duped have been quickly awakened. The situation is excellent.”

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9.3. The Securitisation Process As already outlined above, this securitisation process began with a debate within the Politburo, which decided to make a securitising move towards Mao. Once Mao had approved this interpretation of the events, the Politburo operationalised it. Part of this operationalisation included both security operations and the public framing of the ‘incident.’

9.3.1. The Immediate Securitisation

The public securitisation of the unrest at Tiananmen Square began in the evening of April 5 as Wu De’s (人民日报 8.4.1976b) speech was broadcast through loudspeakers on the Square.32 Wu claimed (Box 32) that “a tiny handful of bad elements with ulterior motives made use of the Qingming Festival to deliberately create a political incident, directing their spearhead at Chairman Mao and the party center in a vain attempt to change the general orientation of the struggle to criticise that unrepentant capitalist roader’s revisionist line and beat back the right-deviationist wind to reverse correct verdicts.”33 To indicate the seriousness of the situation, he used several watchwords of institutionalised security. He warned (Box 33) that “We must clearly see the reactionary nature of this political incident, expose the schemes and intrigues of the bad elements, heighten our revolutionary vigilance, and avoid being taken in.” Furthermore, he required (Box 34) that revolutionary masses and comrades take up class struggle as the key link and defend Mao as well as the capital by ‘dealing resolute blows’ to the counter-revolutionaries: “Revolutionary masses and cadres of the municipality must take class struggle as the key link, act immediately, and by concrete action defend Chairman Mao, defend the Party Central Committee, defend Chairman Mao’s proletarian revolutionary line and the great capital of our socialist motherland, deal resolute blows at counter-revolutionary sabotage and develop the excellent situation.” This had to occur by leaving the Square immediately so as to avoid helping or playing into the hands of the ‘reactionaries’: “Today, there are bad elements carrying out disruption and disturbances and engaging in counter-revolutionary sabotage at Tiananmen Square. Revolutionary masses must leave the square at once and not be duped by them.” This repeated securitising move for control proved effective, as the majority vacated the Square. The some 200 people who resisted were arrested by the security forces that took over the square starting from 9:30 pm. The Politburo reconvened during the night of April 5-6 to discuss reports on the suppression. While PLA troops were on standby, the Politburo decided to only mobilise the militia. Hua Guofeng framed the events as counter-revolutionary and proposed that a A transcript of the speech was published in 人民日报 on April 8 1976. While Wu’s role in the securitisation of the events proved to be fatal for his career, Deng Xiaoping’s daughter (Deng 2002, 396-404) notes that he was ‘merely following orders.’ As such, Wu then was not the ‘true’ securitising actor even though as the Mayor he had the formal duty to securitise for control in such events. This underlines how it is not that important who is talking security, or how sincerely or wholeheartedly that someone talks security; far more relevant is in the name of what and with which authority security is spoken on such occasions. It must also be kept in mind that securitisation for control requires formal authority. 33 In the published version of the speech, ‘that unrepentant capitalist roader’ was named as Deng Xiaoping. 32

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nationwide notice should be drafted to explain the nature of the incident.34 In terms of securitisation theory, Hua proposed a post-hoc public securitisation of the events. The public notice would define the events since official news from the square had, thus far, been suppressed.35 Mao Yuanxin reported to Mao, who accepted the handling of the events, and declared that ‘the nature has changed, get rid of him.’36 Mao similarly authorised the publication of the national notice as well as Wu De’s April 5 speech in Renmin Ribao.

Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

I speech act: claim

‘Bad elements’ have created a political incident and are engaging in counter-revolutionary sabotage at Tiananmen Square. 1) Wu refers to the ongoing campaign against reversing correct verdicts as evidence of the reactionary nature of the ‘disturbances.’ 2) It is not obvious that placing wreaths on the Monument of the People’s Heroes is reactionary or counter-revolutionary. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the commemorative activities on Tiananmen Square being counter-revolutionary by nature represents an actual state of affairs

Box 32: Wu De’s claim speech act on April 5 1976 (人民日报 8.4.1976b). Propositional content Preparatory condition content

Essential content

II speech act: warn

The revolutionary masses can be duped by the ‘bad elements’ and fail to see the reactionary and counter-revolutionary nature of the ‘disturbances.’ 1) The ‘revolutionary masses’ have a reason to believe the ‘disturbances’ could be reactionary (disturbances have been deemed counter-revolutionary in the past, for example) and that it is not in their best interest. 2) It is not obvious that the ‘disturbances’ are counter-revolutionary.

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the revolutionary masses being taken in by counter-revolutionary ‘bad elements’, if the masses do not raise their vigilance, is not in the best interest of the ‘masses.’

Box 33: The warn speech act in Wu De’s speech on April 5 1976 (人民日报 8.4.1976b).

See the document ‘中央政治局四月五日会议记录’ (2002 [1976]). See also Deng (2002, 396-404; Teiwes & Sun 2004, 231). 35 See MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 428, 602) on how news of the ‘incident’ was suppressed until April 8. 36 See the document ‘毛泽东关于天安门事件性质问题所写的字迹及毛远新和毛泽东谈话的笔记’ (2002 [1976]), and MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008, 428). 34

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Propositional content

Preparatory condition content

Essential content

III speech act: Require

The revolutionary masses and cadres must take class struggle as the key link and act immediately in various ways so as not be duped by the ‘counter-revolutionary bad elements.’

1) The masses and cadres are able to carry out Wu’s requirements. 2) It is not obvious that the masses and the cadres would carry out the requirements on their own in the normal course of events. 3) The requirements are necessary to prevent the ‘bad elements’ from duping the masses (the reason to carry out the requirements). Counts as an undertaking to the effect that Wu’s requirements be carried out in virtue of not being duped by ‘counter-revolutionary bad elements.’

Box 34: The require speech act in Wu De’s speech on April 5 1976 (人民日报 8.4.1976b).

9.3.2. Securitisation after the Incident

On April 7, the Politburo met to resolve the immediate crisis and produced two Central Documents (9 and 10 respectively).37 The first promoted Hua to first vice-chairman of the Central Committee and Premier of the State Council and the second labelled the events as a “counter-revolutionary incident.” Further, Mao’s proposal to strip Deng of all his party positions was unanimously accepted and the Politburo declared “that the nature of the Deng Xiaoping problem has turned into one of antagonistic contradiction”, but also that he would be allowed “to keep his party membership so as to see how he will behave in the future” (Central Committee 1976, 663). This outcome of the frantic drafting of the official version of the nature of the ‘incident’ was then published in Renmin ribao the next day. Deng’s demotion was also made public and the demonstrations were publicly branded as a “counter-revolutionary political incident at Tiananmen Square” (人民日报 8.4.1976a). The editorial claimed (Box 35) that a handful of class enemies organised a counterrevolutionary political incident at Tiananmen Square: “a small handful of class enemies used the Qingming festival’s mourning of premier Zhou as a pretence for creating a counterrevolutionary political incident in a premeditated, organised and planned manner.” The editorial listed various types of evidence for the counter-revolutionary nature of the activities on the square, for example, that the ‘bad elements’ had made reactionary speeches, posted reactionary poems, distributed leaflets, and agitated for counter-revolutionary organisations. Indeed, the editorial went into great detail on the violent activities of the counter-revolutionaries, with examples like overturning vehicles, beating people and setting ablase a barracks building on the square. The editorial further warned (Box 36) that the activities of the ‘counter-revolutionary bad elements’ intended to restore capitalism and amounted to similar counter-revolu The two documents are published in Chinese in 两次天安门事件 (1989, 19).

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tionary plans as Lin Biao’s earlier plan for a coup d’état: “The clamours of these counterrevolutionaries about combating ‘Qin Shihuang’38 and demanding ‘genuine Marxism-Leninism’ were out-and-out counter-revolutionary agitation in the same vein as the language used in Lin Biao’s plan for a counter-revolutionary coup d’état, Outline of Project ‘571.’”39

Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

I speech act: claim

A small handful of class enemies created a counter-revolutionary political incident in a premeditated, organised and planned manner. 1) The editorial listed various types of evidence for the counter-revolutionary nature of the activities on the square. 2) It is not obvious that placing wreaths and poems on the Monument of the People’s Heroes is reactionary or counterrevolutionary.

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the activities on Tiananmen Square being counter-revolutionary by nature represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 35: The claim speech act in the April 8 人民日报 editorial. Propositional content Preparatory condition content

Essential content

II speech act: warn

The ‘revolutionary masses’ can be duped by the ‘bad elements’ and not see the reactionary and counter-revolutionary nature of the ‘disturbances.’ 1) The ‘revolutionary masses’ have a reason to believe the ‘disturbances’ could be reactionary (disturbances have been deemed counter-revolutionary in the past for example) and that it is not in their best interest. 2) It is not obvious that the ‘disturbances’ are counter-revolutionary.

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the ‘revolutionary masses’ being duped by counter-revolutionary ‘bad elements’, if the masses do not raise their vigilance, is not in the interests of the ‘revolutionary masses.’

Box 36: The warn speech act in the April 8 人民日报 editorial.

Qin was the first emperor of China, and the most hated political figure in China. Mao often compared himself to Qin. 39 The title given to the plan to assassinate Mao. The use of Lin Biao as a watchword for a national security threat, illustrates how the functions of signifieds can remain the same but the signifiers change: Lin, who had himself used the threat of a coup as a political ploy, had himself become a signifier for the threat of counter-revolutionary coups. 38

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The editorial finally explained (Box 37) that the worker-militia, the police and the military all defended Chairman Mao, the Central Committee, Chairman Mao’s Revolutionary line, and the capital against the ‘counter-revolutionary bad elements’: “[O]n receiving an order from the Beijing Municipal Revolutionary Committee, tens of thousands of workermilitiamen, in co-ordination with the people’s police and PLA guards, took resolute measures and enforced proletarian dictatorship. With high morale, the heroic Beijing militiamen valiantly filed into Tian’anmen Square and mounted powerful counterattacks.” III speech act: explain

Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

The defence of Chairman Mao, the Central Committee, Chairman Mao’s Revolutionary line, and the capital against the ‘counter-revolutionary bad elements’ was the reason for resolute measures [dispersing the protests and detaining protestors by force].

1) Militia and other security forces were ordered in and the protests were dispersed. 2) It is not obvious why the people mourning Zhou Enlai had to be dispersed using force.

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the dispersion of the protests as a way of defending Chairman Mao, the Central Committee, Chairman Mao’s Revolutionary line, and the capital against the ‘counter-revolutionary bad elements’, represents the actual state of affairs.

Box 37: The explain speech act in the April 8 人民日报 editorial.

As was already noted, the securitisation of the Incident was not straightforward.40 However, the radical faction considered it a success because even though Deng was allowed to retain his party membership and was not dragged into the streets, he had been usurped from positions of leadership.41 There are also other signs that the securitisation of the incident had been ‘successful’ within the leadership: this securitisation functioned as a basis for further practical security activities. General Chen Xilian, who was in charge of the Military Affairs Commission, ordered the drawing up of contingency plans to deal with further possible ‘counter-revolutionary political incidents’,42 while Wang Hongwen ordered the prevention of similar events in Shanghai (人民日报 8.4.1976a, 436-437). The security nature of the incident was reinforced through a series of mass rallies that were organised to demonstrate how the ‘counter-revolutionary countercurrent’ had been Some militia units had not wanted to take part in the April 5 crackdown on Tiananmen (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 437-438). 41 The elation of the faction becomes evident from Yao Wenyuan’s diary entry for the day: “Three basic lessons learned from crushing this counter-revolutionary coup d’état are to act in the interests of the proletariat, to smash all bourgeois democratic conventions and fetters (like convening a plenum and having an ‘election’, or obtaining the approval of the ‘National People’s Congress’, etc.), and to take decisive organisational action to get rid of bad people” (quoted in MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 430). 42 One of the three contingency plans for Beijing was put into action, and Shanghai similarly put on immediate ‘war preparedness’, on September 9 1976 when Mao died (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 441). 40

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thwarted by the correct decisions of the party centre (see MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 432-433).43 The post-hoc maintenance of the securitisation continued throughout the rest of April and late May. The securitisation of the incident was used to legitimise the dismissal of Deng, by weaving it into the general tapestry of the Cultural Revolution in a series of articles in 人民日报 (e.g., 10.4.1976; 18.4.1976). For example, the commentary (人民日报 16.5.1976) on the May 16 Circular that was one of the key documents in launching the Cultural Revolution claimed (Box 38) that “Deng Xiaoping, the arch unrepentant party capitalist roader, played the commander’s role in vehemently stirring up the right deviationist wind which culminated in the counter-revolutionary political incident at Tiananmen Square.” The incident worked as evidence of the legitimacy of and need for the decade of struggle against the bourgeoisie who had ‘sneaked into the party’: “Deng and company feverishly forged counter-revolutionary opinions by various base means to mislead the people and create splits […] to clear the way for Deng Xiaoping to usurp the party leadership and seize state power.”

Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

I speech act: claim

Deng Xiaoping stirred up the ‘right deviationist wind’, culminating in the ‘Incident’, in order to clear the way to usurp the party leadership and seize state power. 1) The commentary lists various types of evidence for the counter-revolutionary nature of Deng Xiaoping. 2) It is not obvious that as a veteran of the revolutionary war and a leader of the party, Deng is a reactionary or a counterrevolutionary.

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that Deng Xiaoping being a counter-revolutionary attempting to usurp power represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 38: The claim speech act in the 人民日报 (16.5.1976) commentary on the May 16 circular.

Furthemore, the commentary warned (Box 39) that Deng Xiaoping’s “line is a continuation of the counter-revolutionary revisionist line pushed by Liu Shaoqi and Lin Biao.” This line was to be considered extremely dangerous: “If this line were followed, not only would the achievements of the Great Cultural Revolution be nullified but also those of the entire Chinese revolution. The capitalist road taken by Deng Xiaoping would lead back to the semicolonial and semi-feudal old China and reduce China to an appendage of imperialism and social-imperialism.” This warning was facilitated by references to the May 16 Circular and the securitisation contained in it: “their struggle against us is one of life and death, and there is no question of equality. Therefore, our struggle against them, too, can be nothing but a life-and-death struggle.” ‘Evidence’ of the role of the ‘bad elements’ behind the counter-revolutionary violence was also later presented in the form of film clips of some of the events. These clips were broadcast on national television (Baum 1996, 34). 43

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II speech act: warn

Propositional content

Preparatory condition content

Essential content

Deng’s line would nullify the achievements of the CR and those of the revolution itself and China would return to being a semi-colonial appendage of imperialism and social-imperialism.

1) The readers of the commentary have a reason to believe Deng’s line could be counter-revolutionary (leading party figures had been uncovered as counter-revolutionaries in the past for example) and that this is not in their best interest. 2) It is not obvious that Deng’s policy lines are counter-revolutionary (they had also been promoted by Zhou Enlai for example). Counts as an undertaking to the effect that following Deng Xiaoping’s line, leading to the nullification of the revolution and the subjugation of China, is not in the interests of the readers.

Box 39: The warn speech act in the 人民日报 (16.5.1976) commentary on the May 16 circular.

Lastly, the commentary’s conclusion was a call for control along the lines of the ‘way out’ that had already been utilised for a decade (Box 40): “We have won great victories, but the struggle has not come to an end. The struggle to criticise Deng Xiaoping’s counterrevolutionary revisionist line must be carried on in depth.” The requirements were already a ‘standard operating procedure’: “The broad masses of party members, cadres and other people must conscientiously study Chairman Mao’s important instructions concerning the Great Cultural Revolution and the anti-right deviationist struggle, study the theory of continuing the revolution under the dictatorship of the proletariat, get clear on the questions of where the bourgeoisie is to be found and enforcing all-round dictatorship over the bourgeoisie, and persist in combating and preventing revisionism and continuing the revolution.” In terms of immediate effects, the security system was successfully mobilised, and the autonomous social unrest of April 1976 suppressed. However, as the year went on, there were signs of resistance to the line of discrediting Deng Xiaoping. Indeed, it gradually became clear that the benefits of securitising the Incident and outmanouvering Deng were to be short-lived for the radical faction. The politics of securitising the Incident can be deemed to have been a failure for the radical faction and even Hua Guofeng. This is evident from the way the ‘Counter-revolutionary Political Incident at Tiananmen Square’ was relabelled as the ‘Revolutionary Political Incident at Tiananmen Square’ in 1978, along with the return of Deng Xiaoping.

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III speech act: Require

Propositional content

Preparatory condition content

Essential content

Party members, cadres and others must get clear on the questions of where the bourgeoisie is to be found, enforce all-round dictatorship over the bourgeoisie, and persist in combating and preventing revisionism and continuing the revolution.

1) The masses and cadres are able to carry out the requirements of the commentary. It is not obvious that the masses and the cadres would carry out the requirements on their own in the normal course of events. 2) The requirements are necessary to prevent Deng Xiaoping and company from duping the masses and usurping the party leadership and state power (reason for carrying out the requirements). Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the requirements of the commentary be carried out in virtue of not being duped by Deng Xiaoping’s counter-revolutionary revisionist line.

Box 34: The require speech act in the 人民日报 (16.5.1976) commentary on the May 16 circular.

9.4. Desecuritisation of the ‘Incident’ – A Failure of the Politics of Securitisation

After the ‘Lin Biao Affair’, disillusionment with the Cultural Revolution had become increasingly apparent as was evident, for example, from the audacity of dissident posters put up (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008). Another indication of this was the mobilisation in defiance of a leading faction that happened in March-April 1976. Nothing like this had ever been seen before. Indeed, the suppression of the Tiananmen protests was the gravest crisis in the 27 years of Communist rule in China. The Politburo had, in effect, condemned not only the millions of people involved in the commemorations of Zhou in the capital, but also the countless hundreds of thousands or even millions who had participated in similar demonstrations elsewhere. Thus, if there truly were such a huge number of counter-revolutionaries in China, the party was indeed in grave danger. However, despite the various contingency plans, no similar major events occurred during the summer of 1976. Yet, passive resistance remained, and ‘ominous signs’ of Mao’s ‘dynasty’ coming to a close were ‘read’ from many developments and events throughout the year. As was already noted, the securitisation of the ‘Tiananmen Incident’ was not well received as it happened, and it remained an unpopular verdict; while the securitisation succeeded in terms of immediate control, the post-hoc securitisation of the Incident failed to provide legitimacy for the suppression of the popular activities. The official story did not receive much support either. In many places investigators ran into a wall of silence and meetings condemning the demonstrations were passive. Many officials did not see the investigations through to conclusion. On a more individual level, people who had copied 292

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poems and eulogies from the square hid their copies for later use (Garside 1981, 136). Such resistance was facilitated by the many natural signs traditionally seen to presage the fall of a dynasty that occurred in 1976. Even in New China, such traditional beliefs still held sway over people’s minds.44 The press published articles that reminded people of such signs but argued that no one should believe them, a strong indicator that people still voiced these ‘superstitions’. As the anti-Deng campaign progressed, respect for authority declined and social discipline weakened. During the summer, strikes and labour unrest broke out. Peasants also broke free of collective landholdings to engage in individual farming. The crime rate too, rose steeply. The rules laid down for the anti-Deng campaign were widely flouted, armouries were broken into and arms seized for factional warfare, military units fought pitched battles with armed groups, and the commander of the armed forces facing Taiwan died under mysterious circ*mstances. The Party Centre too was split as the Gang fought with Hua Guofeng. (Garside 1981, 135-138; MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 435-436.) With the death of Mao on September 9, the respite provided by the Tiananmen suppression proved to be short-lived for the beneficiaries of the securitisation tactic. On September 11, Hua Guofeng began to deal with the ‘issue of the Gang of Four.’45 Hua securitised Jiang’s faction to Li Xiannian, to whom Hua argued that to neglect to draw up a plan for action against them might be the “end of the party, the end of the country, and the end of all of us!” (quoted in MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 443). After debating various courses of action, Hua, Li Xiannian and Wu De eventually concluded that a coup-of-sorts would be the most favourable stratagem as the Gang did not have wide support within the PLA and its members were disliked among the general population. The immediate power struggle that followed Mao’s death, resulted in the fall of the ‘Gang of Four’ and their arrest by Hua Guofeng on October 4 for “crimes against the party and against socialism” (中发 16),46 and the ‘Gang’ was inserted into the continuum of counter-revolutionary party leaders and cliques (Renmin ribao 22.12.1976): “The crux of the Gang of Four’s crimes is to usurp party and state power.” After the ‘Gang of Four’ was toppled by Hua Guofeng’s faction, there were several calls for the rehabilitation of Deng Xiaoping and the reassessment of the Tiananmen incident. In October, Hua defined the propaganda line on the Gang and Deng: both should be criticised together; the Gang’s errors had been rightist rather than leftist; there should be silence on the Tiananmen incident; and there should be no criticism of anything Mao had ‘instructed or approved’ (Baum 1996, 43). Nevertheless, Hua was in a difficult position as it seemed that placing the blame on just four individuals would be insufficient to signal ‘business to go on as usual.’ Accordingly, senior generals and other party veterans The popularity of Falungong in the 1990s illustrates how pre-socialist beliefs have still retained a base of support in the PRC (Case IV). 45 While this name for the radical faction became widely used after Hua’s coup, Mao had also used the term previously when he made Jiang Qing and Wang Hongwen present self-criticisms: “Don’t function as a gang of four. Stop doing that any more. Why do you keep on doing so?” (quoted in Baum 1996, 31). Teiwes & Sun (2004, 234) emphasise that the ‘Gang’ was not as solid or united as it is usually represented. There were disagreements among the four leading figures of the radical faction, and they were not very successful in coordinating or planning their moves after the death of Mao. All four leading figurers were also not disliked in the same fashion. See for example Deng (2002, 403) on how Wang Hongwen was not vilified in the same fashion as Jiang, Yao, and Zhang. 46 See MacFarquhar & Schoenhals (2008) for details on the arrests. 44

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indicated that they would not confirm Hua’s positions in the Central Committee, if Deng was not rehabilitated (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 452). Under such pressure, in the spring of 1977, Hua had agreed to characterise the April 4 demonstrations as having started out as peaceful and ‘reasonable’. By the summer of 1977, he had to concede his defeat: in July 1977, the 3rd Plenum of the 10th Central Committee adopted a resolution which restored Deng to all his former posts.47 Yet the Tiananmen Incident retained its counter-revolutionary label. The obvious reason for this was Hua’s and his loyalist faction’s active role in its forceful suppression (Baum 1996, 43, 50). In the winter of 1977-1978, despite constant popular pressure to recognise the Tiananmen demonstrations as revolutionary and against the Gang of Four, Hua Guofeng clung to his position to retain the securitised status of the incident. For Hua, because the Four had held high positions in both the party and the state, they must have been correct in their judgement on the incident. However, Deng’s faction used their popular support to gain the advantage in the inner-party struggle. In a Central Committee work conference, Chen Yun appealed for the reversal of the verdicts on such figures as Peng Zhen and Yang Shangkun, and characterised the 1976 incident as ‘revolutionary’ (Baum 1996, 62). Under increased pressure, Hua informally accepted this view and thus opened the way for the formal desecuritisation of the 1976 incident. On 15 November 1978 the Guangming Daily announced that a hundred thousand victims of the 1957 Anti-Rightist Campaign had been rehabilitated by the Central Committee, and that the Beijing Party committee had declared the Tiananmen demonstrations of 1976 as “completely revolutionary” (Beijing Review 1995a [1978]; 人民日报 21.12.1978)48 with the people having heroically risen up against the ‘Gang of Four.’49 The Gang of Four was condemned for the fomentation of chaos, separation of revolution from production, the practice of fascist dictatorship, the conversion of Mao’s thoughts into a religious dogma, and the revival of feudal thinking (Dittmer 2002, 6). By separation of this ‘renegade faction’ from the CCP and its leadership, Mao’s infallibility was maintained. His authority was still required to justify decisions regarding major policy lines. Speaking to Japanese delegates on 26 November 1978 Deng dealt with his prior dismissal from office and the verdict of the Tiananmen incident by explaining that Hua Guofeng had not been able to meet with Mao and had been briefed on the events only by a member of the Gang of Four. “If Chairman Mao had been in good health, if he had been capable of making up his own mind, he would not have made such decisions” (quoted in Garside 1981, 207). Deng’s approach to desecuritising the incident was therefore objectivist: the desecuritisation strategy was to argue that the threat claimed by the leftists had been illusory and deceitful. Thus, the Gang was portrayed as the instigators of the failed securitisation, which then facilitated the desecuritisation of the issue: the Gang was blamed for most of the mistakes the party had committed during the last ten years of Mao’s rule.50 Deng redescribed the protest against the leftist clique as not having been a See the document ‘中国共产党第十届中央委员会第三次全体会议关于恢复邓小平同志职务的决议 ’ (2002 [1977]). 48 Deng had noted already on 19 September 1977 that in view of the large numbers of people involved in the Tiananmen incident, it definitely could not be labelled counter-revolutionary (Deng 1995a). 49 Wu De who had been ‘forced’ to securitise the Incident as it unfolded was dismissed from his posts. 50 Deng took de facto control of the party at the 11th National Party Congress, and rode the popular tide of more freedom of expression, even though Hua still retained his official positions. Zhao Ziyang became premier 47

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threat to the party, but actually part of the revolution. This desecuritisation was formally authorised by the Central Committee. Paradoxically, the Central Committee had also been the securitising agent in the securitisation of the incident. But this desecuritising Central Committee contained the ‘other’ or the ‘target’ of the original securitisation. This ‘target’ turned out to be the actual ‘self’ and the culprits of the ‘deceitful’ securitisation to be the ‘true threat’. With such factional tactics, the 1976 Tiananmen incident had become completely desecuritised.51 However, the grammar of counter-revolutionary threats, as such, was retained for future use.

9.5. Conclusions of Analysis: When Securitisation as Politics Fails

The analysis of the case of the 1976 ‘counter-revolutionary incident’ indicates that the securitisation process consisted of various securitising moves that served different functions (e.g., mobilising the system, control and post hoc legitimacy). These moves also had various audiences: the audience for raising the issue onto the agenda was Mao himself, as his authority was necessary to securitise the issue publicly; in the securitisation moves for control, the audience was those on the Square; in the post-hoc securitisation moves, the audience became the whole nation. All these moves functioned to legitimise the dismissal of Deng, the suppression on the Square, and the nation-wide crackdown that followed. However, while the securitisation was used in factional politicking, it seems to have been a reaction to autonomous social unrest, and in that sense in stark contrast to the previous case of the Cultural Revolution. The immediate level of referent objects in the securitisation of the ‘Tiananmen Incident’ comprised of Mao Zedong, the Central Committee of the party and the capital city of the socialist motherland. On a more profound level, however, the question was of socialism, the revolution and the sovereignty of the People’s Republic. All these were legitimate and widely accepted referent objects, and had been used throughout the previous decade to legitimise social foment on an unprecedented scale. This time, the ‘small handful of evildoers’ among the demonstrators that had ‘infiltrated and deceived the masses,’ were portrayed as engaged in counter-revolutionary troublemaking, restoring capitalism and leading China down the revisionist road. Beyond this general pattern, there were several securitising actors during the process who voiced securitisation moves with varying functions. As the incident unfolded, the moves for raising the issue onto the agenda were contested. The securitising actor – or more precisely the securitising organ – was the Central Committee of the party. The radical faction, led by Jiang Qing was the most vocal in calling for the use of force. Upon hearing of such moves, Mao agreed to the securitised formulation, but not to the use of force. As the Mayor of Beijing, Wu De was the securitising actor in the securitisation moves for control that were broadcast to the square before the security forces moved in. In the post-

in 1980, Hu Yaobang became party secretary in 1981 (the position of chairman was ended) and Deng became chairman of the Military Commission in 1981 (MacFarquhar & Schoenhals 2008, 453). Hua however remained a regular member of the Central Committee until 2002, just six years before his death in 2008. 51 In the Resolution on issues of party history of 1981 (Beijing Review 1995c, 66), the incident is characterised as being“a demonstration of support for party’s correct leadership as represented by Comrade Deng Xiaoping. It laid the ground for massive popular support for the subsequent overthrow of the counter-revolutionary Jiang Qing clique.”

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hoc securitisation of the incident, the securitising actor became the Politburo. All of these actors’ ultimate authority emanated from Mao, whose approval was always necessary for any moves to take effect.

It seems that the Tiananmen Incident and its securitisation were a hinge-event: it was the first outburst of autonomous and trans-provincial social unrest during the PRC-era. The securitisation was also the last major process of the Cultural Revolution. The security arguments presented in 1966 – that were the foundation of the legitimisation of the Cultural Revolution – had operated in the favour of Mao and the faction of Jiang Qing. The hinge that concluded the Cultural Revolution was in stark contrast: although Jiang followed the pattern of the previous decade and seemed successful in the sense of mobilising the security system and suppressing the immediate threat of social unrest, in the final analysis, the politics of securitisation proved unsuccessful. This demonstrates that there can be no guaranteed success in securitisation processes, or in the politics of securitisation. But why was the 1976 process unsuccessful? Whether threats are ’real’ or not, is not that relevant for security arguments; what is relevant is whether the security argument itself is accepted by relevant audiences, thus providing legitimacy, or some other political utility for the securitising actor. A ’real’ threat is thus not necessary for securitisation; politics that take a matter to be a threat, is sufficient. From this viewpoint, it is not relevant whether or not the demonstrators of the Tiananmen incident were threats to the party, but rather whether the construction of the incident as a security issue served its political function i.e., either legitimacy or control. While the initial suppression was successful, in the end, the securitisation of the Incident seems to have provided neither of these. The failure of the politics of securitisation had to do with factors beyond the securitisation moves themselves; the securitising actors in 1976 had both the socio-political capital and the appropriate language at their disposal. However, the general flow of politics was against the securitising faction, and not even the power of security could save them. This illustrates how no-one can be guaranteed success in the politics of securitisation, even if the securitisation itself is achieved. The suppression of the Tiananmen Square demonstration in 1976 was the party’s gravest crisis in its 27 years of rule in China. For the first time, there was wide popular resistance to a ruling faction, even if this was still not resistance against the party itself. The demonstrators supported the pragmatist politics that Zhou and Deng represented, and thus threatened the leftists, Mao’s political legacy of continuous revolution and rule by mass movements i.e., the Cultural Revolution itself. The security arguments were a fundamental aspect of the political battles that were fought in the tumultuous political atmosphere that anticipated Mao’s passing. It is important to realise here that the securitisation was a means to an end; despite being a reaction rather than a proaction, the negative labelling of the demonstrations could be used against Deng Xiaoping and the policy lines he represented. In effect, the radicals suppressed a demonstration that supported another faction and was against them. There were several factors that both facilitated and impeded the success of the securitisation of the Incident. In terms of functional actors, some security forces refused orders to clear the Square. However, such contestation remained inconsequential. In the case of 296

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the media, it served the securitisation process without friction. It is important to note that the media was under the total control of the party, and more specifically on the national level, under the control of the radical faction. Thereby there was no independent source of mass communication. This had made many consumers of the Chinese media proficient in reading between the lines for hints as to what really was occuring in the shadow play of Chinese politics. The dismissal of Deng was apparently not viewed favourably, nor taken at face value for it seemed quite clear that the radical leftists were attempting to utilise this history of revisionist threats and their previous portrayal in the party-controlled media. This time, the facilitating effect of those threats was unsuccessful, as it was impossible for most people to believe that Zhou had been a threat to the party. Furthermore, Deng seemed like the leader who would bring the policies of mass movements to an end and thus he became the symbol of reform and rationality. There were also other impeding factors for the success of the politics of securitisation. The year 1976 saw many events and ‘signs’ that indicated challenges to the stability of Chinese society. Those included Zhou’s death, the anti-Deng campaign (that summoned memories of the Cultural Revolution), a great meteorite shower in the Northeast (a traditional sign of a collapse of the dynasty), the Qingming demonstrations and a decline in Mao’s health, bad weather that affected the harvest, Marshal Zhu De’s death (as the second great figure of the revolution that year), and the Tangshan earthquake that claimed half a million victims (also a presage to the end of dynasties). All these events facilitated the disapproval of the ruling leftist-clique, and impeded the security claims they presented. When examining the success and failure of the securitisation, it is also important to note that the 1976 Tiananmen Incident was against an unpopular clique within the party, not against the party itself. The struggle over the verdict of the Incident, post hoc, remained an integral part of the power struggle that took place between the radicals, Hua Guofeng, and the pragmatist factions within the party. The ‘masses’ did not accept the branding of either Zhou or Deng as capitalist roaders, and especially the presentation of the incident as threatening the revolution. Thereby there was a clear way for its subsequent desecuritisation: the faction supported by the residents at the Square was the target of securitisation, but after the inner-party struggle was won, they were able, ironically, to also desecuritise themselves. Those securitisers who tried to securitise the Incident, lost the factional struggle, and in turn themselves ended up as the threats to the party. The reversal of the verdict of 1976 is also closely connected to the rehabilitation of other victims of Mao’s mass campaigns. It coincided with the rehabilitation of the victims of the Anti-Rightist campaign of the 1950s and tied in with the re-evaluation of the Cultural Revolution as a whole. The failure of the politics of securitisation did, however, not mean the end of such practices. The handling of the 1976 events signalled a profound change in Chinese society beyond the failure of the politics of securitisation for Jiang’s faction. Autonomous social unrest would come to characterise 1980s China. The reversal of the verdict of 1976 functioned as a precedent: progressive movements that are first represented with negative frames may eventually be recognised as positive; many student movements in the 1980s indeed called for the rehabilitation of previous protesters. Perhaps tragically, 297

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Deng Xiaoping was the symbol for such possibilities, as he was the leading figure behind the millions of rehabilitations in the late 1970s. In contrast, he would be instrumental in the securitisation of another ‘incident’ on Tiananmen Square just over a decade later.

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10. Case III: The Counter-Revolutionary Rebellion of 1989

This is a most serious political struggle that concerns the whole party and nation.

- Renmin Ribao

The 1980s in China was a decade of transition to the post-Mao era of politics. The legacy of the Cultural Revolution still haunted Chinese society, but the number of societal liberties gradually increased as the decade went on. The Communist Party leadership seemed to agree on the general direction of required reform, but how this reform should be implemented and what its limits should be, was much less clear. The lack of clarity in and the divisiveness of this issue were apparent in the policy zig-zags that came to define the period. In the 1980s, there were altogether six cycles of fang/shou (放/收, fàng/shōu; let go/tighten): a periodical release of political and moral control followed by a clampdown (Baum 1996, 6). Each political ‘freeze’ was ‘warmer’ than the previous one, which indicated a general trend towards increased openness. The protest movement of 1989, however, resulted in a revival of discussion on ideological security (e.g., Deng 1993d, 347-349) and effectively a clamp down on all liberal political reform. The movement also proved to be the last of the large scale fang-shou cycles: whilst the reform of the economy continued after Deng’s southern tour in the early 1990s (see e.g., Fewsmith 2001), liberal political reform since the end of the 1980s has been non-existent. China-watchers and scholars have scrutinised contemporary mainland Chinese protest extensively, with a major focus on the 1989 student movement. Several studies were published immediately after the events unfolded. These include Salisbury (1989), a day-to-day first-hand account of the events, and Saich (1990) which puts together more scholarly analyses of the first impressions of the events. Han & Hua (1990) and Oksenberg et al. (1990) contain documents that were immediately available at the time.1 Many of these initial studies focused on the student movement and its ‘democratic image’ that was often misleadingly fused with the context of other global developments in the wake Various collections of documents on the events of 1989 have been especially significant for the present study e.g., 两次天安门事件 (1989) which compiles and compares documents from both the 1976 and the 1989 Tiananmen ‘incidents’, Oksenberg et al. (1990) which presents the ‘basic documents’ of the 1989 case, while Nathan et al. (2001) contains a more comprehensive collection of documents on it; 張良 (2001a; 2001b) contain even more documents in Chinese. Han & Hua (1990) is a collection of various forms of student discourses during the spring of 1989. Yu & Harrison (1990) similarly contains texts from students, but also from workers and some military personnel too. Zhao (2009) contains a journal Zhao Ziyang kept while under house arrest after being deposed. 1

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of the collapse of the Cold War discourse of 1989.2 The interest in the student movement has not waned later either.3 For example, Calhoun (1994a) is a general description of the events from the students’ viewpoint, Brook (1998) focuses on the military suppression of the movement, while Zhao (2004) provides a more elaborate sociological study of the student movement.4 Interest in the protests has even reached the level of individual activists. Black & Munro (1993) contain interviews and ‘human level’ investigations of the lives of Chinese democracy activists ranging from the 1976 Tiananmen incident to the 1989 movement, and Buruma (2001) traces the lives of the leading dissidents a decade after the protests. The events of 1989 have a significant position in more general works as well. Baum (1996) embeds the 1989 events into the broader historical developments of post-Mao China, while others examine the repercussions of the events of 1989. Those studies that deal with Chinese nationalism in general (e.g., Hughes 2006) deserve to be mentioned here, as well as those that focus on the patriotic education campaign in particular (e.g., Wang 2008; Vickers 2009). There have also been several books that take the events of Tiananmen as their outset-point e.g., Suettinger (2003) and Vogel et al. (2004) in the field of Chinese foreign policy, and Fewsmith (2001) in the context of Chinese domestic politics. In general, ‘June Fourth’ is often viewed as a limit-event, also reflected in the titles of several books (e.g., Sullivan 1995). In this body of research, the methods by which the student protestors attempted to legitimise their movement have also attracted attention and a wide array of conceptualisations. For example, Jeffrey Wasserstrom (1994) has used Northrop Frye’s (1957) theory of genres to examine both Chinese and Euro-American narratives of the 1989 protest movement. He broadly demonstrates that while in the ‘West’ the protests are presented as a tragedy, in China they are presented as a romance.5 Elizabeth J. Perry notes the importance of the ‘casting’ of various roles in the protest and the ‘theatrics’ of the events during the movement (Perry 2002a). Likewise, Joseph W. Esherick and Jeffrey N. Wasserstrom (1994) have analysed the importance of political ‘street theatre’ and the repertoire of protest activities that were designed to mobilise support and defuse opposition by following the ‘script’ set by the May Fourth Movement of 1919. In a similar vein, Frank N. Pieke (1994) argues that through what he refers to as ‘recontextualising’ the 1989 movement, as the bearer of the historic mission of the past popular movements in China, the activists gained very potent political leverage and they were therefore harder to suppress. Craig C. Calhoun (1994b) has drawn directly on new social movement literature and highlights the importance of studying ‘identity politics’ in the 1989 movement and Bergère (2003 [1992]) was an early exception to the general trend of teleological expectations of the PRC following the rest of the Socialist World during the misnomered ‘End of History’ (f*ckuyama 1992). 3 The student movement is an important aspect of Asikainen et al. (2009) where the perspective of the events spans two decades. 4 Callahan (2006) views the activities of the movement as part of the cultural resistance in the Asia Pacific. Also Weller (1994) positions the students into a longer history and context of resistance, chaos, and control in China. 5 Callahan (2006, 86-92) has studied a photography book on the protest movement (‘June Four: A Chronicle of the Chinese Democratic Uprising’ 1989) published in Hong Kong, and concurs with Wasserstrom’s conclusion of narratives presented from the point of view of the protesters as often forming a romance. The analysis of these kinds of images could be one way to approach the study of images in real securitisation processes too, especially as the PLA also published its own ‘counterpart’ of images of ‘June 4th’ (解放军画报社 1989) which, in turn, emphasised the heroism of the soldiers and vilified the violence of the protesters. 2

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in Chinese social mobilisation in general. Indeed, identities and roles, even the choice of settings, help legitimise political acts for those who might otherwise oppose them, in that they were not properly or appropriately motivated (Edelman 1972, 100). This function of the setting of political acts is evident in the protest activities of the student movement of 1989, which utilised various symbolically loaded ‘theatrics’ and settings as part of their protest activities. I would like to add to these viewpoints that the 1989 Student Movement also demonstrates how securitisation theory can be used to study both resistance and its suppression. Security arguments and their contestation represent moves in a ‘game’ of legitimate social mobilisation and its suppression. The focus here is thus on the security arguments played on both sides of the struggle.

10.1. The Historical and Socio-Political Context of the Student Movement

Chinese politics of the 1980s was characterised by the cynicism of the generations that had been ‘scarred’ by the Cultural Revolution. This led to three ‘belief crises’ during the decade: a crisis of faith in socialism, a crisis of belief in Marxism, and a crisis of trust in the party (Chen 1995). The party’s reaction to these crises was to legitimise its continued rule with strong patriotic arguments instead of the ideological fervour of the Mao-era. Even the Four Cardinal Principles promulgated by Deng (1995b) in 1979 can be read as being more patriotic and less ideological than those principles that previously guided Mao’s policies. The trend was also evident in Article 24 of the new PRC Constitution of 1982: “the civic virtues of love of the Motherland, of the people, of labour, of science and of socialism; it educates the people in patriotism, collectivism, internationalism and communism, in dialectical and historical materialism.” This kind of laxing of ‘communist thinking’6 contributed to what came to define the 1980s: the Fang/Shou cycles. The reforms of the 1980s led to a more open political atmosphere, even though the crackdown on the Democracy Wall movement at the turn of the 1980s had taken away the most optimistic attitudes vis-à-vis political reform. The leadership reacted to increased activity in society with campaigns such as those against ‘spiritual pollution’ and ‘bourgeois liberalisation’ (Deng 1993a; Deng 1993c; Tong 1988).7 This formed a pattern of ebb and flow of relaxing and tightening political control in the 1980s. Democracy activists and students were prominent figures in these various social movements, who marched under the banners of ‘socialism’ and ‘patriotism.’8 Such social foment had noticeable effects. For instance, the reform oriented Hu Yaobang had to step down from the position of party secretary in 1987, formally due to the leniency he had displayed towards demonstrating students. Indeed, from the point of view of the students, the official reaction to the 1986 student protests had been mild. This was largely interpreted as a signal that the As Hughes (2006, 23) notes, the core value of ‘communist thinking’ is missing from this post-Mao formulation of virtue under Deng Xiaoping. 7 Security arguments were evident in these as well, as in Deng’s (1993a) 1985 speech on bourgeois liberalisation: “In China, bourgeois liberalisation means taking the capitalist road and leads to disunity. I am not talking about the reunification of Taiwan with the mainland now but about unity on the mainland. Bourgeois liberalisation would plunge our society into turmoil and make it impossible for us to proceed with the work of construction. To check bourgeois liberalisation is therefore a matter of principle and one of vital importance for us.” 8 The party eventually adopted these as its own official line, as Jiang Zemin announced in 1998 that ‘socialism’ and ‘patriotism’ are ‘by nature the same’ (quoted in Hughes 2006, 58). 6

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party had changed in terms of consenting dissent (Béja 2009, 6). However, the reaction to the protests just three years later was dramatically different. As Bergère (2003) notes, something was significantly different in 1989 in comparison to the previous unrest of the decade. With hindsight, the deposed Party Secretary Zhao Ziyang (2009, 4-5) listed three reasons for the students’ activities: 1) Party Secretary Hu Yaobang’s positive image as an uncorruptable promoter of reform, 2) discontent with Hu’s demotion in 1987, and 3) the backing off from the path of reform in 1988. Although Zhao retained the view that there were people on the streets with ulterior motives, for him, they were only a small minority in comparison to those with ‘legitimate’ grievances. Beyond Zhao’s perceptions, four main factors have been identified that together facilitated the formation of the largest autonomous protest in the PRC-era, both in terms of the absolute numbers of participants and the broadness of that participation. The first of these factors was that the international environment appeared more favourable towards political freedoms. Generally, the mood in society was also coming to a threshold of endurance as the economy was overheating and the officially promoted principles of equality were clearly flouted in more and more extravagant forms. By the end of the 1980s, particularly university students experienced a form of Zeitgeist that encouraged social activism. The ‘people power’ that had toppled the authoritarian order in the Philippines and other developments towards some form of democracy in South Korea and the Republic of China (on Taiwan) were Asian examples of possible change. In the Soviet Union and the European socialist states, the increased political leeway made voicing critique seem more ‘feasible’ in Chinese socialism as well (Manion 1990; Wasserstrom 2009),9 especially as Sino-Soviet relations were improving. The Chinese situation in the 1980s seemed undeniably backward in comparison to these developments, and even potentially fatal for the market-oriented model of development (Walder 2009, 258) promoted by Deng and implemented by his ‘whiz grandpas’, Hu Yaobang and Zhao Ziyang. The other three factors were primarily domestic. Firstly, the Cultural Revolution had left deep scars on many, and the liberal atmosphere on many university campuses contributed to the plural crises of faith prevalent in the Zeitgeist. A significant number of Chinese intellectuals and students felt alienated from the political order and not all these intellectuals or students acquiesced to the official narrative for the disasters of the Cultural Revolution as only the fault of a few misguided leaders. Secondly, the party itself was deeply divided on the main issues of the 1980s: economic reform and political liberalisation. The reform period that had begun in 1978 had not shared out its benefits evenly, and students and intellectuals were concerned about their future and the corruption that seemed chronic in the CCP. The continuation of economic reforms was under threat from leftist conservatives, while many proponents of these reforms advocated reform of the political system as well. This division resulted in stark and constant policy shifts, which further contributed to the instability of everyday life in China and made the future of economic reforms seem uncertain. Finally, the constant economic policy twists and turns also exacerbated the negative effects of the overheated economy e.g., in 1988 the official inflation rate exceeded 25 percent so that although wages had been nominally growing, This is already explicit in Wang Dan’s (1990) essay in March of 1989.

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purchasing power had been lost. All these factors contributed to why all segments of society, except peasants (O’Brien 2009), supported and joined the students calling for openness, dialogue and an end to official corruption. It is important to note that the students were against corruption, nepotism, and general bad governance, and not against socialism or the party as such.10 These themes resonated with other segments of society. Thus, when combined with a tactically fortuitous opportunity, the student movement of 1989 began in earnest. The seventieth anniversary of the May Fourth Movement was approaching in the spring of 1989.11 Student activists were already prepared for political activity, when the sudden death of the previously deposed reformist CCP general secretary Hu Yaobang on April 15 1989 provided them with an opportunity to begin protest activities earlier. Like in 1976, the death of a popular statesman provided the opportunity for protest in 1989. A key event was the April 22 official memorial service of Hu Yaobang, where the government did not receive the petition of the students presented in a very emotional manner. The authorities’ initial tolerance of the mourning cum protest gave the students a political opportunity to widen their activities, which then spread quickly from the campuses to Tiananmen Square in Beijing and to other cities and provinces.12 Division in the top leadership became evident in the official media’s extensive, and even sympathetic, reporting of the students’ activities, in addition to Zhao’s conciliatory speeches on the protests. Low level officials and retired party cadres also spoke in favour of the students (Walder 2009, 259).13 For the media savvy, this was an indication that there was room to vent frustrations.14 Thus, as the escalating student activities were not unambiguously suppressed, other segments of society began to express their support for the students and to voice their own and more specific problems.15 Both students and intellectuals saw that continuing and widening the reforms to cover the political sector was the only way to develop China and lift it out of its economic problems. However, the movement did not have a common message, as everyone voiced their ideas independently. There were several cliques among the students,16 whose demands ranged from ending corruption to the toppling of party rule altogether. After May 13 the students had only two demands: dialogue with the authorities and an official affirmation of the protests. 11 See Perry (1999) on the political role of anniversaries in China. 12 While the protests at Tiananmen Square, and the iconic image of the ‘Tank Man’ captured the collective impression of the events of 1989, protest was a national phenomenon and force was used outside of Beijing in other parts of China. See Nathan et al. (2001) for official reports on these events. 13 See for example ‘Some PLA Officers Send Open Letter to Central Military Commission’ (1990). 14 For example, workers were eventually allowed to enter the students’ headquarters on Tiananmen Square as ‘bodyguards.’ However, even here the students retained their elitist attitude towards the other segments of society who participated in the mass demonstrations. Fatefully, the workers set up their own autonomous worker’s unions. This seems to have been one of the most important tipping points towards the eventual use of force. In the history of protest in China, student protests have been tolerated to a much greater extent than workers’ protest, and this tendency was reflected in the convictions given after the suppression as well. 15 See for example ‘Fourteen Beijing Press Units Send Open Letter to CCP Central Committee and State Council’ (1990) and ‘All-China Federation of Trade Unions Issues Statement’ (1990). 16 The lack of institutionalised leadership among the students was also recognised by the party leadership (Zhao 2009, 26). 10

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10.2. Authorities’ Tactics: Divide and Rule Much in the same way as in 1976, the central securitising tactic that the authorities employed against the students was to divide the participants of the protests into a minority of ‘bad elements’ and a majority of hapless but innocent people; the latter were allegedly being misled by the minority of degenerate ‘troublemakers’ and ‘counter-revolutionaries’ with ulterior motives.17 This ‘bad element’ tactic would be employed several times in the authorities’ attempts to destroy the moral ground of the movement and thus deny its symbolic capital.18 This tactic was already present in the initial public securitisation move of the 1989 movement in the Renmin ribao editorial of April 26: “Taking advantage of the situation, an extremely small number of people spread rumors, attacked the CCP and state leaders by name, and instigated the masses to break into the Xinhua Gate at Zhongnanhai.” The problem was not the patriotic students: “The students on the square were themselves able to consciously maintain order.”, but the people exploiting them: “However, after the memorial meeting, an extremely small number of people with ulterior motives continued to take advantage of the young students’ feelings of grief.” The stance prevailed throughout the securitisation process of the 1989 movement and was maintained even after the declaration of martial law and the mobilisation of the military to clear Tiananmen Square. The real target of the harsh action, it was claimed, was not the masses of patriotic but naïve students, but the anti-China forces that had manipulated the students and exploited the movement as part of their counter-revolutionary plan targeted at the socialist system and Chinese sovereignty. As Deng Xiaoping (2004) argued: “The opponents are not only the masses who cannot distinguish right from wrong, but also a group of reactionaries and a large segment of the dregs of society. They are attempting to subvert the state and overthrow the CCP which is the essence of the issue.” While the authorities divided the participants of the movement into innocent (or at least less guilty) mass followers and evil core activists, they remained reticent on who these bad elements exactly were in practice. This made it possible for them to sow insecurity within the ranks of the activists and thus raise the psychological cost of joining the movement, and thereby, to lower the cost of possible future hard repression. In practice, the ‘troublemakers’ were the leaders of the movement, which raised the cost of becoming one. There was also another need for focusing the attention on a smaller group and not the rank and file of protest: to have cracked down on them, even in a rhetorical form, would have brought the CCP awkwardly close to opposing the ‘masses’ or the ‘people’. Such an impression would have rendered the party’s securitisation speech less potent. Beyond the tactic of ‘bad elements’, the authorities presented the ‘troublemakers’ as jepordising the core values of China. One of the major securitising acts of the reform period had been conducted by Deng Xiaoping in preparation for the first suppression of the Democracy Wall movement, when he gave a speech on the “four cardinal principles” on March 30, 1979 – keeping to the socialist road, upholding the proletarian dictatorship, leadership of the CCP, and Marxism-Leninism-Mao Zedong thought (Deng 1995b, 174-175). Both hardliners and the more conciliatory Zhao Ziyang described the students and the broader masses of demonstrators in such terms. 18 The tactic of ‘bad elements’ was also evident in 1976 (Case II), in the securitisation of the Democracy Wall Movement (Paltemaa & Vuori 2006) and in the case of Falungong too (Case IV). 17

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In the spring of 1989 these principles were once again deployed as the referent object of securitisation.19 Deng argued that this new movement represented “bourgeois liberalism” and was directly opposed to these four cardinal principles (邓小平 2004). The hard-line premier, Li Peng (1990c), also characterised the essence of the movement as one of bourgeois liberalism versus the cardinal principles in his report on the work of the government in 1990: “In essence, it [the 1989 movement] manifested the sharp conflict between bourgeois liberalisation and the Four Cardinal Principles and an acute struggle between infiltration and anti-infiltration, between subversion and anti-subversion, and between the forces of peaceful evolution and against peaceful evolution.” The divisive and negative frame used by the authorities became the central issue in the struggle between the authorities and the activists; it made the movement appear an explicit threat to national security.

10.3. The Securitisation Process

The day after the news of Hu Yaobang’s death, hundreds of students went to Tiananmen Square to place wreaths on the Monument of the People’s Heroes. Their number soon increased to tens of thousands and the period before the official memorial service witnessed the first mass rallies, the setting up of the first autonomous student organisations along with two demonstrations in front of the Xinhua Gate of the Zhongnanhai compound of the party leadership. The clashes between security forces and students during the night of 18-19 of April suggested a possible end situation to the protests for the students: they could eventually become martyrs. At this early stage, the conservative faction already began to show its concern with the developments.

10.3.1. Initial Securitisation Moves

Anxiety over the expanding and escalating student protest can be gauged by many a comment made by members of the premier leadership. For example, Wang Zhen, one of the eight ‘elders’, stated that “These students are in rebellion, comrade Xiaoping. They have attacked Xinhua Gate. We have got to do something right away!” (王震 2001[1989], 155.) In this particular instance, the securitising actor was Wang Zhen and the audience Deng Xiaoping.20 Wang’s speech unit functions here as an example of the types of securitisation

In his speech on these cardinal principles, Deng had already described how “certain bad elements” in the Democracy Wall movement had caused trouble by raising unreasonable demands and making accusations, “openly opposing the dictatorship of the proletariat” and “slandering Comrade Mao Zedong.” They had allegedly proclaimed that the “proletarian dictatorship is the source of all evils” and “criticised the Communist Party of China.” (Deng 1995b, 182.) The other central referent objects for securitisation were the modernisation policy and social stability. As Deng (ibid., 184) argued: “Departure from the four cardinal principles and talk about democracy in the abstract will inevitably lead to unchecked spread of ultra-democracy and anarchism, to the complete disruption of political stability, and to the total failure of our modernisation programme.” (Paltemaa & Vuori 2006.) 20 Other similar moves for raising the issue onto the agenda had both Deng and Zhao Ziyang as their audience. After the power-struggle with Hua Guofeng, the position of Party Chairman was abolished, and Deng did not hold formal positions beyond being the chairman of the Central Military Commission. De facto however, he was the premier leader of China, as the 12th party congress had decided in secret that the Politburo would consult the Central Advisory Committee (i.e., the eight party elders) on all important matters of policy. As the General Secretary after the dismissal of Hu Yaobang, Zhao was the de jure premier leader of the party-state. He was, 19

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moves that aimed to raise the issue of the students’ activities onto the security agenda.21 His speech unit includes a claim (Box 35), which is simultaneously a warning (Box 36): the students are in rebellion i.e., a threat to the party. This claim is substantiated with evidence (the students have attacked Xinhua Gate)22 and the move is completed with an urge (Box 37): we have got to do something. This urge is not, however, substantiated with any concrete suggestions. I speech act: claim

Propositional content

The students are in rebellion.

Essential content

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the students being in rebellion represents an actual state of affairs.

Preparatory condition content

1) Wang provides evidence of this, by reporting that the students have attacked Xinhua Gate. 2) It is not obvious that students are rebelling, as the majority of students are considered to be patriotic.

Box 35: The claim speech act of Wang’s speech unit (王震 2001[1989], 155). Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

II speech act: warn

The students are in rebellion.

1) Deng has reason to believe that students could be rebelling (there have been student protests before) and that it is not in his best interest. 2) It is not obvious that the students are in rebellion (they could be protesting legitimately). Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the students being in rebellion is not in Deng’s best interest.

Box 36: The warn speech act of Wang’s speech unit (王震 2001[1989], 155).

however, de facto subordinate to the eight party elders. Interestingly, one of the ‘crimes’ Zhou was accused of after he was deposed was the televised revelation of this decision of Deng and the other party elders having the de facto premier position. 21 Although Wang was one of the eight elders and thus in a position to raise such issues for Deng, analysis of his speech unit does not mean to suggest that Wang was behind the securitisation of the movement. His move is merely an example of this type of security speech. The mainstream understating is that Li Peng’s faction was gunning for the securitisation in an infight with Zhao Ziyang’s faction. Indeed, Zhao (2009, 6) reports that Li Peng made similar suggestions to him on April 19. These types of warnings appear to have been in the plural, as the investigative report (see Zhao 2009) on Zhao’s case lists as his first ‘crime’ the failure to respond to Hu Qili’s and Rui Xingwen’s warnings of turmoil (Zhao 2009, 63). 22 Although intellectuals have often been branded as undesirables in China, the progressive protest of students also has a special position in the pantheon of nationalist heroes in China. The May fourth movement is one of the most famous anti-foreign movements in China of the year 1919. This student movement has been considered to be the start of the ‘Chinese enlightenment’ and the rise of nationalism. The Chinese intellectual has also traditionally served the function of ‘speaking truth to power’ in a self-sacrificing manner. The ‘bad’ nature of student protest is therefore not a foregone conclusion in Chinese society, even during socialist rule. Argumentation begins where the self-evident ends (Perelman 1996, 13).

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Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

III speech act: urge

We’ve got to do something right away.

1) Wang and Deng have reason to believe that they could do something. 2) Wang has a reason to urge Deng to do something (the students are in rebellion). 3) It is not obvious to Wang and Deng, that Deng would do something of his own accord. Counts as an attempt to get Deng to do something right away in virtue of the students being in rebellion.

Box 37: The urge speech act of Wang’s speech unit (王震 2001[1989], 155).

These initial moves towards securitising the student activities by the ‘hardliners’ were not successful in bringing about an official condemnation or the use of hard measures against the activities.23 Before Zhao’s trip to North Korea, the official line included three fairly ordinary points (Zhao 2009, 5-6): 1) Social activities should return to normal after Hu’s memorial services were concluded; 2) there should be dialogue on multiple levels on all views held; and 3) bloodshed should be avoided, with any transgressions only punished according to the law. Such a moderate position would, however, not last. In his memoirs, Zhao (2009, 9) presents the change of the initially lenient line on the protests as Li Peng’s ploy that utilised Li Ximing and Chen Xitong. As Zhao left for North-Korea, Li was formally in charge of the Standing Committee of the Politburo. Li Ximing and Chen asked Wan Li to call a meeting to hear their report on the situation. The meeting on April 24 portrayed the student demonstrations as a “grim situation” which could “be headed towards nationwide turmoil.”24 The demonstrations were presented as nation-wide, comprising of various segments of society (e.g., high-school students and workers) and as directed against Deng Xiaoping personally.25 With Li Peng holding the formal procedural power as the chairman, the Standing Committee decided to issue an urgent notice reporting on the situation and recommending countermeasures,26 to charge the Beijing Municipal Committee with mobilisation of the masses to expose the plotters, to conduct a resolute struggle against the enemy forces opposing the party and socialism, and to present a report to Deng Xiaoping in person the next morning. While rumours of excessive police violence against students during the Xinhua Gate incident were prevalent, it would appear that the stories of bloodshed resulted only from a student injury to his hand on a broken bus window (Zhao 2004). 24 See ‘Minutes of the April 24 Politburo Standing Committee Meeting’ (2001, 77-80). 25 Zhao’s (2009, 10) portrayal of this political struggle testifies to the difficulty of accessing a person’s ‘real’ motives: “I am not sure what was behind Li Ximing and Chen Xitong’s behaviour: either their old mentality of class struggle was at work or they had other ulterior motives.” 26 See ‘Urgent Notice on Doing Current Work Well and Carefully Preventing the Situation from Getting Worse’ (2001, 81-82): “Begin immediately to defend resolutely stability and unity in the political situation.” Party standing committees on the provincial level were charged with deeming what these resolute measures should be. 23

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10.3.2. The Watershed Editorial of April 26

On April 25, Li Peng reported to Deng on the meeting of the Standing Committee the day before,27 effectively making a securitisation move towards Deng: “We feel that the situation in Beijing now is extremely grim. […] Some of the posters and the slogans that students shout during the marches are anti-party and antisocialist. They are clamouring for a reversal of the verdicts on spiritual pollution and bourgeois liberalisation.”28 Li’s call was facilitated by making the threat seem more personal: “The spear is now pointed directly at you and the others of the elder generation of proletarian revolutionaries. […] There are open calls for the government to step down […] and to get rid of the category of ‘counterrevolutionary’ crimes.” Also international developments were used to facilitate the threat impression. For example Chen Xitong, the mayor of Beijing, remarked that “Some students have imitated Poland’s Solidarity to form their own Solidarity Student Union.” The ‘bad element’ tactic is similarly evident in this inner-party discourse: “The small number of leaders of these illegal organisations have other people behind them calling the shots. […] These actions [the Xinhua Gate incident and looting in other cities] seriously harm social stability and unity, and they disrupt social order. Those of us on the Standing Committee29 all believe that this is turmoil and that we must rely on law to bring a halt to it as soon as possible.” The other people present in the meeting toed Li’s line. Yao Yilin stated that “the nature of this student movement has changed. It began as a natural expression of grief and has turned into social turmoil,” while Yang Shangkun emphasised that “it is crucial that we maintain social order throughout the country, especially in the Capital.” The move to raise the issue onto the agenda proved to be successful, as Deng voiced his agreement with the Standing Committee’s decision: “This is no ordinary student movement.” He agreed with both the ‘bad elements’ tactic and the fundamentality of the threat: “A tiny minority is exploiting the students; they want to confuse the people and throw the country into chaos. This is a well-planned plot whose real aim is to reject the Chinese Communist Party and the socialist system at the most fundamental level.” Furthermore, Deng was for a public securitisation of the threat: “We must explain to the whole party and the nation that we are facing a most serious political struggle. We have got to be explicit and clear in opposing this turmoil.” From this point on, this assessment would define the student movement and the social foment beyond it. Deng’s acceptance of the nature of the protests as turmoil (动乱, dòngluàn) was crucial.30 He presented the protests as a conspiracy designed by a small group whose purpose was to reject the Communist party and the socialist system at the deepest possible level. In order to curtail the unrest, decisive measures would have to be taken and the turmoil be crushed. Deng linked this turmoil with events in Eastern Europe, especially to those in Poland, from where he derived a lesson: ‘concessions lead to chaos.’ This explicit

See ‘Important Meeting Minutes’ (2001, 94-96), and ‘A Document Circulated Among Senior Party and Government Officials Earlier This Month’ (1990, 203-206). 28 There were indeed calls for the reassessment of the 1986 student movement, but by May 2 these were dropped as it was considered to be politically too sensitive (Manion 1990, xix), as is also evident from the way in which Li Peng used them as ‘evidence’ of the anti-party essence of the activities. 29 Recall, Zhao Ziyang was in North Korea at the time. 30 The 1986 student protests were labelled with the less dramatic term of a ‘disturbance’ (闹事, nàoshì). 27

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and clear stand Deng now called for was made public the next day in the April 26 Renmin ribao editorial that transpired to be perhaps the most important turn of events during the whole process. Deng’s definition of the nature of the events served the function of control. Virtually the same words were used the next day, this time, as securitisation for deterrence31 and for legitimating future acts. This demonstrates how the same words can serve different functions in different situations. Rumors of a meeting with Deng before the issuing of the editorial were widespread, which increased the power of the formulation.32 The editorial served as a deterrent against further protest and as a basis of legitimacy for possible future ‘special procedures’ e.g., the eventual declaration of martial law (人民日报 21.5.1989) and the use of military force to suppress, in Deng’s (邓小平 2004 [1989]) later words, the “counter-revolutionary rebellion” (反革命暴乱, fǎngémìng bàoluàn): “This is a well planned plot […] to confuse the people and to throw the country into turmoil […] its real aim is to reject the Chinese Communist Party and the socialist system at the most fundamental level. […] This is a most serious political struggle that concerns the whole party and nation.” (人民日报 26.4.1989.) The editorial contained a claim (Box 38) – the protests are a plot for turmoil – and a warning (Box 39) – the aim of the plot is to reject the party. These were followed by a declaration (Box 40): the protests are a serious political struggle. On their own, the protests were not condemnable, as protesting students had initiated progressive movements that are an integral part of the national myth. The editorial therefore refers to plots to confuse people, to a small group manipulating the masses of the students. The editorial constructed the issue as one of national security. Hence, the protestors should heed this and desist from further protests, lest they be in league with criminals and be acted upon as such. At the same time, the declarative editorial formed a basis to legitimise the possible use of force against the protestors. In effect, the label of ‘turmoil’ became the crux of the issue between the students and the government, and led to the intensification of the protests. The editorial was widely read, but the deterrent tactic failed miserably: April 27 saw the largest student protests until then and the editorial became the focus of contention. That the police were not committed to preventing the students from reaching Tiananmen Square increased their morale and the impression that their demands might actually go through. The labelling of the protests in the April 26 editorial became the crux of the issue, and all student demands thereafter contained a demand for the reassessment of the student movement. Zhao (2009, 8) also identified the April 26 editorial as the key event that turned the demonstrations into a ‘mess’: “The situation before the publication of the editorial and the situation afterwards were different. If the right measures had been taken to direct the situation, then there would not have been such dire results.” The failure of This inference is corroborated by Zhao’s (2009, 13-14) description of the intentions of the editorial: “The original intention of the April 26 editorial’s designations ‘anti-party, anti-socialist’ was to deter the students. The result was the opposite: the demonstrations had grown bigger. This showed that the old ways of political labelling that had worked before were no longer effective.” This quote also attests to the practices of using asymmetric political concepts to label issues with security implications in China; it shows how the ‘security rationale’ is in effect without ‘security words’ being used. Further, it also shows how ‘securitisation’ is an artificial concept, and not part of ‘folk-taxonomies.’ 32 Zhao (2009, 10-11) presents the view that Li published the formulation of the events in 人民日报 (26.4.1989) the next day against the wishes of Deng, who did not want to be identified as the source of the formulation and thereby, of the securitisation of the events. 31

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the deterrent tactic shows how securitisation moves can have unintended consequences, which may actually be counter-productive in regard to the intended objectives of the move. Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

I speech act: claim

The protests are a plot for turmoil.

1) The editorial lists the reasons and evidence as to the accuracy of the claim. 2) It is not obvious that student protests are turmoil, as Chinese history has witnessed patriotic and progressive protests before. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the protests being a plot for turmoil represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 38: The claim speech act in the April 26 人民日报 editorial. Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

II speech act: warn

The aim of the plot is to reject the party.

1) The readers of the editorial have reason to believe that the protests could be a plot to reject the party, which is not in their interest. 2) It is not obvious that the protests are a plot to reject the party. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the protests are not in the reader’s best interest.

Box 39: The warn speech act in the April 26 人民日报 editorial. Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

III speech act: declare

The protests are a serious political struggle.

1) The editorial is in a position where it has the possibility to declare a matter as a serious political struggle. 2) The protests were not already considered to be a serious political struggle and planned turmoil aimed to reject the party. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the protests receive the status of a serious political struggle and of planned turmoil aimed to reject the party.

Box 40: The declare speech act in the April 26 人民日报 editorial. 310

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The stricter labelling of the student activities demonstrated how Zhao lost the initial point of contention with the hardliners and fell in line with the formulation during his trip in North-Korea.33 However, he continued to work against the formulation and the presentation of the student protests as a grave issue. As regards the other side of the inner-party struggle, Zhao’s desecuritisation moves proved to be unsuccessful and the situation between the students and the party escalated. More and more people showed their support for the students and many took part in the mass demonstrations. These new activists eventually included journalists and even party cadres.

10.3.3. The Declaration of Martial Law and the Use of Force

After it had become clear that the labelling of the student protest had not had a deterrent effect, and Zhou’s conciliatory attempts had also not appeased the students as the protests gradually became more intense, leading to a hunger-strike in May, the party leadership took further steps. Deng (邓小平 2001a [1989]: 440-447) moved to securitise the issue to the extent that martial law now needed to be declared. Deng claimed that the goal of the manipulators behind the protests was to set up a bourgeois republic based on the Western model and warned that if things were left to develop freely, China would take a historic step backward and the leadership would end up under house arrest.34 Thus, as a remedy for this extreme threat, Deng proposed the declaration of martial law,35 which was effected soon after (see 人民日报 21.5.1989). This securitisation move by Deng took place in the May 17 Standing Committee meeting that discussed the student hunger strike and the implications of the broader monthlong movement.36 Li Peng accused Zhao of making the party speak with two voices, which had resulted in the escalation of the protests. Deng agreed with Li’s position and claimed (Box 41) that “Our adversaries are not in fact those students but people with ulterior motives. Their two basic slogans are ‘Down with the Communist Party’ and ‘Overthrow the socialist system’, and their goal is to set up a bourgeois republic on the Western model. Not to understand this basic question is to mistake the nature of the movement.” This formulation effectively undermined Zhao’s position of not presenting the students as a threat: the threat was not the students but the ‘people with ulterior motives’. Deng then emphasised that the party was at a turning-point: “[T]he question before us is not how to settle all our different views; it is whether we now should back off.” There was support for Deng’s view. Bo Yibo argued that the party was at “a point of no retreat. To retreat any further would be to hand China over to them.” Qiao Shi also supported Deng’s position: “Their goals are quite clear: to overthrow the leadership of the Communist Party and change the socialist order.” Yang Shangkun, in turn, reinforced the line of the discussion with a stern warning and suggestion for action: “Our backs are against the wall. If we retreat any further we are done for. […] The crisis we face is extremely serious: See ‘Telegram, Zhao Ziyang to Standing Committee’ (2001, 98), and Zhao (2009, 11). Perhaps ironically, it was Zhao Ziyang who ended up under house arrest. 35 The party secretary Zhao Ziyang was opposed to the declaration of Martial Law and eventually had to step down. His desecuritisation moves had failed. 36 See Deng (邓小平 2001a, 440-447) and ‘Minutes of the May 17 Politburo Standing Committee Meeting’ (2001, 243-250). 33 34

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This movement could lead to turmoil in the whole country and unleash forces that cannot be controlled. […] This is a critical juncture, and we have to put the movement down as soon as possible.”

Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

I speech act: claim

Our adversaries are not the students but people with ulterior motives, whose goal is to set up a bourgeois republic on the Western model.

1) The discussion contained reasons and evidence as to the accuracy of the claim. 2) It is not obvious that there are people with ulterior motives manipulating the students. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that people with ulterior motives being the adversary trying to set up a bourgeois republic represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 41: Deng’s (邓小平2001a) claim speech act in the May 17 Standing Committee meeting.

Deng argued that the events of the past month had shown how ‘grave’ the situation had become. He then presented a warning (Box 42): “If we do not turn things around, if we let them go on like this, all our gains will evaporate, and China will take a historic step backward.” Deng’s warning referred to the core values of the Chinese political order. If the party stepped back from the editorial’s formulation, it would mean the surrender of these values: “To back down now would be to give in to their values; not backing down means we stick steadfastly to the April 26 editorial.” Deng presented the editorial’s formulation as an existential issue for the party and the socialist order. The situation in Beijing made the issue not only existential, but also urgent: “Beijing can not keep going like this. […] [I]f we do not [settle the instability in Beijing first] we will never be able to settle it in the other provinces, regions, and cities.” He even presented a more personal possible outcome: “If things continue like this, we could even end up under house arrest.” As if in accordance with the grammar of securitisation, Deng also had a ‘way out’ of this ‘grave situation’: “After thinking long and hard about this, I have concluded that we should bring in the People’s Liberation Army and declare martial law in Beijing. […] The aim of martial law will be to suppress the turmoil once and for all and to return things quickly to normal. This is the unshirkable duty of the party and the government. I am solemnly proposing this today to the Standing Committee of the Politburo and hope that you will consider it.” Since Deng was not a member of the Standing Committee that had the formal authority to decide on martial law, formally Deng’s conclusion was a proposition (Box 43). However, he was the de facto leader of China and, accordingly, the meeting tasked the Standing Committee to report to him and the party elders on the deployments of martial law once it would be decided in a later meeting that same day.

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Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

II speech act: warn

If things are not turned around, China will take a historic step backward and the party leadership can even end up under house arrest.

1) The Standing Committee has reason to believe the party could lose its position and China could take a historic step back, which is not in their interest. 2) It is not obvious that the party will lose its position and the Standing Committee will end up under house arrest. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that giving in to the demands of the protesters, or recanting the April 26 editorial is not in the Standing Committee’s best interest.

Box 42: Deng’s (邓小平2001a) warn speech act in the May 17 Standing Committee meeting. Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

III speech act: propose

The Standing Committee should bring in the People’s Liberation Army and declare martial law in Beijing. 1) The Standing Committee is able to declare martial law. Deng is in a position to make such proposals (he is the chairman of the Central Military Commission). 2) It is not obvious that the Standing Committee will declare martial law of its own accord. Counts as an attempt to get the Standing Committee to declare martial law and to mobilise the PLA into Beijing.

Box 43: Deng’s (邓小平2001a)propose speech act in the May 17 Standing Committee meeting. The meeting of the Standing Committee that followed was, however, not in agreement on the issue of declaring martial law.37 Zhao and Hu Qili were against, while Qiao Shi did not make his position known.38 Thus, even Deng’s authority was insufficient to receive unquestioned success in terms of securitisation among the top leadership. This illustrates how acts of securitisation are open social processes that can, and indeed also do fail. As the Standing Committee remained indecisive on the issue, the decision was deferred to another meeting where Deng and the other party elders could come to a resolution. Zhao offered his resignation. Although his offer was declined, he no longer took part in the meetings on the declaration of martial law.39

There was not even agreement among the ones in favour on what precisely Deng’s talk in the previous meeting entailed: Li Peng argued that Deng had made the decision on martial law, while Yao ‘strongly supported’ Deng’s ‘proposition.’ 38 While Nathan et al. (2001, 254) documents that there was a formal vote on the issue, Zhao (2009, 29) himself claims that no formal vote took place. This position fits well into his general legalistic resistance of his treatment after 1989. 39 See ‘Minutes of the May 17 Politburo Standing Committee Meeting’ (2001, 252-255), ‘Yang Shangkun’s Talk to a Small-Group Meeting at the Enlarged Meeting of the Central Military Commission’ (2001, 263-266), and 37

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A meeting consisting of party elders, members of the Standing Committee, and members of the Military Affairs Commission, took place on the morning of May 18 to further discuss the issue of martial law.40 The discussion repeated the views of the previous meeting with Deng: martial law was a necessity in order to prevent the complete overthrow of the party and the socialist system. With Zhao now absent, no dissenting views were forthcoming. The meeting decided to declare martial law on midnight May 21, to begin the mobilisation of troops and hold a large meeting for officials on May 19. As the chairman of the Central Military Commission, Deng himself signed the order to mobilise troops.41 Li Peng’s speech on May 19 disseminated the decision to declare martial law to wider audiences.42 The speech repeated the essence of the security argument that had been formed in the discussions among the Standing Committee and the party elders. Li opened his speech by stating the formal authority of the speech and making a securitisation move for control: “Today, in accordance with the decision of the Standing Committee of the Politburo of the Communist Party of China, the Central Committee and the State Council have convened a meeting of central and Beijing Municipal Party, government, and army cadres to ask that everyone urgently mobilise, take firm and forceful measures, take a clear stand to halt turmoil, restore social order, and protect stability and unity, to ensure that reform, opening up, and socialist modernisation can be smoothly carried out.” Li legitimised this call for dramatic action by describing how the ‘turmoil’ that had already been dissipating had become worse, and how a ‘minority’ used the students on hunger strike as hostages: “All these incidents demonstrate that we will have nation-wide major turmoil if no quick action is taken to turn and stabilise the situation.” He further claimed that “Our nation’s reforms and opening to the outside world, the cause of the four modernisations, and even the fate and future of the People’s Republic of China, built by many revolutionary martyrs with their blood, are facing a serious threat.” The tactic of ‘bad elements’ was once again in operation: “[A]n extremely small number of people want to achieve through turmoil their political goals, which are to negate the leadership of the Communist Party and to negate the socialist system […] and totally negate the people’s democratic dictatorship.” The speech indicated that the issue came down to the core values of the political order: “Their goal is to achieve absolute freedom which brazenly opposes the Four Cardinal Principles.” In other words, the protests were a threat to the very survival of the revolution, the party and the state. Li warned that things could not be allowed to continue as before: “If they should achieve their goals, reform and opening, our democratic legal system, and socialist modernisation would all go up in smoke, and China would undergo a reversal of history. A China with great hope and a great future would become a China without hope or future.” Faced with these threats to vital referent objects, he concluded that “[w]e are forced to take decisive, firm Zhao (2009). 40 See ‘Minutes of an Important Meeting on May 18’ (2001, 269-278). 41 Some military commanders refused to follow the order to mobilise, which subsequently led to a restructuring of command. 42 This speech can be found in the New York Times (20.5.1989), Li (1990a, 255-258), Li (1990b, 309-315), as well as ‘Materials from the Big Meeting of Central and Beijing Municipal Party, Government, and Military Officials’ (2001, 296-300) and, for example, excerpts of the speech’s telecast can be seen in Tiananmen – 20 Jahre Nach den Massacre (directed by Shi Ming and Thomas Weidenbach 2009, Längengrad Filmproduction).

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measures to halt the turmoil. […] Our party is the governing party; our government is a people’s government. To fulfil our responsibilities to our sacred motherland and to the entire people, we must take firm, decisive measures to put a swift end to the turmoil, protect the leadership of the party, and protect the socialist system. Li’s securitisation move sought both control in terms of the requirement for mobilisation of the security and military apparatuses,43 and legitimacy for the declaration of martial law (人民日报 21.5.1989).44 However, the response to the declaration of martial law was not what had been desired nor expected. The mobilised troops failed to reach the central areas of Beijing as residents obstructed their vehicles already at the outskirts of Beijing. Citizens lectured the troops on the good intentions of the students as well as on the good relations between the people and its liberation army. This situation of Beijing residents flouting martial law lasted for approximately two weeks. While the move for control had succeeded and the military had been mobilised, the move for legitimacy had failed as Beijing residents had actively resisted the mobilisation. Following the failure of martial law to bring an end to the protests,45 the issue was moved to another rung of securitisation. PLA troops were now ordered to clear Tiananmen Square, by “any means necessary.”46 Deng (邓小平 2001b [1989]) presented the events in a global context, both in terms of the threat and the referent object of security: “The causes of this incident have to do with the global context. […] When the West stirs up turmoil in other countries, in fact it is playing power politics. […] This turmoil has taught us a lesson the hard way, but at least we now understand better than before that the sovereignty and security of the state must always be the top priority. […] [W]hat they are really after is our sovereignty.” He used the experiences of the Cultural Revolution to facilitate the sense of urgency and danger: “Imagine for a moment what could happen if China falls into turmoil. If it happens now, it would be far worse than the Cultural Revolution.” Furthermore, for Deng, the issue was not only national, but would have global effects, if left unchecked: “If the turmoil keeps going, it could continue until party and state authority are worn away. Then there would be civil war, one faction controlling parts of the army and another controlling others. […] This would be a disaster on a global scale. So China must not make a mess of itself. And this is not just to be responsible to ourselves, but to consider the whole world and all of humanity as well.” This discussion ended with Deng’s conclusion that force should be used as the solution to the issue: “I agree with all of you and suggest the martial law troops begin tonight to carry out the clearing plan and finish within two days.” The formal decision to order the troops in was made by the Standing Committee:47 “So long as everybody agrees, then it [the PLA should move in by using any means neces Li (1990a, 313): “All Communist Party members must strictly abide by party discipline. […] At the same time, we also hope that the broad masses will fully support the PLA, the public security cadres, and the police in their efforts to maintain order in the capital.” 44 Following Li’s speech, Yang Shangkun gave a short speech as the president of the People’s Republic that succinctly repeated the essential securitisation argument (Li 1990a, 314): “To restore normal order, to restore public order, […] there is no choice but to move a group of the PLA to the vicinity of Beijing. […] This was done out of absolute necessity.” 45 This was succinctly characterised by Deng (2001, 340): “We can all see what has happened. Martial law has not restored order. […] Our party and state face a life-and-death crisis.” 46 For the inner-Party discussion of the Party elders, see Deng (邓小平 2001b [1989], 480-488) and ‘Minutes of the Politburo Standing Committee meeting, June 3’ (2001, 485-488). 47 ‘Minutes of the Politburo Standing Committee meeting, June 3’ (2001, 485-488). 43

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sary, although no-one should die in the Square] will be unanimous.” Troops began moving in on the Square on the evening of June 3, as the martial law declaration was continuously broadcast. On their way to Tiananmen Square, the troops clashed with protestors. There are conflicting reports on the numbers of casualties, although it seems that they are in the hundreds rather than thousands. Violent resistance by some protesters was used by the party as evidence of the rebellious nature of the incident, and images of destroyed vehicles and dead soldiers were broadcast and published widely. The troops cleared the Square before the sunrise of ‘June Fourth’. Still, some tried to enter the square the next morning. The military used force to stop them.48

10.3.4. Securitisation after June Fourth

There were a few days of silence from the party centre. The first announcement after the crackdown was a news conference in which the State Council spokesman Yuan Mu (1990, 363) presented the explanation for what had happened on June 3-4: “a shocking counterrevolutionary rebellion, unprecedented in the history of the Republic, has occurred in the capital.” The official line following the violent dispersion of the protests was formulated in public in Deng’s (邓小平 2004 [1989]) first public appearance after the ‘incident’, a speech to the martial law troops in Beijing on June 9. The speech was widely publicised.It was one of the single most relevant cases that defined the official nature of the incident, thus crystallising the formulation and the political line.49 While the securitisation process preceeding the events of June 3 and 4 had presented the situation as ‘grave turmoil’ (严重的动乱, yánzhòng de dòngluàn), the speech of June 9 was even harsher in its definition of the events. Now the events were portrayed as a ‘counter-revolutionary rebellion’ (反革命暴乱, fǎngémìng bàoluàn). Deng’s speech thus follows the grammar of reproducing security: counter-revolution threatened socialism and the Communist Party, whereby the protests had to be crushed without any concessions. Concessions would only have led to bourgeois liberalism and, eventually, to the destruction of the party. Taking the domestic and international situation into account, Deng (邓小平 2004) declared that the events were unavoidable: “This disturbance would have come anyway. Dictated by both the international climate and the domestic climate in China, it was destined to come, and the outbreak of this disturbance is independent of man’s will.” Thus the referent object of the security argument was the Communist party and socialism, which were under threat from a “counter-revolutionary rebellion” and “bourgeois liberalism”: “It all became clear once the incident broke out. They have two key slogans: one is to overthrow the Communist party, the other is to topple the socialist system. Their aim is to establish a bourgeois republic totally dependent on the West.” Martial law had relieved the leadership The symbolically and visually strong ‘Tank Man’ incident happened on June 5 near the Beijing Hotel. These images show how the interpretation of images is open, and requires anchorage. In Europe and the US. the Tank Man represents the courage of the unknown individual in the face of state repression. In China, the video of the man repeatedly stopping the column of tanks was used as evidence of the PLA doing all they could to avoid harm to the demonstrators, despite their ‘rebelliousness.’ See for example Tiananmen – 20 Jahre Nach den Massacre (directed by Shi Ming and Thomas Weidenbach 2009, Längengrad Filmproduction). 49 For example, the Mayor of Beijing, Chen Xitong (1989), reified this line in his report to the National People’s Congress Standing Committee on “checking the turmoil and quelling the counter-revolutionary rebellion”. For analysis, see Vuori (2008b). 48

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of the rules that normally bound policies and the voice of protest was silenced by force. By labelling the protests as a “counter-revolutionary rebellion,” all that they had said became criminal. Securitisation thus had major effects: the loss of life and the renunciation of the option for political change. Concessions were presented to be a point of no return, since in Poland they had led to the collapse of the system.50 Thus the ‘way out’ of the threatening situation was to give no concessions and to crush the protests. Deng’s speech referred to the prior experience of old revolutionaries and to the necessity to understand that turmoil must be dealt with immediately, lest the situation lead to chaos, similar to the Cultural Revolution. Deng’s (邓小平 2004) speech contains three speech acts that are consistent with the reproduction of security. He claimed (Box 44) that the protests were counter-revolutionary violence. With reference to the bad influence of foreign powers and to a small group of evildoers who had misled the masses, the speech testified to the counter-revolutionary nature of the incident: “Some comrades cannot see the nature of the issue, and believe it is simply a problem of dealing with the masses. In fact, the opponents are not only the masses who cannot distinguish right from wrong, but also a group of reactionaries and a large segment of the dregs of society. They are attempting to subvert the state and overthrow the Communist party which is the essence of the issue.” The conclusion was succinct: “We were only cracking down on counter-revolutionary rebellion.”

Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

I speech act: claim

The protests were a counter-revolutionary rebellion by nature.

1) Deng lists reasons and evidence as to the accuracy of the claim. 2) It is not obvious that student protests are counter-revolutionary, as Chinese history has witnessed patriotic and progressive protests, which are a part of the national myth. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the protests being a counter-revolutionary rebellion by nature represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 44: The Claim speech act in Deng’s speech to the martial law troops (邓小平 2004).

The element of warning (Box 45) was also evident: the aim of the protests was to topple the socialist system: “Their aim is to establish a bourgeois republic totally dependent on the West.” A counter-revolution would lead to the end of socialism and China ending up as a vassal state of the West. The ‘century of shame’ is a part of the national myth and opposition to foreign rule justifies almost any measures.

Solidarity won the election on June 4 while in China the military was taking command of Tiananmen Square. 50

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Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

II speech act: warn

Counter-revolution leads to the end of socialism (China’s freedom) and to China becoming totally dependent on the West. 1) The hearer has a reason to believe, that China could become dependent on the West, and that it would not be in the interest of the hearer (China was dependent before the era of socialism). 2) It is not obvious that China would become dependent on the West regardless.

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that a counter-revolution leading to China’s dependency on the West (the end of socialism) is not in the hearer’s best interest.

Box 45: Warn speech act in Deng’s speech to the martial law troops (邓小平 2004).

Thirdly, Deng explained (Box 46) that resolute measures were necessary to prevent a counter-revolution, the toppling of the socialist system and dependency on the West; and because in the minds of some, there was still confusion about the nature of the incident, Deng explained what the protests were all about and what their true nature was: “Although some comrades do not understand it for the time being [the necessity of adopting resolute actions to suppress the rebellion], they will eventually understand and support the decision of the party central leadership. […] If we do not understand this fundamental problem [that subversion of the state and overthrow of Communism are the essence of the issue], it means we are not clear about the nature of the issue.” Deng was optimistic as to the party’s success regarding this explanation: “After making conscientious efforts in our work, I believe we will be able to win the support from the overwhelming majority in the party for determining the nature and handling of the issue.” III speech act: explain

Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

The prevention of a counter-revolution (the maintenance of socialism and China’s freedom) was the reason for resolute measures [declaring martial law and dispersing the protests by use of force].

1) Martial law was declared and the protests were dispersed. 2) It is not obvious why the protest of (patriotic) students had to be dispersed by force.

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the dispersal of the protests as a way of preventing a counter-revolution represents the actual state of affairs.

Box 46: The Explain speech act in Deng’s speech to the martial law troops (邓小平 2004). 318

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In terms of effects, the securitisation did not come without a cost for the party. Indeed, the securitisation of the student movement and the way it played out had major effects on inter-unit relations both within China and in China’s international relations: the actions of the party were condemned internationally, which had a negative impact on foreign trade over the next two years. The arms embargo sanctions that the US and many European states imposed remain in place two decades later. The events of 1989 are still referred to in discussions on China’s human rights record, and they generally continue to plague the international image of the PRC.51 In terms of domestic effects, Zhao Ziyang’s failure to desecuritise the events led to his dismissal from all his posts and placement under house arrest and investigation. Student protest had once again affected the premier leadership as Jiang Zemin replaced Zhao. This change of leadership was not a victory for the conservative faction of Li Peng, as Jiang was a compromise figure who lacked connections to either faction. Beyond such neutrality, Jiang’s management of the situation in Shanghai played in his favour in the nomination. The changes in the leadership also posed problems for the line of reform. While liberal political reform was effectively frozen, Deng managed to re-establish the line of reform with his 1992 ‘southern tour’ (see e.g., Fewsmith 2001). The lifting of martial law in January of 1990 had already begun the normalisation of the domestic situation. The use of force had entailed the calling in of many favours from leading military figures and the subsequent increase of their influence. With the normalisation of the situation and the victory of the southern tour, Deng managed to retire most of these military figures.52 As Andrew J. Nathan (2009, 39) notes, the key lesson party leaders learned from the events of 1989 was that equal dialogue with society beyond the party was not advisable. This is also what Li Peng argued to Zhao Ziyang during their debates on how to handle the protests: to let the students negotiate with the party as equals would have meant the negation of the leadership party and the whole socialist system.53 The collapse of most other socialist systems and the continued absence of the new states from the international limelight seem to have convinced the ‘fourth generation’ of party leaders of this line of thought as well. The official line on ‘June Fourth’ has become hegemonic and any other interpretations have become political taboo.

10.4. Resistance and Desecuritisation Moves

The autonomous nature of the 1989 unrest is evident in the unprecedented levels of contestation of and resistance to the official definition of the nature of the student movement in 1989. Indeed, desecuritisation moves were already widespread during the progression

Incidentally, as Google pulled out of China in 2010, the events of 1989 and also the Falungong were often listed in Western media as the topmost among the keywords that are blocked and censured by China’s system of Internet-control. 52 The line of both Jiang Zemin and Hu Jintao has been the professionalisation of the military, which has also meant the reduction of direct political power of the PLA. While Jiang’s chances to control the military were in question at the beginning of his rule, he managed to gain a firm footing over it through the promotion of generals and improvement of salaries and other conditions of regular soldiers. 53 See ‘Materials for the Fourth Plenum of the Thirteenth Central Committee’ (2001). 51

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of the demonstrations. For example, Zhao Ziyang (1990) made public desecuritisation moves, in his speech to the Asian Development Bank (ADB) delegates. Beyond such contestation among the authorities, protest leaders tried to resolutely present their activities as not counter-revolutionary but essentially reformist. Accordingly, most student and other protesters began their posters with a plea for desecuritisation.54 However, some poster writers went even further and presented counter-securitisation arguments,55 which justified their ‘breaking of rules’56 by representing Li Peng and the party elders as a threat to the future of China. However, the desecuritisers on the streets lacked the formal positions necessary to achieve desecuritisation, even if the audience on the streets agreed with them. As the General Secretary, Zhao had the position required for such a move, but even his attempts proved to be a failure: Deng and the other elders remained convinced that the movement was about national security which required forceful measures. Despite, or perhaps even due to such failures, the contestation and resistance contributed to the escalation of the conflict between the authorities and the social movement: attempts at co-option or a softer line were interpreted as signs of weakness by hardliners both within the authorities and the protesters.

10.4.1. The Contested Nature of the Securitisation within the Leadership

Zhao Ziyang was against the presentation of the student protest as a major political issue from the beginning. He however seemed to fail to appreciate the determination Li Peng and Zhao’s other political opponents had in pushing through their point of view. As already presented above, Li was able to use Zhao’s absence to securitise the issue. While Zhao acquiesced to Deng’s position, Zhao did not end his attempts to desecuritise the protests. Ironically, these desecuritisation moves would be the ‘crimes’ he was charged with in the investigation conducted after his dismissal from office; the 30 point investigative report (see Zhao 2009) that followed the three year investigation of Zhao’s case, lays out his crime of splitting the party on the issue of the student activities. Thus, it would seem that Zhao’s crime was to lose the contest over the security nature of these events. Zhao’s (1990, 132-134) most important desecuritisation move was his speech to the Asian Development Bank delegates on May Fourth. In his speech, he presented the view that China was not in a major crisis: “China will not experience any great turmoil.” In fact, for him, the students’ demands were in line with the leadership of the party: “I would like to stress and point out that the basic slogans of the student demonstrators are ‘uphold the Communist Party’, ‘uphold socialism’, ‘uphold the constitution’, ‘uphold the reforms’, ‘advance democracy’, and ‘oppose corruption.’ […] They are not opposed to our basic system.” The students were even promoting the party’s line of anti-corruption: “What the students are most upset about is the phenomenon of graft and corruption.” Zhao’s proposition for dealing with such demands was moderate: “Through democratic and legal avenues, and See ‘An Open Letter to the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party and the State Council of China’ (1990, 55) and Hunger Strikers at Tiananmen (1990) for example. 55 See ‘An Open Letter to the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party and the State Council of China’ (1990, 55) for example. 56 The demonstrators violated Beijing municipal regulations that had been put into force after the 1986 student protests (Manion 1990, xix-xx). 54

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in an athmosphere of rationality and order, we should exchange opinions, increase our understanding of each other, and together explore ways of resolving the problems that are of common concern.” Zhao’s conciliatory approach did not, however, please the hardliners. It was also unable to convince all students to cease their protest activities. The hard line position was already evident in the Politburo meeting that preceded Zhao’s ADB speech.57 Zhao argued for leniency and the need to “accelerate the reform of our political system, especially the building of a system of socialist democracy based on law.” He referred to the international situation and the Zeitgeist of the time: “Times have changed, and so have people’s ideological views. Democracy is a worldwide trend, and there is an international countercurrent against communism and socialism that flies under the banners of democracy and human rights.” Zhao even presented a warning against taking a hard stance on the issue: “If the party does not hold up the banner of democracy in our country, someone else will, and we will lose out.” Promoting a stricter line, Li was not impressed. For him, the issue was already grave enough: “The seriousness of this protest movement is unprecedented, and the range of its impact is also serious.” The issue was about core values: “What they want is the kind of absolute freedom that tramples on the Four Cardinal Principles”, and the honour of the veterans of the revolution: “They attack, slander, and insult Comrade Xiaoping and other party and state leaders.” For Li, the party was the cusp of fate: “If they get their way, then everything – reform and opening, democracy and law, building socialist modernisation, you name it – will vanish into the air and China will take a huge step backward.” Despite such opposition within the Standing Committee, Li Peng and the other Politburo members who opposed Zhao, agreed formally with his position. In practice, however, they worked against its implementation, and especially fought against any moves to overturn the ‘verdict’ of the April 26 editorial. This issue was also brought up by Zhao in a Standing Committee meeting,58 in which his position to shift the responsibility for the April 26 editorial onto the Standing Committee’s formulation on April 24 failed. Li was able to stick to the position that since Deng had voiced his approval for the formulation, it was thereby equal to Deng’s own words. The level of success of Zhao’s opponents only dawned on him when his request to meet Deng one-to-one was instead responded to with an enlarged meeting of the Standing Committee. Yet even at this stage Zhao (2009, 28) tried to make a desecuritisation move towards Deng: “The only way to bring about some kind of resolution would be to somewhat relax the judgement from this editorial. This is the key and, if adopted, will gain wide social support. If we remove the labelling of the student movement, we will regain control over the situation. If the hunger strike continues and some people die, it will be like gasoline poured over a flame. If we take a confrontational stance with the masses, a dangerous situation could ensue in which we lose complete control.” The move failed, and Deng proposed the declaration of Martial Law. Furthermore, after the decision to declare martial law, Zhao’s attempt to resign was rejected, as this would have made the division within the leadership too apparent. Thereaf See ‘Minutes of Politburo Standing Committee Meeting’ (2001, 134-143). See ‘Remarks of Comrade Zhao Ziyang’ (2001, 153-156) and Zhao (2009, 27), and ‘Minutes of the May 16 Politburo Standing Committee Meeting’ (2001, 234-239) and ‘Minutes of the May 17 Politburo Standing Committee Meeting’ (2001, 243-250) for similar disagreements between Zhao and Li. 57 58

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ter Zhao continued his attempts to contest the hard line, even as he became increasingly isolated from what was going on in the leadership. Zhao’s (2009, 30-31) May 18 letter to Deng repeated previous desecuritisation moves: “The current situation is extremely grave. […] The crucial request that must be granted in order to stop the hunger strike is the reversal of the labelling and judgement made of them in the April 26 editorial, and acknowledgement of their actions as patriotic.” Zhao’s suggestion might have led to a complete desecuritisation of the events and a victory for the students. However, by that time things had progressed too far for the party to be able to back down from its position without loss of its authority. Accordingly, Zhao used a security rationale to legitimate his extraordinary suggestion: “Even if you must eventually take some resolute measures to maintain order, we must take this first step. Otherwise, imposing harsh measures while a majority of people are adamantly opposed may result in serious repercussions that threaten the fate of the party and the state.” It would thus seem that security arguments can play a part in arguing for desecuritisation but in this case, even the strength of security was to no avail: the formal declaration of martial law two days later further escalated the conflict.59 Zhao would not repent his ‘deeds’ and maintained his stance throughout the decade and a half of house arrest. In terms of contestation of and resistance to securitisation, as Zhao lost his positions within the party, his contestation turned into resistance. In 1997 he wrote a letter to some delegates of the 15th Party Congress, where he once again presented a desecuritisation argument (Zhao 2009, 78-79): “Please allow me to propose the issue of re-evaluating the June Fourth incident, which I hope will be discussed. […] First, no matter what extreme, wrong, or disagreeable things occurred in the midst of the student demonstrations, there was never any evidence to support the designation of ‘counterrevolutionary rebellion.’ If it was not a ‘counter-revolutionary rebellion’, then the means of a military suppression should never have been used to resolve it.” Zhao placed the blame on the party’s interference in the course of the students’ activities: “The situation would have subsided if we had not interpreted the students’ activities as being anti-party and antisocialist, but had accepted their reasonable demands and had adopted measures of patient negotiation, dialogue, and reducing tensions.” Zhao legitimised his revisionist view with historical precedent: “The principles of resolving historical problems could be followed, such as ‘not nitpicking over details’ and ‘focusing on the lessons to be learned’ rather than individual blame.” Repercussions for this move included reductions in his visitor allowance and travel to other parts of China. Yet Zhao’s resistance did not end with this, or even with his death. His posthumously published journal, covertly recorded under house arrest and smuggled out, also presents his ‘objective strategy of desecuritisation’ (Zhao 2009, 33-34): “It was determined then that the student movement was ‘a planned conspiracy’ of anti-party, anti-socialist elements with leadership. So now we must ask, who were these leaders? What was the plan? What was the conspiracy? What evidence exists to support this? It was also said there were ‘black Moreover, not only did Zhao’s failed desecuritisation moves fail to halt the process of securitisation, on the contrary, they facilitated the escalation of the conflict. They also cost him personally, when in June 1989, Zhao was formally deposed from his positions within the party in the 13th Plenum of the Party Central Committee, placed under house arrest and investigated for three years. Zhao’s ADB speech, as well as his May 18 letter to Deng were both used as evidence of his ‘crimes’ of splitting the party. Zhao remained under house arrest after the investigation was concluded, until his death in 2005. In effect, Zhao became a ‘nonperson’, who was expunged from almost all official media (Béja 2009, 6). Zhao was afforded no opportunity for a repeat of the commemoration allowed for Hu Yaobang. 59

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hands’ within the party. Then who were they?” As part of his general ‘legal’ approach to even the issue of his own ‘case’, Zhao was asking for evidence: “It was said that this event was aimed at overthrowing the People’s Republic and the Communist Party. Where is the evidence? […] After so many years, what evidence has been obtained through the interrogations? Have I been proven right, or have they?” He seems to suggest that time has been on his side and the objective state of affairs would be in his favour: “Can it be proven that the June Fourth movement was ‘counter-revolutionary turmoil’, as it was designated? […] By now, the answer to this question should be clear.” Despite Zhao’s ‘objectivist’ or ‘legalist’ reasoning, two decades after the events, the official verdict of 1989 still stands.60 Zhao’s (e.g., 2009, 36, 41-43) legalist position is also evident in his journal that portrays the manner in which he was removed from office, investigated and effectively kept under house arrest without formal decisions as having been ‘illegal’ according to the rules of the party. This illustrates how security can be utilised to break the formal rules of the party, even in the post-Mao era. Zhao (2009, 43) himself compares these practices to those in fashion during the Cultural Revolution. It would seem that in a grave crisis, the party can resort to its time-old practices (cf., Dutton 2005). In terms of the violation of procedural rules and norms of the party being similar to the flouting of such norms in Mao’s China, the handling of Zhao is qualitatively quite different to many of the party leaders purged during the Cultural Revolution. For example, Liu Shaoqi died in prison, while Zhao remained in semi-house arrest, where he was permitted visitors and trips outside Beijing. It would seem that the Jiang and Hu-Wen leaderships could not afford an official or public verdict on Zhao, one way or the other. Thus, he was preferably kept out of sight and, therefore, out of mind. While Zhao was the leading ‘non-person’ to attempt to desecuritise the events post hoc, even the post-Zhao government made moves towards softening its stance on them. The hard-line position was for the retention of the label “counter-revolutionary rebellion” (反革命暴乱, fǎngémìng bàoluàn), while the liberal faction tried to soften the issue by characterising the events as either a “student upheaval” (学潮, xuécháo), an “emergency incident” (事变, shìbiàn), or even merely an “incident” (事件, shìjiàn) (Baum 1996, 314). Deng and Yang Shangkun, however, retained the use of the labels “turmoil” (动乱, dòngluàn) and “chaos” (混乱, hùnluàn): in 1991, the Central Committee made a formal resolution that downgraded the label to “turmoil” (ibid.). This is the furthest extent that the desecuritisation of the events has reached. When Jiang Zemin first discussed the protests with the Malaysian Prime Minister Mahathir in 1994, he used the term “political disturbance”. However, this type of low-key approach would seem to be targeted more at the international community, in order to obviate the 1989 incident in any discussions on Could it be that the former party secretary arguing to his captors of the illegality of their actions vis-à-vis the party constitution did not comprehend the state he was ruling was itself a ‘state of exception’, or that he himself being considered a threat to socialist rule legitimated the breaking of rules, such as the party constitution? Zhao (2009, 42-43) did recognise that the material provided as evidence against him at the Central Committee Plenum in which he was formally dismissed from his post which painted him as a conspirator representing counter-revolutionary forces in the country and overseas, sought to “completely destroy my political and moral standing.” This concurs with what Judith Butler (2006, xix) has noted on negative labels such as treason, or counter-revolution in that they do not necessarily aim to question the credibility of the views being held, but rather the credibility of those voicing them. The securitisation of the 1989 events, present in the meeting as ‘background material’, was used to legitimise the ‘exceptional’ purge of Zhao, in a manner that he himself described as a return of Cultural Revolution language and practice and the breaking of the rules of the CCP. 60

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China. The official verdict still stands, and dissenting views on the 1989 events are still not permitted within China. For example, activists of the ‘Tiananmen Mothers’ -movement are regularly harassed and even imprisoned (Béja 2009, 12). Unlike in the case of the 1976 ‘Tiananmen incident’, the faction that supported the securitisation of the issue won the factional struggle within the party. This meant that there would not have been any appropriate target for blame had the verdict been quickly overturned. Furthermore, many people in major political positions are still bound to the policy of securitisation. These included Jiang Zemin, who rose to power largely in virtue of how he conducted himself during the crisis, as he was brought in as an outsider and someone who had taken a hard line on the ‘disturbances’. From his reaction to Zhao’s 1997 letter, it would seem that Jiang was particularly sensitive to the issue. Accordingly, a reversal of the verdict would seem unlikely during the era of the ‘fourth generation of party leadership’ under the current Hu-Wen administration.

10.4.2. Activist Identities and Desecuritisation

In social movement theory, the framing of identities includes assertions on the nature of individual actors’ consciousness and moral character (Laraña et al. 1994; Hunt et al. 1994, 192-194). It can also be argued that imputations of individual identities are closely related to securitisation/desecuritisation. Movements composed of what are deemed ‘dangerous individuals’ can be securitised straightforwardly, but if a movement’s activists manage to project their identities as morally desirable, they can relatively easily desecuritise their collective action. This can be inferred from the manner in which the activists framed their collective identities in the case investigated here: the activists worked hard to prove that they were, as individuals, in the vanguard of the revolution as well as patriots.61 As Hughes (2006, 53) notes, the students did not reject the party’s calls for patriotism, but only appropriated them to their own political ends and means.62 Faced with the actual securitisation moves of the authorities, but probably also in anticipation of them, the students framed their collective identities on existing precontracts of acceptable and desirable social activism in mainland Chinese society.63 In 1989,

As Wright (1999) points out, this was also a strategy to protect individual protestors from any personal repercussions which could be severe. 62 The students also reappropriated official slogans and formalities in order to ridicule them with ironic laughter, for example (Link 1992). 63 The students had good reason to believe that their activities would be suppressed, as had occurred in both 1978 and in 1986. However, they also had reason to believe that they would not be dealt with harshly, as the 1980s had continued to show more and more laxity towards students’ expression of views. The reversal of the 1976 verdict was also a source of inspiration and comfort: even after the April 26 editorial began the securitisation process in earnest, many students believed that history was on their side, and that they would prevail in overturning this verdict as well. This background demonstrates how previous processes of securitisation and desecuritisation may have significant effects on later processes of securitisation in terms of facilitating or impeding them. Ren Wanding (1990, 48) reflected on the historical character of the movement: “During the past forty years, beginning in the fifties when the democratic parties tried to obtain equal status with the Communist Party, through the April Fifth revolution of 1976, through the Democracy Wall Movement from ’79 to ’81, through the student movements in ’85 and ’86, through the intellectuals’ petition for the release of victims from the Democracy Wall Movement in 1989, up to this Democracy Movement led by the students, we have developed maturity.” The events of 1976 were also discussed explicitly, for example, by Ren Wanding (1990) in his speech on Tiananmen on April 21. There were also direct comparisons between the two movements (see e.g., ‘Our “April Student Movements” and the “April Fifth Movement”’ 1990). 61

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the student movement used identity frames that were similar to those of the Democracy Wall activists in the late 1970s.64 The differences in the way the movements laid stress on different aspects of their activism demonstrates how frame alignment of collective identities with contemporary resonant ideas operate in the identity imputations of social movements. For example, the Democracy Wall movement emphasised its role as the revolutionary vanguard that represented true Marxism,65 whereas the 1989 activists stressed their patriotic nature and contribution to the development of the motherland.66 Thus, while the Democracy Wall movement stressed its role as a socialist democracy movement, the students in 1989 were keen to stress that theirs was a patriotic democracy movement. This can be explained by the different social situations of the two movements: in contrast to 1978, in 1989 there were no longer any influential Maoists in power who could attack the movement as not following the true Mao Zedong line.67 Furthermore, the Deng regime no longer called for the ‘liberation of minds’ and ‘seeking truth from the facts’ in order to correctly interpret Marxism, as it had done in 1979, but rather for the modernisation of the motherland.68 The 1989 student movement framed its objectives to match those of the socialist state.69 This was apparent, for example, in the aims of the Provisional Students’ Federation of Capital Universities and Colleges, as issued in the form of a handbill in Beijing in April 1989. These aims supported the CCP and socialism, along with economic reform, democracy and progress.70 Some students practiced deliberate ‘frame alignment’ in order to reduce the risk of hard repression. For example, Teresa Wright (1999, 154) reported how after the Renmin ribao editorial of April 26 had been broadcast in Beijing, students of the Normal University decided to call a demonstration in which the editorial’s claim that the demonstrators had shouted “Down with the Communist Party!” was countered While the way the students operated had similarities with the activism of the Democracy Wall Movement, there were also distinct differences in the ways the two movements legitimised their activism. In the Democracy Wall movement the way activists constructed their collective action was as a part of the greater narrative of the unfolding revolution in the PRC and the line struggle in the CCP. In doing so, the activists drew heavily on the resonant Marxist explanations of social movements as conduits of popular interests and the communist lore of revolutionary heroism. They also employed the same framing technique the Red Guards had used during the Cultural Revolution, i.e., claiming to be on the progressive side of history and identifying themselves with true socialism, the revolution, and the masses, and declaring their adversaries to be the enemies of these valuable goals (see Mehnert 1969, 47). In this vein the Democracy Wall movement was constructed as a movement of the youthful and patriotic revolutionary vanguard and enlighteners. For further analysis, see Paltemaa & Vuori (2006). 65 This could be seen in the way the Democracy Wall movement activists constructed themselves as “an awakened generation” (Paltemaa & Vuori 2006). 66 The theme of patriotism was prevalent in the 1980s. As Hughes (2006, 20) notes, the many critical artistic movements of the 1980s emphasised that there was no contradiction in loving the motherland i.e., being patriotic, yet critical of the older forms of nationalism like the Cultural Revolution. The students of the 1989 movement were similarly engaged in a contest for ‘appropriate nationalism.’ 67 Even the leading ‘conservative’ party elder, Chen Yun, had already been critical of Mao in the 1950s. 68 These differences were a matter of degree, however, as the theme of representing true socialism was also present in the 1989 movement’s identity avowals, as was patriotism in those of the Democracy Wall movement. 69 As Manion (1990, xxi) also notes, the leadership and the students claimed to be striving for very similar goals. There was however a major generation gap, and with it near complete disagreement on what was to be considered legitimate political activity. Indeed, “the party had appropriated the responsibility and the exclusive right to solve problems and promote democracy” (ibid., xxiii). 70 See e.g., ‘Provisional Students’ Federation of Capital Universities and Colleges Special Bulletin on April 26’ (1990, 72-73). 64

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with the slogan “Long Live the Communist Party!” Drawing, inter alia, on the primacy of the modernisation policy to the regime, a leading activist in the 1989 movement, Wu’er Kaixi (1990, 135-137), framed the movement’s collective identity as: “This student movement has but one goal, that is, to facilitate the process of modernisation by raising high the banner of democracy and science, by liberating people from the constraints of feudal ideology, and by promoting freedom, human rights, and rule by law. […] Fellow students, fellow countrymen, prosperity for our nation is the ultimate objective of our patriotic student movement.” Collective identities were also brought to the fore when the activists reacted to the authorities’ securitisation moves. As noted above, the issue of being labelled the ‘creators of turmoil’ became the crux of the matter for the students. The reversal of this ‘verdict’ was on all the lists of demands the students presented to the authorities, and also featured on many posters that denied the allegations of the April 26 Renmin ribao editorial. As an open letter to the CCP Central Committee (1990, 50) asserted: “What right do you have to label the actions that students rightfully take to show their concern for the welfare of the country and its people ‘illegal activities incited and participated in by a small handful of bad people who aim to destroy the stability and unity of our country’?” Other students also demanded apologies from the media and authorities for labelling the movement as ‘turmoil.’71 It was also clear from the students’ statements that they were very much aware of the need to get across their own collective identity avowals in public. This was seen in the way in which a student reacted to the tactics used by the authorities during a televised dialogue broadcast in late April that was regarded as a defeat by the protestors (Was it a Dialogue 1990, 113): “The most frustrating aspect of the whole affair is that the masses of brave young students who have risked their own safety in the pursuit of democratic reforms were made out to be nothing but a bunch of hot-headed, impertinent young whelps.” The students connected their struggle to the glory of previous revolutionary student movements: “We now issue a stern warning to you: the time for clever antics has come to an end. The masses of students can see right through you. We hope you will act out of concern for the interests of the whole country, and recognise this huge patriotic student movement as the successor of the May Fourth Movement of seventy years ago.” These examples illustrate how the 1989 movement used patriotic and progressive collective identities to both mobilise support and in an attempt to desecuritise the movement, after the authorities engaged in soft repression through securitisation. The activists drew heavily on both the way generations of mainland Chinese had been taught to think about social activism since 1949,72 and older ideals in Chinese tradition (Pieke 1994). See e.g., “Provisional Students’ Federation of Capital Universities and Colleges Special Bulletin” (1990, 72). 72 Of these values, see Yang (2000, 391). 1989 activists whom Perry (2001) interviewed similarly recognised how they were drawing on the tradition of the Cultural Revolution: while Red Guards had felt they were the most revolutionary, democracy activists in 1989 felt they were the most democratic. There were also other similarities between the activism of 1989 and that of the Cultural Revolution, viz.: 1) the spontaneity of mobilisation, 2) the use of big character posters, 3) ‘linkups’, and 4) the personalisation of elite bureaucratism and corruption (Dittmer 2002, 17). Some party leaders also emphasised the similarity of the student activities to those of the Red Guards: “[M]any practices today have alarming similarities with the Cultural Revolution. […] Now, there are big and small character posters everywhere in educational institutions of higher learning. Another example is ‘establishing ties.’ (See ‘Yuan Mu and Others Hold Dialogue with Students’ (1990). While the ‘older generation’ of democracy activists were sources of inspiration for the students of 1989, and the 71

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For example, Lucian Pye (1990) has noted how ‘selfishness’ is actually one of the greatest sins in Chinese society73 and how this forced the 1989 protestors to make very abstract demands, despite the fact that many of the motivations for protest were quite practical (e.g., having to work in the countryside, being paid less than a taxi-driver, and poor housing conditions). Thus, in order to escape the charge of ‘selfishness’, the students raised lofty and idealistic slogans to claim the moral high ground over the CCP leadership.74 Accordingly, there was a clear emphasis on ‘unselfish’ motives as the driving force behind the individual activists, for example, as one protestor asserted in an Open Letter to the Central Committee (1990, 57): “I express these personal viewpoints simply as a Chinese citizen, and as one of the millions of college students. I have a loyal and patriotic heart, and I long for our country’s prosperity and strength”, and as students of the Beijing Aeronautics Institute similarly claimed (A Letter to the Citizens of Beijing 1990, 75-76): “We have no selfish motives, nor hidden ambitions. Our actions these last days sprang from our patriotic hearts, our pure and loyal love for our great motherland. We do not ‘desire to plunge the world into chaos’, nor are we a ‘small handful’ of bad people with ulterior motives.” The hunger strike in mid-May 1989 was in itself the ultimate demonstration of selfsacrifice, and thus an act of desecuritisation, which some of the activists felt forced to engage in after the CCP failed to withdraw from its securitisation stance. The hunger strike vow contains a good example of the assertion of patriotic selflessness on the part of individual protestors (Hunger Strikers 1990, 200-201): “Our purest feelings of patriotism, our simple and complete innocence, have been called ‘turmoil’, have been described as ‘ulterior motives’, and have been alleged to have been ‘exploited by a small handful of people.’ We wish to ask all true Chinese […] and those who have concocted these accusations against us to place your hands on your hearts, and ask your consciences what crimes have we committed. Are we creating turmoil? […] Death is not what we seek. But if the death of one or a few people can enable more to live better, and can make our motherland prosperous, then we have no right to cling to life.” The activists resorted to the imagery of unselfish and politically aware individuals striving for the commonly held goals of the progress and prosperity of the socialist motherland. They framed themselves as people who could never have constituted a threat to the People’s Republic or socialism. To convey such activist identities in public would therefore have effectively led to the failure of the authorities’ securitisation moves.

10.4.3. The Activists’ Reverse-Securitisation of Their Adversaries

Consistent with their attempt to use socialism as their referent object of securitisation and desecuritisation (i.e., to make themselves its guardians), the activists framed their

authorities suspected them of pulling the strings behind the scenes, the older activists remained distant from the activities on Tiananmen Square until the latter stages of the protests. The democracy movement which still operates outside of China has remained fractured and consequently ineffective inside China. 73 Radtke (2008, 216) also notes how notions like ‘private’ and ‘individualism’ have been regarded with suspicion, while notions like ‘public’ and ‘collective’ have been praised. Freedom has similarly been seen as detrimental to the positive value of unselfishness. 74 Still in his April 21 speech Ren Wanding (1990, 46-47) presented the demands of the students: “1) higher wages and oppose inflation, 2) basic housing at low prices, 3) democracy in the universities, and opposition to administrative hierarchy, and 4) freedom of the press to oppose counter-revolutionary thought.”

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adversaries, which were the hard-liners in the CCP, as the antithesis of socialism and the prosperity of the motherland. The activists made several attempts to ‘divide and rule’ the authorities via the fissures in the premier leadership. They argued in openly Manichean terms that the authorities should have targeted their repression on the CCP hard-liners, who constituted a fatal threat to socialism. Wang Dan and Chai Ling, the leaders of the student headquarters set up on the Square, were explicit on this: the struggle was “a decisive battle between light and darkness” (quoted in Manion 1990, xxxvii). Many activists in the 1989 movement also framed the struggle as one against bureaucratism75 and occasionally even against a ‘privileged class’ in Chinese society.76 This demonstrates how the critical diagnosis of the real socialist society that had been developed by radical Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution had survived into the late 1980s. Denunciation of cadre corruption also played a central role in the 1989 movement’s frames, as activists argued that “out of ten officials, nine are corrupt” and portrayed bureaucrats as “greedy parasites incompetent in advanced knowledge and technology” (an Open Letter 1990, 50-54). One activist also argued that bureaucrats and the system of “imperial descendants” (i.e., nepotism among high-ranking cadres) would throw China into “great turmoil.”77 Some accused the CCP of becoming “an underworld gang organized along the lines of a patriarchal family.”78 However, most activists did not frame their criticism so drastically, but still used negative terms, as the writer who criticised oneparty rule by asking: “How can this kind of closed organization be anything but a breeding ground for dictatorship, patriarchy, and personality cults?”79 Furthermore, the target of counter-securitisation tended to expand from the CCP hard-liners to include the whole CCP, as the protest dragged on and the hard-liners got the upper hand in dealing with the activists.80 The radical segments of the student protesters were able to keep the movement on an uncompromising track. A small minority could block negotiations or compromises, and even to back out of agreements already made. Raising the stakes on both sides of the struggle allowed no way out for either side, something that became evident in the statements made on both sides. This was an effect of securitisation on both sides. As such, the ‘Frankenstein’s monster’ (Grayson 2003; Collins 2005; Emmers 2007), or, more aptly, the ‘Golem’ of securitisation, was proving to be too unwieldy for either side. This line or tactic had been even stronger in the Democracy Wall movement activists’ argumentation. They argued that the undemocratic political system had made it possible for ‘careerists’ and ‘conspirators’ to infiltrate the socialist state and the CCP and turn them into their personal power base, in language that was very reminiscent of the type of argumentation Mao and the Leftists had used during the Cultural Revolution. This ‘careerist’ Leftist rule was described as a ‘feudal fascist dictatorship’ that was framed as the antithesis of socialism. Beyond ‘careerism’, another force projected as the mortal enemy of socialism was ‘bureaucratism’, defined as a psychological tendency of officialdom to crave for power and privileges that made it lose touch with the people and become a self-serving ruling stratum or even a class perverting Marxism. (Paltemaa & Vuori 2006.) 76 See ‘A Memorial and Testament to the Privileged Class’ (1990, 41-42) and ‘Reflections on the History of the Chinese Communist Party’ (1990, 59-60). 77 ‘Reflections on the History of the Chinese Communist Party’ (1990, 60-61). 78 ‘A Sketch of the Chinese Communist Party’ (1990, 42-43). 79 ‘Reflections on the Chinese Communist Party’ (1990, 145-48). 80 See ‘A Declaration of Emergency to all the People of the Country from the People of the Capital’ (1990, 97-98) for a non-student securitisation move that is quite strong in its calls for the resignation of the ruling group. 75

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10.4.4. Functional and Other Resisting Actors

While the students were the most visible aspect of the social foment that occurred during the spring of 1989, other actors also affected the process of securitisation during this time. The support of Beijing residents was significant in creating an impression of wide support and justification for challenging the authorities. Another functional actor was the PLA after the declaration of martial law. The PLA was actually key to the whole process: if the PLA had not followed its orders, the government would have collapsed. While there indeed were reports of military commanders refusing orders, there was enough discipline to manage the violent suppression of the demonstrators June 3 onwards. Chinese journalists oscillated between being functional and desecuritising actors. The split in the top leadership had made it possible for journalists to engage in the greatest political autonomy they had ever experienced. In addition to using foreign news to implicitly criticise the party, publishing stories supportive to the protesting students, and displaying students’ slogans in pictures and television broadcasts, journalists also took part in protest marches to Tiananmen Square. Some even displayed banners declaring ‘do not believe us – we tell lies.’81 While the authorities also sought to utilise the media as their mouthpiece, the factional split and the increased boldness of journalists meant that the media in many respects had an impeding effect on the securitisation acts of the authorities; even after the violent suppression, some journalists still managed to slip allegorical protests into the People’s Daily in the form of page layouts and the use of headlines and images (see e.g., Faison 1990). In the aftermath of the events of 1989, the party re-established its hold on Chinese media. The media has subsequently played an important role in the shift to the new wave of patriotism that has been used to legitimise CCP-rule in the 1990s and 2000s (see e.g., Hughes 2006). The transition from a totalitarian to a post-totalitarian political order is evident in the Chinese propaganda system which no longer focuses as much on how its people think, but rather on what they think about. The lesson drawn from the 1989 ‘disturbances’ and of the first decade of the reform period was that the party had to reinforce its propaganda work. Accordingly, in addition to this mouthpiece role of the media, in the 1990s Chinese propaganda work began to focus on agenda setting (Chan 2002). In spite of the liberalisation of the forms and voices in the media, the party still seeks to set the agenda of what is presented in the media. This active approach to propaganda has been influenced and inspired by Western methods of public relations; the party’s Propaganda Department is now translated as that of Public Relations (Brady 2008). The Hu Jintao – Wen Jiabao leadership has maintained ’thought work’, or the guidance of what people think about, as a major priority of the party. Thereby, the development of a ‘harmonious society’ has meant, in practice, continued censorship that has been targeted at ‘harmful’ news reporting. While journalists were at times functional actors, and at times resisting actors, some This unprecedented contestation was possible because the faction of Zhao Ziyang promoted greater autonomy for the press, and important journalists had connections with it beforehand. The fang-shou cycles of the 1980s had also prepared journalists for such increased contestation: with the cyclical relaxation and tightening of what was permitted, media professionals had seen how the boundaries of the publishable had been pushed. 81

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segments of Beijing workers were solely on the resisting side. Workers also established their own autonomous organisations and labour unions, which was a serious breach of party discipline and even the legal order. The Beijing Workers Union was set up in April, and the Beijing Worker’s Autonomous Federation was established in May. While the workers had their own demands82 that were separate from the students’, these ‘illegal’ organisations explicitly supported the students. Some of their publications formed desecuritisation moves (BWU 1990b, 108-109): “The Beijing Workers’ Union was established on April 20th to protect the rights of workers; and we published our ‘Letter’ to the people of the city and ‘Ten Questions.’ The April 26th editorial falsely stated that these documents were counter-revolutionary” – and even counter-securitisation discourses: “Democracy and dictatorship are in a life or death struggle. The Li Peng government has become isolated and counter-revolutionary, publicly raising the banner of opposition to both democracy and the people” (‘Letter to the Workers of the Capital’ 1990, 113). Most intellectuals and older democracy activists were also clearly on the side of the students. Intellectuals, however, preferred to keep a low profile in regard to the students’ activities, and only voiced their support in the final stages of the protest. They apparently did not want to create an impression of being behind the movement, as this could have made the authorities allegations of ‘backstage bosses’ more credible. Thus, these various functional and ‘supporting’ actors had an effect on how the process finally played out. The success in mobilising the system and the failure of other functions becomes evident here. The deterrent function of securitisation clearly failed because the movement could exist over a substantial period of time. Even the function of control failed, as citizens of Beijing blocked the entry of the martial law troops, and some fought back even after the use of lethal force was authorised. In the end, the party-state was able to suppress the movement, but the security argument was never considered legitimate, even though it did eventually serve the function of long-term control. Thereby, after 1989, the vast majority of the Chinese have consented to the continued rule of the CCP, and the Chinese democracy movement has been forced to operate outside the Mainland.

10.5. Conclusions of Analysis: The Havoc of Contested Securitisation

The analysis of the case of the 1989 ‘counter-revolutionary rebellion’ indicates that Li Peng’s conservative faction, and eventually Deng Xiaoping too, interpreted the protests as a conspiracy designed by a small group which aimed to reject the Communist party and the socialist system at the deepest possible level. The whole issue was presented as being one about the core values of the Chinese political order: the Four Cardinal principles, the socialist system, the state and the government, were all presented as being under threat from a ‘counter-revolutionary rebellion’ and ‘bourgeois liberalism.’ Integral to this view was that without socialism and the leadership of the party, the People’s Republic would certainly fall and China would once again suffer the oppression of foreign powers. Furthermore, Deng linked the ‘turmoil’ with events that had occurred in Poland, and derived a lesson from them: ‘concessions lead to chaos.’ The party leadership seems to

“We earnestly demand the following: a wage increase, price stabilisation, and a publication of the incomes and possessions of government officials and their families. We, the workers of Beijing, and citizens from all walks of life, support the university students and their fight for honesty and justice.” (BWU 1990a, 107.) 82

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have retained this lesson: such contestation and resistance should not be allowed to be repeated. The securitisation of the student movement evolved as the events unfolded, and the initial functions of the securitisation had failed. This shows how actual securitisation processes are not always clear-cut, or uncontested. There were several securitising actors that used securitising moves with various functions and multiple audiences. Initially, there were securitisation moves where the Standing Committee and the party elders were the relevant audience. Here, Li Peng was the most important securitising actor; Zhao Ziyang opposed this line, but was defeated. As the moves to raise the issue onto the agenda succeeded, the issue became central on the agenda and the party elders eventually took charge. While formal decisions, such as the declaration of martial law were signed by Li, the de facto authority emanated from Deng and the other party elders. For most of the process, a relevant audience was the group of activists on the Square along with the Beijing residents who supported them. Some of the securitisation moves were a type of deterrence strategy that aimed to dissuade the activists from any further action through the threat of severe punishments. However, this proved to be an utter failure. The securitisation moves for control and discipline were directed at party members, cadres and professionals, which were also a failure, if only partial, as some PLA forces refused to follow orders and many party members even participated in the demonstrations themselves. The general public, and even international audiences, were also relevant for the securitisation moves that sought legitimacy both before and after the use of force. These moves too, were mainly failures, as Beijing residents resisted the declaration of martial law and the deployment of troops. In the global context of the fall of Socialism, the ‘Chinese solution’ did not receive much support. Several functional actors facilitated the escalation of the conflict. The media oscillated between being a functional actor and a desecuritising actor as the process went on. While the media served as an important forum for the securitisation moves of the authorities, many journalists also resisted these moves in an unprecedented fashion, with some even joining the protest on the Square. This impeded the securitisation moves of the authorities and fuelled the optimism of both the activists and the public at large. While some papers were closed down, and discipline was eventually instilled, there were still instances of subsequent resistance. The autonomous organisations that the workers established were key factors in making the movement seem threatening to the party elders. Beyond these functional actors, the authorities’ securitisation moves were impeded by many other factors. Official Chinese Communist history recognises patriotic popular uprisings, especially those instigated by students that have resisted feudalism and foreign rule. The reversal of the verdict of 1976 ‘incident’ also impeded the securitisation of the 1989 movement. Both of these events were used as evidence that the 1989 movement was part of a revolutionary and patriotic tradition of popular protest movements in China. The majority of the protesters were remonstrating against corruption and nepotism, themes which had been recurrent throughout the history of popular discontent and uprisings. It was thus difficult to present the patriotic and naïve students as threats to the party. However, what facilitated the securitisation was the collapse of the Socialists in Poland; as the tanks rolled onto Tiananmen Square, Solidarity in Poland achieved its first electoral victory. Thus, the authorities viewed the situation of Poland as a stern 331

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warning of the consequences of too much leniency towards any anti-party action. Thus, the alleged international conspiracy to topple Communist rule in China also facilitated securitisation. The ‘old guard’s’ experiences of the ‘chaos’ of the Red Guard time and the mass movements of the Cultural Revolution operated as warnings of the potential consequences of unmanaged violence on the streets. The facilitating factors referred to by the authorities proved to be stronger factors than the impeding factors, such as the popular support for the student movement. The culmination of unprecedented social activism is also evident in the contestedness and resistance that took place both within the party leadership and on the streets. While the securitisation of the protest was similar to the case of 1976, in that it was reactive and worked as part of factional politicking, the contestation within the factions was much stronger in 1989, as was the unrest on the streets. From the outset, the students resisted the securitisation of their activities; security speech became the battleground for the legitimacy of both the authorities and the protest on the streets, as the protesters made desecuritisation and even countersecuritisation moves. Their resistance was encouraged by the parallel contestation of Li’s line by Zhao Ziyang, although he failed to convince either Li’s faction, Deng, or the students on the Square. This division among the leadership effectively worked towards the escalation of the conflict, and provided an opportunity to voice grievances. However, the students were also unsuccessful, both in their attempts to deflect the securitisation with desecuritisation arguments, and in getting their reversesecuritisation through. Factional politics had a major effect on how the 1989 demonstrations played out and on how they were securitised. Zhao Ziyang’s way of presenting the political developments within the top leadership illustrates how ‘petty politicking’ can have major repercussions. Factions within the leadership were jockeying for the greater prize of the future line of reform and, ultimately, the direction of Chinese society. The social foment of the demonstrations would seem to have provided an opportunity to make a move against Zhao and his position. There was even a precedent for such a move that had proved successful: Hu Yaobang had been demoted a few years before, under similar conditions. This time, however, the social situation was dramatically different to that of early 1987. The ‘Golem’ of securitisation was let loose via the party-political tactics that provided a chance for unprecedented autonomous social mobilisation. Indeed, whilst decision-makers may lack broader horisons, their intentions may be inconsequential in regard to the actual politics they produce. In 1989, both the securitisation of the student movement and the counterdiscourses contesting or resisting it had counterproductive effects, even internationally. June Fourth 1989 is the severest and most enduring contemporary blemish on China’s international image. It illustrates the possible costs of securitisation on inter-unit affairs: even though the securitisation was a domestic affair in terms of the use of force, the ‘Golem’ may nonetheless wreak international havoc. The analysis of such contestation and resistance demonstrated how identity frame theory and securitisation theory can be combined to examine some of the underlying logics that affect the interaction between authorities and protestors. As noted in new social movement research, not all identity framings need to be essentialist in their nature. Identity avowals and imputations can refer both to the essential qualities of the actors, such as bravery and selflessness, and the social outcomes of their activities. Indeed, all 332

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articulations where the activists refer to themselves in terms of ‘we/us’ or ‘I/me’ and give some additional attributes to these can be regarded as identity talk. Framing the activists as people who are creating a better tomorrow, or conversely turmoil, could therefore be as compelling as the more vague labels of ‘patriots’ or ‘counter-revolutionary dregs’. Such instrumental identities were fully used by both sides in the movement. The authorities securitised the movement by framing its activists as people who fought for the destruction of socialism, the overthrow of the CCP’s leadership, and the creation of social instability, if not outright social chaos — all major threats to a socialist country and its law-abiding citizens. Security was the grounds for the mobilisation of the system, suppression of dissent and the legitimisation of the whole process. Despite such arguments of necessity, the brutal handling of the student demonstrations has left a deep wound in the ‘collective memory’ of the Chinese, and the massive propaganda campaign that was launched after June fourth was not that successful in convincing the people (Chen & Shi 2001). In this sense, the securitisation of the movement can be considered a failure. Even though in the privacy of their minds many people did not believe the ‘big lie’, they publicly conformed to it and the behaviour it implied. No major movements or uprisings, followed either; in fact, the silence that followed the propaganda has also led to a generation gap, in which young people are either not interested in, or do not know, what really happened and why. Therefore, conversely, the securitisation of the movement was also a success: it may not have served the function to legitimise the actions taken by the party, but it did successfully serve the function of longer term control. But the nervousness with which the CCP leadership approached the 20th anniversary of the ‘quelling of the rebellion’ in 2009, betrays how significant the events and their interpretation still are for the party, and its legitimacy. The 1989 ‘Tiananmen Incident’ retains its official security status in China and any alternative narratives of the movement are taboo. However, that the securitisation process was only partly successful is demonstrated in the continuous acrimony over the official verdict of the ‘incident’: the authorities’ securitisation campaign failed to convince the majority of the Chinese of the legitimacy of the harsh actions taken against patriotic and naïve students. Nevertheless, the securitisation was successful where it mattered the most; the party-elders, the military and the police forces were convinced of the necessity to secure the capital and suppress the movement. Unlike in the European collapsed socialist systems, the Chinese political elite retained their self-legitimisation. The administration of Jiang Zemin retained the securitised status of the events, which even became a kind of ‘loyalty test’ for candidates for a top leadership position. For Jiang Zemin, to compromise on the status of the issue would also mean to compromise the events that lifted him to the top position. The securitisation process has also served the function of control: while the negative legitimisation effects of the securitisation process were nearly as drastic within China as outside of it, there have been no further major democracy movements on the mainland after 1989. It may, however, be that should the Chinese leadership fail in maintaining the security status of the 1989 protests in the future, it could mark the downfall of the current political order. 333

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11. Case IV: The Evil Cult of Falungong

Falungong’s genesis and rampant outgrowth is a grave political struggle waged by today’s enemies in and outside the country, the purpose of which is to compete with our party for the masses and for positions. - Jiang Zemin

In terms of mass campaigns, the first half of the 1990s was a calm period for China. The patriotic education campaign (e.g., Hughes 2006; Wang 2008; Vickers 2009), and the development of Chinese internet control (e.g., Paltemaa & Vuori 2009) were noteworthy efforts of the party-state in the field of political security. The end of the decade however witnessed a re-emergence of massive propaganda campaigning with an explicit aim to identify asymmetric relationships and dangers for the Chinese society and state. This campaign was accompanied by a series of incarcerations that echoed those of the Maoera; there were no trials for those sent to re-education camps or mental hospitals (Seymor 2005). The new threat and danger presented as the reason for such practices, was the “evil cult” (邪教, xiéjiào)1 of Falungong2 and especially its leader Li Hongzhi. The battle between the CCP and FLG garnered international attention over a few years, and has inspired academic research for a much longer time.3 A few book-length studies of the Falungong have been published. For example, Schechter (2001) is a journalistic exposé of the struggle between the FLG and the CCP,4 Chang (2004) analyses the religious and social aspects of FLG doctrines, while Ownby (2008) places the Falungong into Chinese historical, social and religious contexts. Articles and

In Imperial China, there was no conceptual equivalent for religion. The current term for religion (宗教, zōngjiào) is a neologism introduced to China through Japanese translations of European works in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The term 教(jiào), teachings, was used in imperial China to categorise the kinds of activity that would be termed religion today. This concept formed a common discursive space for both orthodox and heterodox, that is, tolerated and intolerated teachings. (Ownby 2008, 8.) 2 Fǎlúngōng (法轮功) literally means ‘law-wheel cultivation’, or ‘law-wheel qigong’, while Fǎlún dàfǎ (法轮大法), the other name used by the FLG, means the ‘great law of the law-wheel.’ Falungong is commonly written as Falun Gong in English, but the direct pinyin transliteration of Falungong is used here. 3 How Falungong came to be a superficially recognised household term outside China as a result of the massive suppression campaign, once again demonstrates how unruly the ‘Golem’ of securitisation can be. The story of the FLG outside has China has largely resonated with the negative image of China as ‘violating human rights.’ The prevalence of this theme is quite evident from almost any sample of the thousands of journalistic articles that mention the FLG. 4 Johnson (2004) is another journalistic book that includes the article on the FLG that earned him the Pulitzer prize in 2001. 1

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book chapters that deal with the FLG are numerous. In many of them Chinese traditions play a central role, as, for example, in Rahn (2002) who focuses on the conflictual relations of the Falungong and the CCP, as a continuation of a ‘ruler-sectarian’ paradigm, and in Wasserstrom (2003) who presents the FLG as representing a ‘spectre’ of religious revolt for the party. Penny (2003) analyses the biographies of Li Hongzhi from the viewpoint of the tradition of Chinese biography. Studies that focus on the FLG/CCP conflict from the party’s viewpoint include Kindopp (2002), Tong (2002b), and Seymor (2005).5 The religious aspects of the FLG have also been investigated, as, for example, Hua & Xia (1999) and Wong & Liu (1999) discuss the religiousness of the FLG in the wider setting of Chinese religious traditions,6 while Lai (2006) views it in the general context of religion in post-totalitarian China. Palmer (2007) studies the rise and fall of qigong7 in China, with the FLG as the end of the ‘qigong fever.’ Perry (2001) and Thornton (2002; 2003) are examples of studies that focus on the FLG as part of popular resistance in China, and look at the FLG’s means of resistance and the FLG as a form of resistance itself. Other writers have enquired into the origins of the FLG’s popularity and support, as for example, Wong & Liu (1999) present a sociological study of the rise of FLG, and Friedman (2006) examines the FLG as the most popular social movement of the 1990s. The organisational practices and the composition of FLG practitioners has also raised interest, as, for example, Tong (2002a) presents the organisational structure of the FLG, while Lu (2005) studies the entrepreneurial logic of Li and the FLG. While relevant to the proximate and distal contexts of the securitisation of the Falungong, of interest here is not what the FLG is about, nor why it became as popular as it did. The investigation here focuses on how the Falungong came to be constructed as an issue of national security in China.8

11.1. The Historical and Socio-Political Context of the Rise of the Falungong

The 1980s was a decade of a crisis of faith in Chinese socialism. The last years of the Maoera had reduced the authority of party administrators and, along with Deng Xiaoping’s

See also Munro (2000) on how judicial psychiatry has been abused in China, also in the case of the FLG. Palmer (2003; see also 2007) emphasises the ‘darkness’ of the FLG’s millenarianism. While Ownby (2008) recognises the apocalyptic features of Li’s doctrine, he disagrees with Palmer’s depiction. Barend ter Haar’s website similarly contains religious analysis of the Falungong that argues that it does not meet the criteria of millenarian religion, see http://website.leidenuniv.nl/~haarbjter/falun.htm. 7 Qigong (气功, qìgōng) means the cultivation of qi- or cosmic energy, and is a general label for various styles of breathing exercises that often include esoteric beliefs. See Palmer (2007) on the origins of qigong and its connections to socialist medicine with ‘Chinese characteristics’ as well as on the ‘qigong fever’ of the 1980s and 1990s. The ‘scientific nature’ and promotion of qigong as part of Chinese medicine since the late 1970s were instrumental in ‘heating up’ the ‘qigong fever.’ The science of qigong seemed to represent all good things promoted by the CCP in the beginning of the reform-era: it was essentially both ancient and cutting edge Chinese, elitist and popular, and happy, healthy and whole (Ownby 2008, 13). Qigong raised both journalist and popular support and also had political support in the 1980s. 8 Perhaps unsurprisingly, the case of the FLG does not allow the study of published inner-party documents to the extent as in the cases of the Cultural Revolution and the 1989 events. 北京之春 (2001) and Zong (2002) however contain documents on the initial handling of the Falungong issue within the premier leadership, which allows the study of the initial stages of the securitisation before it was made public. However, there is no lack of material for analysis as the published securitisation discourse consists of perhaps thousands of articles, while Li Hongzhi’s resistance also consists of hundreds of pages of his talks and speeches. 5 6

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economic reforms, a loosening of socialist morals increased cynicism towards the party. The dissatisfaction with incessant corruption and nepotism culminated in the mass-protests of 1989 and their eventual violent suppression. The crisis of faith and increased cynicism towards the party led many to search for new spirituality. This was possible because the party had, to an extent, loosened its control over religious practice in the 1980s (Lai 2006). Ownby (2008, 93-95) sees the FLG’s appeal as threefold: Li’s doctrine promises both a return to a lost spirituality and a major contribution to modern science, his doctrine is profoundly moral and promises supernatural powers to true believers and practitioners.9 Other sources that contributed to strengthening the appeal of qigong included the failure of the health-care system which left poor, elderly people to seek alternative methods to maintain their health; 10 the negative effects of modernising society, which led to resistance against modern ideas and modernity; and new opportunities to build solidarity networks, when, for example, those of the work-unit were lost. As such, the majority of FLG practitioners were middle-aged or retired women,11which correlates with the disproportionate lay off of middle-aged women in the reforms of state owned enterprises (Perry & Selden 2003b; Lee 2003). In the early 1990s, the party still supported the practice of qigong, which was viewed as an apolitical activity together with other traditional folk-beliefs, such as fengshui (风水, fēngshuǐ; landscape positioning). The Chinese origin of qigong also meshed well with the calls for patriotism and nationalism that the party emphasised (Hughes 2006). It is no wonder then, that qigong-masters rose to celebrity status during the ‘qigong-fever’ that gripped China at the turn of the decade (Palmer 2007). Li Hongzhi12 was the master of the qigong-group that claimed to be the largest in China.13 He introduced a new qigongsystem called Falungong or Xiulian Falun Dafa (great method for practicing the Wheel of Law) in 1992. Li’s doctrine differs from most qigong-systems in that it also contains religious beliefs and an ethical code.14 This syncretic combination includes elements of Buddhism, Dao A fourth source of appeal is the ‘Chineseness’ of Li’s teachings. This might explain why the practice has been popular among the Chinese diaspora too (Ownby 2008, 93-95). 10 Patricia Thornton emphasises that the non-traditional and non-medical methods of healing through the cultivation of paranormal capabilities is implicitly critical of ‘scientific Marxism.’ To claim the body of a practitioner as a private realm or ‘open space’, and by presenting a set of radically different values and doctrines, the FLG departs from the CCP’s prerogative of control. The somatisation of a person’s social, moral and economic distress into bodily problems also translates into a metonymical criticism of the Chinese ‘body politic.’ Thus to claim to alter the body of the practitioner is a subversive act against Marxist doctrines. (Thornton 2002.) To attain ‘consummation’ in the FLG paradise would amount to the negation of the CCP and de facto defection from the system of state control. Although Li Hongzhi may not have viewed his doctrine as a metaphysical escape from the Chinese political order, by claiming an alternative truth on the world, he challenges the CCP on a cosmological level. 11 For information on the organisational structure and social structure of Chinese Falungong practitioners, see Tong (2002a) and Xiao (2001) respectively. 12 Li’s biographical information is disputed. The party presents Li as a dangerous charlatan who deceives gullible people, and a common soldier and worker before he engaged in qigong in the late 1980s. The Falungong claims Li is a higher being with supernatural abilities, apparent since childhood when he was taught in ancient practices by monks (‘Brief Biography of Li Hongzhi’ 1999; 人民日报 23.7.1999b). Li emigrated to the US in 1995, which affected his teachings (Ownby 2008). 13 As Palmer’s (2007) analysis shows, Zhonggong (中功, zhōnggōng) would, however, seem to have been more popular and financially and organisationally more clearly institutionalised. 14 The most authoritative work by Li (1996) is “Zhuan Falun.” Li’s writings can be downloaded from the FLG website, www.falundafa.org. Li’s Chinese texts amount to some 2000 pages, while even the English translations 9

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ism and traditional Chinese folk-beliefs, all mixed in with millenarianism15 and even ‘supernatural’ beliefs (Schechter 2001; Chang 2004; Ownby 2008). Since it is not a splinter group from any world religion, it has proven to be very difficult to classify FLG (Wong & Liu 1999; see also Ownby 2008).16 In the early 1990s, the FLG was known only for its qigong while the religious beliefs and ethical code that are an integral part of the system, were mostly unknown (Hua & Xia 1999). This meant that, at that time, the FLG was not considered a direct threat to the party and even had a legal status. The party’s control apparatus closed its proverbial eyes from such practices. However, as the popularity of the FLG began to increase, its religious and ethical aspect also received more attention. Li’s main work, “Zhuan Falun” (转法轮; Turning the Law-Wheel) was banned in 1996.17 A gradual increase in campaigning against the sectarian group also grew, but it remained uncoordinated e.g., there were investigations into the FLG carrying out ‘illegal religious activities’ and being a ‘heterodox cult’ in 1997 and 1998 respectively (Ownby 2008, 168). Although Li and his followers have denied having any worldly political goals (Li 1999a), also go beyond 1000 pages. 15 Millenarian communities generally consist of ethnocentric participants, who perceive themselves as being disrupted by an evil power of seemingly demonic dimensions which upsets and menaces traditional ways of life. In the presence of such a danger, the community perceives itself as the chosen elect, whose task is to defend the community so that righteousness can overcome the evil. The most receptive audiences for millenarianism have been found in areas undergoing rapid social and economic change, which bring about cultural shocks and disorientation, disrupt existing socioeconomic orders, and have powerful impacts on the ways of life. (Rinehart 2006, 23.) The rise in popularity of qigong in general, and the FLG in particular, coincides with the rapid socioeconomic changes of 1980-90s China. Ways of living and understandings of the world that predate the CCP have been preserved in China, and the socioeconomic tumults of the reform period combined with the loosening of socialist morals, may explain the popularity of the FLG’s millenarian beliefs. 16 The FLG has not always been viewed favourably, even outside China, largely due to some of the doctrines of Li Hongzhi. Li is claimed to possess supernatural skills, like levitation and the ability to know the thoughts and doings of all his disciples (Li 2001a). Li (1997) himself also claims that aliens are among us, trying to take over humanity through the destruction of human morality with empirical science and computers. Further, since Li claims to cure his disciples, and as cultivation will keep practitioners healthy and illness free, going to hospital would betray their faith. He also discourages his followers from reading “evil texts” that lie about the FLG, meaning that only his teachings and writings are permissible. Some of Li’s views on hom*osexuals and modern society have also raised controversy. In effect, Li’s system forms an anti-science, conservative critique of current morals (e.g., tolerance of hom*osexuality and miscegenation), aesthetics (e.g., demonic children’s toys), and the way of modern life (e.g., ‘football madness’), spiced up with supernatural beliefs, and presented in a strongly Manichean way. Accordingly, Ownby (2008, 103) divides Li’s concerns on immorality into those of social and religious manifestations of immorality: the decadence of modern morals works towards the end of the dharma or kalpa, and therefore the world of today is a dangerous place with an omnipresence of demons. The FLG is by no means an unusual type of group in China or other Asian countries: there are a number of other semi-religious or religious groups that profess similar beliefs of the end of times. For some of Li’s claims see Li (1997; 2001a). 17 It would seem that Li anticipated problems as in 1995 he migrated to the US. Thereafter the FLG-community outside the mainland has been important in the struggle between the FLG and the CCP, as practitioners outside China have been instrumental in grafting the anti-FLG campaign onto the discourse of Chinese human rights violations. The international FLG community has also been influential in maintaining the FLG in foreign media reports, which have been an important arena for the struggle. However, the issue of human rights can be viewed as a graft, as Li himself showed no interest in such matters before the campaign. On the contrary, he has taught that freedom of speech has worked towards the social decay of morality, which has brought the world near its next destruction (Ownby 2008, 107). The international scope of the FLG was one of the reasons Tong (2002b, 804) lists for why the CCP took its time to launch the anti-FLG campaign in earnest: both its premier leader and its headquarters were located abroad. It is important to note that Li did not react to the ban on his works in terms of counter-securitisation, something which he would only do in the 2000s, after the anti-FLG campaign had been going on for some time.

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the banning of Li’s works was not taken favourably by its practitioners. Protests were organised against the defamation of the Falungong (人民日报 5.8.1999). As the ‘qigong fever’ began to subside in the official line of the CCP, the FLG increased its resistance to the denunciation of Li and his doctrine. The success of sit-ins and other protests, together with the limited suppression these attracted may have created a false sense of tolerance to such activities, or even of high-level protection. No other qigong-group had organised such concerted and widely spread protests earlier (Ownby 2008, 169) even though others were more organised and financially institutionalised. Whatever the case may have been at the time, FLG activists seemed to become increasingly bolder in their protests. For instance, as a response to a television interview in May 1998 with He Zuoxiu, a researcher at the National Academy of Sciences who warned of the dangers of the ‘superstitions’ of qigong and Falungong,18 FLG practitioners organised an eight-day sit-in outside the Beijing Television station. An article by He in April 1999 (He 1999) sparked further protest in Tianjin, where 6000 FLG supporters protested outside Tianjin University and the municipial offices (Ownby 2008, 171). On this occasion, riot police were called in resulting in some 45 arrests. Such emboldened protest culminated in the April 25 1999 protest in Beijing that was a response to the events in Tianjin (Zong 2002, 55). The April 25 sit-in seems to have followed the script of ‘rightful resistance’: the protest near the leadership compound of the CCP sought the attention of political elites. The demonstration was orderly with a presentation of a petition to the authorities for official recognisation the FLG as beneficial to society. Such petitioning was in line with ancient Chinese traditions and even practices of the CCP.19 However, as has been noted by O’Brien (1996), even such rightful resistance has its limits. The immediate non-response by the authorities belied the massive campaign that was to follow a few months later. The sudden appearance of such a massive group20 of semi-religious protesters without prior warning from security intelligence signalled a lapse in control. Beyond the thousands of petitioners, estimates of the number involved with the FLG exceeded that of party members.21 The vagueness of the FLG doctrine and its ‘organisation without organisation’ was a cause for concern, especially as the FLG had exhibited organisational prowess by successfully organising concerted protest activities all around China.22 It seemed that the FLG had organised itself into a national network and, in the eyes of Jiang Zemin (江泽民 2001a; see also Zong 2002), into a strong political power that could seriously challenge the party and government. Not only that, but the FLG also represented a genuinely Chinese alternative for moral leadership in China. When such factors were combined with rumours of even top-level cadres involved in its activities,23 the FLG seemed like a He had already co-authored critical articles on qigong in 1995, which likened qigong to the Aum Shinri kyo sect in Japan (Ownby 2008, 166). 19 Despite the fact that the appeals office is, however, not even near the Zhongnanhai compound. The representatives of the April 25 protests also demanded in their dialogue with the authorities that the protests not be considered as anti-government activity, and that the protesters not be arrested. In this way, the activists were engaging in pre-emptive desecuritisation. 20 The number of protesters in the April 25 protest is most commonly estimated at 10000, but Zong (2002, 53) goes as high as 21 000. 21 While Li Hongzhi claimed some 70 million adherents, the 1999 investigation into the FLG by the CCP identified 2.3 million practising FLG, with 15.6 percent being CCP members (Zong 2002, 67). 22 cf., 人民日报 (5.8.1999). 23 In 1994 Li Hongzhi gave some lectures at the Public Security University and donated the profits to a police foundation (Ownby 2008, 87). Li apparently received support from cadres involved in the field of public 18

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secret society, the likes of which had toppled rulers in Chinese history.24 Moreover, the year 1999 was one of several sensitive anniversaries that amplified the negative perception of any political challenges within the party leadership. The April 25 protest happened to occur in conjunction with the 10 year anniversary of the April 26 Renmin ribao editorial that had defined the student protests as turmoil in 1989, a factor which was not missed by Li Peng (Zong 2002). Similarly, the 80th anniversary of the May Fourth Movement was also just around the corner. Most significantly, the People’s Republic would reach its 50th anniversary on October First. As Tong (2002b) also suggests, these sensitive dates played into how and when the authorities responded to the FLG. Furthermore, the 16th Party Congress was also soon closing in, which may explain why Jiang Zemin was especially sensitive to such challenges against the party. Notably, he had risen to his premier position of power by taking swift action against student activities in 1989. This may have worked as a factor to avoid a repeat of the indecisive responses that were a key problem in the escalation of the 1989 contradictions.

11.2. Authorities’ Tactics to Delegitimise the Falungong

Jiang Zemin increased the anti-FLG campaign to the level of a crackdown three months after the Zhongnanhai protests of 1999.25 This occurred in the context of other national and international crises: massive floods and the tenth anniversary of the violent suppression of the student movement of 1989 created internal pressure. Moreover, the bombing of the Chinese embassy in Belgrade by NATO forces and Taiwanese President Lee Tenghui’s move towards ‘state-to-state’ relations in the ‘Taiwan question’ provided a sense of international crisis.26 In its two-year active phase,27 the propaganda campaign employed cadres for millions

security, with the former chair of the National People’s Congress, Qiao Shi, who had had a long career in public security speaking on behalf of FLG (ibid., 169). Perry (2001, 171) similarly reports how even hospital directors had advised high-level cadres to turn to FLG for treatment. Jiang Zemin (Zong 2002, 65-66) even delivered a speech to the Politburo that gave special negative emphasis to Li Qihua, a former PLA hospital director, who had written a letter to the General Secretary arguing that there was no contradiction between being socialist and belief in FLG. As such, these connections may explain at least some of the rumours of high-level people being involved, or even of Li Hongzhi as himself being part of the public security community. Luo Gan’s initial reaction, however, seems to work against such speculation: Zong (2002, 55) reports Luo’s initial comment was that “this Falungong has actually wormed itself into our party!” Beyond such rumours, Ownby (2008) argues that the celebrity status and wide support of qigong-masters was a major contributing factor to the ending of the ‘qigong-fever’ since these figures could organise themselves into a ‘religious party’ that could challenge the CCP. 24 Religious sectarians, espousing beliefs and practicing rituals the authorities had deemed heterodox, had been a major governmental concern in imperial China (Shek 1990, 87). 25 James Tong’s (2002b) analysis suggests that this was the time needed for ‘due diligence’ on the FLG, and late July was an opportune time to act in respect of the various ‘difficult’ anniversaries of that year. 26 See Zong (2002b) for the premier leadership’s inner discussions on these issue, and Wasserstrom (2003) for a contemporary academic account of the Chinese year, 1999. Wasserstrom views the way the embassy bombing and the FLG were handled, and how the leading figures of the FLG and the anti-NATO demonstrators were portrayed, as intrinsically linked: the anti-NATO demonstrations were used to ward off the spectre of May 4 1919 and the treatment of the FLG to ward off the spectre of ‘religious revolt’ (see also Chapters 6.1. and 6.3. on the issue of religious revolts, and Hughes 2006 on the handling of the anti-NATO demonstrations). 27 The active phase was followed by active silencing.The FLG disappeared completely from the pages of Renmin Ribao after 2001, whereas between 1999 and 2001 it was mentioned in more than 1700 separate pieces in the paper, while before 1999 it had not appeared once. After the active phase, the FLG has come up in security

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of hours and anti-FLG activities dominated the political agenda, even to the extent that television news broadcasts were extended to an hour to present this new threat to the state and the Chinese public. It could not be unclear to anyone that the FLG was considered dangerous by the party, and, thus, also dangerous to anyone who continued to practice it.28 FLG publications and tapes were confiscated and destroyed on a massive scale, and websites related to the practice were either closed down (websites originating within China) or blocked (originating outside China). The authorities utilised a range of tactics in its anti-FLG campaign,29 which included securitising the FLG as a threat to socialism, ridiculing Li30 and separating the majority of hapless followers from a ‘small group of evildoers’, portraying the practice of FLG as unpatriotic, and setting the FLG into a security continuum with the international anti-cult campaign and even the ‘war on terror.’31

11.2.1. Falungong as a Threat to Socialism

The authorities approached the problem of the FLG from an ideological point of view, maintaining that Li Hongzhi had introduced a belief system that was in complete contradiction with communist ideology. In addition to this, Li requires that his followers give up their old beliefs and only follow the precepts of FLG. These elements were a serious concern “involving the fundamental beliefs of the communists, the fundamental ideological foundation of the entire nation, and the fate of our party and state” (人民日报 23.7.1999b). Furthermore, the activities and teachings of the FLG had “seriously endangered the general mood of society, endangered social stability, and endangered the overall political situation” (ibid.). The FLG was said to be a “plot to overthrow China’s socialist system by hostile foreign powers” (人民日报 9.1.2001). This was in line with the long tradition of party campaigns against ‘counter-revolutionaries’ and ‘rightists’ who were pawns in the ‘international conspiracy to topple socialist rule in China.’ Historical experiences and international developments functioned as facilitating factors for the sense of threat attributed to the FLG. The party was keenly aware of the role of religious movements in the collapse of socialist systems in Europe, particularly in Poland (Lam 2000). China also has an impressive number of quasi-religious popular uprisings in its own history: in the 18th and 19th centuries almost every popular uprising was somehow connected to religious movements (Yang 1961).32 As with the FLG, these movements continuums of the “three evils.” 28 The initial campaign was perceived with mixed feelings, as noted by Jakobson & Sarvimäki (2001, 149-155): some Chinese ironically quipped on the state of the party in China by noting that ‘the party can be threatened by grannies doing exercises in the park.’ 29 Ownby (2008, 180-193) divides these debunks of the FLG into: 1) Criticism from the point of view of religion, 2) Criticism from the point of view of qigong, and 3) Journalistic exposés of Li. 30 This took many forms. As an example, the party’s official exposé describesLi as an “ex-army trumpet player”. See 人民日报 (23.7.1999b). 31 This continuum also illuminates how the social construction of threats and referent objects interact and are affected by issues on various levels and sectors. 32 Religious sectarians that espoused beliefs and practiced rituals the authorities deemed heterodox were a major governmental concern in imperial China (Shek 1990, 87). Patsy Rahn (2002) sees this as forming a historical ‘ruler-sectarian paradigm’, and that the anti-FLG campaign and resistance to it follow this paradigm. Wasserstrom (2003, 263) describes a similar pattern. David Ownby (2008, 25-26) distances himself from this view of the FLG. He labels the FLG together with the

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had no clear ideological or political doctrine, but they were formed around one or more charismatic figure and fuelled by religious euphoria generated by such leaders-cum-saviours at times of general discontent.33 Li Hongzhi could be perceived as the next in line of these self-appointed mouths of truth, who had arrived to save the Chinese people from governmental oppression.34 The leadership justified its crackdown of the FLG and other “evil cults” on the basis of its laws and regulations on the registration and management of mass organisations, assembly, parades and demonstrations, the administration of public security, and the criminal law (Fazhi Ribao July 25 1999). To gain further legitimacy for its campaign, the government passed a law which prohibited heretical cults. Since the FLG did not have official recognition, and had failed to follow regulations on the registration of mass organisations, it and all its activities were deemed illegal. The law on heretical cults, and the judicial interpretation of the Supreme People’s Court, define a cult as any unauthorised group that “disturbs social order and jeopardises people’s lives or property” or “endangers society by fabricating and spreading superstitious heresies”. Particularly serious transgressions are listed in the law as: “setting up transprovincial, transregional, and transmunicipial organisations,” “collaborating with overseas organisations and individuals,” and publishing “large amounts of materials.”35 A cult could thus be any autonomous social group capable of large scale concerted action. The wording also illustrates that the authorities are actually more concerned with the organisational potential of social groups, rather than their ideology or religious beliefs (Kindopp 2002). Such a threat is obviously considered severe, as following the legislation banning heretical cults, it has been possible to classify religious crimes as “crimes endangering national security,”36 which can carry a sentence of life imprisonment or even the death penalty. Even though new legislation was enacted, the old method of sending ‘class-ene-

White Lotus, folk Buddhist, sectarian, and syncretic societies as ‘redemptive societies’, which share a set of similar features: these groups organise around charismatic masters, who claim to preach unique messages of salvation experienced through the body and founded on moral beliefs, and which often sound apocalyptic. These groups have often maintained problematic relations with authorities, and have at times even resorted to violence or armed rebellion. 33 The preservation of the ‘Chinese essence’ through Western functional knowledge, has remained a central claim to legitimacy for both nationalist and communist elites in China (Hughes 2006, 5). 34 The CCP had also waged a campaign against sects in the 1980s (Munro 1989, 10-11). 35 These are seen by Perry and Selden (2003b) as the gravest dangers perceived by CCP leaders: cross-regional or –group organisation cannot be allowed; the breach of ‘proper’ societal divisions has been one of the grounds to suppress ‘heterodox cults’ (Perry 2001). These aspects were also evident in the 1980s campaign against cults (Munro 1989). The focus on the FLG as a single organisation in the initial phase of the anti-FLG campaign was however unprecedented even though China has battled against ‘heterodox societies’ for millennia (Perry 2001, 170). While protest in China of the 2000s is widespread and constant, it is characterised by localness both in terms of the scope of issues and segmentation of protesters: there is hardly any sign of mobilisation that would transcend class or regional lines (Lee & Friedman 2009; Walder 2009). While protests or unrest that is viewed as related to ‘separatism’, i.e., Xinjiang or Tibet, or the Falungong are often dealt with harshly, leading party officials seem to signal that many of the grievances villagers put forward are indeed legitimate. Such points of concern include corruption, selective law enforcement, and people’s livelihoods. (O’Brien 2009.) That the party can allow constant protest to occur is an indication that the party is confident in its system of governance in terms of the modulation of levels of permitted dissidence and protest; quick responses to critical events and the closure of networked communities, show that the vast control-systems the CCP deploys seem to be efficient enough for the party to stay on top. 36 The criminal law on counter-revolutionary crimes was changed in 1997 to that of jeopardizing national security (Dutton 2005, 271).

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mies’ to labor re-education camps with local administrative decisions without trial, was the preferred means to detain FLG practitioners for longer periods (Seymor 2005). However, since the party denied that it opposed qigong or the freedom of religion,37 it was not obvious that the spread of the FLG was a political struggle. Therefore, the FLG and its teachings had to be presented in direct opposition to Marxist ideology and science, and in contention with the position of the party, which legitimate, patriotic qigong and religion do not do. The FLG was presented as a matter of national security as “the generation and spread of Falungong is a political struggle launched by hostile forces both in and outside the country to contend with our party for the masses and for battle positions” (人民日报 24.7.1999). Indeed, Marxist ideology was claimed to be under threat from these hostile forces: “we are exposing and castigating Li Hongzhi and his Falungong precisely for the purpose of adhering to Marxist materialism and science, opposing idealism and theism, and for the purpose of upholding the political beliefs of Communists and the ideological basis for united struggle by the people of the whole country” (ibid.). From the party’s viewpoint, this justifies the use of force or any other means at its disposal. Upholding ‘stability and unity’ can require drastic measures.

11.2.2. Defamation of Li Hongzhi and Separation from his Followers

One of the angles of attack against the FLG was the defamation of Li Hongzhi. This was already evident in the early circulars of the anti-FLG campaign. For example, “The life and times of Li Hongzhi” (人民日报 23.7.1999b) was a biography of Li that challenged the supernatural abilities38 that he had according to his FLG-biographies,39 disputed his birth-date as coinciding with that of the Buddha Sakuyamuni, and listed various nefarious deeds committed by Li. Further, the CCP portrayed Li as being nothing special, dishonest, and merely a swindler who threatened the fortunes of ordinary Chinese and even endangered their lives because of his superstitions (人民日报 23.7.1999b).40 In accordance “[B]anning cult organizations and punishing their activities is to go hand-in-hand with protecting normal religious activities and people’s freedom of belief” (ChinaOnline 1999). zhōnggōng (中功) also displays religious beliefs, and it too has been banned (Thornton 2003). Other groups considered as unofficial and unorthodox include unofficial Christian groups such as the Lord God Sect (主神教), as well as unofficial Buddhist-like, Daoist-like, and folk-religious sects, such as Guanyin Famen (观音法门) and Yiguan Dao (一貫道). Nearly all of the other ‘cults’ that have been banned in China exhibit similar features; many of these groups’ activities are secretive and they have elaborate organisations, often with a personal and charismatic leader, warn about an approaching doomsday, have tight control over their members, are hostile towards the CCP and view it as their enemy, often condemn official religious associations and the official churches, claim to possess mystic and supernatural abilities, and often have links outside China, especially in Taiwan, South Korea and the United States (Lai 2006, 67). 38 Placing major emphasis on the refutation of Li’s claims on his life and supernatural abilities, highlights the interactive nature of resistance and repression. Even the initial acts of soft-repression by the authorities exhibited this tendency, which was to also become apparent with Li’s resistance to the authorities’ securitisation arguments. 39 See ‘Brief Biography of Li Hongzhi’ (1999). Since May 2001, the FLG biographies have not been available. They present Li as an extraordinary youth, who received special training from various masters, possessed supernatural skills and describe how Li decided to publish his doctrine, and follow the form of traditional Chinese religious and dynastic biographies. For a discussion, see Penny (2003). 40 Li was reproduced as a charlatan-like figure that hoodwinked people in a variety of propaganda formats, even inclusive of comic books (Wasserstrom 2003, 258; Ownby 2008, 3). 37

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with these claims an arrest warrant was issued for Li, which was also pursued through Interpol.41 Another CCP strategy was, as in 1976 and 1989, to separate the masses from the ‘small group of people behind the deceived masses’; these trouble-makers threatened the internal stability of the PRC, and not the average FLG practitioners who had only been deceived by Li’s dangerous superstitions. Such a tactic allowed the dismissal of the importance of the large numbers of FLG practitioners; the masses were not rejecting CCP authority or reality, but merely the anti-China forces behind Li and the FLG.42 Furthermore, this ‘standard operating procedure’ also allowed the qualification of securitisation: loyal Chinese should be compelled by this act of ‘securitisation for control.’ If such practitioners would recant their beliefs, they could be allowed to rejoin the ranks of obedient citizens.43

11.2.3. “Practicing Falungong is Unpatriotic”

Since the justification for party rule in the post-Mao era has been based on symbolic order and social unity – considered as requirements for China’s rise – the FLG’s social function was problematic for the party. It labelled the FLG as a threat to social stability and thereby to China’s rise and prosperity. The “evil cult” was branded as unpatriotic, and with this the party could rekindle its patriotic struggle against hostile foreign powers. Jiang (Zong 2002) emphasised the foreign connections of Li Hongzhi and the Falungong on several occasions, even to the extent of portraying the FLG as an anti-China tool in the service of the CIA.44 The anti-FLG campaign also provided the authorities with another vessel of self-description and positive identity framing. As already outlined above, the use of identity frames has the same function for the authorities who attempt to suppress movements they deem undesirable, as it has for social movements that similarly attempt to frame their identities as positive; authorities also want to garner support and legitimise their policies. The use of authoritative asymmetric concepts excludes alternative representations of the state and alternative political or social orders and actors within it. The legitimisation of CCP rule has largely rested upon its declaration of itself as the sole guardian of “benevolence, truth, and glory” (Shue 1994). This also affects the images and labels the party is likely to give to those it deems to be its enemies.

11.2.4. The Falungong in Security Continuums

From very early on, the FLG was portrayed as part of an international struggle against cults. Chinese authorities often listed the FLG together with the Solar Temple cult, the movement of the restoration of God’s Ten Commandments, and Aum Shinrikyo (オウ See ‘Wanted Order Issues by the Ministry of Public Security of the People’s Republic of China’ (1999). The perhaps paradoxical tactic of emphasising the dangers of FLG and denigrating its leader highlighted that the real danger was the anti-China forces lurking behind the charlatan-like figure of Li. 43 See e.g., Xinhua (23.7.1999b). 44 The continued resistance of Li and the FLG provide some sense of plausibility and credibility for such claims: patriotic Chinese outside of China may not understand why FLG practitioners would want to harm China’s international image. 41 42

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ム真理教, Ōmu Shinrikyō). These types of ‘cults’ were claimed to “wantonly preach the

fallacy of ‘the end of the world’, destroy social stability and jeopardise the lives and property of the public.” (People’s Daily 9.10.2007.) The anti-cult nature45 of the party’s policy became particularly prevalent after the self-immolation event on Tiananmen Square on 23 January 2001: a video of seven people trying to burn themselves was widely broadcast in China. It also seemed to turn the tide in favour of the authorities’ campaign,46 as it appeared to validate the dangers of following Li’s doctrines.47 After worldwide attention to terrorism after 2001, the CCP also constructed another security continuum by linking the legitimacy of the fight against terrorism with the FLG. Although mainly aimed against China’s insurgency and political separatist movements in Xinjiang, the campaign against the “three evils” (i.e., separatism, religious extremism and terrorism) linked the FLG to both separatist and terrorist groups.48 Although not directly presented as terrorists or separatists, this security continuum brought FLG practitioners’ identities into the same frame of the gravest threats to national security. The 2001 self-immolation event facilitated this framing, as self-immolation is viewed as “religious extremism.” This framing was also useful in the international campaign, as the FLG was not only linked to the struggle against (death) cults, but also to terrorism.49

11.3. The Securitisation Process

The period between the April 25 1999 protests and the public launch of the anti-FLG campaign in July seemed to be necessary to gather intelligence on what the obscure FLG and its leading figure were (Tong 2002b). Such a preparation time attests to the lack of coordination in the previous investigations into the FLG: although there had already been some 300 protests accredited to the FLG, it would seem that none had been identified by public security officials to constitute a major threat. Consequently, the premier leadership was ignorant of the FLG before the protest near their party’s leadership compound. This continuum of “evil religions” (邪教,xiéjiào) has also been used against the 14th Dalai Lama. For example, Ownby (2008, 218) concurs with this impression. 47 Li and his disciples have vehemently denied any connection to the immolators, and provided a deconstruction of the video that undermines many of the claims made by the authorities: “Recently the CCP’s lies and propaganda have again been pushing fabrications such as the ‘self-immolation’ and been spreading fake versions of the Nine Commentaries so as to further poison the minds of the world’s people.” (Li 2005.) For a version of the self-immolation video that contains commentary and editing by FLG-supporters, see http://www.faluninfo. net/tiananmen/immolation.asp; For the official original video, see CCTV (2001). However, it is not of concern here whether the event or videos of it were hoaxes or not. That they were perceived to provide legitimacy for the authorities’ campaign is more relevant from a performative point of view: truth and accuracy are less relevant for performative acts i.e., the ‘real essence’ of the event does not matter as much as the performance that was received and perceived (cf., Butler 1999). 48 Whereas violent incidents in Xinjiang during the 1990s were termed ‘splittism’, after 2001 these have now been framed as ‘terrorism’, which neatly illustrates the practical effects of the ‘Global War on Terror’ macrosecuritisation for China. 49 This frame has proved to have a longer term effect that has outlasted the active propaganda campaign. For example, in the run-up to the 17th Party congress in 2007 the security continuum was still evident. Zhou Yongkang, the minister of public security and a member of the Politburo at the time, is quoted by the BBC as saying: “All police should […] strike hard on overseas and domestic hostile forces, ethnic splittists, religious extremists, violent terrorists and the Falungong cult so as to safeguard national security and social stability” (quoted in Bristow 2007). 45 46

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11.3.1. The Inner-Party Securitisation of the Falungong

In terms of available sources, studying the initiation of the securitisation process is more of a challenge than with the other cases studied here. The most important leaked ‘document’ regarding the case of the FLG, namely the ‘aide-memoir’ of Zong Hairen (2002), is written in a narrative form. Therefore, unlike for example the main sources regarding the case of 1989 (e.g., 張良 2001a; 2001b), it contains neither complete documents nor speeches and does not allow a complete speech act analysis of the speeches and discussions of the premier leadership. Nevertheless, the direct quotes that are provided are sufficient to get an impression of how the securitisation of the FLG evolved before the process in public.50 Zong (2002, 58-59) reports that Jiang Zemin responded to the April 25 1999 demonstrations quickly by sending a letter to the Politburo Standing Committee51 in which he expressed the fear that the CCP would be ridiculed if it could not ‘defeat’ the Falungong. The immediate response also included two circulars that began the investigation into how many party cadres were involved in FLG activities, and which forbade military personnel from the practice of FLG. Tong (2002b) emphasises that, unlike a decade before, the premier leadership was neither split nor indecisive on the issue of the prosecution of FLG and its practitioners. It would seem that the main functions of the initial securitisation were those of control and deterrence:52 the party and state bureaucracy had to be purged of the FLG and it had to be suppressed even beyond the party. In a meeting of the Standing Committee Luo Gan53 reported that the FLG was highly adept in using mobile phones and the internet to organise itself. Luo also reported on the FLG’s ‘pre-emptive desecuritisation moves’ (Zong 2002, 61-62): “At the scene of the While Andrew Nathan (2002) attests to the validity of Zong Hairen and his/their account, the quotes used here seem valid as most of the same language is evident form the public securitisation of the FLG. However, as Tong (2002b, 797) also notes, more detailed textual analysis of the inner-party process will have to wait for further ‘leaks’, similar to those of 張良 (2001a; 2001b) on the vents of 1989. 51 北京之春 (江泽民 2001a) published the letter. In it, Jiang labelled the sit-in as an “incident” (事件, shìjiàn). He paid special attention to the online capabilities of the Falungong, and to the failure to previously pay attention to this. He also highlighted how the Western media immediately ‘blew the sit-in out of proportion’, and raised the question of whether there could have been Western “experts” backstage (幕后高手, mùhòu gāoshǒu) plotting the event. He emphasised that this new signal should be taken seriously, especially in the “sensitive period which had already arrived,” and take measures to prevent similar events from occurring. He noted that this “incident” had been the largest of its kind since the “disturbance” (风波, fēngbō) of 1989. Despite his oft-emphasised line of “nipping evil in the bud” (防微杜渐, fángwēi-dùjiàn), and Falungong influence on party members, cadres, intellectuals, and workers, no-one had reported on the issue’s importance. Jiang concluded that the party should learn from this and the previous “sit-in incidents” (静坐的事件, jìngzuò de shìjiàn). The event showed for Jiang the results of laxity in political and thought work: cadres and the masses should pay attention to their work, lest the Falungong humiliate the party. 52 The deterrence aspect is evident in the public declarations to the effect that those who recant the FLG will have no subsequent consequences, for example in Vice Minister of Civil Affairs Li Baoku’s press statement (Xinhua 23.7.1999b): “No action will be taken against any ordinary Falungong practitioners, so long as they leave the Falungong organisation of their own volition, draw a clear demarcation line, no longer participate in any activities of the Falungong organisations, and conscientiously uphold social stability. The tiny minority of those who plot, organise, and incite trouble will be punished according to law.” 53 Luo Gan was a member of the Central Secretariat which is the top executive and policy-coordination body of the party. While Jiang Zemin was head of the Secretariat, and seems to have been the main securitising actor in the case of the FLG, Luo Gan was put in charge of implementing the policies on the FLG from the outset. PSC member Li Lanqing was however put in charge of the Central Leading Group on Dealing with the Falungong which was established on June 17 (Tong 2002b, 810). 50

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incident, Falungong believers repeatedly professed that they did not participate in political matters, were not interested in politics, would not hinder government affairs, would not disturb state order, and would not create uncleanliness and confusion.” He was, however, not impressed. For Luo, such ‘reassurances’ were a mere guise for the insidious true intentions of such activities: “Although the Falungong believers claim that this activity was spontaneous, unorganised, and non-political, it, in fact has a profound political background.” Furthermore, the massive protest was not a singular event but part of more concerted and serious activities: “In sum, the Falungong organisation is vying with the party not only for the masses but also for party members. It has also infiltrated key departments. This should arouse a high degree of attention.” In the same meeting, Jiang voiced his disappointment and worry on the failure of the public security system to detect the mass gathering despite two years of investigations into the FLG (Zong 2002, 61): “Comrades, how frightening this is! If we do not draw lessons from this, who can guarantee that there will not be a second or a third time?” His conclusions heightened the urgency and importance of the issue and already hinted at its security nature (ibid., 62-63): “It [the sit-in] is a grave political incident that has been carefully planned, meticulously organised, and plotted over a long period.” The ‘bad elements’ tactic was already evident: “One may say with certainty that a minority of people, in the name of practicing gong and spreading the fa, are deliberately fomenting trouble, preaching superstition and fallacies, deluding the masses, instigating disturbances, and disrupting social stability.” As if in accordance with the grammar of securitisation, the element of future was also present in Jiang’s warnings: “If we fail to see its political essence and do not take firm, appropriate, and prompt action to resolve the issue, we will be committing a mistake of historical proportions.” Jiang promoted urgent action: “We must pay close attention to various tendencies in society and nip the problem in the bud.” The impression of threat was facilitated with foreign potential: “We must not exclude the possibility of organisations beyond our borders taking a hand in this matter.” Li Peng, also present at the meeting, agreed with Jiang’s estimates and drew attention to the date of the incident: the sit-in occurred a decade after the April 26 Renmin ribao editorial on “taking a clear-cut stand against bourgeois liberalism” that had initiated the public securitisation of the 1989 protests. For him, the FLG was an ideological struggle (Zong 2002, 63-64): “Our struggle with the Falungong organisation is a grave ideological and political struggle.” Zong (2002, 65) reports that there also were more moderate views within the Standing Committee, but it would seem that the issue obtaining the flavour of security was not contested to any significant degree. The meeting’s decision was that a nation-wide investigation of the FLG should be started, but that large-scale action should be taken only after the 80th anniversary of May Fourth had passed.54 The technocratic institutionalisation of the FLG issue took an important step in June. Jiang established the so called ‘610 Office’, which was charged with the prosecution of the anti-FLG campaign (Tong 2002b, 805; Ownby 2008, 175). At this point the CCP seems to have moved from ‘reaction mode’ to ‘proaction mode,’55 which is also evident in the See Perry (1999) on the importance of anniversaries for popular protest in China, and Tong (2002b) on the particular question of when to deal with the FLG issue. 55 Tong’s (2002b, 810) institutional analysis suggests that the institutional choice on how to deal with the FLG focused more on public security than the overall management of the FLG, that ad hoc committees were preferred rather than permanent agencies, and that political guidance on the issue was invested in the top 54

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harsher language subsequently espoused by Jiang. For example, he delivered a speech to the Politburo that was devoted to the Falungong issue on June 17 (Zong 2002, 65-66), after the effects of the embassy bombing in Belgrade had become more evident.56 In it, he paid special attention to Li Qihua, a former PLA hospital director who had written a letter to the General Secretary arguing that there was no contradiction between being socialist and believing in FLG. However, former Red Army revolutionaries now turning to Falungong gave impetus for Jiang (Zong 2002, 66) to increase the seriousness of the issue: “This is the most serious political incident since the ‘June 4’ political disturbance in 1989.” The foreign element was present here as well: “One may well say that Falungong’s genesis and rampant outgrowth is a grave political struggle waged by today’s enemies in and outside the country, the purpose of which is to compete with our party for the masses and for positions.” The meeting concluded to set up a leading group to deal with the FLG issue,57 and to circulate the self-criticism of Li Qihua. On July 19, Jiang announced to high-level cadres the intention to eradicate the FLG. Accordingly, arrests of FLG practitioners, including those in the PLA, and large scale confiscation of materials began the next day (Zong 2002, 68-69):58 “Falungong is neither a political party nor a religious group; it is an illegal organisation that has preparations, plans, and premeditation. Under no circ*mstances should one belittle Falungong. Improperly dealt with, it may become a political scourge.” In the context of the NATO bombing of the Chinese embassy in Belgrade, Jiang’s reference to a foreign conspiracy may have seemed plausible: “Forces abroad were involved behind the scenes in Falungong’s convergence on Zhongnanhai on April 25. This is part of the US. Central Intelligence Agency’s strategy designed to split China.” A circular (1999) was also issued that outlined the threat of the FLG and forbade CCP members to practice it.59

11.3.2. The Public Securitisation of the Falungong

The securitisation of the FLG and the campaign against it were made public on July 22 1999, in the form of an order issued by the CCP Central Committee, the Ministry of Public Security and the Ministry of Civil Affairs.It was also broadcast on television. The order banned Falun Dafa seminars and announced that the Falungong was an illegal organisation that spread heretical teachings.60 This order and the various other statements that

leadership, rather than functional state bureaucracies. Tong’s analysis suggests the general impression that even the case of the Falungong is an instance of ‘spectacular’ rather than ‘mundane’ or ‘technocratic’ securitisation. This is why the study of the constitution of the cases as issues of security is more relevant for the present study than that of the technocratic prosecution of the securitisation in the party and state bureaucracies. The spectacular nature of the cases may also explain why there does not seem to be strong ‘bureaucratic politicking’ involved, and why the contestation seems to be more about factional than bureaucratic ‘politicks.’ 56 See also 江泽民 (2001b) on how the Belgrade and the Falungong issues were linked together. 57 See Tong (2002b) for the detailed membership of the group. 58 See also Tong (2002b, 804-805) and Ownby (2008, 175). 59 These stipulations were made public on July 23, and the declarative nature of the securitisation for control was reiterated (Xinhua 23.7.1999a, 27-28): “Regulations for Governmental Functionaries’ stipulates that state functionaries must abide by the Constitution and by laws and regulations; they must uphold the security, honour, and interests of the state. […] It has been determined that the Research Society of Falun Dafa is an illegal organisation and that its activities jeopardise the country’s security and interests. […] The very small minority of backstage personages who harbour political intentions and the planners and organisers must be resolutely expelled.” 60 See 人民日报 (23.7.1999d; 23.7.1999e) and ‘Two Documents Concerning the Banning of the Research

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attested to the danger of the FLG were published in Renmin ribao the next day. Various ministries convened meetings to mobilise officials to act uniformly on the issue, including the Ministry of Public Security that was in charge of ‘maintaining peace and security’. The campaign also had an immediate international aspect as the Foreign Ministry made an international press statement, and an international arrest warrant for Li Hongzhi was sent to Interpol on July 28.61 Renmin ribao was the main paper to guide the campaign and thereby a vessel for the securitisation of the FLG. Key securitisation moves were made during the first few days after the launch of the public anti-FLG campaign. The July 23 issue was devoted to the Falungong and Li Hongzhi, and elaborated on the reasons and the effects of the ban publicised the previous day. The editorial (人民日报 23.7.1999) brought forth the essential logic of the securitisation of the Falungong that had been evolving within the party leadership and party-state bureaucracy for some three months. The editorial claimed (Box 47) that the FLG “is a serious ideological and political struggle, one that concerns the basic beliefs of Communists, the fundamental ideological basis of the united struggles of the peoples of the whole nation, and the destiny of our party and our state.” The editorial provided proof for the claim by reference to the circular that banned the FLG and forbade party members from its practice, as well as to the article on Li Hongzhi in the same issue (人民日报 23.7.1999b). The threatening nature of the FLG was expressed explicitly: “This illegal organisation already constitutes a grave danger to the state and the people.” Not only had Li Hongzhi preached various “perverse theories,” and “hoodwinked people,” it was also claimed that Li “exercises control organisationally, does his utmost to develop a nationwide organisation structure and to win over the masses, even infiltrating some of our party and governmental organisations and key departments in an attempt to develop himself into a political force that rivals our party and government.” The editorial also presented a warning (Box 48) that made the referents being jepordised explicit: “We must fully recognise the enormous danger presented to the party, state, and people by the development and spread of the Falungong organisations, fully recognise the severe, pernicious consequences Falungong brings to the physical and mental health of its practitioners, and fully recognise the extreme importance and urgency of solving the Falungong issue.” The FLG issue was labelled an existential threat for the party and the state: “If we cannot see its political substance and fail to resolutely and appropriately speed up the solution of this issue, we will be committing an error of historical proportions.” A way out of the threatening situation was also introduced: “To solve the Falungong issue, we must first clearly understand the political essence of the Falungong organisations and the dangers they present.”

Society of Falun Dafa’ (1999). 61 See ‘Wanted Order Issued by the Ministry of Public Security of the People’s Republic of China’ (1999).

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I speech act: claim

Propositional content

Preparatory condition content Essential content

The Falungong is a serious ideological and political struggle [for the CCP], one that concerns the basic beliefs of Communists, the fundamental ideological basis of the united struggles of the peoples of the whole nation, and the destiny of our party and our state.

1) The editorial refers to party circulars and another article, as proof of the accuracy of the claim. 2) It is not obvious that Falungong is a political struggle [for the CCP], as qigong in general is not a political struggle and the same applies for other officially recognised religious practices. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the Falungong being a political struggle that concerns the destiny of the party and state represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 47: The claim speech act of the July 23 人民日报 editorial. II speech act: warn

Propositional content

Preparatory condition content Essential content

Falungong is a danger to the party and the state, to people, and to Falungong practitioners. Failing to speed up the solution of the Falungong issue would be committing an error of historical proportions.

1) The hearer has a reason to believe that Falungong could be a danger to the party (there is a long history of struggles between official authorities and semi-religious associations in Chinese history), and to the people, which is not in the hearer’s best interests. 2) It is not obvious that Falungong is a danger (the practice of qigong has even been promoted by the party). Counts as an undertaking to the effect that failing to deal with the danger of Falungong is not in the hearer’s best interest.

Box 48: The warn speech act of the July 23 人民日报 editorial.

The editorial then sought legitimacy for measures that were to be extraordinary: “We must, by all means available, improve our understanding, recognise the danger, observe policy, uphold stability, and fight for victory in this struggle.” The editorial also presented the insight that even FLG practitioners would deem the measures of the party-state as legitimate once they became fully aware of the true nature of the FLG: “They [the great majority of FLG practitioners] know nothing about the political aims of Li Hongzhi and of that very small number of people. We believe that after they learn the true circ*mstances, their understanding will be improved, and they will uphold the interests of the whole and support the decision of the party and government.” Further, the maintenance of social sta-

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bility was essential: “In solving the Falungong issue, we must, by all means, pay attention to safeguarding social stability. Stability is the highest interest of the state and the people; it concerns the overall situation and accords with the will of the people.” Finally, the editorial required (Box 49) that “all Communist Party members must take a firm and clear-cut stand, integrate their thinking with the thrust of the party center, and integrate their actions with the dispositions made by the party center. […] Party organisations at all levels must adapt to the new situation, be more strict in administering party affairs, and earnestly assume political responsibility during this serious ideological and political struggle.” Thereby the function of this particular example of securitisation was to gain control of party members and society at large. III speech act: require

Propositional content

Party members must take a firm and clear-cut stand and integrate their thinking and actions with the party centre. Party organisations must adapt to the situation in this serious ideological and political struggle.

1) The audience is able to take firm and clear-cut action. 2) It is not obvious that the audience would take firm and clearPreparatory condition cut action in the normal course of events of their own accord. content 3) There is a reason for taking firm and clear-cut action: the Falungong is threatening stability and unity under party rule. Essential content

Counts as an undertaking to get party members and organisations to fall in line with the position of the party centre in virtue of social and political stability being threatened.

Box 49: The require speech act of the July 23 人民日报 editorial.

On the next day the onslaught on the FLG continued. A notification by Wang Zhaoguo62 (人民日报 24.7.1999), authorised by the CCP Central Committee functioned as an announcement of the security implications of the Falungong, and listed concrete actions that were to be required from loyal citizens and party members. Wang himself listed the audiences of the notification: all democratic parties, all non-party personages, all members of the All-China Association of Industry and Commerce, and intellectuals. The referent of security was explicitly the ideology of the party: “We are exposing and castigating Li Hongzhi and his Falungong precisely for the purpose of adhering to Marxist materialism and science, opposing idealism and theism, and for the purpose of upholding the political beliefs of Communists and the ideological basis for united struggle by the people of the whole country.” (人民日报 24.7.1999.) Beyond such explicit elements of a securitising move, Wang’s notification concurs with the grammar of securitisation for control. His notification contains both a claim – the spread of Falungong is a political struggle (Box 50) – and a threat – hostile forces in and outside the country try to contend with the party (Box 51) – in a single sentence: “The generation and spread of Falungong is a political struggle launched by hostile forces both in At the time, Wang Zhaoguo was Vice-Chairman of the CCPCC National Committee, member of its Leading Party Members’ Group, and Head of the United Front Work Department of the CCPCC. 62

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and outside the country to contend with our party for the masses and for battle positions.” (人民日报 24.7.1999.) Wang also listed four requirements on how to uphold social stability together with the CCP, which constituted the ‘way out’ of the threatening situation i.e., the require speech act (Box 52) of the securitisation speech act sequence. The requirements included, among others, self-education, refraining from all activities that support Falungong, and the concept of the rule of law. The requirements ended with a clear message: “We shall not only refrain from disseminating, believing, or listening to such things [rumors, provocations, and slander spread by people with ulterior motives in China and abroad], but shall consciously resist and fight them, and with concrete action safeguard social and political stability.” (人民日报 24.7.1999.) Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

I speech act: claim

The spread of the Falungong is a political struggle.

1) Wang lists the reasons and evidence as to the accuracy of the claim. 2) It is not obvious that the spread of the Falungong is a political struggle, as qigong in general is not a political struggle and the same applies for some religious practices. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the Falungong constituting a political struggle represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 50: The claim speech act of Wang’s notification (人民日报 24.7.1999). II speech act: warn

Propositional content

Hostile forces in and outside China are contending with the party for the masses [if the Party loses the support of the masses, stability and unity will be lost].

Essential content

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that unchecked contention of the position of the party resulting in the loss of stability and unity is not in the hearer’s best interest.

1) The hearer has a reason to believe that hostile forces could be contending with the party for the masses (hostile forces Preparatory condition have contended with the party before), resulting in the loss of content stability and unity, which is not in the hearer’s best interests. 2) It is not obvious that stability and unity will be lost, regardless.

Box 51: The warn speech act of Wang’s notification (人民日报 24.7.1999).

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III speech act: require

Propositional content

We shall safeguard social and political stability with concrete action.

Essential content

Counts as an undertaking to get the audience to take concrete action in virtue of social and political stability being threatened.

1) The audience is able to take concrete action. 2) It is not obvious that the audience would take concrete acPreparatory condition tion in the normal course of events of their own accord. content 3) There is a reason for taking concrete action: the Falungong is threatening stability and unity under party rule.

Box 52: The require speech act of Wang’s notification (人民日报 24.7.1999).

Whilst Wang’s notification is an example of the series of documents that set the tone for the massive anti-FLG campaign that followed and took a multitude of propaganda forms, a Xinhua commentary in 人民日报 (3.8.1999; People’s Daily 3.8.1999) is a good example of how the FLG issue was maintained as one of security as the campaign went on. The commentary claimed (Box 53) that the issue of Li Hongzhi and his Falungong was a “serious ideological and political struggle [which] concerns the fundamental beliefs of Communists, concerns the basic ideological foundation of the united struggle by the people of the whole nation, and concerns the future and destiny of the party and the state. […] Falungong organisations are a political force that is attempting to contend with our party and government.” 63 The commentary also warned (Box 54) that “these organisations are an alien political force that is attempting to negate the ideology of Marxism,” and that “allowing them to develop and spread would not only shake our party’s mass basis and the ideological foundation for united struggle of the people and of the whole nation, and would damage our country’s excellent situation of reform and openness. Indeed, we would be committing a serious mistake of historical proportions.” This warning illustrates how the basic tenets of the securitisation are frequently repeated, while the referents of the threat vary between ideology, the people, and even the reform policies. It may be that it is the combination of these referents that makes securitisation possible in the first place. The commentary lists ‘evidence’ for the claim: “Ideologically, the Falungong organisations have propagated idealism and theism, spread superstition, produced a God-creating movement, befogged people’s minds, deluded the masses, and attempted to shake the ideological basis for the united struggles of the people nationwide. Organisationally, the Falungong organisations have set up venues and points level by level; have engaged in secret contacts and illegal assemblies; have established beliefs, leaders, and special activities; have formed a close-knit organisational system extending from Beijing to many localities; and have even infiltrated some of our key party and government departments. Politically they have plotted secretly, created incidents, disrupted stability, disrupted society, incited the masses who were ignorant of the true facts, besieged and assaulted news institutions, harassed party and government organisations, and even staged large-scale, illegal gatherings and activities to put pressure on the party and government. […] Craving nothing short of nationwide chaos […] in an effort to bring about a chaotic situation in which neither the country nor the people could have a single day of peace and tranquillity. The facts fully reveal the Falungong organisation’s anticonstitution, antigovernment, and antisocial political substance.” (人民日报 3.8.1999.) 63

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I speech act: claim

Propositional content

Preparatory condition content Essential content

The issue of the Falungong is a serious ideological and political struggle that concerns the fundamental beliefs of Communists, concerns the basic ideological foundation of the united struggle by the people of the whole nation, and concerns the future and destiny of the party and the state. 1) The commentary lists the reasons and evidence as to the accuracy of the claim. 2) It is not obvious that the Falungong constitutes a political struggle, as qigong in general is not a political struggle and the same applies for some religious practices. Counts as an undertaking to the effect that the Falungong being a serious political struggle represents an actual state of affairs.

Box 53: The claim speech act of the August 3 Xinhua commentary (人民日报 3.8.1999). II speech act: warn

Propositional content

FLG organisations are an alien political force that is attempting to negate the ideology of Marxism and allowing them to develop and spread would be committing a serious mistake of historical proportions.

1) The hearer has a reason to believe that FLG organisations are alien political forces (hostile forces have been in contention Preparatory condition with the party before), resulting in a historical step backwards, content which is not in the hearer’s best interests. 2) It is not obvious that a historic step backwards would happen regardless. Essential content

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that allowing FLG organisation to continue unchecked, resulting in a historic step backwards, is not in the hearer’s best interest.

Box 54: The warn speech act of the August 3 Xinhua commentary (人民日报 3.8.1999).

The securitisation effort in this particular commentary served the function to legitimise the continued campaign against the FLG by strongly appealing to the readers and the party to respond firmly (Box 55): “Once we have recognised the political substance of the Falungong organisations, we must strictly observe policy demarcation lines in the struggle to deal with and resolve the Falungong issue; we must resolutely unite, educate, extricate, and rely on the great majority, and isolate a small minority.” Cracking down on the correct targets would be of great importance: “We must extricate those who should be extricated, punish those who should be punished, and resolutely crack down on those who should be cracked down on. Only in this way can we push this grave ideological and political struggle forward in a sound and positive manner.” The commentary thus worked towards the 353

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legitimisation of the party’s line of control. It is also a good example of how securitisation is used to delineate intolerable behaviour and identities. The securitisation also modulated the limits of the secure and the insecure. It further demonstrates how asymmetric political concepts continue to be deployed in Chinese politics, even though the massive use of labels such as ‘counter-revolutionaries’ has recently disappeared from the general party discourse. In terms of the effects of the securitisation process, the issue of the FLG became allencompassing in the Chinese media. At the level of security action, large numbers of FLG practitioners were arrested in waves, on charges such as “disturbing social order, subverting the government, and endangering state security” (Zong 2002, 70). As Tong’s (2002b) analysis shows, the numbers of those involved with the FLG were too large for everyone to be investigated, which is why the arrests were conducted in periodic waves. Those who recanted the FLG were generally not punished.64 However, human rights organisations along with Falungong sources, report mistreatment and torture of those who refused to relinquish FLG (Amnesty International 2000a; 2000b; 2000c; Chang 2004; Ownby 2008).65 For example, many FLG practitioners were also committed to mental institutions or sent to re-education facilities without trial (Seymor 2005). III speech act: request

Propositional content Preparatory condition content Essential content

Everyone loyal to the party should resolutely unite, educate, extricate, and rely on the great majority, and isolate a small minority, and extricate those who should be extricated, punish those who should be punished, and resolutely crack down on those who should be cracked down on. 1) The readers are able to do what the commentary is requesting. 2) It is not obvious that the readers would do what the commentary requests of their own accord.

Counts as an undertaking to the effect that everyone unites with the party and accepts that a small minority’s extrication is legitimate.

Box 55: The request speech act in the August 3 Xinhua commentary (人民日报 3.8.1999).

In terms of control, the securitisation of the FLG was successful. As Tong (2002b, 795) notes, the top leadership of the Falungong was ‘decimated’, its publication activities on the Mainland terminated, the majority of publications confiscated and its approximately 80 websites were removed or blocked. After the 2001 self-immolation incident, even the majority of public opinion seemed to turn in favour of the government’s heavy handed

See Tong (2002b) for a detailed categorisation of types of punishments officially sentenced. Precise figures are elusive, since it is difficult to estimate the validity and numbers of claims of torture, as most claims are actually from FLG practitioners. Conversely, the Chinese authorities dispute most claims, and do not provide any information on the possible maltreatment of detainees, and do not admit to condoning torture. In fact, the credibility of FLG sources is in question as their numbers of incidences varies from just over 1400 to more than 10000 in a single source, see for example The Epoch Times (2004a, 81, 205, 211). 64 65

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response. Furthermore, it would seem that the securitisation of the FLG did not produce any major effects beyond the object of concern. China was, for example, accepted into the WTO and chosen as the host of the 2008 Olympics.66 In this respect, the FLG was not as influential an issue as the previous cases presented here. Nevertheless, the securitisation of the FLG demonstrates that the CCP was still perfectly capable of rolling out its old modus operandi when ‘core values’ are portrayed to be at stake. The active phase of the anti-FLG campaign ended in 2001, but the FLG remains banned in China and considered an issue of national security.

11.4. Resistance and Desecuritisation Moves

The Falungong has been portrayed as an “evil cult” in the service of hostile forces within and outside China that endangers individuals, social stability, and eventually even the sovereignty of the People’s Republic. Although there does not appear to have been any major, or at least explicit, contestation of this securitisation within the premier leadership of the CCP, Li Hongzhi and Falungong practitioners have resisted both the security label and eventually even the CCP. In his response to the anti-FLG campaign, Li Hongzhi attempted to refute this label by referance to the lofty morals and non-political aims of Falungong, while those sympathetic to the Falungong have also resorted to reverse-securitisation of the regime.

11.4.1. The Falungong’s ‘Rightful Resistance’ – Desecuritisation Moves by Li Hongzhi

It would appear that like the various Chinese student movements, Falungong practitioners were also aware of the likelihood that their protest activities might be suppressed as an anti-governmental activity. This would then account for the ‘pre-emptive desecuritisation’ that even the representatives of the April 25 sit-in demonstrators engaged in, in their dialogue with the CCP authorities: they demanded that the sit-in not be considered antigovernmental and that the people involved not be arrested (Zong 2002, 61-62). Furthermore, Li Hongzhi attempted to pre-emptively deflect charges of being anti-government in the same way as the Chinese democracy movements (e.g., the Democracy Wall and the 1989 student movements). However, he did not phrase the legitimacy and rightfulness of his doctrine and practice in terms of socialist dogma, although his doctrines were also influenced by socialist morality. Li mostly drew on a much older reservoir of resonance: ‘traditional Chinese values.’ In its identity talk, FLG is presented as a cultivation practice that promotes good health and moral living. Li’s teachings are presented as both non-political and non-violent. Through cultivation of their bodies and morality, the FLG will save the world (Li 2005): “We are cultivators, people walking the road to godhood, we transcend the human world, and we neither seek nor covet the fame and profit found in this world.” In the FLG biographies of Li, he is presented in basically the same mold as Maoist ‘model comrades’, such as Lei Feng. He is similarly portrayed to have a lack of interest in politics or social organisa In comparison, the 1989 events had impacted China’s attempt to host the Olympics in 2000 negatively, which even provoked Samuel Huntington (1996) to use it as an example of the ‘clash of civilisations.’ 66

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tions. For instance, in his youth, he did not join the Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution, although – according to the biographies – he was requested to do so many times. Indeed, Li’s lack of organisational interests was a positive attribute67 in 1992 for qigong practitioners (Penny 2003, 659), and also a means to deflect negative attention from the authorities. Beyond his doctrine’s three-part moral code, viz. truth, benevolence and forbearance ( 真善忍, zhēn, shàn, rěn),68 some of Li’s moral instructions are also very similar to socialist ones: one should tell the truth and aid the weak. Li also personally stressed his duty towards the people and his social rather than individual goals. He claimed to be striving to improve the morality and health of individuals, which, in accordance with party doctrines, would make society more stable (Li 1999b):69 “I, Li Hongzhi, unconditionally help practitioners improve human morality and keep people healthy, which stabilises society; and with their healthy bodies, people can better serve society. Isn’t this bringing good fortune to the people in power?” Li (1999a) similarly emphasised the good moral fiber of his disciples: “If a person wishes to do a good job of practicing gong, he or she must be a person with lofty morals – which is benefitional to the people and the government and causes no harm. […] I have always thought the government and the leaders would want to see every Chinese become a person with lofty morals.” As the anti-FLG campaign progressed, Li (2005) directly refuted both the party’s selfdescriptions and its representations of the FLG as unpatriotic: “Following its failure in persecuting Falun Gong, the CCP rolled out a saying: “Falun Gong is colluding with anti-China forces.” After Falun Gong exposed the truth about the CCP’s persecution, the CCP again stirred people up, saying, “The Falun Gong are unpatriotic.” Such comments illustrate the interactive nature of the struggle. However, they also seem to indicate that the party’s tactics and campaigns have been successful (ibid.): “That has resulted in Falun Gong students indeed seeing, as they go about exposing the persecution and clarifying the facts, that some Chinese won’t listen one bit to what they have to say. Those people truly believe that what the Party says is surely correct, that what the Communist government says is surely correct, and they believe that Falun Gong really is as the CCP portrays it.” His solution was to ‘unmask’ the party and show its ‘true’ nature (ibid.): “What should be done, given these circ*mstances? The only thing that can be done is to strip naked this vile party that persecutes Dafa disciples and let the Chinese people and people of the world see this party–a party they have believed and that has always claimed to be “great, glorious, and correct”– for what it really is.” Once the soft-repression of the FLG was initiated in earnest, Li responded by reiterating the self-representations already constructed in his previous writings, but now emphasised aspects of them as desecuritisation arguments. He continued the line of not having

See Lu (2005) for an analysis of the entrepreneurial logic in the FLG’s activities. The party’s anti-FLG material also subverts the FLG principles, by for example a publication titled 不是“ 真善忍”而是真残忍 (bùshi “zhēn, shàn, rěn” érshì zhēn cánrěn): Not “truth, benevolence, forbearance” but really ruthless, where the change of one character completely changes its meaning. 69 Ironically perhaps, the current dogma of the CCP also emphasises harmony in society, and espouses similar morals of truthfulness and working hard for the motherland. For Hu Jintao’s criteria of honour and disgrace, see Mille (2007). Jiang Zemin had (already) stressed that the task of the party is to serve the masses. Given that Li’s appearance in public life was accredited to Deng Xiaoping’s ‘imperial tour of the South’ and the deepening of reform in one of his biographies (Penny 2003, 658), had things gone differently, Li might likely have picked up Jiang’s and Hu’s line as well. 67 68

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any worldly political goals, and of definitely not being anti-party in his open letter to the Central Committee of the party (Li 1999a): “Falun Gong is merely a popular activity for practicing gong. It has no organization, and even less does it have any political objectives. Nor has it ever participated in any antigovernmental activity. I am a [gong] practitioner and have never had anything to do with political power.” The avoidance of “getting political” has remained an important aspect of Li’s desecuritisation moves also later on (Li 2007): “The crux of the matter, it would seem, is that a cultivator’s motive is to stop the persecution, and not to ‘get political’ for the sake of gaining human political power. Cultivators have no desire for power among men: just the opposite, cultivators are to let go of any attachment to power.” In accordance with his claims of ‘not having gone political’, Li separated himself from The Epoch Times, the newspaper founded and run by Li’s disciples in the US,70 although he has endorsed it at times. The Epoch Times published the Nine Commentaries on the Communist Party,71 which lay out a history of CCP oppression, portray the CCP as an “evil cult” itself and Jiang Zemin as a “tool of evil”, and place the FLG among the most oppressed groups in world history undergoing a “genocide” at the hands of the CCP. These Commentaries have also been noted by the party, and have found their way into Li’s (2005) commentaries: “After The Epoch Times carried the Nine Commentaries on the X Party, the CCP again started cooking up stories and telling lies, alleging that, “Falungong is getting political.” The fact is, whoever has something to say about the party will be called “getting political,” and that is in turn used to deceive the Chinese people. As such comments attest, the Commentaries is a clear anti-party document,72 which is perhaps why Li (2005) does not attribute it to himself: “Falungong is not involved in politics. […] If our efforts to stop and expose the persecution by evildoers and the CCP are now being labelled as getting political, then we might as well spell things out completely–like what Falungong is, what the malevolent CCP is, and why the malevolent CCP wants to persecute Falungong. […] We have no political motives.” While the Epoch Times is ‘run by disciples and not the Dafa itself’, Li views the Commentaries favourably: “The Nine Commentaries aim to save all beings whose minds have been poisoned by the evil, which includes members of the malevolent CCP, those in the CCP’s most powerful organs, and the common people. The goal is to help beings in all realms see clearly the factors behind the malevolent CCP.” The Epoch Times also views such activities as successful as it claims that over 27 million Chinese have resigned from the CCP.73 According to the Epoch Times self-description, it is a privately owned, general purpose newspaper founded in New York, 2000, in response to the arrest of Chinese journalists. The Epoch Times favours the FLG and opposes the CCP and is a major outlet for the FLG securitisation of the CCP. According to Li Hongzhi, the Epoch Times was founded by FLG disciples, but “it’s Dafa disciples who are initiating things themselves and organizing to do it, and it’s not Dafa itself that’s doing that” (Li 2003). FLG disciples have also established their own radio and televisions stations. 71 九评共产党 (2004); in English The Epoch Times (2004a). Li’s position on the Commentaries is also complicated: “In order to prevent misunderstandings by those who have lost their way in the Party’s culture, I told Dafa disciples in Mainland China not to incorporate the Nine Commentaries as they clarify the truth” (Li 2005). 72 “The Chinese need to help themselves; they need to reflect, and they need to shake off the CCP” (The Epoch Times 2004e, 268); “the CCP is the real source of turmoil” (The Epoch times 2004f, 275). 73 See http://en.epochtimes.com/211,95,,1.html. The number of resigned people comes from a web-service The Epoch Times provides (http://tuidang.epochtimes.com/), which cannot be accessed from the Mainland. This reduces the credibility of the numbers claimed. CCP statistics indicate that the CCP has more members than ever. 70

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11.4.2. Upping the Ante: Counter-Securitisation of the CCP and Jiang Zemin

In the 1990s, the majority of FLG practitioners’ desecuritisation moves were identity frames, which aimed to refute the securitisation moves of the authorities. These acts focused on self-description and only implicitly criticised the CCP. However, in the 2000s this has changed. Just as ‘heterodox’ religious organisations were harassed and driven underground in Confucian China, leading to a self-fulfilling prophecy of them ‘going political’, the party appears to have driven the “evil cults” of today underground. The campaign against such organisation has led them – irrespective of original intentions – to engage in ‘politics’ and eventually overtly resist party rule.74 This resistance is manifested outside of China in protests at the gates of Chinese embassies, during Chinese state visits, and in publications that support the FLG.75 The battle is also waged online:76 the FLG spreads its message on the Internet and it is thereby one of the major targets of China’s Internet-control. Indeed, Falungong practitioners have continued to defy the rituals of complicity and the landscape of conformity by publicly performing FLG and protesting the campaign against it – their resistance continues a decade after the launching of the anti-FLG campaign. Self-representation in terms of good morals and avoidance of politics is still a major part of the FLG’s activities in its struggle with the CCP. Yet, such desecuritisation moves soon proved to be unsuccessful, as the campaign against the FLG became more intense. Consequently, beginning in late 2000 Li (2001b) declared that FLG disciples were undergoing a period of “Fa-rectification”:77 “Dafa disciples amidst Fa-rectification have a different situation from when personal cultivation was done in the past. In the face of the groundless harming, in the face of Dafa’s persecution, and in the face of the injustice forced upon us, we cannot handle things or categorically accept things the way it was done before in personal cultivation, because Dafa disciples are now in the Fa-rectification period.” Such a period of rectifying the ‘great law’ would mean that personal cultivation is not enough, because the ‘evil’ persecuting the FLG is beyond individuals (ibid.): “If a problem isn’t caused by our own attachments or mistakes, then it must be that the evil is interfering or doing bad things. […] When a problem arises, we have to examine ourselves first to see whether things are right or wrong on our part.” Such ‘evil’ would have to be eradicated (ibid.): “As for the interference by evil in other dimensions, we must seriously eradicate it with righteous thoughts.” Fa-rectification initiated an ‘exceptional’ period for FLG-practitioners. Such a declaration by Li had several repercussions for his doctrine and disciples. Firstly, Li, FLG Some of the most radical acts have also been reported in Western news media. FLG supporters have for example been able to hijack television signals and to broadcast Li’s doctrines (Ownby 2008). 75 For examples of anti-party opinions on FLG-supporters, see The Epoch Times (2004a); and Mo (2002). 76 See for example www.falundafa.org, www.faluninfo.net, www.clearharmony.net, and www.epochtimes.com. 77 The period of Fa-rectification seems to parallel the idea of kalpa-disasters (the end of ‘great aeons’; this has been noted by Ownby [2008] as well), which mark the end of a world (Li claims that the world has already been destroyed several times, and that aliens are the beings that have survived the previous destructions of the world): for Li, the current world seems to have shifted from the period of the ‘true doctrine’ (正法, zhèngfǎ) to the ‘counterfeit doctrine’ (像法, xiàngfǎ) and now to the ‘end of the doctrine’ (末法, mòfǎ). The belief in the cosmic crisis and Li’s role in saving his disciples, and even the whole of humanity, are typical characteristics of a Chinese sectarian group (cf., Shek 1990, 88-98). 74

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practitioners and other groups sympathetic to the FLG, began to express the struggle in terms of defining the opponent, the CCP and especially Jiang Zemin. In this countersecuritisation discourse among FLG practitioners, Jiang Zemin is portrayed as “the highest representative of the evil force in the human world” who is being used by higher beings to persecute the FLG.78 Thus, only by elimination of this evil can FLG practitioners return home through consummation of the Falun Dafa paradise; if disciples fail and recant the Fa, they cannot reach consummation. As a result, Jiang Zemin is an existential threat to the Falun Dafa paradise and by extension the salvation of its practitioners. Furthermore, since Li Hongzhi’s task is to save humanity during this period of the “end of times” by the restoration of humanity’s morality,79 Jiang appears to be an existential threat to the entire world: “The moment the Party and that evil ringleader [i.e., Jiang Zemin] exclaimed that they wanted to “defeat Falun Gong,” the gods gave the verdict that the Party must be dissolved and destroyed.” (Li 2005.) While the CCP securitises the FLG as a threat to socialism, FLG practitioners answered this with an engagement in counter-securitisation to demonise Jiang Zemin. In Chinese traditional beliefs, demons are believed to reside in liminal spaces, such as doorways, bridges, and cross-sections of roads, and liminal times; e.g., the 15th day of the 7th month is the period of the ghost festival. Precipitously, Li’s declaration of the era of fa-rectification coincides with this belief: during fa-rectification, the whole world is in a liminal state, where demons abound.80 This counter-securitisation discourse comes close to Barend ter Haar’s (1997; 2002) ‘demonological paradigm.’ The division of ‘all under heave’ (天下, tiānxià) and ‘demons’ (妖怪, yāoguài) as a concept and practice had a long tradition and there was widespread awareness of demonic folklore in China,81 and thus cultural resonance that could be used to guide popular traditions in support of the CCP.82 Individuals could be defined in demonic terms, after which they could be combated through anti-demonic means and targeted with the most severe and violent acts. 83 In the Mao-era “struggle” and “counter Quoted in Rahn (2002, 44). “China’s Labour Re-education Camps are dark dens of evil forces. Most of the disciplinary guards there are reincarnated minor ghosts from hell. As for the people who have been ‘reformed’, it was arranged in history that they would persecute the Fa this way. No matter how well they acted when arrested or beaten, all of that was setting the stage for their leaping out today to persecute the Fa and confuse students. I hope that students don’t listen to or believe their evil lies.” (Li 2000a.) 80 He has also used demonisation against other forms of qigong by labelling them as xiejiao (邪教, xiéjiào; heterodox teachings, evil religion, evil cult), which is the same label used by the CCP to describe the FLG, and the demonisation of even the practitioners who claim to cultivate FLG. For example: “Recently, a wretch in Hong Kong who lost her senses has been severely interfering with Dafa by saying absurd things, having bred demons in her mind, about how a Law Body of mine was telling her what to do. She even caused damage by using a telephone call I made to her, and has been constantly doing bad things.” (Li 2000b.) 81 The popularity of the FLG’s beliefs in the ‘end of times’ shows how millenarian ideas have been carried on even in socialist China as elsewhere in the world (see Rinehart 2006). 82 Political legitimacy in some other Asian societies also depends on exercising political power in ways that resonate with religious notions of righteousness and world order, for example in Cambodia (Kent 2006, 350-351). 83 For example, from 1850 onwards the Taipings referred to both external conflict and internal strife in demonic terms; the Taipings were the divine army needed to combat the demons, while real people ranging from local opponents to the Manchus, were represented as demons (Haar 2002, 47; see also Haar 1997). Li’s writings after 2000 seem to follow the same pattern: Li’s true followers are divine in nature, while the persecutors of the FLG are demons from the netherworld. 78 79

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revolution” repleaced ‘demons’, but the grammatical relationships of the demonological paradigm was retained: counter-revolution was a violent threat that had to be answered with equal counterviolence (Haar 2002, 54). This paradigm is clearly in operation in Li’s avowals as well. Secondly, this counter-securitisation of the CCP and Jiang Zemin has legitimated – if not breaking – at least altering the rules of the FLG. In Li’s early teachings, disciples were told to give up their worldly attachments while cultivating among humans. Still in 1999, as a response to the anti-FLG campaign, Li stated: “We do not oppose the government now, nor will we do so in the future. Other people may treat us badly, but we cannot treat other people badly. We cannot regard people as enemies.” (Li 1999c.) However, in the period of Fa-rectification i.e., under an existential threat to faith itself,84 it is allowed to “go beyond forbearance” (Li 2001c): “If the evil has already reached the point where it is unsavable and unkeepable, then various measures at different levels can be used to stop it and eradicate it. Going beyond the limits of Forbearance is included in the Fa’s principles.” Li distinguishes personal cultivation and the ‘exceptionality’ of this struggle against the ‘evil’ (ibid.):85 “Completely eliminating the evil is for Fa-rectification, and not a matter of personal cultivation. In personal cultivation, there is usually no ‘going beyond the limits of Forbearance’.” However, also the nature of personal cultivation has changed: only by eradicating this evil can consummation be reached, as Li will not allow his disciples to “leave” until the campaign is over. This struggle against the ‘evil’ has meant various tasks for Li’s disciples: during farectification, all disciples should “step forward” and actively engage the “evil”. Thus far, “stepping forward” has meant going to Tiananmen Square, “clarifying the truth”, and other activities that express true faith and challenge the CCP. The interactive nature of countersecuritisation is also apparent when Li legitimises “stepping forward” (Li 2000c): “All disciples who have stepped forward, Master thanks you! […] Every one of us is doing for Dafa things of Fa-rectification, Fa-spreading, and clarifying the truth. We haven’t been involved in political struggles, whether it be our going to Tiananmen Square, going to Zhongnanhai, or clarifying the truth to people in all sorts of situations.” While such acts take place in the human world, it would seem that the “evil” that Li claims to be fighting is still in other “dimensions” (Li 2004b): “[W]hen you send righteous thoughts you need to have your mind be more focused, purer, and steadier, so as to mobilize your greater abilities, disintegrate For a discussion of faith as a referent object of security, see Laustsen & Wæver (2000) and Wæver (2008a; 2008b); Wæver (2008b, 588) notes how fundamentalism as security action portrays faith or the ‘true’ version of religion, being so threatened that mere traditionalism will no longer suffice. Li’s period of Fa-rectification seems very close to this general disposition of religious ‘security logic.’ Similarly to the referent object of Li’s securitisation acts i.e., the Fa (法; the Law; the dharma), Kent (2006, 357) recognises the dhamma (in Pāli: धम), or eternal cosmic order as the ultimate referent object in Cambodian (Buddhist) security. See Footnote 12 of Chapter 4 above for Indian notions of security vis-à-vis the dharma (in Sanskrit: धर्म) in Hinduism and Buddhism. 85 David Ownby’s (2008, 214-215) field-work among FLG-practitioners in North-America supports the interpretation of the fa-rectification (i.e., the securitisation of faith) as justifying the ‘breaking of rules’: “Falungong followers in North America I spoke to at the time understood the message to mean that they should not have qualms about resisting the suppressive measures employed by the Chinese state. […] They should not feel that they are violating the dictum to not be involved in politics. Li had given them the permission to stop ‘acting like sheep’ […] they were, in a word, free of whatever constraints the necessity to ‘forbear’ had previously placed upon them […] without having to worry about violating the cardinal tenet of ‘forbearance.’” While Ownby’s (2008, 214-215) interviewees did not view this as a call to violence, it clearly represents ‘extraordinary measures’ in Li’s doctrine. 84

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all of the dark minions and rotten demons, and eliminate the final disruptions that are in other dimensions.” Patsy Rahn (2002), however, sees the potential of the demonological paradigm to legitimise not only acts against “demons” in “other dimensions”, but also the use of violence in the human world.86 To date though, Li limits the measures required against the oppressors to only “sending righteous thoughts” and “stepping forward” (Li 2004a): “[Y]ou may stop them [human beings doing acts against gods] by taking all kinds of approaches, such as exposing the evil acts, clarifying the truth, and directly telephoning those people. [. . .] [Y]ou can stop them with righteous thoughts.” Indeed, negative effects on the ‘wicked policemen’ would be attributed to their own actions: “When [. . .] the wicked policemen are using electric batons or when bad people are injecting drugs to persecute you, you can use your righteous thoughts to redirect the electric current or the drugs back to the person doing violence to you.” Finally, after denying having ‘gone political’ for many years, in 2007 even Li admitted that assuming an active political role is what the FLG should be doing (Li 2007): “If when the world’s media are kept silent by incentives and disincentives from the CCP, Dafa disciples’ forming their own media to counter the persecution and save the world’s people is labelled “political,” then let’s go ahead and confidently make use of “politics” to expose the persecution and save sentient beings!” The change in Li’s stance once again displays the interactive nature of such struggles, and the uptake of the CCP’s anti-FLG campaign (ibid.): “The Party-culture that the wicked CCP has infused into the world’s people, and that has, most notably, poisoned the Chinese people, along with the lies it has fabricated about Falun Gong during the persecution, have led some who have blindly complied with the CCP–and in particular those who know full well that this is persecution but have sold out to the CCP on account of self-interest–to render humankind’s immediate prospects for the future even more tragic. And those are the reasons it is so hard for Dafa disciples to save people.” The ultimate explanation for the change in his stance was, however, the survival of humanity (ibid.): “Since Dafa disciples are responsible for saving all lives at this critical juncture in history, do give it your best effort. As for those who really can’t be saved, that is those people’s own choice.” Through fa-rectification, as the above examples indicate, Li has engaged in countersecuritisation of the “evil” that is the CCP. His disciples in the Epoch Times have, however, exhibited features of reverse-securitisation in their contrary securitisation of the CCP and Jiang Zemin. In the Nine Commentaries on the Communist Party, the CCP is portrayed as the largest cult in history (Epoch Times 2004b, xix), in effect reversing the authorities’ own accusations that the FLG is an “evil cult”: “The Communist Party is essentially an evil cult that harms mankind” (Epoch Times 2004e, 236). Further, the CCP is placed on an anti-cult continuum as the worst case along with death cults like Aum Shinrikyo and David A. Palmer (2003; 2007) also views FLG as ‘militant qigong’, and emphasises the darkness of Li Hongzhi’s millenarianism vis-à-vis other qigong doctrines. However, it should be noted that not all sectarian groups in Chinese history have resorted to the use of violence (Harrell 1990, 14), and in the case of the FLG, this is also not a necessity. While consistent with typical features of millenarianism, Li’s preachings do not concur with James F. Rinehart’s (2006, 30) definitional criteria for millenarian terrorism. While many millenarian groups that resort to the use of violence believe that the world has to be destroyed, Li claims to be trying to save the world from destruction instead. Li claims to be working for the security of humanity, and would seem to be constructing a cosmological macrosecuritisation discourse of his own. 86

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the Solar Temple cult (ibid., 246).87 Jiang Zemin’s family background is also claimed to be fabricated, mirroring what the CCP has claimed for Li Hongzhi’s biographies (Epoch Times 2004c, 118-119, 126). Moreover, the CCP is claimed to directly contradict traditional Chinese culture and undermine the very cohesiveness of the Chinese nationality (Epoch Times 2004d, 156, 185), much in the same way as the CCP portrays FLG as totally opposite to Marxist science.

11.5. Conclusions of Analysis: Success and Sustained Resistance

The analysis of the case of the Falungong indicates that there was no particular need for continued arguments for ‘raising the issue onto the agenda’: while Falungong had been investigated by public security officials for several years, it would seem that there were no major moves to securitise it. Thereby, the securitisation of the FLG appears to have been a reactive rather than a proactive process, and to have been initiated only after the protest of April 25 1999. This suggests that it was the ‘spectacularity’ of the sit-in in the vicinity of the Zhongnanhai compound that garnered the attention of the premier leadership. With this act, the FLG had overstepped the threshold of permitted autonomous social mobilisation, and rightful resistance. In this instance, unlike a decade earlier, it would seem that there was no clear division on the issue among the party leadership. Jiang Zemin took the lead to transform the issue into one of security. While all Standing Committee members may not have deemed the issue of the FLG to be as dire as it was presented, they do not appear to have contended the label of security. The various sensitive anniversaries that fell due in 1999 may have concomitantly made the issue seem more sensitive than in other situations; had the securitisation not occurred a decade after the 1989 process, where the issue of securitising the student movement had effectively split and paralysed the party, the issue may well have been contested to a greater degree. As such, there was no repeat of history in 1999: Jiang mobilised the party and its security apparatuses in prompt fashion. Most of the securitisation moves that have become available for study seem to have been for control and deterrence, while the politics of the securitisation more broadly provided opportunities for positive identity avowals and the reproduction of discipline. Moves for control were directed at party members and state bureaucracies, but those for deterrence were directed at FLG practitioners. The same grammatical structures were

In this respect, the campaign against the FLG has been portrayed for its practitioners as a persecution ordained in history, and perpetrated by evil forces. However, most of the identity framings directed at ‘non-anointed-ones’ do not focus on the ‘supernatural evil’ of the CCP, but on the violation of human rights in the party’s campaign. For example, Li has emphasised that the Nine Commentaries on the CCP should not be part of the material that explains FLG. Indeed, FLG should rather be framed as a pacifist meditation exercise, the practitioners of which are being persecuted by the CCP in violation of their human rights, which frame conveniently resonates with Western ideals and media. Interestingly, the actual teachings of FLG often do not appear in foreign media beyond restating the three-part moral code, viz. truth, benevolence and forbearance. Thereby the story on the FLG is most often framed as Chinese human rights violations. While FLG activists outside China have joined forces with the democracy movement, and emphasise the treatment of FLG practitioners as a human rights issue, it is noticeable that such freedoms as of speech, conscience, or religion were not of apparent significant concern to Li or his doctrine, before the suppression of the FLG began (Ownby 2008, 126). Indeed, ironically, just a cursory inspection would reveal that many of Li’s teachings contradict many tenets of activists working within the ‘human rights discourse’ e.g., Li’s stated views on hom*osexuals, interracial offspring and freedom of speech. 87

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used as in the other cases studied here, with the omission of the vocabolary of counterrevolution, but the threat was qualitatively different. The FLG was not presented as a danger eminating from within the party. The FLG was not a form of revisionism, nor a movement for restoring capitalism. The FLG was presented as superstition that threatened Marxist science and the health of individual people: Li Hongzhi and his doctrine were a threat to the core values of the political order from outside the party. Not only that, the group and its activities were presented as the tools of foreign anti-China forces. The emanation of the FLG from outside the party worked for the party in the social situation of the late 1990s: talk of revisionism and counter-revolution was old-fashioned and already even removed from the penal code. Beyond this, international events, the history of tensions with obscure semi-religious organisations, and the timing of the protests, all worked towards the facilitation of the securitisation of the FLG within the party leadership. The politics of securitising the Falungong also permitted a campaign to renew the bond between the party and loyal citizens, and further to maintain the legitimacy of the party as the guarantor of stability and unity and the safety of the people. Even more so for Jiang, as the campaign compelled party and state bureaucracies to toe his line and thereby demonstrate their loyalty to the ‘core’ of party leadership. Such a tactic does not seem to have raised extra costs as the bureaucratic system appears to have operated without much friction, and the issue has not spilled over. In terms of facilitating/impeding factors, the balance seemed to eventually tilt in favour of the authorities. The massiveness of the anti-FLG campaign and the benign character of the majority of FLG practitioners seemed to impede the success of legitimisation moves. It was not clear why ‘grannies excercising in the park’ would threaten the socialist system. However, prudent people understood the message to keep clear. Moreover, the 2001 self-immolation event appears to have provided the requisite plausibility for the authorities’ claims. Indeed, the securitisation moves have been successful on the Mainland both in terms of control and legitimacy. The impression of success is strengthened by the absence of major international fallout, irrespective of the continued resistance of Li and his most devout followers on the Mainland, and especially outside China. In terms of contestation of and resistance to the securitisation of the FLG, the analysis suggests the latter. While there does not seem to have been much contestation within the party, the targets of securitisation resisted. Li and his disciples had used identity frames in their avowals in a manner that can be described as ‘pre-emptive desecuritisation’ already before the anti-FLG campaign began. This was evident even during the April 25 1999 demonstration where the representatives of the FLG denied any interest in politics. Similarly, as the supression of the FLG began, Li continued to use the types of identity avowals that strived towards defusing the sense of threat and danger that the securitisation moves of the party represented. Initially, then, the FLG’s activities conformed with “rightful resistance”, but after the soft repression by the authorities began in earnest, Li was forced to engage in clear-cut desecuritisation moves in his identity framings. As this desecuritisation failed and the authorities turned to hard repression, Li launched his counter-securitisation moves, identifying the CCP as the tool of evil that threatened the paradise of his disciples, and indeed, by extension, the entire world. All in all, Li and his followers have used a mixture of desecuritisation, reverse-securitisation and countersecuritisation moves in their resistance to the CCP. 363

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Beyond the FLG having been ‘decimated’ on the Mainland by the anti-FLG campaign, Li’s counter-securitisation has had major impacts on his doctrine and the practice of FLG. Li’s declaration of a period of ‘fa-rectification’ seems to equal an existential threat for faith itself. In such a securitised situation, FLG practitioners are allowed to go ‘beyond forbearance’ and ‘actively engage the evil’ beyond personal cultivation. Such a change in Li’s doctrine can be attributed to the anti-FLG campaign, and thus to the interactive nature of securitisation processes. In terms of doctrine, it even seems that Li’s securitisation moves entailed more drastic measures than the CCP’s securitisation moves, although the practical activities suggest the exact opposite. Indeed, while Li claims to battle ‘evil’ in other ‘dimensions’, the CCP has sent FLG practitioners to mental hospitals and labour re-education camps without trial. While Li’s securitisation moves have been successful among the faithful, both his securitisation and desecuritisation moves towards the general public and the CCP have failed. Unlike in 1989, the general public did not support those the authorities targeted with their securitisation moves. The social situation in the late 1990s was much different to that of the late 1980s. China had continued to prosper and rise under the leadership of the party, which had also increasingly used the Chinese sense of patriotism in its favour. There was also no such sense of social activism that had been the case in the 1980s. It seems that many had turned to taking care of themselves rather than to engaging in politics that was deemed to be dangerous. The Falungong could also not draw on the positive connotations attached to protesting students. In contrast, Li Hongzhi and his doctrine seemed obscure, and potentially dangerous. The self-immolation incident appeared to corroborate the authorities’ claims, irrespective of whether or not it was a hoax. The massive campaign launched against the FLG and the treatment of resisting practitioners, illustrates how the party can still resort to its old modus operandi, whenever core values are represented as in jeopardy. However, that the use of these discourses and practices has been reduced from those of the Mao era and even as late as the 1980s, would seem to indicate that the party perhaps feels more secure in its position than before, despite the fact that it still is more often securitised than the state of the People’s Republic. The party appears to let things happen and only clamps down when it deems some threshold being breached in terms of organisation or spread of protest. The case of the FLG illustrates how securitisation theory can be used to examine the use of asymmetric political concepts both during the Mao-period, and even during contemporary Chinese politics which are quite far removed form it. Furthermore, the analysis of the FLG’s own securitisation discourse illustrated how flexible the framework is: the approach can provide insights into non-state actors whose discourse deals with otherworldly threats. In sum, it can be concluded that the case of the FLG was qualitatively different to the other cases. The analysis of securitisation continues to reflect changes in Chinese society as the four cases span different decades. Overall, the general effects of the securitisation process of the FLG were more limited than in the prior three cases presented in this study. Its securitisation was successful in being limited to its object of concern, and international repercussions have remained unremarkable, for even though the issue has been used as part of the human rights abuse discourse that is negative for China’s international image, it still did not prevent China’s membership of the WTO nor China hosting the 2008 Olympics. Thus, while the continued existence of the FLG and Li Hongzhi’s activities 364

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may remain an embarrassment, the FLG has effectively and with apparent acquiescence (beyond its practitioners) been eradicated from Mainland China. On this occasion the Golem’ of securitisation did its master’s bidding and was successfully kept under control.

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12. Conclusions of the Study: Explicating Securitisation for Conceptual Travel

Never surrender.

- Rorschach

This study has sought to enhance our understanding of the political use of language. Of concern have been the political functions of security utterances i.e., the power politics of a concept. The investigation navigated through contemporary theoretical debates on this theme, prevalent in (mainly) European academic discussion. As the title of the study already suggests, its approach has been based on speech act theory and its illocutionary logic. The study was initiated with the intention to critically develop and improve the means of analysis available for the research programme of Securitisation Studies. My main argument here has been that the five main strands of securitisation explicated above – securitisation for raising an issue onto the agenda, for legitimating future acts, for deterrence, for control, and for legitimating past acts or for reproducing the security status of an issue – demonstrate how ‘security speech’ can have a variety of political functions. Such functions range from the raising of an issue onto the agenda of decision making, to legitimising policies, deterring threats and controlling subordinates. The main contribution has been the explication of these functions by the means of speech act logic. Concepts worth explication have contexts, which are precise and clear enough to be useful. ‘Securitisation’ has proven to be just such a concept in the liberal democratic context. The purpose of the explication here has been to preserve the clarity and usefulness of this concept in the favoured liberal democratic context, while honing it for application to broader contexts. This kind of terminological expansion is crucial because ‘Securitisation Studies’ can provide insights into other types of political orders as well. Conversely, the security practices of such orders are essential objects of study for students of ‘security’. This elaboration can hopefully bring the Copenhagen School approach to securitisation closer to the ideal of the provision of a, if not universal, at least more encompassing ‘matrix’ for International Security Studies, along with an artificial metalanguage to study the social construction of security and its political functions in domestic and international politics. I believe that the clarification of the five strands of securitisation enhance the research programme of Securitisation Studies, for the new model can incorporate ‘anomalies’ detected by the various critics of the original approach, whilst retaining the results of studies conducted within the original model. Thereby, the refined model or concept has a 366

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broader extension than the original, and thus expands the types of acts and discourses that can be analysed with it. The explication of the illocutionary logic of the acts of securitisation provides the theoretical means for conceptual travel without conceptual stretching. The strands can be used to understand – or perhaps even explain – the political functions of security arguments in political orders beyond liberal democracy. As regards the main theoretical research interest in this study – how political functions can be inferred from political speech in general and in ‘security speech’ in particular – I have demonstrated how speech act logic and the main strands of securitisation, even in the absence of ‘security words’, can be used to infer political functions of security speech. This is made possible by the fact that ‘security rationale’ or a ‘security modality’ is dependent on a fairly stable constellation of meanings. Although the ‘true’ intentions of speakers remain inaccessible, the meaning of their utterances can be inferred. Because speech acts rely on conventional sets of rules and practices, once such relevant rules are manifested in a certain context, the meaning of the particular discourse sample can be inferred. Furthermore, by examining what the ‘security rationale’ in a particular instance entails, assumptions of what the act of securitisation linked to this instance was utilised for, can also be made. Certain caveats are in order. While illocutionary speech acts are conventional, perlocutionary effects (usually) are not. In other words, we can infer the meaning of an utterance by analysing it, but we cannot grasp the effect such a meaning may have had on the perceiver. Indeed, a single illocutionary act may not produce the same perlocutionary effects on different hearers, or even the same hearer in different situations. Furthermore, illocutionary speech acts may have unintended perlocutionary effects. In sum, this approach to the functions of security speech operates under an assumption of strategically behaving speakers, but the situation of the communicative interaction is open: the speaker cannot decide what the hearer comprehends or interprets. Thereby, one person’s reassurance remains another’s threat. Indeed, discourse samples that contain illocutionary acts may not reveal much about the perlocutionary effects of these acts, as most types of securitisation moves do not have conventional consequences; not all acts of securitisation are akin to, say, marriage declarations, as most have to be argued in some way and depend on the acceptance of the ‘hearer’. This means that the analysis of perlocutionary effects of securitisation i.e., the analysis of the success or failure of securitisation requires means beyond the analysis of illocutionary speech acts, as does also the analysis of the success of the politics of such moves. Yet, irrespective of the perlocutionary ‘success’ of illocutionary acts, the act in the utterance of an illocution may already transform a situation: a securitising actor commits to a status transformation for the issue concerned in voicing ‘security’, which on its own may already have consequences in certain social settings. Indeed, while the perlocutionary aspect is important in respect to the ‘success’ of securitisation, and particularly the success of the politics of securitisation, it is also important not the let go of the illocutionary aspect of securitisation. Not all strands of securitisation have conventional perlocutionary outcomes, but they all are illocutionarily conventional. If acts of securitisation did not have conventionally expected consequences, they would not be used: there has to be some expectation of what will result from a securitisation move, and the strands of securitisation reveal that such assumptions can be plural. 367

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In sum, the approach here indicates that the analysis of elementary speech acts can be used to infer the political function of complex speech acts of securitisation. How securitisation can be used (at least) to argue for raising an issue onto the agenda of formal decision makers, to provide legitimacy for future or past acts, as a means of control, and as a form of deterrence was demonstrated here via illocutionary logic. This variety of functions entails that actors without formal authority to enact security measures can also speak security. While previous studies have argued that ‘public’ and ‘private’ securitising actors use security speech differently, the strands explicated here can be used to gain a more exact bearing on this through the study of actually occurred speech. Beyond these main general arguments, I divide my concluding points into two sets: those that concern securitisation theory and those that deal with the function of political security in the People’s Republic of China.

Concluding Arguments on Securitisation Theory

This study has sought to reflect upon most of the critical debates that have dealt with securitisation theory. Along the way, I have presented my own viewpoints, reasonings, and contentions. It is now prudent to provide a synthesis.

Perhaps the most crucial point along the way has been that the ‘model of securitisation’ should not be restricted to the practices of certain types of political orders, or even theories of politics. Such a view dictates that the model must remain fairly abstract, and that empirical appliers need to provide their own operationalisations. For example, who has to be convinced in order for an issue to gain the status of a security matter, as well as, who can wield ‘security’, varies not only from one type of political order to another, but also within types of political orders, and even particular political orders. It would not be helpful to define the audience in the theory in any specific way, since audiences are dependent on the socio-historical situation of the context; the person or persons who have to be convinced of the necessity of a security action is malleable. Moreover, there may be several audiences ranging from an inner ring of fundamentalists to the general public. The cases studied here illustrated how even in such a hierarchical political order as that of the PRC can have a multitude of securitising actors and audiences. Mao Zedong was the eminating source of socio-political capital in the first two cases, but other actors also wielded this power. Similarly, at times Mao was the audience, but at others it was the party bureaucracy and the general public. Such a multitude has not diminished in the post-Mao era; the exact opposite may actually be the case. Beyond the issue of who or what a relevant audience is, there are also issues of how successful or convincing a securitisation move has been. Some audiences may have been moved on a fundamental level, they may even change their worldviews. Others may approach the same move indifferently or on a superficial level. It may also be that some members of an audience are ‘non-believers’ for whom the move has failed completely. The varied levels of success among different audiences were quite evident in the cases examined here. For example, some leading cadres contested the line of the Cultural Revo368

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lution and not all units of the PLA agreed to be ‘seized’. Contestation within the party leadership was most evident in the 1989 case. Also the targets of securitisation may be conviced to varying degrees. For example, in 1976, most demonstrators left the Square after Wu De’s securitising speech, but some remained. The worry of Falungong practitioners recanting their beliefs is quite evident in Li Hongzhi’s statements. At the same time, many of his followers have risked captivity by continuing the ‘clarify the truth’ and to ‘step forward’.

While the possibility of various types of audiences (e.g., an audience may be necessary to gain legitimacy or to mobilise resources) and various leves of success can be contemplated theoretically, assessing this is an empirical issue, and not something to be handled within the model in much detail. The shape of securitisation speech acts can change as the process continues. Such variation even within a single process implies that the relevant audience(s) of securitisation depends on the function(s) the securitisation act is intended to serve. The way I posit this within the model is that an audience has to be such that it has the ability to provide the securitising actor with whatever they seek to accomplish through the securitisation move. To reiterate once more: operationalisation beyond this should be a task for each specific empirical analysis. The securitisation processes that were traced in the cases here illustrated how securitisation moves indeed change shape and can have varying functions as the process goes on. The case of 1989 is perhaps the most illustrative. We can find moves for raising the issue of the student protest onto the agenda of the Politburo. Once such moves were successful, we find moves for deterrence and for legitimising possible future acts, and finally, moves for post hoc legitimisation. Actual securitisation processes are diffuse, and they may not be a one-off affair, as this case also illustrated. I also presented the view that some types of securitisation acts are directed at audiences beyond the domain of the securitising actor. For example, securitisation, and its counterpart, desecuritisation, can be directed at both sides of a conflict. Securitisation and desecuritisation can be used to ‘move’ or ‘swing’ audiences in favour of the actor, but securitisation can also be used as a deterrent i.e., a threat of possible severe acts. The ‘target’ of these moves can use desecuritisation as a counter-argument to such threat claims. This also means that desecuritisation can be an active political move or tactic, and not merely a ‘withering away’. Desecuritising a matter may be ‘good politics’ in certain situations, and politicians may be explicit in voicing such views. I also noted that ‘desecuritisation’ can be ‘pre-emptive’. In certain situations, political actors may assume that their actions are deemed dangerous by other actors. In such a situation the former may present arguments or identity frames that already work against those that would present their actions as negative or dangerous. The desecuritisation of the Cultural Revolution and the 1976 incident are prime examples of how desecuritisation may be ‘good politics’. Their desecuritisation subsequently seems to have influenced protest activity in the 1980s, including the case studied here. Protest movements in China have framed their identities in ways that appear to be aimed at pre-emptively deflecting negative identity imputations. The same appeared to be the case with Li Hongzhi and the Falungong. 369

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One of the theoretical emphasises of this study has revolved around the interactive nature of securitisation processes, particularly that between securitising actors and the ‘targets’ of securitisation i.e., the claimed threats. As I have tried to demonstrate, securitising moves may be contested by actors with formal authority and they can be resisted by actors without formal authority. Desecuritisation moves can play a part here, whether they be pre-emptive or a reaction to actual securitising moves. Furthermore, such ‘reactions’ may escalate to include reverse-securitisation or counter-securitisation. Indeed, it would seem that parties involved in conflicts will often portray themselves as virtuous and nonthreatening, while counter-claiming that the other party is the actual threat and guilty of causing difficulties. Such interactions demonstrate how securitisation moves may be directed beyond audiences that are under the authority of the securitising actor. All the cases displayed some form of desecuritisation moves. Securitisation during the Cultural Revolution was not effectively contested, but the main targets it was directed against were desecuritised fairly soon after Mao’s death. The desecuritisation of the 1976 incident played a major role here as well. The case of 1989 allowed examination of major contestation and resistance, while the case of the Falungong is an example of sustained resistance. In these two cases, when the stakes became higher and higher, the resisters resorted to reverse-securitisation and counter-securitisation. It seems that the possibilities for such contestation and resistance have been enhanced in the post-Mao era of Chinese politics.

Such struggles over meaning are also closely related to the issue of the success of securitisation moves, and to the success of the politics of securitisation as such. Here, the role of speech acts is crucial. I have posited that it is securitisation, and not security, that should be considered a speech act. This entails that the perception of threats, securitisation moves and security action are logically, and at times, also practically separate. This means that whether or not we can observe a policy change or some other practical consequence of a securitisation effort cannot be a necessary or even sufficient criterion for the success of this move – this is of course dependent on the functions of the securitising move; perceived threats may or may not be securitised, accepted securitisation moves may or may not lead to policy, and security measures may or may not be taken after securitisation moves. The success of speech acts depends on uptake and other factors connected to perlocutionary effects. The success of the politics of securitisation demand different approaches to its study, such as interviews and opinion polls. Such an approach to securitisation has at least three consequences for how securitisation should be studied. Firstly, studies of securitisation should begin from securitisation moves as these define the area of interest within ‘infinitely complex phenomena’. Secondly, the indeterminacy of the three aspects identified entails that security action cannot be a sufficient, or a necessary criterion for the success of securitisation. And thirdly, accordingly, the absence of action cannot be a necessary nor sufficient criterion for the failure of securitisation. As such, this entails an unsatisfactory answer for some of the critical points raised by previous appliers: the success and failure of securitisation is a more complicated issue than, for example, the reallocation of resources. Indeed, the success of specific illocutionary acts of securitisation should be evaluated by studying their perlocutionary effects. Beyond specific speech acts, the success of the politics of securitisation re370

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quires moving beyond the study of discourse samples that manifest securitisation moves. To study illocutionary moves cannot reveal whether or not they have been ‘successful’ as this depends on the perlocutionary effects of illocutions, unless we are dealing with securitisation moves that have conventional consequences e.g., declaring martial law or war. Similarly, the success of the politics of securitisation is an issue beyond illocutionary speech act analysis. The cases studied here had varying degrees of success. Securitisation during the Cultural Revolution seems to have provided Mao with the utility that he was seeking. The case of the Falungong is another example of ‘successful securitisation’, although with much more limited consequences. The case of 1976 transpired to be a failed form of politics for the securitising faction within the party. The case of 1989 illustrates how success can be a mixed bag: the moves for legitimacy were generally a failure but the function of long-term control has succeeded. Neither the Falungong nor the events of 1989 have been desecuritised.

As regards the critical debate on silence, I have reasoned that the possibility of ‘silence’ is positive for the theory: the possibility to ‘falsify’ empirical assumptions drawn from the theory provides explanatory potential. Indeed, securitisation discourses that are in place in some political contexts can be non-existent in others. That securitisation discourses are not present everywhere we expect to find them, means that the theory can help us understand and, at times, perhaps even explain, some aspects of the political dynamics of such situations. The examination of China’s alignment in global security discourse illustrated how a state can be extensively involved in one discourse and remain completely without another. This seems to suggest that at least some macrosecuritisation discourses can be used for more parochial interests than the survival of ‘humanity’ or ‘civilization’.

On the issue of what kind of a theory securitisation theory should be, I have followed a middle-ground position. The context of utterance is important in ‘real’ processes of securitisation and their empirical study. But such study should be theoretically grounded on illocutionary linguistics, so as to avoid conceptual stretching, and to allow the identification of discourses of securitisation. Thereby, what is required is a combination of an artificial model with empirical analysis. Illocutionary logic provides the meta-language that makes an abstract distance from the empirical contexts possible. The analysis of the cases illustrates how such a combination can be achieved: the grammatical models are the abstract way of modelling functions of security speech, but the historical, social and political features of Chinese politics play an important role in the types of vocabulary used, as well as in who can speak security and to whom. Retaining abstract distance allows such operationalisation to be made in a great variety of contexts. Hence, I argue that the analysis of illocutionary acts of securitisation should be the foundation of securitisation theory, but, in order to assess the perlocutionary effects i.e., the success or failure of such acts, other socio-linguistic methods may be necessary. Harnessing the linguistic root of the theory will make the approach firmer, and will then encourage branching out in terms of combining the theory with other approaches e.g., Regional Security Complex Theory, theories of mobilisation, actor network theory and 371

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agenda setting, the study of asymmetric political concepts and conceptual transformation, and even democratic peace theory. Furthermore, the explicated grammar also provides the necessary meta-language to do cross-cultural/political/temporal analyses of securitisation processes. As such, this reinforcement of the theory allows for the exploration of new empirical issues. To understand the process of securitisation in various political and social contexts is vital for the tasks set for Securitisation Studies. The above understanding of the purposes or functions of acts of securitisation avoids the formation of an orthodoxa within Securitisation Studies: securitisation can be about more than just the legitimisation of the breaking of rules or the enactment of extraordinary measures. It also distinguishes securitisation from decisionism: the ‘political’ can be seen as one way to wield asymmetric political concepts, but the theory of securitisation often yields better analytical results. Certain political actors in certain situations and political orders are able to make a decision on, for example, martial law, but securitisation needs to be understood as an open social process that most of the time has to be argued or explained in some way, as was quite drastically illustrated by the 1989 challenge to martial law in China.

In respect of the interests of knowledge, in my view, the approach to analysing securitisation as presented here can be used to serve a variety of interests. Securitisation theory can be used to deal with real problems in an instrumental fashion, as it can illustrate how issues of security are constructed. Thereby, it can, for example, be the basis for investigating how ‘security’ relates to conflict processes. Such an investigation can also be the starting point for hermeneutical studies of security i.e., investigations into how security is understood in various societies at various times, opening up interesting avenues for the study of conceptual change. Investigating how security issues are constructed can further be used in an emancipatory fashion to reveal the political nature of such issues, whereby their element of choice can be demonstrated. These kinds of investigations can be used to present alternative interpretations of situations, and thus to open up space for what could be seen as ethical interventions. As such, the explication of acts of securitisation assists in accomplishing all of these types of tasks: the strands provide the means for more nuanced studies and can help to understand the functions and dynamics of processes in a more elaborate fashion. Realising that processes of securitisation do not have a single political function, but that even single processes of securitisation may have various functions, can assist in various kinds of investigations into the social construction of security – irrespective of the interest of knowledge that guides such studies. In terms of further theoretical development, the current research endeavour opened up two new avenues for study. Firstly, the expanded framework can enlighten us on how macro-level securitisation discourses function on a micro level; a study of the major crises of the Cold War or an investigation of how such macrosecuritisation discourses operate in various political contexts beckons. Secondly, the next step to develop the approach of the theory of securitisation would be the incorporation of a general theory of signs and semeiosis into the framework, and beyond, the combining of the framework with various other theories and approaches to yield further insights into the process of securitisation 372

Conclusions

as a way of understanding the relationships of actors, objects and meanings – in the end, to a comprehension of the functioning of power.

The Function of Political Security in the People’s Republic of China

In respect of the empirical aspect of this study, my concluding argument is that it successfully set forth a method of analysis for securitisation processes in non-democratic political orders without conceptual stretching, and thus demonstrated that securitisation theory can be applied to the empirical study of Chinese politics in different decades and leadership eras. Such conceptual travel from Europe, the liberal-democratic context and the first decade of the 2000s, has provided new insights for the general objectives of Securitisation Studies. Concomitantly, the revised framework proved to be useful as a tool to analyse, interpret, and understand Chinese politics. The empirical aim of this study was to analyse securitisation processes in China and to note whether these processes conform to the grammar of securitisation as previously postulated and herein explicated. I reasoned and argued that the manner in which security was constructed in the case studies indeed conformed to the explicated grammars. The examples of the four securitisation processes illustrated how securitisation speech acts can shift during the securitisation process, and also how they can display various functions as this process progresses. Outside the functions of any particular speech acts, the entire process of securitisation was demonstrated to have various political functions. Features such as differing and prevailing conditions and socio-historical contexts, successful and failed securitisation moves as well as desecuritisation moves and processes in toto were identified from the cases. Thereby, for the present study, securitisation has been viewed as a ‘grammar’ of certain types of human interaction, while resonant values in certain situations viewed as its ‘vocabulary’. Following this reasoning through ‘spectacular’ instances of securitisation in the political sector of security, during three major leadership eras of the PRC, revealed that ‘counter-revolution’ was, for a long time, an institutionalised basis for securitisation, into which particular instances and chains of events were grafted. This demonstrates how, in one way, social artefacts – here issues of security – are sedimented into the ‘background’ of social reality. Although labels like ‘turmoil’ and ‘well planned plots’ would not seem to fit well into European political rhetoric, the language Chinese officials have used to construct official security realities is remarkably consistent with the ‘grammar’ that the theory of securitisation would predict, making it unnecessary to distort ‘culturally alien’ concepts to fit into the theory. Besides causing chaos or social instability, collusion with foreign powers is another oft-used political label for debasing opponents. Therefore, the PRC has its own set of institutionalised master signifiers, or watchwords of security. The logic of such institutionalised categories can remain constant, but the signifiers that refer to institutionalised signifieds can change. For instance, ‘Lin Biao’ was transformed from being originally a chief securitising actor and even Mao Zedong’s heir apparent, to eventually, completely contrarily, an institutionalised signifier of ‘counterrevolution’. In the same vein, the operationalisation of official ideology has now shifted well beyond Mao’s ideological principles, which becomes overtly clear when the Polemics 373

Conclusiosn

with the Communist Party of the Soviet Union are compared to the Three Represents of Jiang Zemin. Yet, when necessary, the authorities would still seem to fall back onto the fundamental core of the political order. This was explicit in 1989, and the same logic has remained in the securitisation of the Falungong as well. Moreover, this demonstrates that while the vocabulary may evolve, the underlying logic appears to remain remarkably consistent throughout the political transitions from the Mao to the post-Mao eras of Chinese politics. Securitisation in the political sectors is no longer as present in the everyday as it was during the Cultural Revolution, but when political crises do escalate, the same logic appears to rise to the fore, more or less reliably. This suggests that securitisation theory can be used to examine both Mao and post-Mao era politics through the same framework, which attests to its value for future investigations within China Studies. However, the cases studied here would also suggest that there is a significant difference in how securitisation has been utilised in the two most definitive eras. In Mao’s China, securitisation was used as a means to mobilise the ‘masses’ to fight inner enemies within the party and society, for example, through ‘rectification’. It seems that in post-Mao China, securitisation is used as a reaction to more autonomous inputs or processes which emanate from within its society. In Mao’s China, securitisation was used as a means to mobilise society; in post-Mao China, securitisation has conversely been used to suppress autonomous mobilisation in society. The case of the 1976 Tiananmen Incident seems to be a hinge-event in this sense. The uncovering of such a change seems to reflect general changes in Chinese society indicated by many other studies of China conducted with very different methods. Securitisation theory allows the examination of such change without recourse to grand explanations, such as the ‘end of the political’. It seems that political security has served several functions in the PRC. It has been used to foment social unrest and to legitimise changes in party leadership. It has also been used as a means of control and deterrence, both to mobilise bureaucratic systems and to quell autonomous social unrest. Negative labels, such as the counter-revolutionary, have been consistent tools in factional party-politicking, which many times resulted in the ‘Golem’ of securitisation breaking loose and resulting in negative results. Political security has also been used as autocommunication, as a means of compelling bureaucracies to toe the line regarding a certain political formulation. It has also been used to reproduce a bond between the ‘people’ and the ‘party’: the party has had many opportunities to present itself in a positive light as the guardian of all good in Chinese society against those who would do it harm, whether those be revisionists, counter-revolutionaries, foreign powers, or religious fundamentalists. Such general impressions of the role of political security in the PRC create an avenue for future research in the form of the investigation of the dynamics of popular protest and its suppression in China, also in comparison to other political orders. Thus far, the majority of studies of securitisation, mainly investigating European and ‘Western’ contexts, have not focused on either the ‘targets’ (i.e., the identified threats) of securitisation, nor the interaction between the claims of securitising actors and the claims of the ‘targets’. However, this study outlined some angles of approach for such studies. Indeed, s�� ome processes of rhetorical struggle between authorities and social movements utilise security 374

Conclusions

discourse, to either legitimise or block social mobilisation in the political arena. The combination of securitisation/desecuritisation theory and identity frame theory demonstrated here how protest legitimisation and repression can both be conceptualised within the same framework, and how their underlying logic can be deciphered. Of note is that this approach does not deal with the sincerity of the actors or their ‘real’ motives i.e., it is of no consequence whether the ‘activists’ or the ‘authorities’ ‘really believe’ or are sincere in their identity framings of themselves or of their adversaries, or even whether they are merely engaged in a political game of cynical manipulation. Irrespective of the motives or sincerity of the proponents and opponents, the approach still assists in comprehending why certain types of frames are more likely to be used than others in the justification of soft or hard repression and the resultant resistance to repression. In the PRC, particularly in regard to social mobilisation and repression, the stakes of applied identity frames are high, as they involve the right to participate in social activism and/or the survival of the leadership regimes, even political orders, and specifically in the case of the FLG even the ‘fate of the world.’ The patterns of amity and enmity that are constructed in securitisation processes can also be informative on how political identities, even agency, can be formed in China. Quite commonly, people may be engaged in their various activities with applicable identities, with or without a sense of these activities being considered political by nature. However, when the party and/or state authorities frame such activities in the language of threats and security, that is, when they shift the patterns of amity and enmity through the identification of a new threat, or even enemy, the affected groups will have to adjust if the same activities are to continue. It would seem that it is most likely that such ‘unpolitical’ groups will object to being identified as threats or enemies, and thereby attempt to deflect or resist the authorities’ threat-framings and be compelled to adjust accordingly in their identity imputations. Even if those engaged in the targeted activities prefer not to resist the authorities’ frames, and instead strive to be identified as a disruptive force, this will still affect the identity of the whole group engaged in the activities. As such, I would aver that such findings can be useful in social movement research, since the centrality of security discourse in suppression and protest legitimisation in non-democratic political orders is revealed. Of course, authorities in liberal systems can also resort to the securitisation of their opponents, as examples in Western history of the suppression of radical left- or right-wing oppositions, or more recently radical Islamists, have demonstrated. However, it is the exclusionary nature of non-democratic political orders that make them more prone to utilise security discourse as the reasoning to legitimise the possible use of extraordinary means (e.g., hard repression) and thereby to prevent other political actors from emerging in society. Although there is no automatic or deterministic mechanism for deploying ‘hard’ forms of repression after ‘softer’ forms have already been deployed, the use of soft forms of repression will often increase the likelihood of hard repression, since its costs will be lowered by intimidation or provocation of activists engaged in resistance, and further, by justification of the use of violence in general. Thus, paradoxically, soft repression is quite quite likely to escalate tactics on both sides of the struggle. This would certainly appear to be the case in the conflicts of 1989 and the Falungong. Thereby, I would like to trust that this study has paved the way for further research on such issues, also from a comparative perspective. 375

Conclusiosn

To transcend the political sector within China in future studies would allow a greater understanding of the political functions of security speech. Indeed, since only the political sector of security within the PRC has been considered in this study, an enormous reservoir of cases, residing in various sectors and levels, to be studied in the “Chinese” context remains. The cases considered here were by no means an exhaustive analysis of securitisation even in the political sector. For example, events in Tibet in 2008 and Xinjiang in 2009, that occurred during the collation of this study, would lend themselves as ideal cases for investigation of the role and function of local versus central securitisation moves in the Chinese context. Moreover, this study has only focused on ‘spectacular’ instances of securitisation. Issues of more ‘mundane’ or routinised securitisation are left for future study. Since the Chinese political order runs the largest bureaucratic system in the world, although empirical investigation may accordingly be difficult, the securitisation framework may yet provide important insights into Chinese technocratic politics. Moving beyond China on the agenda for future research, the explicated model can be used to conduct studies on other non-democratic orders in Asia, and elsewhere. As the cases studied here have shown, the role of ‘institutionalised security’ is particularly strong in how securitisation functions in China. This raises the question of whether this is an effect of the Chinese political order, an effect of the political culture of China, or even an effect of how Chinese language is used. One typical feature of Chinese political language is that it is strongly institutionalised: official political formulations and lines can even function as loyalty tests for subordinates. This kind of language use caters well to the institutionalisation of security as well, and shows how securitisation theory can enlighten the more general functions of political language use in China. Thereby, the frequent use of institutionalised security may be attributed to the way language is used in Chinese politics. It would however seem that the referents of these ‘watchwords’ are informed by the features of the political order. Indeed, states tend to securitise the ‘core values’ of their political orders, and China is no exception here. The question then becomes: how particular is China in the use of institutionalised security in general, and the referent objects these ‘master signifiers’ refer to in particular? To attain an answer to this question would require empirical study of various types of cultural traditions and political orders. The present study can provide a baseline for comparative studies of how securitisation and institutionalised security have operated at certain times in, for example, the Soviet Union and Cuba (comparison among revolutionary socialist states), in Vietnam and Cambodia (comparison among Asian socialist states), on Taiwan (comparison among Chinese ‘states’), and in Indonesia and Malaysia (comparison among Asian ‘non-democratic’ states). Such examination may reveal whether there are ‘Asian’, ‘European’, ‘democratic’, ‘totalitarian’, ‘revolutionary’, or ‘non-democratic’ ideal types or correlations in regard to how issues of security are constructed and utilised. These kinds of comparisons may yield the reward of an increasingly precise understanding of who can securitise (actors), which issues (threats), for whom (referent objects), why (function), with what kind of effects (acquiescence/contestation/resistance; success/failure) and under which conditions (facilitation/impediment factors) i.e., such investigations may yield empirical progress for the research programme of Securitisation Studies. 376

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۞ This study has been conducted from an instrumentalist position to social science with an emancipatory interest of knowledge. The practical objective has been the provision of better means to unmask security speech. We have dealt here with some of the severest forms of how power operates, namely, the legitimisation and mobilisation of the use of force and how these can be contested or resisted. We may yet be unable to ask the right kinds of questions when it comes to the totality of human nature, but I hope that the research programme of Securitisation Studies can bring us a little closer to asking the right questions regarding the use of force and how the false authority of its legitimisation may be transcended.

377

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