Is Africa Prone to Dictatorship?

FOREWORD

If you ever cared about these history essays, by now you almost certainly don’t. But for the sake of completeness here’s my essay for African History this year. It’s about dictators in Africa.

INTRODUCTION

Contemporary Western popular media presents Africa as a continent ruled by violence, despotism, and greed. The picture of Africa we are fed as laypeople suggests that authentic liberal democracy is anomalous, and anarchy – or, perhaps more so, dictatorship – is the standard in national governance. If Robert Mugabe can be considered the current cover-boy of this trend of dictatorship, then he is preceded by such notables as Idi Amin (Uganda), Francisco Nguema (Equitorial Guinea) and Jean-Bedel Bokassa (Central African Republic).

This raises an interesting, if perhaps coarse, question: Is Africa prone to dictatorship? In this essay I attempt to answer this nebulous question in a way that is both broad and focused. My answer is broad in the sense that it considers a variety of distinctive explanations for African dictatorships. These fall into two categories. First, there are theories which stress the effect of foreign agency on African dictatorships: both through the legacy of colonialism and through contemporary trade and intervention in Africa. Last, there are accounts which attempt to tie dictatorship to inherently African characteristics. These include ‘big man’ theories, which treat the personal characteristics of the dictatorships as the true cause of their rise to power, and ‘savagery’ theories, which claim that Africans are by nature unable to equitably self-govern.

Is Africa prone to dictatorship? My answer is, ‘it depends’. It depends on the country in question: its colonial inheritance, and the extent to which international authorities are willing to intervene in its interests. It depends much less, in my argument, on those causes which are by nature constant or arbitrary: the supposedly consistent ‘savagery’ of Africans or the arbitrary charisma of certain ‘big men’. Thus the thrust of my essay is that the phenomenon of dictatorship in Africa is driven less by factors that are internal and much more by the role of foreign powers whether in the past as colonists or as neo-colonists in the present.

If the essay is broad, it is also narrow in the sense that it focuses on the rise and rule of a particular dictator: Idi Amin Dada. From 1971 to 1979 Amin ruled Uganda with a strong and brutal arm. This ‘buffoon tyrant’ – a scatterbrained yet politically adroit dictator – was responsible for the death of up to 300,000 Ugandans. Amin achieved and sustained control through a number of crucial actions, which will be outlined and constantly examined and re-examined through the course of the essay.

PRELIMINARIES

Dictatorship in Africa

First, let us be clear that in statistical terms Africa is definitely prone to dictatorship. Between 1960 and 1989, 81 out of 117 leadership transitions in Africa came about through ‘coup, war or invasion, including assassinations’.[1] If we define ‘dictatorships’ as any form of violent rule, it seems fair to extrapolate from this data that the first thirty years of the African post-colony[2] were marked by dictatorship. Fortunately the rate of violent regime change radically dropped in the 1990s, with less than half of the leadership changes in that period occurring violently.[3] This may reflect the declining influence of the colonial legacy as it is filtered through political evolutionary processes and foreign aid.

Overview of Amin’s reign

Amin took control of Uganda in a coup d’état in January 1971, deposing Milton Obote, the first prime minister of the independent state.[4] Amin’s coup was a success and for a short time the new ruler enjoyed popular approval. But over the course of his reign Amin’s popularity declined significantly. [5] In fact for much of the eight years there was a powerful feeling of antipathy towards Amin and his regime.[6] Thus in examining Amin’s reign we begin not only with the question of how he achieved power in 1971, but also how he retained control for such a long time in the face of popular resentment.

In order to begin to answer these questions it is important to observe three things. First, although the Ugandan public resented Amin there was a lack of any organised resistance.[7] In fact, it was ultimately the Tanzanian army and a small band of 2,000 Ugandan resistance fighters based in Tanzania who defeated Amin in 1979.[8] Second, Amin used violence to establish and secure his authority. Upon seizing power in 1971 one of his first moves was to eliminate opposition in the army, executing Loangi and Acholi soldiers.[9] This act of violence was emblematic of the overall tenor of Amin’s regime. The third and last point is that Amin relied heavily on foreign ‘aid’ for the success of his coup and for continued support throughout the decade. For example, it is generally recognised that Britain and Israel had a significant part to play in orchestrating the 1971 coup.[10] These three aspects of Amin’s reign – violence, popular disunity and foreign abuse of Uganda through assistance given to Amin – all reflect the role of foreign nations in Ugandan dictatorship, whether through the legacy of colonialism or by direct intervention. I turn now to analyse each phenomenon in detail.

FOREIGN INFLUENCE

Violence

As with most colonies, the colonial experience in Uganda was typified by violence. The first Europeans in the Ugandan province of Acholiland were traders who arrived around 1861 and allied with certain rival chiefs in order to capture their opponents, taking them away to market as slaves.[11] In the colonial period, the British protectorate recruited northerners to quash a peasant revolt in the south.[12] Last, the colonial system of paying native administrators a salary based on the amount of tax raised encouraged indigenous Ugandans to violently extort tribute from their kinsmen.[13] These examples illustrate two faces of colonial violence: first, violence by the state against indigenous subjects, and second, violence among subjects enforced or encouraged by colonial policies and structures.

What is the relationship between violence in the colony and in the post-colony? Fanon has claimed that:

The colonised… have been prepared for violence from time immemorial. As soon as they are born it is obvious to them that their cramped world, riddled with taboos, can only be challenged by out and out violence.[14]

This view is obviously exaggerated to the degree that colonial states did provide opportunities for Africans to engage in the political process, in however token a fashion. In Uganda a system of tiered local government allowed Bagandans (from the southern province of Buganda) to act as administrators in other districts.[15] Thus violence was not the only route to power. However Fanon’s claim is more deeply flawed because it assumes that violence should continue into the post-colony merely because it is customary.

A more subtle interpretation suggests that post-colonial violence is a ‘power stage’ in a struggle to re-establish lost self-esteem.[16] ‘Decolonisation… implies the urgent need to thoroughly challenge the colonial situation,’[17] which involves the oppressed asserting their superiority. The superiority complex thus developed compels those who were once victims to find their own targets for violence and exploitation.[18] In this way the violence native to dictatorial regimes can be seen as the first stage in an attempt by colonised people to re-establish their sense of personal potency, authority and control. The colony casts its shadow long onto the face of the post-colony, and only the passage of time and the pains of growth allow the shadow to recede, the light to shine, and colonised peoples to develop healthy notions of self-worth and autonomy.

Disunity

‘To many, the ‘solution’ in Uganda seemed remarkably straightforward: … pump a few bullets into Amin’s great hulk and the country would be free from oppression.’[19] But such a simple solution was made impossible by the profound disunity of the Ugandan populace.[20] Divisions produced a culture of blame whereby rival factions shifted responsibility for atrocities to each other rather than making a collective effort to combat Amin’s dictatorship.[21] Moreover, Amin himself capitalised so comprehensively on economic, cultural and religious divisions and their corresponding prejudices that the concept of disunity must be seen as fundamental to his power.

In one sense, it is unremarkable that Uganda should have lacked any cohesive national identity. Like so many African countries, the state of Uganda arbitrarily grouped culturally, ethnically, linguistically and politically distinct communities under one administrative authority.[22] Thus by the very act of grouping apples with oranges, the colonial state created tensions that need not have otherwise existed. At independence Uganda inherited a governmental system that pushed these tensions to the limit. British-style majoritarian democracies, which create strong leadership disproportionate to the amount of votes won, may be appropriate in homogenous societies, but in the divided world of the colony, they plunge ethnic minorities into a mortal struggle that can only end in representation or subjugation.[23]

The most significant divide in Ugandan indigenous society was between members of the southern kingdom of Buganda and non-Bagandans. Due to the rich fertility of its land along the banks of Lake Victoria, Buganda was already dominant over surrounding regions prior to the colonial era.[24] The province then had the added benefits of being the first region of Uganda to be settled, and the first to have missionary schooling and commercial agriculture.[25] In addition, Buganda was allowed to govern itself through a system of ‘indirect’ rule, whereas other districts were subject to direct British control.[26] One of the most important consequences of this situation was the emergence of an élite class of wealthy Bagandan farmers and businessmen.[27] Whereas Obote’s socialist reform programme had attempted to remove the privileges belonging to this and other economically advantaged groups, Amin secured support for his regime by returning these élites to their former status.[28]

Cultural divisions were just as integral to Amin’s rule as economic disparities. When Obote came to power in 1962 he inherited an army that was drawn from his own home region. The colonial government had recruited from among the Acholi and Loangi people, ostensibly because they were the most ‘warlike’ of the Ugandans.[29] But Amin’s mistrust of these ethnicities and his dependence on his own people for support can be seen in his radical military reforms, which involved a complete ethnic re-constitution of the army. Amin’s army comprised 75% foreigners from Zaire and Sudan, and roughly 25% soldiers from his homeland in the West Nile region.[30] The significance of cultural allegiances clearly ran deep in Amin’s mind, and the brutal loyalty of his army vindicates this conviction.

Ugandans’ clear sense of belonging to a culture distinct from all others allowed Amin to persecute one group while producing a false sense of security among others.[31] Kiwanuka records how one of his colleagues ‘did not realize it was all that bad’ until in March 1973 Amin’s government began to abduct many of his colleagues.[32]

Amin also realised the utility of prejudices held by Ugandans against foreign cultures. From the time of the coup in 1971 Amin began a campaign of Asian expulsion.[33] Colonial authority had first allowed Asians into Uganda as labourers and commerçants, and by the mid twentieth-century they formed a wealthy and successful class in Ugandan society, second only to the whites.[34] The policy of Asian expulsion must admittedly be seen primarily as an economic strategy. Amin appropriated the property of exiled Asians, using the new wealth to finance his government as to lubricate his relations with wealthy businessmen.[35] But the strategy can also be seen as pandering to an anti-Asian sentiment in Uganda,[36] which may have been quite strong considering the elevated position of Asians in Ugandan society.

Amin was able to use cultural and economic divisions to his political advantage. In other African countries the dynamics of postcolonial life did not support such tactics. In South Africa, for example, indigenous peoples may have developed a nationalist sentiment in response to large-scale colonial conquest.[37] By contrast, colonisation in Uganda was slow and thus there was little opportunity for separate groups to unite against their common enemy before colonial structures could aggravate pre-existing cultural and socio-economic divides.[38] It is difficult to see just how important the tendency of disunity is in precipitating dictatorship. Kiwanuka puts the case very strongly: in his view, ‘The elimination of tribal and religious divisions and hatreds is the only guarantee against the rise of another Amin.’[39] However true this may be, it is difficult to see how such a comprehensive re-shaping of Ugandan society is possible. Nevertheless, it is clearly essential that educators and politicians work and increasing tolerance and unity in divided African states, especially among élite groups. According to Linder, democracy only ever flourishes where privileged groups decide to pull together and adopt democratic modes of behaviour.[40] While disunity breeds dictatorship, democracy must come from co-operation.

Abuse

Foreign nation states were arguably just as guilty as Amin in abusing the Ugandan situation, often for their own benefit. The culprits fall into two classes: Britain and Israel supported Amin in the initial coup, while a host of other nations including France, USSR, Libya, Pakistan and USA supported Amin’s regime through arms deals and other trade relations.[41] Britain was motivated to intervene by its concern over the growing violence and political radicalism of Milton Obote. Meanwhile, Israel recognised Amin’s control over the military, which in past years had backed anti-Arab rebels in Sudan. Eager to maintain this support for this cause, Israel made a vote for the Ugandan army by helping its new leader into power.[42] The other states, it appears, were compelled to assist Amin for purely economic reasons. Companies in the US, for example, supplied torture devices and other instruments of war in exchange for valuable Ugandan coffee.[43]

Another abuse allegedly visited on African states by foreign powers is that of aid. Some have suggested that, despite the best intentions underlying foreign aid, financial support of Africa only serves to entrench corruption and increase the likelihood of oppressive governments.[44] Fortunately, a study by Arthur Goldsmith has shown that ‘aid dependency has not systematically set back Africa’s political evolution,’ but rather there is a positive (if weak) correlation between foreign aid and democratisation in African countries.[45]

The case of harmful foreign intervention in Africa highlights the continuities in the colonial experience. Even after decolonisation, it is possible for ‘neo-colonists’ to exact the same economic and political benefits from post-colonies as were enjoyed by colonial governments before independence. It is truly the responsibility of the international community, and individual nations, to administer policies which aim at minimising the risk of harm possible through intervention and investment in African post-colonies.

AFRICAN PREDISPOSITION

It may suffice here to give a very brief explanation of the inadequacy of competing accounts of African dictatorship; theories which posit a pre-disposition to despotic rule. Something along the lines of this philosophy was a rudimentary notion in European colonial administration. In 1892, Sir Theophilus Shepstone wrote of colonists as the ‘great teachers’, bringing civilisation to the ‘barbarous’ practices of the natives of the Orange Free State.[46] The concept of an inherent African despotism may have been magnified by the distorting passage of time. Writing in 2008, Wendy Hamblet describes the myth of African savagery as a prejudice ‘still deeply embedded in the minds of some powerful and highly educated persons… in the West.’[47] She cites the example of an academic colleague who told her, in response to an anecdote of some incident of violence in Africa, that ‘[t]hese people have always been killing each other.’[48]

It is not worth trying to establish the preponderance of despotic rule in pre-colonial Africa since the evidence is clearly lacking. What should be noted, however, is the way in which the savagery of colonising forces turned otherwise peaceable African people into violent combat forces. It has already been noted how British colonists in Uganda cultivated a division between north and south, putting northerners in military uniform in order to destroy the southern peasant resistance.[49] This must be seen as proof that supposedly civilised European colonists have as much capacity for savagery as any African, and to a large extent the violence endemic in contemporary Africa is merely a continuation of practices enforced by colonial rule.

A corollary of the myth of African savagery is the tendency to see dictatorships as brought about solely by the charismatic and brutal personalities of ‘big men’. In this paradigm, dictatorial regimes are created not because of circumstantial factors so much as through the inner genius (and perhaps savagery) of individual leaders. Thus some regard Amin’s unique political style – characterised by frequent policy changes fostering fear and paralysis among some and a false sense of security among others – as the decisive factor in his success as a dictator.[50] It is valid to recognise these remarkable aspects of Amin’s character as important in his rise to power. But to draw the substantive attention away from the context of his actions and the deeper forces of colonialism and international intervention is to ignore the political scaffolding which gave his behaviour its special significance and effectiveness.

CONCLUSION

This essay has sought to demonstrate that African dictatorship is best characterised as the product of colonial legacies and neo-colonial abuses, rather than as a phenomenon inherently endemic to Africa. Presuming this is true, where does it leave us?

First, the world must not give in to the temptation of a blaming psychology. In ‘Africa: How we killed our dreams of freedom’, William Gumede observes how Robert Mugabe and other despotic rulers have blamed the corruption of their regime on the colonial legacy.[51] When blame becomes a justification for violence, we know it has become unhelpful. If we are to learn the lessons of Uganda we must see that positive change can only be effected through unity, and that unity comes not from blaming but from a sense of collective responsibility.

To avoid blame is not to forget the past or overlook the effects of colonialism, however. Mamdani is conscious of his responsibility as a historian. In Imperialism and Fascism in Uganda he writes that his purpose is

To dissect every nerve and muscle of fascism so as to identify the conditions and forces that made it possible so that we may be in a position to build a movement to identify, isolate and defeat these forces.[52]

This is the true duty of historians: to analyse the past in order that we may shape our present action in an effort to build a better future: for Uganda, for Africa, for ourselves, and for the world.

---

[1] Arthur A Goldsmith, ‘Donors, dictators and democrats in Africa’, The Journal of Modern African Studies, vol. 39, no. 3, 2001, p. 422. This statistic relates only to national leaders: e.g. presidents and prime ministers.

 

[2] I am referring here to the broad concept of the post-colony rather than to any particular country.

[3] Goldsmith, p. 422.

[4] Sean Moroney, ed., Handbooks to the Modern World: Africa, vol. 2, Facts on File, New York, 1989, pp. 565, 567.

[5] Ibid, pp. 567-8.

[6] Tony Avirgnan and Martha Honey, War in Uganda: The Legacy of Idi Amin, Zed Press, London, 1982, p. 3.

[7] Ibid.

[8] Moroney, p. 568.

[9] Ibid, p. 567.

[10] Avirgan, pp. 8, 10.

[11] Kenneth Ingham, The Making of Modern Uganda, Greenwood Press, Conneticut, 1958, p. 24.

[12] Mahmood Mamdani, Imperialism and Fascism in Uganda, Heinemann, London, 1983, p. 10.

[13] Mamdani, Citizen and Subject: Contemporary Africa and the Legacy of Late Colonialism, Princeton, 1996, p. 56.

[14] Frantz Fanon, trans. Richard Philcox, The Wretched of the Earth, Présence Africaine, 1963, p. 3.

[15] David Apter, The Political Kingdom in Uganda, Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey, 1961, p. 159.

[16] Wendy Hamblet, Savage Constructions: The Myth of African Savagery, Lexington Books, Maryland, 2008, p. xii.

[17] Fanon, p. 2.

[18] Hamblet, p. 7.

[19] Avirgan, p. 3.

[20] Semakula Kiwanuka, Amin and the Tragedy of Uganda, Weltforum Verlag, Munich, 1979, p. 3.

[21] Ibid, p. 22.

[22] Mamdani, 1983, p. 6.

[23] Wolf Linder and André Bächtiger, ‘What drives democratisation in Asia and Africa?’, European Journal of Political Research, vol. 44, 2005, p. 864.

[24] Moroney, 564.

[25] John Kiyaga-Nsubuga, ‘Managing Political Change: Uganda under Museveni’, in Taisier M. Ali and Robert O.

Matthews, ed.s, Civil Wars in Africa: Roots and Resolution, McGill-Queen’s University Press, Montreal, 1999, p. 15.

[26] Ibid.

[27] Avirgan, p. 5.

[28] Ibid.

[29] Ibid, p. 6.

[30] Ibid, pp. 6-8.

[31] Kiwanuka, p. 93.

[32] Ibid, p.94.

[33] Ibid, p. 103.

[34] Ibid, p. 102.

[35] Moroney, p. 567.

[36] Kiwanuka, p. 22.

[37] As per Jeremy Marten’s lecture for UWA Introduction to African History HIST 2247, ‘African dictatorship: Uganda under Idi Amin’, 14 September 2009.

[38] Moroney, p. 565.

[39] Kiwanuka, p. 4.

[40] Linder, p. 863.

[41] Avirgan, pp. 8-9.

[42] Morney, p. 567.

[43] Avirgan, p. 9.

[44] Goldsmith, p. 412.

[45] Ibid.

[46] Sir Theophilus Shepstone, ‘Sir Theophilus Shepstone Disagrees with the Orange Free State President, 1892’, in J.A. Williams, ed., From the South African Past, Narratives, Documents, and Debates, Boston, 1997, p. 159.

[47] Hamblet, p. ix.

[48] Ibid, p. x.

[49] Mamdani, 1983, p. 10.

[50] Samuel Decalo, Psychoses of Power: African Personal Dictatorships, Westview Press, London, 1989, p. 191.

[51] Gumede, William, ‘Africa: How we killed our dreams of freedom’, New Statesman, vol. 136, no. 4838, Apr. 2, 2007, p. 12.

[52] Mamdani, 1983, p. 2.

Bruckner 9, bars 27-38

Bars 27-38: Tension builds

This is a brilliant example of the principle of ’subversion of expectation’ in post-romantic harmony.

First, the expectation of Db Major created by the imperfect cadence on Ab7 in bar 26 is subverted by the use of E/G# in bar 27:

Fig. 3.1 bb. 25-27

A degree of continuity is achieved by the static bass line, which changes only in the enharmonic substitution of G# for Ab. But this continuity goes largely unnoticed by the listener, who is surprised by the unanticipated harmony. They do not fail to notice the motif:

Fig. 3.2 bb. 27-28

which appears first in bar 27 and then in a variety of guises and and different transpositions over the proceeding bars. A sense of building tension is created by (1) the gradual rising of the motif through various transpositions, (2) a crescendo (first marked in bar 33), (3) and the continued use of unsettled harmonies.

The harmonies are unsettled in two respects. First, most chords in this section are chords based on the median: that is, chords where the third note of the scale is used as the bass note. The initial chord of E/G# is an example (see fig. 3.1, above). Chords based on the median tend to sound unsettled and it is often very hard to predict where they are leading.

The second respect in which the harmony is unsettled is that Bruckner persistently creates expectations and then defies them. Let’s have a closer look at the first few bars of the section:

Fig. 3.3 bb. 27-30

Now as I alluded to above, being a chord of the median, the E/G# in bar 27 could pretty much lead anywhere. But the use of C# and D# in the melody suggests that this is a harmony of the dominant of A major. So a progression to A Major would sound fairly predictable. But Bruckner subverts this by moving to a very strange and foreign chord in bar 29. In light of the f minor chord in bar 30, bar 29 appears to consist of a dominant C Major chord imposed over an Ab in the bass. The movement from C(b9)/Ab to f/Ab is the first ‘natural’ progression in this section. But in bar 31 the harmony takes another unexpected leap to Gb/Bb.

Thus the harmony in this section is never quite settled. As the tension mounts we are made to anticipate the music to come…

Bruckner 9, bars 19-26

Bars 19-26: Majestic-lyric passage

These eight or so bars got me into Bruckner. As a 15 year old (as I recall) reading these notes out of a musty miniature score borrowed from the school library, Bruckner’s harmonies had me in rapture.

The section presents an extension of the horn melody begun in bar 5. It sounds (along with the bar 18 upbeat):

Fig1 2.1 bb. 19-26 with upbeat in bar 18

Note the prominence of double-dotted rhythms and note repetition (e.g. eb, to eb in bar 19), borrowed from the first section.

This section uses some very normal chords, and there is a strong emphasis on Cb Major towards the middle of the passage. However it is difficult to tell what note the music is anchored on – the tonic. This is in marked contrast to the first section, which is strongly rooted in D Minor.

The signal that the key of D Minor has lost its power comes at the start of bar 19. The tonic is literally split – like an atom in fission – as the music moves from a D pedal point to a harmony of Eb over a Db in the bass:

Fig. 2.2 bar 18 into 19

It is as if the D has split in two, one half moving up to Eb and the other falling down to Db. This progression sounds ethereal and majestic when overlayed with the confident fanfare of eight horns in unison. Bruckner may have been a nut for brass, but he sure knew how to use the horns.

To draw an analogy to western classical music at large, the movement from D to Eb/Db could be seen as a symbol for the decline in the importance of the tonic. As the 1800s crept their way into the twentieth century, Germanic composers wrote music where it was increasingly difficult to ‘feel’ the pull of a tonic note. The home key would always be waiting at the end of the work, ready to tie up all the loose ends and give the listener a sense of rest. But music was often (as they say) ‘tonally ambiguous’: you don’t know where it’s coming from or where it’s going!

The section ends on a harmony of Ab7 with a suspended Db (bar 25) resolving to a C in bar 26. In the traditional syntax of western harmony, this should resolve to the chord of Db Major. Will it? Stay tuned.

The 1967 Referendum

FOREWORD

While we’re on the topic of aboriginal affairs, here’s an essay I wrote for Aboriginal History last year.

Some Aboriginal Australians take offence at being called ‘Aboriginal’. This is completely reasonable, because Aboriginal people overwhelmingly identify with a particular cultural group rather than with ‘Aborigines’ at large. I am sorry to any Aboriginal or other people who may read this article and take offence at my use of the word. Please understand that I use it only out of necessity, for the scope of the essay is very general and covers the whole of Australia.

Otherwise, the same prefatory remarks apply to this essay as to the post on ‘Have Casinos Been Good for Indians?’ I would love to hear your ideas.

THE 1967 REFERENDUM

In 1967 a federal referendum proposed the removal of two passages from the Commonwealth Constitution that referred explicitly to Aboriginal people. The proposition was passed by an overwhelming majority of Australians: six out of seven states and territories, and 90.77% of voters overall.[1] It is surprising that such a large proportion of voters was in favour of the amendments, especially considering that the referendum took place at a time when a national policy of assimilation – now regarded as fundamentally racist – was still the norm in Aboriginal affairs.[2]

The referendum proposed the repeal of Section 127 of the Constitution, and the amendment of s 51(26) to eliminate a reference to Aboriginal people. The deletion of s 127 would cause all Aboriginal people to be counted in national and state censuses, whilst the amendment of s 51(26) would permit the Commonwealth to make legislation referring specifically to Aborigines.[3] These proposals formed the second item in the 1967 referendum. The first item involved a separate issue, called the ‘nexus question’, which concerned the relative sizes of the houses of federal parliament. Aware of the widespread support of the amendments referring to Aborigines, the Coalition government sought to gain favour for the nexus question by raising the two items in one referendum.[4] This failed dismally, with only 40.25% nationally voting YES on the nexus question.[5]

Australia has been called, ‘constitutionally speaking… the frozen continent.’[6] Of the 44 referendum questions put to the Australian people since federation, only eight have succeeded.[7] None of these have done so with the flair of the 1967 Aboriginal question. Although some items have won a majority vote in six out seven states and territories, not one has achieved a national total of 90.77% in favour. The next highest national majority was 82.65 for the 1906 referendum.[8]

In Australia’s Constitution, J. McMillan suggests an analytical framework for understanding why certain referendum items pass or fail.[9] Among the determinative factors are:

1. The content of the proposal;
2. The creation of a popular momentum for change;
3. The prevailing political environment; and
4. The form of the proposition.

These broad considerations are a helpful tool in accounting for the unparalleled success of the 1967 referendum on Aborigines.

The content of the proposal

There are two ways of looking at the content of the referendum. There is an objective view, which has already been outlined. But it is more interesting to examine the subjective views of various groups: the public, the politicians and the activists campaigning for change. What emerges in the primary sources is a highly atomised society, where each of these separate groups had a vastly different perspective of what the proposed amendments would do if passed. This section will focus on perceptions of the Australian voting public, who were directly responsible for the referendum’s success.

On May 24 1967, just three days before the referendum, The Sydney Morning Herald attempted to clarify the content of the referendum: ‘[It] does not give Aborigines the right to vote. They already have it. It does not deal with equal rights for Aborigines.’[10] Thus there was a common ‘mythological’ conception that the proposed amendments promised civil rights for Aborigines, and in particular the right to vote. This general sentiment was reinforced by Gary Shearston’s ‘Vote Yes for Freedom’, sung by members of the Australian-Aboriginal fellowship on ABC television one week before the referendum: ‘Equal rights / Equal rights / Together we fight / For Freedom.’[11]

It has become almost clichéd to point out that the amendments offered neither civil rights nor racial equality. In fact, the proposed constitutional changes had little power in their own right. The repeal of s 127 would bring all Aborigines within the census figures. But this would not confer any extraordinary privileges. Not even the official classification of Aboriginal people as Australian citizens under the Nationality and Citizenship Act 1948 (Comm.) had any effect on their civil rights.[12] Furthermore, the federal franchise had been granted to Aboriginal people in 1962 by an amendment of the Commonwealth Electoral Act. But Aboriginal suffrage was impeded by the unwillingness of many government officials to inform Aboriginal people of their voting rights.[13] Ultimately, Aboriginal social equality would be a matter of precise legislation and fair administration. The amendment of s 51(26) would give the Commonwealth greater power to ensure civil rights for Aboriginal people. But the federal government was already in a strong position to do this. It could provide tied grants to state governments for use on certain projects, and it could legislate for Aborigines as part of the wider citizen body.[14] The repeal of s 51(26) could place pressure on the Commonwealth to play a more active role in Aboriginal affairs, which had been managed dismally at a state level. But the idea that it was a necessary prerequisite to such action was purely mythological.

Nevertheless, it was this mythological understanding of the referendum that dominated the popular conscience both before and after the campaign. As late as 2007, the editor of the Griffith Review wrote of the 1967 referendum as the harbinger of suffrage and citizenship rights for Aborigines.[15] For Australian voters, these were the central implications of a YES vote.

But why did Australians count these objectives so valuable as to vote for them? First, it must be said that not all did. It appears that the distribution of YES and NO voters was strongly geographical. In Aborigines and Political Power, S. Bennett summarises the pattern: ‘Within divisions, the subdivisions with the highest  and/or most obvious populations of Aborigines recorded the highest proportion of NO votes.’[16] The rural divisions of New South Wales, for example, recorded a NO vote of 13.13%, whilst the urban divisions recorded 6.78%.[17] It appears that the closer people lived to Aborigines, the more likely they were to vote against their ‘rights’. This is perhaps explicable merely in terms of habitual antipathy. On the other hand, voters in urban centres, being removed from any significant Aboriginal population, would have been more susceptible to media campaigns and civil rights movements such as the 1965 Freedom Rides, which sought to raise public awareness of systematic racial discrimination towards Aborigines, and to provoke guilt and a desire for change in the public conscience. With no real examples of Aboriginal people to check against media portrayals, it is possible that urbanites were much more easily swayed by these forces of change.

In summary, Australian voters held a mistaken belief that the 1967 referendum would deliver voting and civil rights to Aboriginal people, and this conception of the implications of the proposal led an overwhelming majority to vote YES to the amendments. But it remains to be seen how the false perception was produced.

The creation of a popular momentum for change

In ‘(The) 1967 (Referendum) and All That’, Attwood and Markus argue that campaigns by organisations such as the Federal Council for the Advancement of Aborigines and Torres Straits Islanders (FCAATSI) deliberately cultivated a mythological view of the referendum among the public.[18] They recognised that the amendments did not ensure citizenship rights, but saw the changes as a necessary step in the direction of a just and uniform national policy on Aboriginal affairs. It is debatable whether all activists were engaged in ‘deceit’, however. For example, Faith Bandler, New South Wales campaign director for FCAATSI, was deeply convicted that the referendum was a crucial act of symbolism in the fight for full racial equality. She offered an Aboriginal perspective on the significance of the referendum: ‘All the Aborigines were seeking was to be made, legally and statistically, “one people” with white Australians.’[19] On the other hand, activists such as A.P. Elkin made a point of informing the public as to the more mechanical, tangible implications of the amendments.[20]

So then, perceptions of the implications of the amendments among activists hardly seem to be unified. But it is easy to see how the movement for change gathered momentum and influence. The FCAATSI did not campaign on its own but was joined by vocal advocates in the Church as well as the ALP, such as Gordon Bryant and Gough Whitlam.[21] Faith Bandler travelled around NSW, promoting the referendum among a large number of educational and social institutions, from colleges to churches.[22] On 16 May 1967 Gough Whitlam addressed the Australian people, arguing forcefully for a YES vote.[23] The campaign material is not unified, but presents the referendum in any number of different lights, all positive. It is not hard to see how, in what became such a sweeping campaign, the simpler, easier to grasp promises of civil and voting rights might have forced their way to the front of the public conscience.

The prevailing political environment

The proposition concerning ss 127 and 51(26) enjoyed almost unilateral support from politicians.[24] This ensured the passage of the referendum questions through parliament. Previous suggestions for reform, which had begun as early as 1957, had not been taken seriously.[25] But by 1967 Australia had become recognised for its backwards approach to Indigenous affairs, and parliamentary discussion surrounding the referendum bills demonstrates a desire among politicians to portray Australia as a nation conscious of and concerned about racial equality. In 1962 the Department of External Affairs and the Department of Territories sent a confidential letter to overseas Australian diplomatic posts. It warned that international agitators were apt to ‘indulge… in emotional criticism of other countries’ domestic policies, especially where these appear to involve discrimination by white people against coloured people.’ As a result, there was no significant campaign for a NO vote.[26] Of course, not all politicians were exclusively concerned with Australia’s international image. For example, Gough Whitlam publicly recognised the relationship between Aboriginal representation in the census and proportional representation in federal parliament.[27] However the international issue seems to have been a prevailing concern among politicians, and one that contributed significantly to the success of the referendum.

The form of the proposition

One final aspect of the referendum that should be noticed is its structure. Unlike the 1944 referendum, which proposed 14 changes grouped as a single package, allowing only one vote of YES or NO,[28] the 1967 referendum was split into two parts: the nexus question and the question concerning Aborigines. In the end, only 40.25% of Australians and one state supported the nexus proposal. By virtue of the structure of the referendum, antipathy towards the nexus proposal was not deflected onto the proposal about ss 127 and 51(26). The 1944 referendum, amongst whose suggestions was a widely supported change concerning Aboriginal affairs, but which finally failed,[29] had shown the radical effect the structure of the questions could have on the outcome. The success of the 1967 referendum is at least partially attributable to its categorised formulation.

Conclusion

As has been shown, the success of the referendum hinged on only a few important factors. These may be summarised:

1. It was practically unanimously supported by politicians, and there was no visible campaign for a NO vote.
2. The campaigns led by activists led voters to an understanding of the content of the proposal that appealed to their desire for increased social justice for Aboriginal people.
3. The structure of the referendum did not allow any of the negative feelings towards the nexus question to affect the vote on the Aboriginal question.

With attractive content, a sympathetic political climate, a popular momentum for change and a helpful structure, the 1967 referendum was almost bound to experience what was and remains the clearest success in Australian constitutional history.

---

[1] J. McMillan et al, Australia’s Constitution (1983), 27.

[2] See e.g. ‘Assimilation aim for Aborigines ‘needs patience’’, Sydney Morning Herald (September 8, 1967).

[3] Bain Attwood and Andrew Markus, The 1967 Referendum: Race, Power and the Australian Constitution (2^nd ed., 2007), vi.

[4] Ibid, 35.

[5] Above n 1.

[6] Geoffrey Sawer, Australian Federalism in the Courts (1967), 208.

[7] Above n 3.

[8] Above n 1.

[9] Ibid, 24-35.

[10] ‘Public confusion evident on Aboriginal issue’, The Sydney Morning Herald (May 24, 1967).

[11] Gary Shearston, ‘Vote Yes for Freedom’, ABC Television, The Day of the Aboriginal (broadcast 19 May 1967): referenced in Attwood, above n 3, 45.

[12] John Chesterman and Brian Galligan, Citizens Without Rights: Aborigines and Australian Citizenship (1997), 156.

[13] Ibid, 159.

[14] Above n 3, vii.

[15] Julianne Schultz ed., Unintended Consequences: Griffith Review (no. 16, Winter 2007).

[16] S. Bennett, Aborigines and Political Power (1989), 54.

[17] Ibid.

[18] Bain Attwood and Andrew Markus, ‘(The) 1967 (Referendum) and All That’, Australian Historical Studies (October 1998) 29(111), 1.

[19] Marilyn Lake, Faith: Faith Bandler, gentle activist (2002), 114.

[20] E.g. in A.P. Elkin, ‘A Yes Vote for Aborigines’, The Sydney Morning Herald (16 May 1967).

[21] Above n 19, 104-5.

[22] Ibid, 89-90.

[23] Mr E.G. Whitlam puts the YES case on behalf of the ALP Broadcast, 16 May 1967, Whitlam Institute, University of Western Sydney, <www.whitlam.org/collection/1967/19670516_Referendum/19670516_Referendum_TV.rtf>.

[24] Above n 19, 116.

[25] Ibid, 85.

[26] Above n 19, 116.

[27] Above n 23.

[28] Above n 3, 11-12.

[29] Ibid.

Have Casinos Been Good for Indians?

FOREWORD

This was my research essay for American History. I post it here purely for the benefit of those who take an interest in indigenous issues, and the challenges facing American Indian people.

I am sorry if there are one or two points which are not properly referenced. I frankly can’t be bothered to fix this

Last, an essay is by etymology an ‘attempt’. These 2000 or so words represent my attempt to understand the dynamics of American Indian casino gaming. I would greatly value your feedback on the ideas I present; for dialogue allows us to move beyond first attempts to a more rounded, subtle and useful appreciation of the world.

INTRODUCTION

Since 1980 American law has recognised the right of American Indian sovereign nations to run gaming[1] operations on tribally owned reservations without government regulation. The legal basis for tribal gaming has been traced back to Bryan v Itasca County,[2] a decision of the US Supreme Court.[3] In that case Justice Brennan cited the importance of Indian self-government in contemporary congressional policy as a central reason for the court to limit state power over Indian affairs.[4] Self-determination and self-government have endured as common justifications for tribal gaming, but more recently commentators have noted economic and social benefits to native communities.

In a lecture at the University of Western Australia on 2 August 2009, historian Richard White expressed his opinion that, on balance, ‘casinos [had] been good for Indians’.[5] This essay seeks to argue the opposite. The analysis is broken into two parts. Part one examines the socioeconomic effects of gaming on native reservations with tribal casinos, and confirms that these have been generally positive. Part two presents three arguments against American Indian gaming, based on Indian stereotyping, dependence, and alternative conceptions of self-determination. My central thesis is that despite its immediate benefits, American Indian gaming does not truly serve indigenous self-determination and is setting native Americans up for a difficult future.

PART I: IMMEDIATE BENEFITS

Economic effects

In California v Cabazon Band of Indians,[6] Justice White drew a link between state non-intervention in gaming and economic development. Developments since the late 1980s have confirmed the economic benefits of native gaming. In the area of employment, a study of two communities in Oklahoma suggested that gaming had no independent effect on employment.[7] However national census data provided a more optimistic picture. Gaming areas benefited from a decrease of 5% in unemployment compared to decreases of 2.5% in non-gaming areas and 0.5% nationally.[8] The creation of casino jobs also had a follow on effect for other industries. To ensure their competitiveness in the labour market, employers were forced to increase wages, and thus salaries for entry-level jobs increased.[9] This may be reflected in a greater decline in family poverty rates in gaming areas.[10]

Thus the economic benefits of tribal gaming are really not in question. What is doubtful, however, is whether gaming operations are having the fullest possible economic effect on communities. For example, Corntassel has noted that a substantial proportion of revenue is being spent outside of reservations.[11] Further, the National Indian Gaming Association has stated that about 75% of the 300,000 jobs created by tribal gaming nationally have been taken by non-Indians. Clearly gaming is not helping Indians as much as it could.

Besides this, it must also be noted that despite the radical improvements gaming has made to Indian life, native Americans continue to be substantially worse off than the average US citizen. College participation rates illustrate this point. Although college participation in Indian areas with gaming rose from 13% to 16% over the 1990s, the national figure increased from 27% to 31%; almost twice the Indian figure.[12] In the words of Ron Selden, gaming is ‘no panacea’ for meeting tribes’ needs.[13]

Social effects

Does gambling have a negative social effect on Indian communities? It is clear that proceeds from casinos have been used for the social good in funding tribal government, educational and cultural institutions.[14] State governments can take part of the credit for this phenomenon, as many tribal-state gaming compacts require part proceeds to be directed into social endeavour. The gaming compact between South Dakota and the Sisseton-Wahpeton Sioux requires that:

4.2              In consideration for the limited right of conducting pari-mutuel wagering with the use of private-side runners, the Tribe will voluntarily donate an equal share of twenty-five percent… of its net revenue from the described wagering to all K-12 public schools located within the original boundaries of the Lake Traverse Reservation…[15]

All in all, casinos inject substantial proceeds into culture and other social spheres. But what of crime and corruption? What of addiction? Is there a hidden sickness behind Indian gaming?

The link between gaming, addiction, and crime is complex and defies proper treatment in all but the most comprehensive studies. Nevertheless, the evidence consulted suggests that while ‘the pokie syndrome’ has worsened in gaming areas,[16] it has not led to an appreciable increase in crime. Despite the fact that ‘more than half of all pathological gamblers will commit felonies to pay off gambling debts, particularly financial crimes like embezzlement,’[17] embezzlement in one Oklahoma community increased only negligibly during the period of rapid casino development.[18] Thus the social impact of tribal gaming appears at worse ambivalent, and realistically quite positive.

PART II: FUNDAMENTAL PROBLEMS

Dependence

Notwithstanding the benefits of the gaming industry, Indian nations may have developed a dependence on gaming which is as life-threatening as the addiction of some community members. A representative of the Oneida Nation fears that an end to gaming

would cause great chaos in our community. If people were cut off from their bread and butter we would have no way of taking care of all our folks. That is a threat and we have to remain ever vigilant.[19]

The implication that Indian prosperity is dependent on casino wealth is disturbing because an end to gaming in an indigenous nation could produce a sudden and radical loss of income and amenity. By way of analogy, the withdrawal symptoms could be deadly.

The dependence hypothesis thus stated does not apply to all Indian Nations. Before the gaming era, tribes inhabiting the Tulapip reservation in Washington State had an economy driven by fishing.[20] The introduction of tribal gaming led to a fall in fishing industry,[21] but the tribal government has ensured the ongoing diversity of enterprise on the reservation by maintaining a salmon farm and creating the Quil Ceda Village, an entertainment and retail complex adjacent to the $72 million casino.[22] Of course, if the casino were to shut down the loss of gaming tourism would put some shop owners in the complex out of business. But the Tulapip tribal authorities are trying to create a secure future by maintaining diversity in reservation industry. For some other American Indian nations, diversity is not as easy to achieve. The two tribes joined as defendants in Cabazon, the Cabazon and Morongo of California, were described by Justice White as relying on gaming for the whole of their government revenue.[23] Enterprise diversification was difficult because the tribes had no natural resources which could be exploited on their reservation.[24] To synthesise the stories of the Tulapip and Cabazon reservations, it appears that dependence on tribal gaming is not a problem for all gaming nations, but that it may become an issue where the reservation has no usable natural capital or where the tribal government does not take measures to establish a variety of secure income streams.

It is a sad irony that some Indian tribes should be dependent on gaming. The policies of self-determination and self-government which spawned the industry can easily be seen as an attempt to destroy the phenomenon of dependence which colonists use to subdue the colonised. For example, Anglo colonists introduced Indians to whisky, and when some natives became addicted to the hard liquor, they also became dependent on supply from colonists, and therefore on colonial regulation in other areas of their life. The irony here is that in what is supposedly an act of self-determination, tribes establishing gaming operations on their land may have become dependent on casinos – themselves an imported artefact of colonisation.

Rich Indians

Another harmful consequence of the gaming industry has been the creation of a stereotype of Indians as rich. Jeff Corntassel has referred to this as ‘rich Indian racism’.[25] The rich Indian stereotype has implications for policymaking which threatens both gaming and non-gaming nations.

The concern for gaming nations is that rich Indian racism will cause policymakers to rob them of profits earnt through gaming. In 1988 US Congress passed the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act, which imposed limitations on the gaming autonomy given to Indians by Cardozo. Under the Act, Indian nations could only continue to run casino-style gaming if they did so under the authority of a tribe-state gaming compact. This is a negotiated agreement between the tribe and the state government as to how gaming is to be conducted on tribal lands. In many cases, ‘[R]ich Indian racism has led to increased regulation by state and local policymakers as they attempt to place limits on indigenous casinos and other forms of self-determination…’ The link between stereotyping and policy is easily seen in this message from California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger’s 2003 election campaign: ‘Their casinos make billions, yet they pay no taxed and virtually nothing to the state… It’s time for them to pay their fair share.’[26]

Perhaps an even greater concern is the future of non-gaming communities. A necessary corollary of the conclusion that gaming has brought wealth to Indian tribes is that non-gaming groups have not enjoyed the same benefits. Sam Deloria has argued that

the loss of the perception of poverty will prove costly to tribes in litigation and public policy, which will be an especially bitter result for those poor tribes without gaming who continueto occupy the same barren ground that they occupied before the gaming phenomenon.[27]

If the blinkered racism evident in Schwarzenegger’s election promise reflects wider community views, it seems reasonable to suppose that policymakers will be indiscriminate in their treatment of American Indians and that rich Indian racism will put poorer communities at significant economic risk. While casinos have ‘been good’ for some Indians, they have the potential to destroy others.

Self-Determination

The final fundamental problem I would like to outline with respect to Indian tribal gaming is its relation to the notions of self-government and self-determination. While many commentators are laudatory of self-government, others note its many pitfalls and suggest that self-government may not be the best route to indigenous self-determination.

The traditional conception of self-determination is one of non-domination:[28] i.e. the more a state can refrain from intervening in tribal affairs, the better. The very concept of Indian tribal gaming suggests this popular notion of self-determination. However independent tribal government is not without serious problems. A central question surrounding tribal self-government is how autonomous communities of such a small size, often only hundreds strong, can develop the institutions and safeguards necessary for transparent government and the prevention of corruption.[29] Another harmful impact of self-government is that it can put a wall between indigenous and other communities, which minimises the possibility of mutual understanding. This means that when the government imposes regulations on the tribal authority – as it inevitably must at some point – it does so under invalid prejudices and without the benefit of relationship. Precisely this situation has been observed above in the section on rich Indian racism in policymaking.

This essay does not mean to suggest that tribal self-government be abolished. But new strategies based on alternate paradigms of self-determination could be implemented to improve tribal-state relationships and consequently the position of American Indian people. These new conceptions of self-determination have developed in response to the manifest inadequacy of the non-domination model. Iris Young proposes the idea of ‘self-determination as autonomy in relationship’,[30] which stresses the need for a dynamic relationship of negotiation between tribe and state.

The application to present day gaming politics can be seen with reference to a conflict that arose in 2004 between Christians and Indian tribal authorities in California in 2004. Afraid of the possible ill effects of a native casino on ‘credit card debt’, ‘families’, ‘crime’ and ‘drug addiction’ in the nearby town of Barstow,[31] pastor Charles Mattix III led a movement against the establishment of the casino. Mattix went as far as filing lawsuits in an effort to claim the right of non-indigenous residents to vote on the future of the casino. But under systems of tribal self-government, Mattix and his followers had no recognised framework in which to reach a consensus with the tribe.[32]

Often the activities of a tribal government on tribal land can have an impact on neighbouring communities. A pertinent example apart from the one just given is the case of nuclear waste storage on Indian reservations.[33] In such situations the right of non-domination means that non-indigenous concerns will go unrecognised. If tribes and states were to implement negotiation procedures which honoured indigenous self-government but provided a framework for discussion of competing interests, the US could find itself well on the way to a greater understanding between native and non-native peoples, and state and federal policymakers might be more sympathetic of American Indians.[34]

CONCLUSION

This essay has attempted to argue that, contrary to Richard White’s concisely stated opinion, casinos have not be good for Indians. Or rather, tribal gaming will not continue to be good for American Indian peoples in the future. The law surrounding Indian gaming law threatens indigenous Americans because it produces racist stereotypes that lead to harsh policymaking. The cultural divide is aggravated by the strict non-domination rationale of Indian self-government, which precludes dialogue between native and non-native populations. Last, if harsh policymaking continues, Indian gaming could conceivably be outlawed in the future, and if this occurred many tribal governments dependent on casino revenue for their continued operation would cease to function.  The solution for native Americans and the tribal gaming industry must lie in closer relationships with states and non-indigenous peoples, diversification of reservation industry, and tribal government policies which look forward to the future of life in reservations and in relationship with those on the outside.

---

[1] In the US, ‘gambling’ is widely referred to as ‘gaming’. In this essay I use the US terminology.

[2] (1976) 426 US 373.

[3] Kevin K. Washburn, ‘The Legacy of Bryan v Itasca County: How an erroneous $147 County Tax Notice Helped Bring Tribes $200 Billion in Indian Gaming Revenue’, Minnesota Law Review, vol. 92, 2008, pp. 920-21.

[4] Bryan v Itasca, 377-78.

[5] Richard White, Lecture on Government Intervention in the US Colonial West, University of Western Australia, 2 September 2009.

[6] (1987) 480 US 202.

[7] Patricia Janes and Jim Collison, ‘Community Leader Perceptions of the Social and Economic Impacts of Indian Gaming’, UNLV Gaming Research & Review Journal 2004, vol. 8, no. 1, 2004, p. 21.

[8] Jonathon Taylor, and Joseph Kalt, American Indians on Reservations: A Databook of Socioeconomic Change Between the 1990 and 2000 Censuses, 2005, p. i, on The Harvard Project on American Indian Economic Development, <http://www.hks.harvard.edu/hpaied/pubs/cabazon.htm>, last accessed 23 October 2009.

[9] Janes, p. 21.

[10] Taylor, p. i.

[11] Corntassel, Jeff and Richard Witmer III, Forced Federalism: Contemporary Challenges to Indigenous Nationhood, University of Oklahoma Press, Norman, Oklahoma, 2008, p. 114.

[12] Taylor, p. 41.

[13] Selden, Ron, ‘Gaming No Penacea [sic] For Meeting Tribes’ Needs’, Tribal College Journal, vol. 14, no. 4, 2003, p. 24.

[14] Ibid.

[15] Gaming Compact between the Sisseton-Wahpeton Sioux Tribe and the State of South Dakota, 2000, s 4.2, reproduced in Corntassel, Forced Federalism, pp. 157-172.

[16] Janes, p. 27.

[17] Bernard Horn, ‘Is there a cure for America’s gambling addiction?’, USA Today Magazine, vol. 125, no. 2624, p34.

[18] Janes, p. 23.

[19] Quoted in Corntassel, p. 115. My emphasis.

[20] Leigh Gardner and Katherine Spilde, Harnessing Resources, Creating Partnerships: Indian Gaming & Diversification by the Tulapip Tribes of Washington, 2005, p. 4, on The Harvard Project on American Indian Economic Development, <http://www.hks.harvard.edu/hpaied/pubs/cabazon.htm>, last accessed 23 October 2009.

[21] Ibid.

[22] Ibid, pp. 11-12.

[23] Taylor, p. 218.

[24] Ibid, p. 219.

[25] Corntassel, p. 4.

[26] Quoted in Corntassel, p. 32.

[27] Paraphrased in Washburn, p. 966.

[28] Iris Young, ‘Two Concepts of Self-Determination’, in Stephen May, ed., Ethnicity, nationalism and minority rights, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2004, p. 181.

[29] See, Flanagan, Tom, First Nations?: Second Thoughts, McGill-Queen’s University Press, Montreal & Kingston, 2008, ch. 6.

[30] Young, pp. 185-6.

[31] John Kennedy, ‘The New Gambling Goliath’, Christianity Today, vol. 48, no. 8, 2004, pp. 50.

[32] Ibid, pp. 50-52.

[33] Young, pp. 189-192.

[34] Ibid, p. 192.

Bruckner 9, Bars 1-18

An Running Analysis of Bruckner’s Symphony No. 9 in D Minor (1896, unfinished), based on Ferdinand Lowe’s Piano Transcription of his 1906 Edition

*** Movement 1: Fierlich, misterioso (Solemn, mysterious) ***

Bars 1-18: Establishing tonal centre

Establishes the tonal centre of the work. D minor harmonies arise out of a gloomy and foreboding bass pedal point. The gradual crescendo and expansion of melodic intervals imitates the ‘cosmic opening’ of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9. The ‘cosmic opening’ appears in the work of many romantic and modernist composers, and is symptomatic of their obsession with Beethoven’s Ninth as a model symphony.

Important thematic elements in this section appear to be a dotted figure in the horns which forms the start of their melody (fig. 1.1),

Fig. 1.1, bb. 4-5

and a repeated quaver interjection in the trumpets and timpani, which occurs five times (fig. 1.2).

Fig. 1.2, bb. 7-8; 11-12; 13-14; 15-16; 17-18

It is easy to trace the second motif to the first. Both consist of an upbeat and a downbeat, and both reiterate a single tone (d). This motivic idea will recur many times in ensuing sections.

That’s all for now!

Intro to a Running Analysis of Bruckner’s Ninth

In his marvellous Companion to Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas, Donald Francis Tovey exhorts listeners to simply listen to music before analysing it. We should start by merely enjoying the piece bar by bar and without trying to understand its construction, much the same as we may watch a movie. Only when we have finished listening, says Tovey, should we begin to compartmentalise and deconstruct the music we’ve just heard.

This post is the Introduction to a Running Analysis of Bruckner’s Ninth Symphony. I will try to follow Tovey’s principle insofar as is possible for a running analysis. I will pick out and comment on the parts that I regard as important, but I will not be looking for first and second subjects, exposition and development sections, etc. I will comment on relationships between themes but I will not try to tie them to a structural model. The running analysis is designed to reflect the thought processes of a musician reading through the score for the first time.

That said, I have heard the Symphony already. Many times. I admit it is possibly my favourite piece of music, and that’s the reason I’ve chosen to analyse it. I hope my commentary reveals some of the delicate construction of Bruckner’s daring post-romantic harmony and the labyrinthine relationships of his thematic material – aspects of Bruckner’s music that I find so magical.

Enough intro, let’s hear the music!

Vocal Multiphonics

Yes, they are possible. You can produce up to three notes simultaneously with your vocal apparatus. These techniques are derived from personal experimentation. Please experiment yourself and tell me if you find any new tricks. I have posted a (very bad) recording on my facebook page with 4 sounds illustrating the different techniques. I didn’t attach it to this post because, annoyingly, wordpress doesn’t support sound files.

Technique 1: Humming + whistling (sound 1) – An easy way of producing vocal multiphonics. While whistling, simply add your voice in a hum. It soon becomes easy to begin both whistle and hum at the same time.

Technique 2: Whistling multiphonics (sounds 2 and 3 – 3 is best) – I think this may be a very fast + involuntary alternation between two whistled notes rather than an actual multiphonic. However, done properly, it has the effect of a true multiphonic. (I guess this is just a case of making the oscillation fast enough. Perhaps all multiphonics are mere oscillations. I don’t know.) To obtain this sound, locate your lowest and highest possible whistling notes. Then slur from the lowest to the highest, and hold, blowing as much air as possible.

Technique 3: Vocal polyphonic chord (sound 4) – A combination of Techniques 1 and 2.

These techniques are exciting because they suggest the possibility of free vocal polyphony (i.e. separate ‘voices’ moving independently). My attempts at independently co-ordinating whistling and humming have been unsuccessful, but I am hopeful for the future of this art. Help me explore its boundaries!

Hymn

Down the shore-line, on the sand

Quietly resting lies my soul.

Clouds, which justly govern the land

See my thoughts and, radiant, bless me:

‘How are you so wise, young man,

To fathom all beyond the shoal?’

— No! The depths will never be deeper;

But quietly resting lies my soul.

This Saturday / Next Saturday

Monday

BOB: Geez, Ralph, weather sure is nice at the moment.

RALPH: Sure is, Bob. We oughta take the ol’ kayak out for a spin. Whaddaya say?

BOB: Sounds swell, Ralph. How bout next Saturday?

RALPH: No problemo. Next Saturday – you mean the end of this week, right?

BOB: (Chuckles) No Ralph! Don’t be silly. That’s this Saturday. Next Saturday’s the end of next week. Are ya free then, buddy-o?

RALPH: Well now Bob I’m not so sure. Next Saturday’s the next time it’s Saturday, and that’s the end of this week.

BOB: I’ll have to disagree with you there Ralph. The next time it’s Saturday… well that’s this Saturday, or just plain old ‘Saturday’. (Smiles) If we say it like that then we end up using less words. Plus it makes a hellava lot more sense, if you ask me!

RALPH: Well howabout when we say ‘next year’, Bob? Is next year the one coming or the one after that?

BOB: Well now Ralph that’s a very different situation. Next year’s the next year that’s coming – that’s darn tootin’ obvious – but it’s because we’re already in a year at the moment, which is this year. If we was havin this conversation on Saturday and I was askin you to come kayaking at the end of this week, well I’d'a said ‘next Saturday’. Just to make it clear I wasn’t talking about the Saturday we was already havin.

RALPH: Now hold your horses, Bob. You just said ‘if we was havin this conversation on Saturday’. But I though you said ‘Saturday’ meant the end of this week. It’s just you make it sound like it’s the Saturday we just had.

BOB: Well of course it is, Ralph. If I go talkin about ‘Saturday’ in the past tense like that it’s as plain as pie I mean the last Saturday we had.

RALPH: But why don’t we call it ‘last Saturday’? Hell, it was the last Saturday we had.

BOB: You ain’t lyin’, Ralph. But what’s the point of saying ‘last Saturday’ when you can just talk about ‘Saturday’ in the past tense? It don’t make no sense to go usin’ extra words when you don’t need to, does it now? Kinda like walkin all the way up a hill and all the way down it when all you needed to do was go around, right?

RALPH: Sure, I guess. I s’pose I get what you’re sayin’. This Saturday – or just ‘Saturday’ – that’s the end of this week. Or if we was talkin on Saturday that’d be ‘next Saturday’. And ‘next Saturday’ today is the end of next week, right?

BOB: That’s it, Ralph. You’re doin’ great.

RALPH: So how ’bout that kayin’, Bob?

BOB: Next Saturday? Suits me fine.

RALPH: Aw shit.

BOB: What?

RALPH: I just remembered – it’s aunt Dora’s birthday that day.

BOB: Damn.

REMEMBER: TALK ACCURATELY ABOUT THE FUTURE AND AVOID INCONVENIENCING YOUR FELLOW MAN. SLOPPY TALK COSTS LIVES.