Dynamics of Democracy in Timor-Leste: The Birth of a Democratic Nation, 1999-2012 9789048526338

Table of contents :
Table Of Contents
Foreword
Preface
Acknowledgements
1. Democracy In The 21St Century
2. Assessing The Odds
3. Constitutionalism Old And New In The ‘Un Kingdom’ Of Timor-Leste
4. Elections In A Young Democracy
5. Semi-Presidentialism With ‘Independent’ Presidents
6. Grassroots Democracy
Epilogue
List Of Acronyms
References
Index

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Dynamics of Democracy in Timor-Leste

Emerging Asia There is much popular interest in the rise of emerging powers in Asia, especially China and India, and also other countries. However, as yet there is very little committed academic analysis about what the rise of Asia would mean for Asians, and for the world. The ‘Emerging Asia’ book series publishes monographs and edited volumes that address the impact of the rise of individual countries (e.g., China, India, Korea, Indonesia) on Asia’s international politics, the role of Asia in global affairs; and the promise and possibility of Asian ideas and norms influencing a post-Western world order. The series encourages comparative analysis of intra-Asian relations (e.g., Sino-Indian relations, India-ASEAN relations); and both discipline-based research and inter-disciplinary research. Series Editor William A. Callahan, London School of Economics, United Kingdom Editorial Board Itty Abraham, National University of Singapore Elena Barabantseva, University of Manchester, United Kingdom Young Chul Cho, Chonbuk National University, South Korea Suwanna Satha-Anand, Chulalongkorn University, Thailand 

Dynamics of Democracy in Timor‑Leste The Birth of a Democratic Nation, 1999-2012

Rui Graça Feijó

Amsterdam University Press

Cover illustration: Mónica Chan Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden Typesetting: Crius Group, Hulshout Amsterdam University Press English-language titles are distributed in the US and Canada by the University of Chicago Press. isbn 978 90 8964 804 4 e-isbn 978 90 4852 633 8 (pdf) doi 10.5117/9789089648044 nur 754 © Rui Graça Feijó / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2016 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book.

To the memory of David B. Goldey (1936-2014) My friend

It is impossible to understand a country without seeing how it varies from others. Those who know only one country know no country. – Seymour Martin Lipset A country is likely to attain democracy not by copying the constitutional laws or parliamentary practices of some previous democracy, but rather by honestly facing up to its particular conflicts and by devising adaptative procedures for their accommodation. – Dankwart A. Rustow



Table of contents

Foreword 11 Nancy Bermeo

Preface 19 Revisiting a success story with critical eyes 19 Acknowledgements 27 1 Democracy in the 21st century

Lineages and configurations of an impure concept

31

In search of bases for a dense concept of democracy 31 Lineages 35 Demokratia 36 Representation and limited government 45 The convergence of lineages 47 Configurations 49 On Lincoln’s formula 49 Schumpeter’s legacy 58 Polyarchy 61 Moving beyond procedures: An ethos for democracy 64 Is Timor-Leste a democracy? 68 Applying standard definitions of democracy 68 Reflecting on democracy in Timor-Leste 72 2 Assessing the odds

Could Timor-Leste become a democracy?

77

On dynamic SWOT analysis and its application 79 Strengths 83 National unity and identity 83 Plural nationalism 85 Nationalist narrative 87 Democracy-leaning leadership 89 Size of the country 90 Free constitution-making 91 Natural resources 92 Weaknesses 93 Poverty 93

The ‘oil curse’ 94 96 Embryonic state Colonial legacy 97 98 Repercussions of authoritarianism Legacy of conflict 100 101 Political polarization 102 Guerrilla fighters 104 ‘Charismatic leadership’ 105 Rudimentary political parties 108 Fragile civil society 109 Ethno-linguistic diversity 111 Sizeable dislocated population Financial costs 112 Opportunities 113 Zeitgeist 113 Democratic ‘linkages’ 114 Democracy promotion 115 International aid 116 International oversight 117 Threats 118 Democratic recession 118 Regional context 118 Alternative narratives 119 Democratic façade regimes 121 Pockets of permissiveness of non-democracies 122 International agents 123 125 Leviathan Looking ahead 127 Time 127 Ownership 128 Inclusiveness 130 Control 131

3 Constitutionalism old and new in the ‘UN Kingdom’ of Timor-Leste 133 Constitution-making: The importance of processes 134 Setting the frame 138 A controversial roadmap towards independence 141 Old constitutionalism at work: On the Constituent Assembly 149 Compromise and consensus: Defining the government system 151

New constitutionalism: Popular consultations before drafting the constitution… 157 … and after 159 Assessing the impact of the constitution-making process 161 161 Durability Temperance 162 163 Stability 164 Democracy Finale 167 4 Elections in a young democracy Popular voice and control

Elections, independence, democracy Before the vote: Critical legal and administrative choices Franchise and electors’ registration Electoral administration Electoral legislation A survey of three electoral cycles Participation The consecration of ‘independent’ presidents Legislative elections and the evolving party system Elections as mirrors Regional patterns of voting The influence of personalities Elections and democratic consolidation 5 Semi-presidentialism with ‘independent’ presidents Political inclusiveness and democratic consolidation

171 171 175 175 177 181 184 185 187 189 195 195 197 199 205

On the notion of ‘semi-presidentialism’ and its varieties 207 Semi-presidentialism and democracy 213 Scrutinizing the Timor-Leste government system 216 Critical readings of the government system’s performance 223 What if? A counterfactual exercise 229 Assessing the role of ‘independent presidents’ 233 Conclusion 242 6 Grassroots democracy

Building a decentralized state where worlds meet

Decentralization and democracy The constitutional mandate

245 245 245

Roots of the constitutional mandate 247 249 What’s in a name? Why decentralize? 250 The adventurous tribulations of local governance after independence 253 256 Municipalities in Neverland 260 Politics in the village 267 A paradox of democratic development Finale: Looking back and forth 271 Hypothesis on an aborted reform 272 Anticipating future developments 276

Epilogue 279 After 2012: New challenges to the consolidation of Democracy

Generational turnover 281 Prosperity and democracy 283 Grassroots democracy: Building a decentralized state 286 The judicial system 288 Conclusion 290 List of acronyms

291

References 293 Index 325

List of tables Table 2.1 Table 3.1 Table 4.1 Table 4.2 Table 4.3 Table 4.4

Timor-Leste SWOT features 85 Presidential Competences 156 Evolution of Registered Voters 178 Electoral Participation  187 Presidential Elections Final Results 189 Electoral results – Constituent Assembly and National Parliament 192 Table 4.5 Votes without Parliamentary Representation 196

Foreword Nancy Bermeo1 Dynamics of Democracy in Timor-Leste: The Birth of a Democratic Nation, 1999-2012 presents a vivid and panoramic view of an emerging country’s attempt to build both a new state and a new democracy simultaneously. Though state-building is, predictably, still underway, Timor-Leste has made remarkable strides towards the construction of a viable democracy. Democratic institutions, such as unions, courts, parties and a free press, remain underdeveloped, but Timor-Leste’s freely elected governments and constitutionally guaranteed freedoms of assembly, association and worship are vibrant enough to place the country above the minimal threshold for democracy (Freedom House 2014; Kingsbury 2014b: 187, 193-195). The 2012 parliamentary elections were deemed ‘free and fair’ by ‘internationally recognised standards’ (Kingsbury and Maley 2012) and a United Nation’s mission recently described the country as a ‘place of peace, democracy, celebration and optimism’ (United Nations Integrated Mission in TimorLeste [2012] in Swenson 2015). Given the country’s deeply troubled history, even qualified success is a remarkable achievement. When Timor-Leste gained independence in 1999, the deck seemed stacked against democratization. Four hundred and fifty years of Portuguese colonization, plus nearly a quarter of a century of Indonesian annexation, had left the nation with a tiny middle class, few formally educated leaders and one of the poorest economies in the world. The legacies of internal war made the likelihood of successful democratization seem even more remote. The Revolutionary Front for an Independent East Timor (FRETILIN), and later on the broad umbrella for the Resistance, the National Council of Timorese Resistance (CNRT), had mobilized broad popular support and had eventually secured independence but only at enormous human cost. The tragedy unfolded in December 1975 when, less than a month after securing independence from Portugal, the country was invaded by Indonesia. FRETILIN’s slogan of ‘Independence or Death!’ proved to be much more than political rhetoric as Indonesian forces met with unexpectedly fierce resistance. The official figures for lives lost in the fighting and famine 1 Nancy Bermeo is Nuffield Professor of Comparative Politics, Nuffield College, University of Oxford. The author thanks Adam Brodie of Oxford University for research assistance.

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Dynamics of Democr ac y in Timor‑Leste

that ensued have been computed as high as 183,000 (CAVR 2005: 9-11) from a population that, by 1975, barely reached 600,000 individuals. Even when the Indonesian dictatorship led by Suharto fell and a new Indonesian government agreed to let East Timor decide its own fate through a 1999 Referendum, violence continued. Between 5,000 and 6,000 people were killed by anti-independence Indonesian paramilitaries (Taylor 1999: xxiv), and over 75% of the East Timorese population was displaced (Chopra 2000: 27). The violence was accompanied by a brutal campaign of arson which caused massive damage to multiple towns and cities (United Nations Security Council 1999). In the capital Dili ‘hardly any buildings were left undamaged’ (United Nations Security Council 1999). State structures collapsed alongside physical structures. The judiciary, for example, had ceased to exist, and eventually had to be rebuilt from the ground up. Eyewitnesses report that the first-ever East-Timorese jurists received their robes in the burnt-down shell of Dili’s courthouse (Strohmeyer 2000: 263-264). Even after the worst of the violence ceased, the situation continued to be bleak. Lethal fighting between groups of East-Timorese occurred frequently in Dili and Bacau throughout January 2000 (United Nations Security Council 2000) and UN Peacekeepers fought skirmishes with militia groups throughout the summer of 2000 (United Nations Security Council 2001). Continual fighting decimated the country’s educational infrastructure, destroying an estimated 95% of schools and causing 70-80% of the predominantly Indonesian senior administrative staff and secondary school teachers to flee the country (Millo and Barnett 2004: 722). When the country faced its first free elections in 2001 only 43% of its population was literate (Millo and Barnett 2004: 47), and over 40% of the population lived on less than US$0.55 per capita per day (United Nations Development Program 2002: 16-17). In short, Timor-Leste started life with few if any established state institutions, a ruined infrastructure, frail physical security, and with most of its buildings burned to the ground. When regional animosities within the military led to massive urban rioting in 2006 many observers assumed Timor-Leste’s inchoate democracy would take the route so many poor democracies had taken in the past and simply disintegrate. The fact that it has endured so long is a telling story of democracy against the odds. What explains this surprisingly positive outcome? Rui Graça Feijó is uniquely well suited to offer us an answer. Combining an Oxford University doctorate with years of practical policy experience in East Timor and elsewhere, his analysis has much to offer scholars and policy-makers alike. Six lessons stand out: five are highlighted explicitly in the chapters of the

Foreword

13

volume, on democracy, constitution-making, elections, semi-presidentialism and decentralization. A final lesson, on the weight of institutional and normative factors in explaining the longevity of poor democracies, emerges as a synthesis of the others. Chapter One forces us to ponder what democracy is (and is not) and thus to ground our classification of Timor-Leste (and its success) in a carefully crafted definitional construct rather than in wishful thinking. Alongside a comprehensive and original overview of the term’s roots and myriad meanings (covering terrain from Athens to Iceland to Gettysburg), Feijó argues persuasively for a concept of democracy based not so much on the delivery of goods but rather the mechanisms in place to deliver them. He goes on to insist on ‘a concept that is generated by real people for the use of real people, not an aseptic one crafted for angels and saints’, and ends at an abstract level defending a definition incorporating vertical and horizontal accountability. Democracy exists where elected rulers are vertically accountable to a sovereign and inclusive citizenry or ‘people’ but also subject to horizontal controls from ‘different branches of government so that each one exerts some form of limitation on the powers of the others’. Operationalizing his theoretical construct through practical indicators from the work of Schmitter and Karl (1991) on the one hand, Cheibub, Alvarez, Limongi and Przeworski (1996a) on the other, he illustrates conclusively that Timor-Leste is indeed a democracy. In fact, it exceeds the minimal standard in that it has witnessed not simply one alternation in power, but two. While larger and older post-conflict democracies such as Namibia and South Africa have not yet managed to change their ruling party even once, tiny Timor-Leste has developed a truly competitive political elite. In the opening chapter and elsewhere, Feijó focuses on the extent to which Timor-Leste has become a polity where citizens are empowered to make important decisions and can exercise control over those temporarily given the right to rule. In doing so he suggests that the design of TimorLeste’s democratic institutions, particularly its electoral process and its semi-presidential system, have given citizens the power to shape their polity, most notably in establishing the president as a figure independent of party politics. Feijó does not believe Timor-Leste’s democracy is unshakeable. He believes, for example, that the country is in great need of institutions that merge traditional local power relationships with the standards of democratic governance, and of a reform of the judiciary to remove a debilitating presence of foreign citizens. In general, however, the picture he provides is of a state that has empowered its citizens through the creation of

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Dynamics of Democr ac y in Timor‑Leste

accommodating and inclusive institutional structures which have enabled them to exercise control over their political destinies. By attributing the functioning of Timor-Leste’s democracy to the ability of its instruments of governance to incorporate a diversity of views, Feijó highlights how the design of specific institutions might best affect the likelihood democratic durability. The constitution is the first of these and in keeping with the realistic perspective that permeates the study as a whole, Feijó shows that the constitution-writing process was less than ideal. The process of constitution-making in Timor-Leste began while the country was still under the control of the UN Transitional Authority. This was, understandably, a highly contentious state of affairs in a new nation born of an independence movement, with the UN officials being perceived by many as foreign and therefore illegitimate rulers. Feijó argues that the approach to constitution-making adopted by the UN officials ‘alienated significant sectors of the elite and introduced a major gap between the ruling group and wider sectors of the population’. Though the Transitional Authority made efforts at what came to be known as ‘timorization’, it ultimately set aside long-standing demands for a longer and more widely consultative constitution-writing process and opted instead for ‘the quickest and least expensive exit’. In this, it was fully supported by FRETILIN, the only widely established political party in the country, and thus the group that was bound to win legitimate majority support in a quick election. Elections for a Constitutional Assembly were held in August 2001 (less than a year after UN security forces were still trying to contain conflicting militias). Moreover, the Assembly was given only six months to produce the constitution itself. Predictably, the outcome of the Constitutional Assembly was controversial. Promises to include input from the consultative assemblies organized hastily throughout the country were never met, and important institutional structures were left ill-defined. Most controversially, the Assembly turned itself into a national parliament for five years, thus delaying the opportunity for broader participation. In the end though, the rushed process of constitution-making proved not to be a fatal flaw. On the one hand, the new nation’s widely popular leaders, Xanana Gusmão and José Ramos-Horta, chose to live within the constitution’s parameters. On the other hand, electoral and executive institutions played compensatory, positive roles. Feijó’s analysis of Timor-Leste’s elections is much less critical than his analysis of constitution-making. He shows us how ‘free and fair elections’ became ‘inscribed in the genetic code’ of Timor-Leste and thus a major source of systemic legitimation. Voters go to the polls at levels consistently

Foreword

15

higher than the norm in established democracies and ‘have taken pride in doing so’. Through adopting proportional representation, an inclusive franchise and an independent electoral administration (which organized voter registration) Timor-Leste was able to create elections that served two purposes. First, they linked the Timorese people to democratic institutions providing a sense of ownership. Second, they were viewed by elites as acceptable means of dispute resolution. In addition to making these points, Feijó shows that the pattern of voting in Timor-Leste’s two presidential elections (in 2007 and 2012) both reinforced and reflected a popular desire for presidents who did not belong to parties. Citizens thus enjoyed at least two links of inclusion; one based on party choice and another based on the often more important link to particular individual leaders. Semi-presidential executive institutions are one of the major means through which national leadership links to the citizenry and this too helps explain Timor-Leste’s democratic durability. At the most fundamental level, semi-presidentialism has the advantage of giving the citizenry two means of linking themselves to executive power: if their preferences are not directly reflected in one office they may be reflected in the other. But Feijó goes beyond this. Based on an extensive review of the literature on semipresidentialism in general, Feijó categorizes Timor-Leste as an example of the presidential-parliamentarist version of semi-presidentialism and argues persuasively that this institutional arrangement has served as a ‘conflict regulator’ providing an arena to ‘frame and contain’ dangerous differences within established institutional boundaries. More specifically, he illustrates how Timor-Leste benefits from having what Robert Elgie calls an ‘independent president’ within its semi-presidential regime. An independent president is one that ‘does not hold the current leadership of any political party’ and ‘whose role is defined in such a way as to make clear that his position is not of either rivalry or active support to any prime minister’. Moving from theory to concrete illustration, Feijó illustrates how, in 2006, Timor-Leste experienced a period of intense animosity between the president and the prime minister but that this was resolved without any rupture to the constitution. Feijó suggests this is because the president and prime minister both never acted as though the dismissal of the prime minister by the president was a viable option, and links this to the widespread beliefs, expressed both through election results and official appointments (made by the president), that the president should be a figure above politics. Of course, this positive outcome assumes a commitment to constitutionalism and compromise on the part of the ‘independent president’ as an individual. Feijó is explicit about not attributing too much causal

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Dynamics of Democr ac y in Timor‑Leste

weight to institutional engineering alone and rightly ends his argument with a call for more research. The final institutional discussion of the book focuses on Timor-Leste’s abortive process of decentralization, meaning the creation of a middle level of governance between village-level authority and the formal central state. Despite being promised in the constitution and despite being sought to enhance public service delivery, popular participation and ‘opportunities for the government to get closer to the people’, all of Timor-Leste’s governments have failed to even hold municipal elections much less establish mid-level units of the new state. Feijó rejects arguments that this long delay is due to inadequate human or material resources. He attributes it instead to both the vested interests of bureaucratic actors who benefit from the status quo and to the difficulty of recognizing the legitimacy of autochthonous institutions while creating a broader and truly encompassing ‘civic’ community. Eschewing crude dichotomies here (as he does throughout the text), Feijó highlights the complex nature of legitimacy at the local level in Timor-Leste, where belief in the importance of electoral legitimacy coexists with an attachment to the customary authority of traditional elites. The conclusion drawn is that if Timor-Leste is to proceed with democratic reforms, it must create systems that make space for these customary authorities within a context that is still democratic. Here then, as is the case throughout the book, Feijó argues that in making democracies, we must assess the value of the systems built by their inclusivity, i.e., by the extent to which they truly embrace ‘the people’ through the inclusion of multiple perspectives. Inclusiveness is key for only this will allow the society in question to adopt, not just the outer trappings of democracy, but also its essential ethos. The blend of positive and negative assessments offered throughout Feijó’s study makes the analysis ring true. Only some of the author’s many themes have been covered in this brief introduction but when taken together, even these five themes yield a sixth set of insights on the very important and broad question of what enables poor democracies to survive. While it would be easy to attribute Timor-Leste’s success to the role of pro-democratic international actors from the United Nations, Australia, Portugal and elsewhere, Feijó’s focus is clearly on domestic institutions and domestic leaders. Two conclusions emerge from a synthesis of the chapters as a whole. The first is that mistakes can be made; promises can be left unmet and yet, democracies can endure anyway. The second is that individual leadership and the commitment to democracy and the rule of law on the part of charismatic elites

Foreword

17

is key to compensating for institutional failures. The nature of Timor-Leste’s electoral system and the nature of its divided executive gave the country advantages but the nature of the leadership emerging from the country’s long and bloody struggle compensated for shortcomings and exploited the positive aspects of institutional structures. Whether the commitment to preserving democracy will continue as a new generation of leaders emerges remains to be seen. For now, the explanation for Timor-Leste’s qualified success seems to derive from a blend of inclusive institutions and the democratic commitment of the leaders who have occupied them. Is this conclusion generalizable? This, of course, requires more research but the centrality of elite commitment born of political learning certainly resonates with recent research from Latin America. As Scott Mainwaring and Aníbal Pérez-Liñán have recently shown, actors’ ‘normative preference for democracy or dictatorship’ plays a central role in explaining regime outcomes. ‘If actors are normatively committed to democracy, they are willing to tolerate disappointing policy outcomes [and] less likely to understand policy failures as a regime failure. […] A normative preference for democracy “extends actors” time horizons’ (Mainwaring and Pérez-Liñán 2013: 272-274). We can only hope that the time horizons of Timor-Leste’s leadership remain extended and that this carefully crafted book will be widely read.

Preface Revisiting a success story with critical eyes After good many years living mostly in obscurity and cut off from international public opinion, an isolation only briefly broken by echoes of such extraordinary events as the Santa Cruz massacre (whose f ilm footage made by Max Stahl had a lasting impact after 1991) or the bestowing of the Nobel Peace Prize (1996) on two illustrious sons of the country – José Ramos-Horta and Bishop Carlos Ximenes Belo – Timor-Leste caught the attention of the world in 1999 when its people voted in a UN-sponsored selfdetermination referendum to break away from the Republic of Indonesia, which was followed by widespread rampage carried out by integrationist militias backed by the Indonesian military. The UN moved in under the floodlights of international scrutiny for a transitional period that ended on 20 May 2002, with a proclamation of independence and the birth of a democratic nation – a story most often portrayed as a major success. In the following years, Timor-Leste faded away from the limelight, only to reappear at times mostly because of political upheaval that threatened the consolidation of democracy (such as the 2006 political crisis that required new forms of international intervention, or the failed attempt on the life of President Ramos-Horta in February 2008), neither of which signified the interruption of the constitutional rule of law. At a time when similar experiments of democracy-building are being carried out elsewhere (an example that jumps to mind is South Sudan), to examine the political history of independent Timor-Leste can illuminate problems of democratic consolidation in young, poor and post-conflict countries without previous experience with democracy. One of the innovations brought to the public arena by the case of Timor-Leste was the decision to embark simultaneously in a process of state-building and democracy-building (Tansey 2009). If in abstract, theoretical terms, there is no contradiction between those two processes, they are nevertheless interconnected and impinge one on the other (Linz and Stepan 1996: 24-28). Alas, in the real world not all good things always go together, and the promotion of democracy may, and often does, entail the establishment of conflicting objectives with other concurring projects. Timor-Leste could not escape this fate. Clashes of objectives can occur as an intrinsic feature of democracy-building, when two or more goals that fall under this header are in such a situation that the achievement

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of one of them is impaired by the prosecution of the other. One example might be the tension between negotiating power-sharing solutions like the drafting of a constitution that stands to be inclusive, and the organization of free and fair elections that may hamper the emergence of consensus in favour of forcefully ascertaining individual partisan positions (as will be addressed in Chapter Three). Extrinsic conflicting objectives can surface when democracy promotion can be seen in opposition to other desired goals, like building the infrastructures of the state’s administrative capacity (and this will be discussed in the framework of the decentralization process in Chapter Six) (see Grimm and Leininger 2012: 397-398). The process of democracy-building in Timor-Leste must therefore pay particular attention to the relationships it established over the years with other structuring political processes in operation. The complexity of the analysis is substantially increased by this circumstance. A second important feature of the democratization process in TimorLeste, as I have argued earlier (Feijó 2006), is that the classical route starting with a period of transition from authoritarian rule to be followed by a second stage designated by the term ‘consolidation’ was somehow distorted. The basic conflict over the quarter of a century of Indonesian occupation was about self-determination and independence. The Referendum of 30 August 1999 cast a decisive vote in favour of independence, and within a few weeks the political landscape had completely changed: the bedrock of the authoritarian regime had vanished with the withdrawal of the occupying military forces. Unlike other situations of a sudden demise of the authoritarian regime – as was the case in Portugal in 1974 when a military coup overthrew the previous regime – when political power ceases to be in the hand of the fading regime but fundamental structures remain in force as they were institutionalized and require fundamental reorganization, in Timor the public administration virtually collapsed with the withdrawal of the Indonesians, which was accompanied by the migration of a very sizeable part of those who supported integrationist policies. The task before the Timorese who were actively preparing for independent life was one of debating among several options within a broadly defined democratic camp, having only traditional forms of political legitimacy to circumvent their horizons. In fact, I have sustained that Timorese nationalism evolved over the occupation period from a rather monolithic revolutionary force into a pluralist nationalism accepting different organized currents of opinion, which was mirrored in the creation of the National Council of Timorese Resistance (CNRT) in April 1998. In this framework, it is difficult to speak of a classical ‘transitional period’

Preface

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during which authoritarianism gives way to the emergence over time of new forms of democratic political organization. A better understanding of the process might be derived from Leonardo Morlino’s suggestion of a possible ‘democratic installation’ in which external factors played a significant role in accordance with an important segment of the local elites (Morlino 2011). The fact that the UN presence was itself non-democratic – as will be discussed in Chapter Three – does not change the picture, as it was ‘benevolent’ towards the emergence of democracy, indeed one of its own stated goals. For this reason, the short period of elaboration of the democratic rules of the game and the necessary negotiations among the Timorese elite and popular masses implies that the period inaugurated with the proclamation of independence, generally regarded as one of ‘consolidation’ of the regime that had been designed on paper, would necessitate a protracted time frame to fully develop – one in which some of the tasks normally performed in the transition phase would have to be addressed. Moreover, as Capoccia and Ziblatt have argued, one is better advised to conceptualize democratization ‘not as a process that was achieved in single moments of wholesale regime transition, but rather as a protracted and punctuated “one-institution-at-a-time” process in which the building blocks of democracy emerged asynchronically’ (2010: 14). The approval of a democratic constitution, important as it was for the positive impact on the country’s democratization insofar as it condensates the intentions of the democratic reformers – and intentions do matter – is a clear example of a step that requires a protracted period of translation from the realm of ideas to that of practical institutions, all with a tempo of their own (see Elkins 2010: 971-974). The central argument of the book is that the instruments to maintain a balance of power and thus create an inclusive consensus beyond the majority/minorities divide, often downplayed in face of procedural features that make political competition visible and offer easy ways of establishing international patterns of democracy, are critical in the Timorese process of democratic consolidation, and that they were not derived (‘top-down’) solely from constitutional determinations through the unequally developed state administration, but rather required that political actors find ways of actually accommodating political dissent in a system of checks and balances. The process involves not only a discussion of institutional design but also that historical and actual political factors be duly considered. As such, this book should not squarely be framed within rigid disciplinary boundaries, but rather considered as one in which the doors of interdisciplinary dialogue within the social sciences and the humanities are wide open.

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For the purpose of this book, a variety of methodological devices are used that embody my assertion. They range from standard practices in political analysis (e.g., electoral behaviour, institutional performance, interviews) to other tools imported from different disciplinary fields in the social and behavioural sciences (case studies, Aron’s ‘engaged observation’, SWOT analysis). Flexible methodologies go hand in hand with the theoretical argument in favour of a complex approach bringing together history, politics and institutional design. For this reason, the book does not claim to be squarely designed according to a strict disciplinary boundary, but rather to engage in interdisciplinary dialogue, being open to the vast field of the social sciences and the humanities. The book opens with a chapter in which an attempt is made to demarcate the contours of a concept of democracy apt to render the complexities of politics at the outset of the 21st century. This effort is necessary both to set guidelines for the analysis of the empirical reality that is developed in the subsequent five chapters, and to offer a comfortable basis for the establishment of fruitful comparisons. In this sense, I have shied away from proposing yet another ‘definition’ of democracy, and reverted to the use of some of the most standardized ones found in the academic marketplace. On the one hand, for the sake of simplicity, but also grounded on theoretical assumptions, I propose to use a concept of minimal democracy. On the other, however, I sustain that democracy in the beginning of the 21st century requires a robust concept that is thick and rich, involving procedural instruments in a context dominated by its own ethos. Contrary to a detective novel, in which the final resolution of the crime is left to the very last paragraph, I assume at the onset of my analysis that the application of the array of definitions at hand converges on the conclusion that Timor-Leste’s political system, at the end of its second electoral cycle (2012), qualified as a democracy. This was not a foregone conclusion. Rather, as the 20th century was drawing to a close, the prospects for successful democratization in Timor-Leste were far from even the most optimistic predictions of the vast majority of observers. In spite of the ‘third wave of democratization’ that is supposed to be a hallmark of the last quarter of the century and to offer a globally favourable setting, Southeast Asia could only show one case of a Free country (according to Freedom House ratings) – the Philippines – and two instances of political improvements in Indonesia (to Partly Free in 1998 and later to Free status in 2006) and Thailand (which became Free in 1998 only to succumb a few years later). Two other countries – Malaysia and Singapore – were considered Partly Free, and five remained Not Free throughout the period. In several circles, the thesis was sustained

Preface

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that the region was not fit for the exercise of internationally accepted forms of democracy, given the nature of prevalent, underscoring ‘Asian values’. Chapter Two aims at assessing the odds for democratic success of the novel polity. It is well known that the will to develop a democratic regime (which was present both in the minds of critical internal actors as well as in the conditionalities of foreign aid) is not a sufficient condition for success, which requires a combination of different enabling factors. My approach is based on the application of a methodological device commonly used in the business world to analyze the prospects of strategic decisions – SWOT analysis. This method considers both positive and negative factors, as well as internal and external conditions. This exercise enables us to draw a comprehensive picture of the situation against which the tailored design of the democratizing process can better be understood in its relation to the characteristics of Timor-Leste rather than in a ‘one-size-fits-all’ kind of approach. A critical part of the democratic nation-building process in Timor-Leste consists of the United Nations Transitional Administration in East Timor (UNTAET) that effectively ruled the country between November 1999 and May 2002, which is covered in Chapter Three. This was a time when key decisions were taken that were to have the most significant implications upon the new country after it became independent. The chapter is devoted to analyzing critical aspects of the ‘UN Kingdom of East Timor’ (Chopra 2000), namely the model adopted under the influence of the United Nations Department of Peace Keeping Operations (UNDPKO) that reduced the Timorese contribution to the role of advising the UN staff, and the key issue of establishing the procedures for drafting a new constitution for the country (which were subject to a very lively debate). Important debates inside the Constituent Assembly will also be considered, namely those that centred around the choice of a government system. Constitutional and paraconstitutional provisions had significant impacts on the ensuing process of democratic consolidation – some positive, some less so. An assessment of those impacts constitutes the last section of this chapter. Elections are inscribed in the genetic code of the new nation, as the whole process leading to its independence was started with an internationally supervised Referendum, and followed by two massively participated elections: for the Constituent Assembly (2001) and the President of the Republic (2002). They were followed by two rounds of national elections both for parliament and the presidency (2007, 2012), all having met basic criteria of freedom and fairness according to international standards. The fourth chapter will review those elections in order to offer a broad view

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Dynamics of Democr ac y in Timor‑Leste

over the whole electoral process, arguing that elections have established themselves as the critical element through which the evolution of the political landscape has evolved. This implies that key elements pertaining to the framework under which they are staged (from definitions regarding the electoral administration and the registration of voters, to the system of converting votes into mandates) be duly analyzed. In brief, this chapter aims to address the central issue of the relationship between elections and the consolidation of democracy. Timor-Leste’s constitution has adopted as its governing system what is commonly designated as ‘semi-presidentialism’ – a solution that is increasingly popular in democratizing countries of the ‘third wave’ but scarcely represented in this area of the world. Academics still debate the most appropriate classification of the Timor-Leste regime – among others, Kingsbury (2014a), Reilly (2011), Shoesmith (2007), Vasconcelos and Cunha (2009) – but it remains true that a popularly elected President of the Republic coexists with a prime minister who is responsible before a parliament that is also elected by popular vote. This is quite singular in the region, as no other ASEAN country has opted for this model. In line with what I have been suggesting, Chapter Five will argue that this form of government system was generally well adapted to the Timorese circumstances (although the precise definition of presidential powers and the balance between those and the prime minister’s could have been better drafted). The emergence of ‘independent presidents’ above party competition in a context characterized by low levels of institutionalization of most constitutional organs of power contributed significantly both to foster an inclusive approach that transcended the parliamentary dichotomy of government and opposition and to add a new layer to the mechanisms of checks and balances that are at the core of democratic polities. Success at building a democratic regime at central, national level has not yet been extended to the construction of the lower levels of the state administration. Right now, a process is underway that is supposed to lead to the establishment of elected administrations at the level of the 13 districts into which the country is divided. This will also have important reflexes on the organization of power at grassroots level (sukus and aldeias). Both paradigms of political legitimacy – one related to historically rooted principles of social organization, the other pertaining to the modern conceptions based on universal suffrage – will be called to the fore in the negotiation of practical solutions in order to secure that democracy can be read as an instrument of empowering the people to control political power. These issues are dealt with in Chapter Six.

Preface

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The book will close with an Epilogue containing some considerations on the challenges that face Timor-Leste in its quest to root democracy: the generational turnover, the capacity to build transparent mechanisms of wealth distribution, the ability to extend the success of central administration to lower levels of governance closer to the daily lives and expectations of the people, and the Herculean task of establishing a decent judicial system in order to sustain the rule of law.

Acknowledgements This book is the fruit of over ten years involvement with Timor-Leste, which started back in early 2004 when I was a professor at the National University in Dili for a term. The decision to go to Timor-Leste in the first place was born out of the desire to see first hand the developments of a postcolonial situation which emerged in sharp contrast with what had happened a quarter of a century before when the Portuguese colonial empire collapsed and new African nations became independent. My family and I had been active in the anti-colonialist front, opposing the African wars, and the developments of the newly independent African nations were a source of bitter disappointment. Only in the 1990s did some – not all – of those former colonies evolve to establish decent, constitutional political regimes. Timor-Leste signalled that postcolonialism must not be associated with very negative outcomes in the form of authoritarian and corrupt regimes: it offered hopes of combining self-determination with respect for human rights and democratic governance. I wanted to see what was happening there with my own eyes. In 2005 I had the chance of working for a year as UN advisor to the Presidency of the Republic, and to meet personally illustrious actors such as Xanana Gusmão, José Ramos-Horta and Mari Alkatiri. The idea of this book began when I was a minor part of the political process with free access to the key players and sensitive information. After 2006, I have returned regularly to Timor-Leste in a number of capacities, ranging from academic visits to official participation in electoral monitoring teams. My academic visits and much of the work done to make sense of the data collected have been supported by two grants from the Portuguese Agency for Science and Technology (FCT), namely FCT-SFRH/BPD/71238/2010 and FCT-PTDC/ CS-ANT/118150/2010, for which I am most grateful. In many of the occasions in which I was in Dili I benefitted from the hospitality of Fundação Oriente. I wish to thank João Amorim in Lisbon and Alvaro Antunes, Graça Viegas and Clotilde Quintão in Dili for their efforts in securing a comfortable environment for my research. Cecília Assis, the national director for cultural affairs, was a source of encouragement and offered the support of her department. The process of writing a book is essentially a solitary one. However, it owes a great deal to all those who have very generously accepted to offer their contributions, namely offering me their precious time in order to satisfy my endless curiosity. First and foremost, I wish to mention Xanana Gusmão, José Ramos-Horta and Mari Alkatiri, who always found the time to

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see me and confide their views on the political situation of which they are key players. Their contribution for the wealth of my endeavour goes beyond what my words can convey. In Dili, my thanks extend to Dionísio Babo, Filomeno Aleixo, José Teixeira, João Mariano Saldanha, João Gonçalves and Lurdes Bessa, all actively engaged in the political life of their nation. I wish to mention also my former students at the Universidade Nacional de Timor-Leste, whose professional progress is a testimony of the development of the new nation and a source of renewed joy, and a Timorese friend and colleague whose presence in Dili has contributed to fostering my links with the community of researchers in the city: Vicente Paulino. Satornino Amaral spared no effort to update me on the evolution of the decentralization reforms in the country. In Lospalos, where much of the research for Chapter Six was conducted, I cannot forget the late Abilio dos Santos Tilman and Justino Valentim, two good men who departed too early, and the family of Julio and Virginia Mota, our generous hosts. Some members of the expat community in Dili were also critical in discussing with me the development of the political situation over the years: Charlie Scheiner, Christine Cabasset-Semedo, Daniel Carolo, Debbie Cummins, Helen Hill, José Carlos Aragão, Maria Amado, Marisa Serafim, Nuno Vasco Oliveira, Paulo Vieira and Rui Correia. A heartfelt thanks is due to them all. The community of friends of Timor-Leste extends well beyond the reaches of the island, and some were critical in guiding my research to safer ground or discussing some of its preliminary results. In the first place, I must confess my debt to Michael Leach in Melbourne, who has been a constant companion on this journey, offering advice and hospitality, opening up academic doors I had never passed through. In Australia my thanks are also due to Andrew McWilliam, Damien Kingsbury, Sue Ingram and Lia Kent. In Brussels, Sonia Neto, a very dear friend, was a permanent source of enthusiasm for the project and a great provider of important insights from her own experience in Timor-Leste. The comparative context for my analysis required extensive use of academic facilities, namely those of the University of Oxford. I had the good fortune of being a visiting scholar both at Nuffield College (Michaelmas 2012) and St Antony’s (Michaelmas 2014), thanks to the invitations of Laurence Whitehead (who offered significant comments on my project and discussed key analytical issues) and Matthew Walton. My gratitude extends to the wardens and fellows of both colleges who made my stays at Oxford memorable experiences. Also, I owe Nancy Bermeo the pleasure of insightful talks, as well as the foreword to this volume. Ben Ansell was a most useful guide through the vast literature on democratization. The late

Acknowledgements

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Hermínio Martins was always generous in his vast erudition to provide much needed information on a variety of subjects that defy disciplinary boundaries, and a source of encouragement to write with sympathy towards the object of one’s research. In Portugal, I was fortunate to be a member of the Centre for Social Studies (CES) at the University of Coimbra, which provided the necessary conditions for a fruitful academic work. Boaventura de Sousa Santos, its director, offered positive incentives and valuable advice, which went beyond my capacity to make adequate use of them all. In Lisbon, I had the pleasure of important exchanges with José Amaral from the Timorese embassy, Lydia Beuman and the late Manuel de Lucena, mainly on the issue of government systems. Before assuming the form under which the reader has now the opportunity to appreciate, many of the ideas in this book were presented in a variety of forms – some viva voce in congresses, conferences and seminars, others in writing, published as journal articles or book chapters (all to be found in the references section at the end of this volume). The editors and anonymous referees of those publications who made me constantly rework my writings and the participants in the lively debates after my presentations I wish to thank very warmly. My gratitude is particularly directed at those who reside in Timor-Leste, and at those who were engaged in the actual preparation of this book at Amsterdam University Press. All of them bear responsibility for the sharpening of my arguments, not for any of the imprecisions or misconceptions that may subsist, for which I assume the usual responsibility. Writing this book was also a marvellous experience thanks to the generosity of Fernando Marques da Costa who made available his country home in Pavia, a beautiful village in the heart of Alentejo. There I spent many peaceful and highly productive months away from the daily distractions of urban life. To be able to combine hard work with intense pleasure in a very relaxed environment is a rare blessing that his hospitality rendered possible. The book itself benefits from the generous collaboration of Frédéric Durand, who gracefully provided the maps, and Mónica Chan, who offered the photo used in the cover, which was taken when she and João de PinaCabral – a permanent source of intellectual support – visited me in Dili in 2005. May they find I have made good use of their art. The years in which this book was in the making were marked by constant dislocations and absences from home. My daughters Margarida and Mariana soon learned how to live with a mostly absent father and always

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offered their enthusiasm and support for the project, sparing me a lot of domestic functions that they graciously took upon themselves. I wish they feel the end product of this long project is also their own. Susana came into my life when my involvement with Timor-Leste was several years old. Ever since that day, a new approach took hold of me, as she has been a constant companion who has included the research on Timor-Leste in a joint agenda, allowing for our visits to the territory to be involved in an intense partnership. The solitude of this endeavour gave rise to a shared commitment, and she has permanently sided with me with the calm tranquillity of the most serene love. May she remain for many good years a patient gardener of our thorny rose garden. Of course, this book is also hers. A final word is necessary to evoke David Goldey, who did not live to see the final result of a project of which he was a founding part. Without David and his constant encouragement to look at the political life of Timor using a broad scope of methodologies and theoretical approaches, his endless energy to bring me to the realm of comparative analysis, and his criticism of earlier drafts of my ideas, this would have been a much poorer book. The book is therefore sadly dedicated to his memory.

1

Democracy in the 21st century Lineages and configurations of an impure concept

This book is about democracy, and how a small, poor country, ravaged over several decades by social strife verging on genocide at the hands of external powers, rose from the ashes in 1999 to embrace an adventure guided by the ambition to fulfil the golden promises of this most elusive political concept. To embark on an analysis of such a gigantic task, one needs to be equipped with a precise notion of what does democracy actually stand for at the beginning of the 21st century, and what can be substantively presumed to be covered by the word democracy, thus avoiding the pitfalls involved in semantic confusion over a very popular word (Coppedge 2012: 13).

In search of bases for a dense concept of democracy Few, if any, concepts in the realm of politics have generated more heated debate, sustained far-reaching and prolonged controversies, and been subject to radically opposing valuations, than the notion of democracy. In our days, democracy is widely perceived to embody the zeitgeist of our time and to enjoy a ‘good name’ (Mandelbaum 2007). It is an ‘honorific word’ (Sartori 1987: 2). The ‘invention’ of democracy has been liked to such extraordinary feats as the discovery of the wheel, the printing press, or the steam engine (Keane 2010: ix). Democratic governance has been included, following the lead of Amartya Sen, as a central constitutive element of the notion of ‘human development’ (United Nations Development Program 2002). All good things in the domain of political life (and sometimes beyond its own borders) have been projected onto this broad notion, originating what Juan Linz has called a ‘pan-democratic ideology’ (2012: 228). However, the identification of democracy with so many good things as to emerge as a utopia raises serious questions to the political analyst precisely because, as T. S. Eliot wrote, ‘when a term has become so universally sanctified as “democracy” now is, I begin to wonder whether it means anything, in meaning too many things’ (1940: 11-12). More recently, Mark Warren has remarked that ‘democracy suffers from an excess of meaning’ (2006: 384). A few decades ago, the Scottish political theorist and philosopher W. B. Gallie suggested that the notion of democracy could be regarded as an example par excellence of what he termed ‘essentially contested concepts’

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– concepts for which ‘there is no clearly definable general use […] which can be set up as the correct or standard use’ and therefore disputes centred on those concepts ‘are perfectly genuine’, that is, ‘although not resolvable by argument of any kind, they are sustained by perfectly respectable arguments and evidence’ (1955-1956: 168-169). Any essentially contestable concept must obey four simple conditions, of which two are most relevant for our case: to be appraisive ‘in the sense that it signifies or accredits some kind of valued achievement’; and ‘the accredited achievement must be of a kind that admits of considerable modification in the light of changing circumstances, which cannot be prescribed or predicted in advance’ (19551956: 171-172). Accepting this view has important consequences for our endeavour. First and foremost, it requires that the notion of democracy used in this particular study be fully spelled out and justified, both in its formulation and in its adaptability for the stated goals and context of the research (Collier and Adcock 1999: 539). As Boaventura de Sousa Santos (1987) has shown, the dominant paradigm of positive sciences is based on methods of complexity reduction, operating with simple units of unequivocal meaning, of which mathematical concepts offer a ‘pure’ model. However, the social sciences assume that even the core concepts of scientific significance are social constructs with historically limited validity. In this sense, the universality – both in time and space – of scientific concepts is questioned, and the doors opened for ‘impure’ formulations to enter the scene, bound by their temporality and cultural environments. The concept of democracy must be understood in this broad framework in order not to generate illusions as to its applicability. Laurence Whitehead contends that the concept of democracy is essentially contestable ‘not just because our values may differ, or because our political concepts may lack ultimate logical or empirical validation, but also because our political cognition is inherently critical and reflexive’ (2002a: 18). In this light, whatever may emerge at a given point as a hegemonic consensus – either in academic circles, the world of real politics, or underlying common sense – about the meaning and value of democracy ‘can never become wholly immune to doubt and renegotiation’. And he concludes: ‘Any definition of “democracy” will remain […] “essentially contestable” precisely because all worthwhile conceptions of democracy must incorporate a cognitive capacity to challenge reigning orthodoxies’ (2002a: 19). The premise that the concept of democracy must be understood in its historical and cultural context, and offers a variety of possible alternatives, must not lead one to the pretence conclusion that anything goes, and that there is an inherent impossibility to navigate out of the sea of relativism

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and subjectivism. Denying the existence of a sempiternal core meaning of democracy and assuming the necessary provisional and debatable nature of its meaning at each point in time can converge on a proposal that frontally addresses those constraints. Moreover, an operative notion of democracy will necessarily be ‘impure’ in the sense that it must incorporate the dual nature of this idea both as an empirical or descriptive (objective) and a normative (subjective) concept. As Sartori famously put it, ‘what democracy is cannot be separated from what democracy should be’ (1987: 7). Having said this, it is necessary to return to Whitehead, as he postulates that the grounds on which contested concepts can be validly challenged are not infinite, but rather quite restricted. ‘There may be no timeless stipulative definition that can be imposed regardless of local conventions and understandings, but there is a broad stream of meaning within which democratic discourse is mutually intelligible’ (2002a: 21; see also Crick 2002: 11-13). Following this approach, one moves away from moral relativism and finds soil where to lay the roots for an operative concept. Our search for such an understanding of democracy will be inspired by the metaphor of a flying kite, whose movement is apparently free but in reality constrained by the thread that establishes a link between the kite and the base to which it is attached. It will be a concept of democracy that is connected with the specific goal and context of the research embodied in this book, as advocated by Collier and Adcock (1999: 539, 546). Further, it will have to respond to three definitional options: 1 It must be historically situated, that is, address the fact that democracy has a long history that contributes to shape its present-day understanding and the idea that any concept to be operational in contemporary times cannot be reduced to its own past, however rich it may be. A modern concept of democracy incorporates and transfigures its historical legacy to address the challenges of the present. 2 It must be a modest concept insofar as it focuses on a specif ically political dimension of democracy, with a strong institutional rooting, leaving aside attempts to apply the concept in other areas of human experience. In this sense, I shall not be following a sociological analysis of democracy in a Tocquevillean mood, but rather one grounded on the development of comparative politics after World War II. This is not to say that the relationships between political democracy and democracy as applied to those other realms or other significant social phenomena is not of the utmost importance: it merely means that one should not try to resolve those contentious issues by virtue of a magical trick consisting of a definitional fiat (Diamond 1999: 8).

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It should be stressed that under this heading no attempt will be made to equate democracy with ‘good governance’. Although both concepts are positively valued and may be simultaneously present in the life of a given community, democracy by itself does not necessarily assure all good things in life. As Amy Gutman noticed, ‘a democratic ideal, no matter how inclusive, cannot credibly lay claim to maximizing all the human good at issue’ (1993: 411). In brief, the concept of democracy we seek will not consider so much the delivery of goods but rather the mechanisms in place to deliver them. 3 We shall be looking for a minimal but dense concept of democracy. On the one hand, an operational definition ought to respond to the centuries-old precept of Ockham’s razor, or the ‘law of parsimony’, which stipulates that among competing hypothesis, the one with the fewest assumptions should be chosen, leaving aside redundant elements. This is a heuristic principle that deserves consideration and warrants substantial debate (see Martins 2015). One may apply this principle to the formulation of a complex concept, avoiding unnecessarily burdening it with superfluous elements. This is critical if one wishes to pay due tribute to the principle of conceptual validity and avoid the problem of stretching its applicability to cases for which the academic standards would not consider it to be appropriate (Collier and Levitsky 1997: 430). On the other, we may recall here Sartori’s ‘explanatory ladder’ approach to definitions (1970): when one moves up a ladder and lowers the number of defining attributes pertaining to a given concept, restricting its intention, the applicability of the concept is enlarged or extended, as the number of cases that fall under its umbrella increases. Conversely, when we move down the ladder and increase the number of attributes through a process sometimes labelled as ‘precising the definition’, the number of cases to which it applies tends to decrease. In this light, in order to obtain a concept with ample applicability, and therefore to be suitable for comparative purposes implicit in the programme for this book, one needs to be parsimonious in relation to its definitional elements (Collier and Levitsky 1997: 434; Coppedge 2012: 17). We may be able to move beyond the dangers of trivializing the notion of democracy by scaling down its core attributes so that they conform to what is easily achieved in the real world (Crouch 2004). Remaining with Sartori, this time in his Theory of Democracy Revisited, we can retrieve another important idea: that the attributes that pertain to a given concept are conceived as a ‘bounded whole’ (1987: 184). This

Democr ac y in the 21st century



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implies that among the relevant elements pertaining to the definition there is more than a mere belonging to a ‘shopping list’: there must be a clear pattern of interdependence that allows one to consider that those elements, no more and no less, are necessary and sufficient to proclaim the validity of the concept. For this reason, a minimal definition of democracy (i.e., one that serves the purpose of establishing a dichotomous perception of reality, based on the principle of contradiction, and not merely on the observation of a contrary) is not the same as a minimalist one which tend to reify some of those elements as tantamount to a full concept (Collier and Adcock 1997: 544). A minimal definition that upholds the principles of Ockham’s razor can, and indeed it must, be dense: it will have to take into account the complexity of the human experience that we associate with the notion of democracy. As Boaventura de Sousa Santos and João Arriscado Nunes have remarked, the post-Cold War Washington consensus gave rise to conceptions that embody ‘low intensity forms of democracy’ (2006: 4) – an approach that will not be upheld in this book for its lack of capacity to portray the multi-faceted dimensions of democracy.

My approach is therefore to try and identify an impure concept of democracy. As Rousseau put it in Du Contrat Social (book 3, chapter 4), ‘[i]f there were a nation of Gods, it would govern itself democratically. A government so perfect is not suited to men’. We can say a similar thing about our concept of democracy (that it needs to be adapted to the human nature), one that is not universal and timeless. One that is not only linked to the dreams of men, but can convey their actual daily lives and the plenitude of the experimentum humanum. A concept that has a history and is bound to the present. A concept that is generated by real people for the use of real people, not an aseptic one crafted for angels and saints. A concept that responds to the three assumptions underlined above. Only this sort of approach will produce a concept of democracy that, paraphrasing Pope Julius II Della Rovere upon seeing his portrait by Raphael, is ‘vero, troppo vero’.

Lineages The concept of democracy that generally holds in our times is not inscribed in stone for time immemorial. It is rather the provisional result of a long history marked by significant transformations both of the concept itself and

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the social reality it is meant to convey. A brief summary of such evolution is required in order to understand how it became subject to a wide variety of interpretations and diverse forms of appraisal, as well as to prevent contemporary understandings of democracy to be accepted as permanent or definitive. This endeavour requires that we consider both the word itself (and its etymology) and the social construct that nowadays is designated by that term. Demokratia When one decides to question the very word democracy, it is as if one was to take a plane bound to classical Athens. A choice of seat would then be the first decision: would one take a business-class seat which made the voyage easy to the Athenian democracy best described in sophisticated scholarly production of recent times and indulge in a precisely detailed description of the concept; or rather to chose a tourist-class seat and be contented with a less comprehensive analysis, but one that has nevertheless survived the passing of the centuries to concentrate on a reduced number of def ining characteristics, which have been widely believed – right or wrong – to be the core of the Athenian system. Of course, there are several points of contact between the two, as no demonstrably false portrait of the situation could possibly endure for so long. However, there are also important points in which modern academic production has allowed for a more nuanced view of the common sense concept. For lack of adequate resources, this book will travel tourist class, accepting an invitation to briefly sit in the most exclusive part of the plane in order to address only a few issues. The word demokratia – which is the root for democracy in most of the living languages in our world – has a Greek origin, and is composed by two terms: demos, the ‘people’; and kratos, power or rule (an ambiguity that will produce significant consequences). So, the etymological significance of the word brings together two elements – people and power – and democracy means the rule or power of the people. It is meant to conceptualize one of the three forms of rule known to the classical Greeks: monarchy (the rule of one), aristocracy (the rule of few) and democracy (the rule of many), and it is best understood in this context. Negative examples of possible degeneration of those types of regime were given the names of tyranny, oligarchy and anarchy. As Pericles is supposed to have said in his most famous funeral oration (as described by Thucydides in his History of the Peloponnesian War of ca. 400 BCE), ‘[o]ur constitution is called a democracy

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because power is in the hands not of a minority but of the whole people’ (in Blaug and Schwarzmantel 2014: 25). The classical example of a democratic state (a city-state, for that matter, as most of the polities in Greece) is Athens. In spite of the importance of early reforms by Solon in the early part of the 6th century BCE, the critical moment in the affirmation of democracy as a triumphant form of political organization in Athens is currently associated with the reforms of Cleisthenes around 508 BCE (Dunn 1992; Hornblower 1992), lasting within a broad framework that nevertheless evolved and was prone to interruption, until the defeat of the Athenians at the hands of the Macedonians in 322 BCE (Hansen 1999: 3). In this sense, the heyday of democracy lasted perhaps less that two full centuries in Athens – two centuries that modern times tend to associate with a pinnacle in the history of mankind and as a cradle for the present-day European civilization. But this view is recent, owing much to the revival of the Greek legacy by Romanticism in the 19th century. Three defining features are most often presented to ground the originality of this political system. First of all, the idea that the polis, conceived as a political community, differed from the polis as a socio-economic one in that the former only considered as citizens adult males to the exclusion of women, foreigners and slaves (Hansen 1999: 324). The polis as a political community operated through direct mobilization of its citizens in an assembly (the ekklesia), where all political decisions were taken. The assembly had a minimum quorum of 6,000 out of a ‘eligible’ population estimated at no more than 30,000 – but the Pnyx, where it usually met, was enlarged several times to accommodate up to 12,000 or more people. These mass meetings occurred at fairly frequent intervals, typically up to 40 a year. They are one of the distinguishing features of Athenian democracy, the one that endured both in the favourable and the negative accounts thereof. This extraordinary participation of citizens was made possible by the social structure of Athens, but also because of their widespread belief in the value of political intervention. Pericles is supposed to have said, ‘we do not say that a man who takes no interest in politics is a man who minds his own business; we say that he has no business here at all’ (in Blaug and Schwarzmantel 2014: 26). For the basic principle in operation in this case was that the Athenians ‘take our decisions on policy and submit them to proper discussion, for we do not think that there is incompatibility between words and deeds; the worst thing is to rush into action before the consequences have been properly debated’ (2014: 26). The effective implementation of the ekklesia’s decisions, the preparation of its meetings, and the need to assure the daily administration of

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several aspects of collective life, from public finances to military affairs, implied that a corps of permanent officials had to be selected. On the one hand, a group of 400, later 500 elements was designated to prepare the assembly meetings and attend to other daily affairs. On the other, Athens also had up to 700 permanent magistrates (archai), which included military commanders. The selection of people to serve in most of those functions was strictly controlled. They tended to have terms in off ice limited to one year, not renewable, and the selection was done in such a way as to prevent citizens from holding off ice over two consecutive years. More important was the basic method of selection: by lot. As Montesquieu was to say many centuries later, ‘selection by lot is in the nature of democracy’ (quoted in Rosanvallon 1993). This particular device – which may be regarded as ‘a key democratic institution that ensured the wide diffusion of responsibility and experience’ (Lloyd 1992: 43) – would prove to be one of the most relevant elements in the critique that both contemporaries (like Plato) and later commentators were to address at democracy. Socrates, for instance, would ridicule democracy for choosing magistrates by lot – but not using the same procedure to chose a ship’s captain or an architect. However, this critique is not wholly warranted, as Athens also had some positions – maybe 100 in total – filled by election and not subject to strict rules of non-renewable mandates. Pericles, for instance, was chosen by this method to be Athens chief strategos for 25 consecutive years. And no one was forced to put his name forward before the lots, which only considered those who had accepted to be in a way candidates for the job. The third critical element of Athenian democracy was the notion of isonomia – the equal right of all citizens to exercise their political rights (Hansen 1999: 396). Returning to Pericles’ oration, it reads: When it is a question of settling disputes, everyone is equal before the law; when it is a question of putting one person before another in positions of public responsibility, what counts is not membership of a particular class, but the actual ability which the man possesses. No one, so long as he has it in him to be of the service to the state is kept in political obscurity because of poverty.

According to Aristotle’s Politics (c. 335 BCE), ‘the proper application of the term ‘democracy’ is to a constitution in which the free-born and poor control the government – being at the same time a majority’ (in Blaug and Schwarzmantel 2014: 29).

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In this light, the assembly is the basis of a triangle whose two other components are the limited nature of executive power and selection of officials mostly by limited lots, and the notion of isonomia (the basis for isegoria or the equal right to speech and to move proposals in the assemblies), which inscribes the principle of equality on par with that of liberty in the very core of the notion of democracy. With hindsight, the reconstruction of the main tenets of the Athenian notion of democracy may be said to amalgamate, to a large extent, two dimensions of politics as we have them in the contemporary world. On the one hand, we have a very clear identif ication of democracy with popular sovereignty – even if the notion of citizen represented only a part of a complex society. This fundamental assumption, as we shall see later, constitutes the crux of the modern concept of democracy. Its roots are clearly established in the 5th century BCE, and it answers the question ‘who owns political power’. On the other, we have, in Rosanvallon’s words (1993), a ‘government technique’ which is possible to distinguish from the overriding principle – but which has remained confused as if this specific technique (government by assembly and lot) was an indispensable feature in the notion of democracy. Modern versions have moved away from this second assumption which regards the question of ‘how does one exercise power’, although the modern debate on the virtues of democracy is still permeated by references to its role. Up to the 18th century, democracy was viewed ‘not yet a faith, not an ideology, not an ethic: it was still a technical term of political science describing popular participation in government in a manner that was not all that different from the way the ancient Greeks had used it’ (Wood 1992: 93). We may conclude then that Athens developed a sophisticated form of government based on the participation of its citizens in the political process through the means of powerful assemblies. The question remains: how singular was this model? What was the context for its installation? John Keane has recently called our attention to two important aspects related to the historical notion of democracy. On the one hand, to the ‘prevalence of democracies of different shapes and sizes’, some of them predating Athens, suggesting ‘the existence throughout the region [i.e., the Hellenic world] of invented traditions of democratic behaviour that favoured equality, respect for the laws and self-government through assemblies’, casting doubt on the old prejudice that this form of government was a localized and serendipitous phenomenon (2010: 98). The fact that many of those city-states experienced democracy for short periods leading to its breakdown and replacement by other regimes – aristocracy or monarchy,

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either in their benign forms or otherwise – must not be missed, as it has been recurrently linked to alleged intrinsic failures of democracy and its incapacity to meet adversarial times. On the other, through linguistic archaeology, he sustained that words closely connected with the classical Greek demos are present in the Mycenaean Bronze Age civilization which flourished in the Peloponnese in the middle of the second millennium BCE. This civilization ‘bequeathed to the Athenians a family of terms that contained a vital word that both described and defended the powers of a potentially active group within the body politic’ (2010: 56-57). In turn, Mycenaean political structures owed their inception to the Phoenicians who had inherited them from the peoples of the Mesopotamian valleys. In brief, not only was ‘assembly democracy’ not a singular phenomenon in Athens, its origins go back a long way. Keane sees the existence of a first phase of creation and diffusion of public assemblies beginning around 2500 BCE in the valleys of Mesopotamia and stretching both eastwards to Vedic India and westwards, namely through the Phoenicians to the cities of Byblos and Sidon, and further out to the Atlantic coast of Europe. John Keane’s approach opens up new avenues, and it seems to meet Amartya Sen’s criticism of ethnocentric ideas of democracy, which have been castigated on the grounds that they involve the imposition of Western values and practices on all societies regardless of their traditions. Sen advocates the development of a ‘more capacious concept [that] includes the opportunity for citizens to participate in political discussion and so to be in a position to influence public choice’, which could do justice to the ‘extensive history of cultivation of tolerance, pluralism and public deliberation in other societies’ (2003: 29-30) – important bases that ought to be considered when dealing with the development of modern-day democracies in different parts of the world. Emphasis on public deliberation is correctly underlined as he argues that ‘the idea of public reasoning is closely linked with two particular social practices […]: the tolerance of different points of view […] and the encouragement of public discussion’ (2003: 31). Promising as this approach sounds, as it calls one’s attention to what will necessarily be a pluralistic history of politics, it is presently struggling to develop its theoretical framework and the analytical tools that are required for its application. So far, the degree of sophistication achieved by the Greeks in their Golden Age and the concepts they developed remain unmatched, and the fascination they attract these days is a tribute to their ingenuity. After all, as David Held maintains, ‘the story of the development of different variants of democracy is in part the story of the formation of certain political ideas and practices which crystallized most clearly in the West’, where debates

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on the nature of popular rule have been particularly relevant, constituting a significant distinctive signal of the intellectual tradition of Western Europe and North America in the recent past (Held 2006: 4). This special position does not entail that the debate will have to be limited to its frontiers, but rather that different traditions with diverse levels of formalization should be considered. Our attention ought to be devoted now to the sequence of human history after the Greek experiment. Actually, at roughly the same time as democracy was taking its first steps in the Greek city-states, it also made its appearance on the Italian peninsula, namely in the city of Rome. However, in Latin-speaking cities, this system was rather called a ‘republic’. Again, the etymology of the word gives us the first clues as to its meaning: it combines the word res, meaning thing or affair, and publicus, the root of the presentday word ‘public’. The Res Publica Romana was thus the name of the political system in place at the beginning of this city’s extraordinary expansion and development from a city-state into a very extensive empire. At the heart of the Roman Republic – that is, before it succumbed to the Empire at the end of the 1st century BCE – there was the notion that citizens gathered in regular assemblies had the right to govern. Two distinct solutions were adopted for deciding who the citizens were. At first, Rome restricted citizenship to the aristocratic patricians; but after much struggling, the common people, designated the plebs or plebeians also gained political rights (Dahl 2000: 13-14). Just like in Athens, this left out of the franchise the women, foreigners and slaves – not a minority of the population. The greater challenge to the democratic credentials of the Roman Republic came in the form of the expanding realm of its dominions and the practicalities it implied. The Romans could not develop any system that ensured that the increasingly large number of citizens within its dominated territory had any chance of participating in the assemblies which were held in the capital city of Rome, and thus be part of the decision-making process. In a way, it was the upgrading of the state from a city-state like the Greek democracies to an entirely new dimension that created the conditions for the Roman Republic – which lasted more than Athens and even than the modern times democracies – to finally succumb, only to be much later retrieved from oblivion by political theorists in the European Renaissance. In Europe, where it is said to have achieved its most successful and sophisticated forms, popular rule was to disappear for more than a thousand years, if only with the exception of very small scale Germanic tribes and maybe – if one follows Keane’s suggestion that Islam also produced ‘a variety of

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brand-new mechanisms for publicly monitoring and sharing power among peoples who considered each other as equals’ (2010: 128) – in the emerging Muslim world. It has been suggested that the very word ‘democracy’ disappeared from common languages, and would not be recovered before the Arabic translations of Aristotle entered the Christian world in the 13th century (Held 2006: 33). In the second millennium of our era, forms of popular government remerged in Europe. On the northern rim of the continent, popular assemblies were established among Viking communities, perhaps as long ago as the 7th century. Robert Dahl emotionally refers to archaeological remains in the land of his migrant forbearers in northern Norway attesting to such practices (2000: 18), while Keane mentions the establishment, in Iceland and Scandinavia, of assemblies called tings – ‘law making and law enforcing bodies that conducted their business in public’ (2010: 190). Today’s Iceland parliament is called Althingi, and claims to be the rightful descendant of the oldest popular assemblies, with roots extending to the end of the first millennium. Italy offers another important instance of popular governance, in the northern city-states that flourished under distinctive political systems as early as the closing decades of the 11th century, but were more effective between 1100 and 1300. By the middle of the 13th century, ‘many leading communities of Lombardy and Tuscany had acquired the status of independent city-states, with written constitutions guaranteeing their elective and self-governing arrangements’ (Skinner 1992: 57). If anything can be said about historical referents to these new city-republics, it is that Rome and not Athens could be seen as offering comparative perspectives (Held 2006: 34). However, they lasted only as long as the Greek democracies had, and by the 14th century they had been replaced by other political systems which were, on the whole, more authoritarian. But as Robert Dahl pointed out ‘the city-state was doomed as a foundation for popular government by the emergence of a rival with overwhelming superior forces: the national state or country’ (2000: 16). It may come as no surprise that the third instance of popular governance generally found in the literature point to a region in which the creation of nation-states was slow, and local communities retained much of their capacity to resist outside impositions: the Alpine region and what are nowadays Swiss cantons. Switzerland is regarded as the country in the world whose political system mostly resembles earlier models of popular rule, as attested, for instance, by the sheer number of referendums that every year are organized to decide on the most disparate matters.

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Democratic ideals also surfaced in some social movements in the modern era, of which the English Levellers (1645-1649) are a case in point. As David Wootton remarked, ‘[t]he Levellers are the first modern political movement organized around the idea of popular sovereignty. They are the first democrats to think in terms, not of participatory self-government within a city-state, but of representative government within a nation-state’ (1992: 71). But they were short-lived, and are more remarkable for their exceptionality than for their impact on subsequent movements. The French Revolution was destined to indelibly mark the political landscape of several generations, both for the way in which events unfolded in the critical years between 1789 and 1794, and for the lasting impact of the new regime built upon the carcass of the popular movements of those years: ‘the first republican government to rule over a large, densely populated European country, together with its laws and institutions which today are still a model for democratic governments throughout the world’ (Fontana 1992: 107). The role of democracy and its relations to the French Revolution are the subject of substantial controversy despite the fact that the National Assembly proclaimed, for the f irst time in so clear a fashion, that the first and central principle of the new regime was the respect for popular sovereignty vested in the whole of the nation, in this manner propitiating the extension of political power and political rights to very large sectors of the population that had hitherto been excluded from them. On the one hand, we might choose to highlight the participation from below of large sections of the population in revolutionary events, and in this case most would agree that ‘democracy seemed at best the luxury of a rustic republic, […] more likely a sort of regime that must degenerate into mob rule, mass violence, despoliation of property and legal terror’ (Maier 1992: 126). The fact that France was a very large polity and that a great many relevant events took place in Paris, mobilizing urban dwellers but leaving aside the majority of the rural population, is worth noting. In this light, the dangers of ‘enlightened avant-garde versus the masses’ type of mobilization that was reflected in the forms of limited participation suggest difficulties in adopting a classical model formatted for rather diverse circumstances to the needs of the modern world. In a sense, this type of focus brings back into the debate the old criticism of democracy as a regime unable to counteract the illiberal restraint of opinion based on mass mobilization and to oppose inbuilt tendencies to degenerate into the tyranny of the mob. However, one might as well choose to underline an alternative aspect of the whole picture: the procedures and instruments upon which the French

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revolutionaries laid the foundations for a modern version of the democratic principles, defined by the constitutional guarantees for limited and representative government. The American Revolution had offered a first glimpse of how such restrained popular government could be established, and the French tried to emulate and further their achievements. They were considering the need to adapt ancient principles to modern realities, and two instances of this endeavour should be stressed. First, the establishment of the principle of representation, championed, among others, by the reverend Abbé Sieyès – one of the leading theorists of the National Assembly, who explained through a comparison with the social division of labour the necessity to devise representative methods in order to allow a population of several millions to exercise their sovereignty in conditions of moral equality, hence establishing the legitimate basis upon which the assembly could assert its rights. Even the most extremist of the French revolutionaries, Maximilien Robespierre, would proclaim: ‘Democracy is a state in which the sovereign people, guided by laws that were made by themselves, performs directly all those things that the people can do well, and through delegates all that is not feasible in good conditions by themselves’ (Readings from the French Revolution n.d.: 138). Secondly, adopting a principled position in favour of universal suffrage and frequent elections for the selection of the representatives of the citizens. At the height of the Revolution, the franchise included more than four million adult males – although this was later to be significantly reduced by means of limited franchise to a mere 100,000 individuals (Fontana 1992: 117-121). At this point we may pause and reflect on this episode. The rebirth of democratic principles whose ancestry must be traced at least to the Greek classical period and which had thrived at times in city-states and other small polities was facing a difficult moment when placed in the context of significantly bigger, and therefore intrinsically different, political units. The revival of ancient concepts brought by the European Renaissance was critically anchored on the Roman legacy – the extraordinary feats of the Greeks, including Athenian democracy, would not be recovered before the rise of the Romantic movement well into the 19th century, and thus deprived democracy from most of its intellectual foundations. The mobilization of the masses after 1789 gave rise in conservative courts to ‘the development of an opposition to democracy with more sophisticated theoretical basis than any since Plato’ (Arblaster 2002: 37), which was to dominate the political discourse throughout the 19th century. On the other hand, new forms of political organization with a clear articulation with the notion of popular sovereignty, but also preoccupied with establishing the rule

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of law and set limits to the power of the different political agents, whose theoretical foundations had been developed in the 18th century by such theorists as Montesquieu, took root in political practice. If most of the limiting mechanisms were originally devised to provide protection against monarchical rule and abuses from traditional authorities, they flourished in a situation in which they were also perceived to represent protection against abusive majorities. Alas, this movement was not labelled as democratic, but rather – frequently in an assumed opposition to democracy – as ‘liberalism’. For others, the respect for the participation of (responsible) citizens in the political decisions and their identification with core values such as honour, patriotism and virtue, was framed under the label of the Republic, inherited from classical Rome. We should pay some attention to these developments. Representation and limited government In parallel with the stagnation of the notion of popular government in Europe, a distinctive political trend emerged in the 12th century. It started in the Iberian kingdom of Léon at the time of the Reconquista, when the young king Alfonso IX summoned in the monastery of San Isidoro, in 1188, the very first cortes – a gathering of all three estates of the realm (nobility, clergy and ‘good men’ of the towns or burgers) convened to discuss and agree on constitutional matters as well as on more delicate issues pertaining to the government of the country, namely taxation to support the war (Keane 2010: 174). This institution, which may have drawn some inspiration from the Muslims with whom Alfonso IX was at war, soon took unprecedented turns, first by becoming a regular feature in the political life of the kingdom, then by extending its influence to other pats of the Christian world. In Portugal, King Afonso II assembled the first cortes in Coimbra in the year 1211. In England, in 1215, King John signed the Magna Carta that is acknowledged as a fundamental mark in the institution of constitutional government, in the sense that the powers of the monarch were subject henceforth to the laws of the realm established with the participation of its citizens who were granted new liberties. What was being born was a new political system which we can designate by representative. The link between our present concept of democracy and the institutions that started then to be developed can be illustrated by the fact that the Spanish parliament retains to this day its traditional name, the name of Cortes Generales. If limited government was in itself not an altogether new concept – just remember the fact that in Athens there were severe restrictions on officeholders and the ultimate judgement pertained to the assembly – the idea

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of representation as a feature of the political system would represent a major breakthrough. However, ‘[t]hroughout much of their history, both the concept and the practice of representation had little to do with democracy and liberty’ (Pitkin 1972: 2). Indeed, the concept of political representation is a modern one, and the institutions devised to embody its principles were often created to contain rather than to encourage democracy and popular government (Manin 1997: 1; Urbinati: 2006: 1). Hanna Fenichel Pitkin summarizes the evolution of this notion over the first centuries of its existence, noting that institutions like the cortes were f irst conveyed at the monarch’s convenience, and with limited powers. But as it became increasingly clear that they were called to bind the communities from where they proceeded to important issues such as the taxes to be imposed, they assumed a second role: to present the monarch with grievances felt by the people and to press for their redressing in exchange for their commitment to taxation. In this way, ‘knights and burgesses who went to Parliament began to be thought of as servants or agents of their communities’ (Pitkin 1972: 244). In England, for instance, the development of this system between the 14th and the 17th centuries was enormous, and could be summarized by a citizen who wrote to the House of Commons – who in 1641 referred to themselves as ‘the representative body of the whole kingdom’ (in Pitkin 1972: 248) – reminding its members that ‘wee are your Principalls, and you our Agents’ (quoted in Arblaster 2002: 31-32). A fundamental step had been taken, and soon the English Parliament figured itself in a very new, if short-lived position: after the deposition of Charles I, the country had no monarch, only Parliament as a national political body which controlled Oliver Cromwell’s Protectorate and Commonwealth. The critical century in the affirmation of the bases for representative government is the one that ran between the English Glorious Revolution of 1688, whereby the powers of the monarch were firmly controlled by both Houses of Parliament representing in different ways the nation, and the French Revolution of the late 18th century. It also comprises the fundamental American Revolution that was the first country to adopt institutions directly derived from the theoretical developments of political philosophers such as Montesquieu. The four pillars of modern representative government are: (1) those who govern are appointed by elections held at regular intervals; (2) the actual decision-making process remains in the hands of individuals who retain a degree of independence from the wishes of the electorate; (3) those who are part of the governed citizenry may express their opinions, political

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wishes and interests without being subjected to control or other means of diminishing their capacity to participate in the process; and (4) public decisions undergo the trial of debate (Manin 1997: 6). The critical issue in these four elements is the second one, as it has proved to be the object of long-lasting controversies as to the nature of the precise articulation between one citizen and another one chosen to represent him or her.

The convergence of lineages Modern-day democracy is thus the offspring of two distinct, often conflicting, lineages – that of classical democracy stemming from the Greek classical tradition, which places a great emphasis on popular sovereignty and rule by the people; and the tradition of limited government supported by representative institutions. In a nutshell, we might conceive of those distinct lineages as pertaining to the two critical dimensions of accountability: vertical accountability articulating those who actually discharge decision-making functions and the sovereignty vested on a wider group of citizens (which can operate both in models of direct rule or representative government); and horizontal accountability, which hinges on the articulation of different branches of government so that each one exerts some form of limitation on the powers of the others. According to Pierre Rosanvallon (1993), we owe the Marquis d’Argenson, in the middle of the 18th century, the first formulation that breaks the link between the etymon ‘democracy’ and its antique referents, assuming that ‘the power of the people’ should be understood to mean that sovereignty is vested upon the people but also that the government technique of classical Athens is but one among a panoply of instances, including the nascent one which was better suited to the complexities of modern polities – representative government. This distinction had far-reaching consequences for our present understanding of the meaning of democracy. However, in spite of its early formulation, it took more than a century to enter the common knowledge of political concepts. The adoption of representative democracy entails a new question: how representative are its institutions? Do ‘the people’ really have political power? This issue poses the critical question of the electoral franchise, as the definition of those who were entitled to participate in the choice of political representatives constitutes a key element of this complex problem (although not the only one, as formal rights cannot be equated with actual capacities).

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True universal suffrage implying voting rights for all of the adult population regardless of gender, ethnic differentiation, class status, religious beliefs or other limiting factor is a very modern phenomenon which, by and large, corresponds to the development of democracy in the last quarter of the 20th century, notwithstanding historical examples of pioneering trends that are the exception rather than the rule. For the preceding two centuries, the basic assumption was that voting rights were in the hands of strictly controlled sectors of the population. For this reason, it is not surprising to notice that Karl Marx accused a system based on the limited franchise incorporating only part of the adult male population who possessed economic privileges over the mass of the citizens of being a form of class dictatorship. The franchise was limited since the development of this form of political system historically corresponded to the elevation of the middle classes and the struggle they had to sustain in order to reduce the gap between themselves and the traditional elites (Rosanvallon 1993). Political life had to extend its mechanisms in order to capture the emerging middle classes deemed to possess ‘a repository of talent and common sense’ (Maier 1992: 134). ‘Liberalism’ or ‘Republicanism’ were thus, in their inception, forms of elitism based on limited franchise. An illustration of the clash between ‘liberalism’ and ‘democracy’ can be grasped in South Africa under the rule of apartheid: fairly sophisticated liberal institutions were set in place, but the franchise excluded most of the black community, the majority of the population. Historically, enlarging the franchise raised fears that the dispossessed classes might take a positive view of their own interests and oppose the privileges of those who happened to form the social, economic and political elite, with potentially revolutionary consequences. The United States of America pioneered the trend towards enlarged franchise, and by 1825 nearly all the states had universal suffrage – although restricted to white manhood (Wood 1992: 101). Europe dragged on for longer, despite some revolutionary moves during the French Revolution, soon curtailed, only to reappear under a different guise in 1848 as a response to another episode of popular unrest. Women suffrage started in New Zealand and Australia at the turn of the 20th century, and progressed slowly. Other examples of limited franchise could easily been provided. The path followed in the Western world in the early stages of democratization, as Michael Miller has shown, brought together these two elements in such a way that political contestation was established as a condition for the growth of popular participation, that is, liberalism took precedence over the extension of political rights. This was also noticed by Fareed Zakaria (1997a), and means that the eventual negative effects of massive participation could

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be contained in a framework based on the rule of law and fundamental constitutionalism which, by and large, were set up in advance of popular participation in order to contain the freedom bestowed upon voters, and preserving established rights (amongst which the rights to private property of the means of production stand high). In a way, this approach can be viewed as a form of taming the revolutionary effects of popular participation on an equal par, i.e., as ‘making democracy safe for the world’ (Maier 1992: 126) when growing pressures from below – namely the extension of conscription in order to form modern armies, which was accompanied by claims to participatory rights – made it increasingly difficult to resist the enlargement of the franchise. Recent developments in democratization, namely those occurring during Huntington’s third wave from 1974 onwards, seem to reveal a different pattern, in that mechanisms of extensive participation have surfaced in the early stages of many contemporary processes which took longer to develop open contestation, leading to the emergence of what have been named ‘hybrid regimes’ (Miller 2013: 8). The point to make here is that the institution of truly universal adult suffrage represented a break with very profound consequences for the political system and for the articulation of popular sovereignty with institutions of political representation. If the inception of representative government allowed a move away from the classical notion of monarchy to that of an aristocracy, universal suffrage enabled the political system to move one step further in the way to democracy. The fact that this is a phenomenon with a very shallow historical dimension, still to be achieved in many countries that use the word democracy to describe their political regime, alerts us that the end of history is nowhere in sight, and that the plasticity of the notion of democracy will certainly permit future developments. It’s time now to turn to the actual configurations of democracy in our time, bearing in mind that, as Stein Ringen put it, ‘[t]he way to protect democracy is not to cheer it, which we do too much, but to reform it, which we do too little’ (2007: 2).

Configurations On Lincoln’s formula There is probably no better way to open a section devoted to discussing the configurations of the concept of democracy in the modern world than to refer one of the most popular and widely quoted proposal made in 1863 by

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the US president, Abraham Lincoln, in his Gettysburg Address, at a time when the idea of democracy was far from enjoying the sort of consensus on its virtues that we currently take for granted. Its final words read: ‘It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us […] that this great nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom – and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.’ The heuristic value of this formulation has been under severe criticism by senior political theorists who contend that its meaning is all but clear, and the widespread fame it achieved should be credited to the fact that it was primarily pronounced by a famous and popular Lincoln, not to any intrinsic value (Sartori 1987: 34-35). I disagree. Lincoln’s formula is instantly apprehended on account of its poetic beauty – a fact that technocratic approaches to this matter tend to wrongly overlook and despise: the repetition of the word ‘people’ is rhetorically redundant and impressively stresses the most important referent of this elusive concept, as if it was saying that no departure from a full consideration of the simple people in a variety of senses will ever be justified. The unqualified idea of ‘people’ need always be present in the definition and the soul of democracy. The poetic nature of the formulation is further enhanced by the fact that it echoes a structural feature of some of the most impressive political ideologies or programmes encapsulated in simple formulae for easy public consumption which tend to be expressed in trilogies. Lest one forget, the French Revolution was associated with Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité, the German III Reich with Ein Reich, Ein Volk, Ein Führer, Salazar’s Estado Novo with Deus, Pátria e Familia, a translation of Mussolini’s motto. Translating these considerations into our discussion on democracy, Lincoln’s formula indicates without hesitation that whatever democracy may be, it will necessarily be a multi-dimensional phenomenon requesting that a complex concept be developed in order to render the wealth of its meaning. This is a fundamental assumption that immediately casts aside any attempt to reduce democracy to a one-dimensional aspect of human experience. The second dimension implicit in Lincoln’s formula is that democracy should be regarded primarily as a form of governance. It does underline the idea that, in spite of the legitimacy of its use by analogy to other realms of human experience, democracy is first and foremost a question pertaining to the ways in which people are governed. It is about political institutions and public policies and their continuous and sustained existence, not about ad hoc, discontinued events associated with particular instances of reaching

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decisions. In sum, it is a form of state organization. It is no coincidence that the slow emergence of modern democracy after the 18th century has been associated with the rise of new forms of state organization, and most notably the consolidation of Westphalian states. Juan Linz and Alfred Stepan have called our attention to the fact that no democracy can be established and thrive unless basic state functions are in place – and this is not a trivial comment if one considers the expansion of democracy in parts of the world that do not share basic attributes pertaining to the industrialized nations (1997: 14). The first of these authors further explained that in the absence of ‘state structures that enjoy some legitimacy and efficacy in the view of the citizens’ there can be no functioning of democratic institutions whose purpose is to legitimate those governing the state. And he added: ‘No state, no Rechtsstaat, no Democracy’ (1997: 117-118). In the modern world a double challenge has emerged that confronts the intimate relationship between the notion of democracy and the existence of a state. On the one hand, the overall process of globalization has shifted the arena of governance from historically rooted national states to international emerging structures, of which some are more formalized (UN, EU) and others remain fairly informal (f inancial markets). Is the international arena governed according to democratic precepts? Does it make sense to raise this question in the f irst place? On the other hand, the growing actual power concentrated in the instances of global governance exert important limitations on the competences of national states and are regarded as capturing part of the traditional basis for sovereignty (Ake, 1997). This raises the issue of determining to what extent popular sovereignty still exists in its entirety, or whether a signif icant erosion of this cardinal condition of democracy is actually taking place. Both sets of questions cannot be addressed here. However, it might be useful to consider that the political unit we call the modern state resists and remains a pertinent framework for assessing if not every single aspect of popular sovereignty, at least a sizeable portion thereof. The capture of national sovereignty by globalization trends is perhaps present together with other concerns regarding the extent to which popular expression remains the ultimate ratio in politics in Norberto Bobbio’s anguished comment according to which ‘to pass a judgement today on the development of democracy in a given country the question must be asked not “who votes?”, but “on what issues can one vote?”’ (1989: 157, quoted in Przeworski 2010: xi), assuming that popular sovereignty may be in a process of mutilation which prevent it from actually being the source of critical decisions.

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Thirdly, Lincoln insists that ‘government’ and ‘people’ are the two nouns that must be included in any concept of democracy. Between those two terms, he uses three different prepositions – very simple and sensible grammatical devices which articulate a vast scope of possible relations, and therefore call for the already noticed multi-faceted nature of democracy. Let’s take each one in turn. ‘Government of the people’ is a requirement reported to sovereignty: who is the source of true legitimacy? In historical terms, the ‘people’ have been understood in terms of limited franchise – discrimination of citizens according to revenue and wealth, gender, ethnic belonging or other. It was indeed so at the time of Lincoln (voting was restricted to a minority of white men). But the principle inscribed in his proclamation accommodates well an historical evolution. In our time, in response to popular pressures that asserted themselves mainly in the course of the 20th century (the struggle of the suffragettes to get votes for women is one example, the enfranchisement of African-Americans in the 1960s in the wake of the Civil Rights Movement is another one), the so called ‘third wave democracies’ are indisputably based on the notion of universal franchise for the entire adult population. Although it is historically accurate to say that the adoption of universal suffrage has produced radical changes in the political process, and therefore that Lincoln was not thinking along those lines, I nevertheless sustain that this is a legitimate modern reading of the Gettysburg Address, one that is coherent with the positive valuation of the principle of political equality as a key element of a dense concept of democracy. This precept gains further significance if one contrasts it with alternative theories of political legitimacy, not only historically, but even in our own days. For example: some monarchies base their claim to legitimacy in descent from a former hero who played an important role at a given historical juncture, and hereditary rule is the established governing principle. Other political entities envisage legitimacy as derived from religious intervention in the sphere of mundane affairs, as is the case today of some theocracies like Iran. It will never be stressed enough that in Europe, in the century that mediated between the English Glorious Revolution (1688) and the French Revolution of 1789, including the American Revolution, a radical inversion of the arrow of legitimacy occurred from a top-down to a bottom-up conception, a shift that implied an increasingly crescent role for the notion of consent in political organization. Severely limited at first, once the notion of consent became current it began posing difficulties to establishing convincing arguments for limiting its application, mainly

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because grounds to establish rules for exclusion were increasingly slippery. ‘The idea of consent tends towards democracy’ (Arblaster 1984: 75). In our time, ‘the normative legitimacy of a democratic decision depends on the degree to which those affected by it have been included in the decision-making process and have had the opportunity to influence the outcomes’ (Young 2000: 5-6), and this must be read in a very inclusive sense. However, this principle of inclusion as a condition for legitimacy was already present in the birth of the American Revolution when the notion of ‘No taxation without representation’ was crafted in Boston. On the whole, Lincoln’s unqualified use of the word ‘people’, that is, the fact that he found no reason to limit the broadest possible interpretation thereof that historical evolution has made possible seems to legitimate my reading of his formula. In fact, what supports this stance is the acknowledgement that there is a fundamental moral equality amongst all individuals who compose the ‘people’. The notion of equality is therefore coterminous with democracy. ‘Government by the people’ states, in its simplicity, that the people must take active part in the political process. I do not ignore that this is a critical aspect of modern democracy, polarized by the notions of participation and representation (Held 2006: 4). However, I propose that for the moment we limit the comments to this facet of Lincoln’s formula to two aspects. If one assumes that societies tend to be stratified, and accommodate a division between a group of people whom we term an ‘elite’ (who could be characterized by possessing a superior level of some form of qualifying capital) and a larger one that is composed by contrast by ‘commoners’, it then becomes critical to distinguish between two types of ‘elites’: closed ones, that is, those which are generally protected from intrusion from the outside and tend to perpetuate their composition, including by the widespread practice of hereditary succession; and open ones, if membership thereof can be attained through some form of personal performance, namely through meritocracy. Ancien Régime Europe is an example of an aristocratic closed elite system. Stanley Kubrick’s movie Barry Lyndon (1975) exemplifies the mode in which a closed elite operated and could deal with an intruder. Modern democracies tend to have open elites. An example could be offered: in the United States, the son of a lower-middle-class family like that of Barack Obama managed to reach the top political position of the country to succeed another president who had a long-established elite background. Government by the people then means that the right to participate through the vote in the life of the polis be accompanied by a simultaneous right to stand for office – and to dispose of real chances of

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success in such endeavour. Democracies require open elites based on real competition. Needless to say, this represents a very minimal understanding of the meaning of this specific element of Lincoln’s formula that does not preclude stronger visions that point to the substantial reduction in, or even the elimination of the gap between the people as a whole and those who happen to rule. Of course, contemporary democracies retain a tension between their claim to foster inclusiveness and a tendency to let elitism be grafted on to its practice, resorting to the argument of meritocratic promotion. Sheldon Wolin discovered that this may not always be the case, and the rationale for elitism to be ‘more the reflection of managerial, scientific and technocratic values’ (2004: 599), which tend to counteract the effects of openness and inclusion. Accepting open political elites and the fact that democratic procedures imply that these social groups have to propose themselves rather than impose themselves (Przeworski 2010: xi) as is the case in some other regimes, does not completely solve the problem. Their power may to some extent be limited, and other elites may exist that represent severe forms of limitation to the democratically chosen ones. One may turn to Kenneth Bollen for an interesting suggestion, as he writes: ‘I define political democracy as the extent to which the political power of elites is minimized and that of nonelites maximized’ (1991: 5). This formulation is consistent with his belief that democracy is not a ‘binary’ concept, but rather a continuous one that may yield variable results according to the degree or quality of its performance. But it needs not be confined to scalar conceptions (Weale 1999: 17-18). I sustain that it may hold even when one adopts a dichotomous approach, such as in this book. The root of Bollen’s stance is that there must not be a frontier that separates elites from nonelites, and this can only be achieved by granting nonelites the power and the means for a permanent intervention in the public arena. Lincoln’s formula uses the term ‘government’, and so far we have been assuming that it may be synonymous with both ‘power’ and ‘rule’ – both notions encompassing diversified definitions that reveal their capacity to cover a multiplicity of phenomena (Held 2006: 2). However, one has to admit that it may not necessarily be so, as those who possess actual power may not be the ones who are in a position to rule in the sense of possessing the reins of government. The emergence of the media as the ‘fourth power’ exemplifies the distinction between being in a position of power, that is, to influence the ways in which decisions are taken, and actual rule which is beyond its realm. In this light, it is critical to assert that in my reading of

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the formula, government of the people implies sovereignty and therefore power, whereas government by the people signifies that the arena of actual governance must be conceived in an open manner so as to be inclusive of all enfranchised citizens. Popular intervention in the political process must therefore be conceived in a very broad manner. It implies the right to participate in the setting of the political agenda, insisting that this is an open issue that may not be unduly limited by those in power. Margaret Thatcher’s famous slogan ‘There is no alternative’, which was meant to restrict the breadth of the political debate and limit the scope of political decisions, must count as an attempt to curb the basic rights of popular sovereignty in matters of deciding what the fundamental issues of the day actually are. Norberto Bobbio includes in his definition of democracy the condition that ‘those called upon to take decisions, or to elect those who are to take decisions, must be offered some real alternatives’ (1987: 25) – not called to rubber stamp decisions that avoid decent public debate. It implies the right to be part of the political debate regarding the competing solutions for the identified problems which is supposed to precede the moment when decisions are taken. It further implies the right to be part of the social corps that takes active part in the very process of decision-making – either directly (through a vote in an election or a referendum), or indirectly by means of delegating this power for a limited amount of time and under specific conditions to a representative. All this operates on an ex ante manner in relation to a given set of decisions. But democracy requires that ex post judgement be also possible, and that reversibility of decisions be on the table. In a democracy, political decisions not only are subject to a deliberative process in which the ‘people’ participate, but they are necessarily the focus of reflection upon their merits conducted by the very same ‘people’ who granted them support in the first place, who can then decide to uphold or alter such measures. Democracy is government pro tempore (Linz 1998). Civic participation in the life of the polis is thus a requisite of democracy. And for this to be fully operational, all the elements that compose the ‘people’ must secure fairly equal access to sources of information and be granted the freedom to express their individual views and to organize themselves in order to defend and diffuse diversified opinions. For this reason, freedom stands side by side with equality as the bedrock foundational principles of democracy. As Mark Warren noticed, ‘if ‘democracy’ retains any connection to the normative idea of self-rule by individuals of equal moral worth, the rights and liberties necessary for citizen power are inherent in the concept of democracy’ (2006: 387).

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Of course, one need not be reminded that less stringent concepts of democracy maintain that it is ‘a system of positive rights but it does not automatically generate the conditions necessary to exercise those rights’ (Przeworski 2010: xiii). For this reason, a dense concept of democracy as we are trying to outline cannot elude this fundamental issue, and must move beyond what these two elements of Lincoln’s formula share in common: to be amenable to be apprehended through the means of procedural analysis and institutional design (Buhlmann and Kriesi 2013: 44). However, I agree with Garry Rodan and Caroline Hughes when they state that simply procedural definitions of democracy are ‘inadequate precisely because they obscure the extent to which institutions commonly associated with democracy are sites of ideological conflict’ (2014: vi). A third dimension is therefore required. Lincoln proposed that the definition of democracy should include a critical third element: ‘government for the people’. This is perhaps the most contentious of all three elements, although its centrality cannot be escaped. ‘Democracy, without any question, involves the notion of responsiveness, of taking into account the wishes, desires, expectations, values and interests of the electorate’, stated Juan Linz (1997: 121). Responsiveness highlights the preconditions for the adequate translation of citizen preferences into political outcomes. It may be formulated as the correspondence between any given government output and the policy preferences of its citizens, often measured in present-day democracies by ‘the substance of representation, that is, by the degree of correspondence between the representatives’ decisions and the citizens’ preferences’ (Buhlmann and Kriesi 2013: 52). Giovanni Sartori considered that ‘[d]emocracy exists when the relation between governed and the government abides by the principle that the state is at the service of the citizens, and not the citizens of the state, that the government exists for the people, and not vice-versa’ (1987: 34). However, this form of reasoning is extremely difficult to operationalize. One possible approach to this particular case would consist of trying to devise independent measures that might respond, in a technical way, to the question of ascertaining what policies correspond to the ‘people’s interests’. This is an impossible task. Take, for example, the goal of diminishing the infant mortality rate, a purpose that by any standard may be considered as part of the positive services rendered by a state to its people. The issue is not the goal, but rather the means: would this supposedly universal desideratum be better achieved through an expansion of a public service of health care or rather by providing incentives for the development of a sophisticated system of private institutions? Even if we might attempt

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to design a positive model of ‘public interests’ (for instance, in line with UNDP Human Development Index, including items like the expansion of life expectancy or the increase of literacy), the crux of the matter is that politics is both about goals and means – and both are subject to individual (or social) preferences in a competing environment. In a free society, political ideology, religious beliefs, social status, cultural constructs, all contribute to format individual preferences and shape networks of solidarity that configure collective political options. The ‘interests of the people’ are bound to be diverse and conflicting. An alternative answer would consider that a democratic government must be responsive to fluctuating popular preferences, and that these are ultimately gauged by giving the ‘people’ regular voice to express their options. In a radical fashion, this stance sustains that it is impossible to define the people’s interest in any positive form. The conservative political theorist Edmund Burke considered that ‘nothing universal can rationally be affirmed on any moral or any political subject’ (1880, quoted in Coutinho 2014: 68). This may not be the case, as politics can be rationally argued – although the controversial nature of provisional solutions cannot be avoided, and no ‘end of history’ is within sight. One might argue that the historical record of democratic governance could yield some benchmarks that establish connections between the political regime’s performance and the attainment of a given set of goals – say, ‘Human Development’ indices. Again, that seems to be insufficient to solve the problem. In this light, one is referred back to the previous two constitutive elements of the definition of democracy, as only they can provide an answer to the question: what is ‘government for the people’ if not government controlled by the people? Who better than the people itself can determine what their ‘real’ interests are? It is the people who must respond through their participation in the life of the polis, giving answers that are strictly bound by a momentary and possibly evolving evaluation of the government’s performance, carried out in conditions that guarantee moral equality and widespread individual and collective freedoms. This is the critical aspect that distinguishes democracies from all the other forms of political regime – not the claim, which is universal, to address the best interests of all citizens. In a democracy, no entity – be it a monarch, a mass political party, a religious organization, or any other – has the right to determine what the interests of the people are. Their function is limited to proposing their own view in competition with several others, and accepting the verdict of the people after reasoned deliberation in conditions of freedom and equality. For this reason, the notion of popular control over government assumes a

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cardinal position in my dense concept of democracy. For the time being, be it sufficient to evoke Sartori’s words on this issue: ‘If the people lose control, then the government over the people is in danger of having nothing to do with government of the people’ (1987: 30). This brings us to a close of the discussion over Lincoln’s formula, which has revealed itself as a tool bon à penser for establishing sound bases on which to build a dense concept of democracy for our times. Such a concept requires the acknowledgement that it must be complex and pluri-dimensional. Some of its dimensions permit an institutional and procedural approach to the empirical mechanisms that sustain the working of real democracies. However, there is an ethos to the notion of democracy that defies capture by pragmatic criteria, and requires a capacity to ask ultimately subjective questions as to the nature of its normative component when dealing with the application of the concept to practical instances – as we are trying to do here in the case of Timor-Leste. These elements will be discussed in the next section. Schumpeter’s legacy Almost a century after Lincoln’s formula was proclaimed, at a time when ‘real democracy’ was fighting for survival against the military might of their Nazi-fascist foes who matched the struggle for territorial control with ideological confrontation on the desirable nature of political regimes, Joseph Schumpeter (1943) proposed a new formula that was meant to summarize the notion of democracy. Looking backward to the decades of the interwar period, Schumpeter’s efforts culminated in the ideological drive to assert a basic notion of democracy as a desirable goal in the face of alternative forms of political organization that frontally opposed that concept, whatever it was meant to imply. After World War II, a new challenge to the existing ‘real democracies’ developed under the Cold War from another ideological quarter – the ‘real socialism’ associated with the Soviet Union and a very specific reading of Karl Marx’s theses. This stream of opinion reappropriated the use of the expression and offered an alternative definition of ‘true democracy’ which insisted on the idea of a regime that satisfied the ‘people’s interests’ through different forms of social mobilization. Curiously, Schumpeter’s approach to democracy seems to have withstood the attacks from opposing sides of the ideological spectrum, as it thrived to represent sort of a consensual definition of what democracy stood for, at least in the ‘Western world’, which was by then initiating a second wave of democratization. Winston Churchill is among the politicians who popularized the basic

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tenets of Schumpeter’s notion of democracy. It has henceforth established itself as the hegemonic model to contemplate the meaning of democracy for several decades. Schumpeter’s elegant and minimalist definition was this: ‘the democratic method is that institutional arrangement for arriving at a political decision in which individuals acquire the power to decide by means of a competitive struggle for the people’s vote’ (2010: 241). Defending his proposal, Schumpeter states that its advantage regarding concurring definitions of democracy first resides in that ‘we are resolved to stress the modus procedendi the presence or absence of which it is in most cases easy to verify’ (2010: 242). In so doing, Schumpeter stresses the procedural nature of his stance that would be the hallmark of Western-style definitions of democracy at least until the last quarter of the 20th century, when a series of events after the onset of Huntington’s ‘third wave of democratization’ called for more elaborate concepts to be developed. In the wake of Schumpeter, various political theorists approached the notion of democracy on a procedural manner. Moreover, this approach tended to produce an elitist view of democracy, as it could be understood as a cynical game of the elites competing for external support and thus downplaying the second attribute of Lincoln’s formula: government by the people. As Anthony Arblaster noted, ‘the definition of democracy itself has been revised, adapted, narrowed and diluted to make it compatible with the persisting belief in the necessity or virtue of rule by elites, with an equally persistent mistrust of “the masses”’ (2002: 52). Seymour Martin Lipset equated democracy with ‘a political system which supplies regular constitutional opportunities for changing government officials, and a social mechanism which permits the largest possible part of the population to influence major decisions by choosing among contenders for political office’ (1959: 71). Elsewhere, he was to affirm: ‘The distinctive and most valuable element of democracy is the formation of a political elite in the competitive struggle for the vote of a mainly passive electorate’ (Lipset 1960: 208). Sir Karl Popper assumed that ‘democracy is just a system in which rulers are selected by competitive elections’ (1962: 124), and considered that this was the only system in which citizens can get rid of governments without bloodshed. In a similar vein, Norberto Bobbio asked: ‘what is democracy other than a set of rules […] for the solution of conflict without bloodshed?’ (1987: 156). In terms of what we have learned from Lincoln’s formula, one might say that all these attempts at defining democracy are not only in a procedural manner that elicits all references to its potential achievements other than

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assuring a rotation of those in functions of government, but they disregard the necessities of contemplating two fundamental elements of a dense concept. First, that democracy is a system of government by the people. Cynical readings of these procedural definitions have emphasized that they seek to guarantee that popular consent is necessarily sought by the elites, but that they need not be open and that opportunities to be chosen are left out of the scenario. Second, that the achievements of democracy in terms of its responsiveness to popular inclinations are also an important part of the fundamental character of such political systems. Further, strictly procedural definitions of democracy tend to place an enormous weight on the idea of holding elections – sometimes isolated from the rest of the political scenario in which they take place, and often devoid of some qualifying attributes that are important to ascertain that they are held under conditions of freedom, equality, fairness and inclusiveness. Terry Lynn Karl has called our attention to what she has designated the ‘electoral fallacy’ of those conceptions, consisting of an approach that privileges elections over other dimensions of democracy and ignore the degree to which this device can, in certain circumstances, exclude rather than include signif icant portions of the population from contesting for political power as well as separate them from the means of advancing and defending their interests, or may leave significant arenas of decision-making beyond the effective control of elected officials (Karl 1986). In fact, however central to democracy, elections must be qualified by a number of attributes, and placed in contexts, in order to guarantee the genuine expression of people’s sovereignty. It is widely acknowledged that even the most authoritarian regimes organize elections of some sort. Schumpeter’s idea of democracy as a mere method or institutional arrangement has itself a history as well as temporal and social limits, and it must be situated in the framework of a receptive social and political environment. Such a vision of democracy represents a caesura with the most common signifiers of democracy of the modern age, and echoes a ‘tradition of conservative critiques and reconceptualizations of democracy dating back at least to the early 19th century aiming at taming democracy’s transformative potential’ – all concerned that the people who would be empowered by such a political regime lacked the basic capacities to engage responsibly and meaningfully in the life of the polis (Medearis 2001: 2-5). However, rather that throwing Schumpeter’s proposal away with the bath water, would it be possible to reconcile its achievements in terms of procedural and institutional analysis with broader meanings of democracy?

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Polyarchy In 1971, Robert Dahl advanced an important idea. Assuming the notion of democracy to be characterized by ‘the continuing responsiveness of the government to the preferences of its citizens, considered as political equals’ he reserves the use of this term ‘for a political system one of the characteristics of which is the quality of being completely or almost completely responsive to all its citizens’ (1971: 1-2). Democracy remains therefore an ideal that incorporates a prescriptive element in its own definition, and which responds to Lincoln’s third element: government for the people. In order to gauge the extent to which real-world political systems fulfil the conditions that would allow one of them to be a perfect democracy, Dahl proposes a neologism that has since become current in the literature: polyarchy. This notion might be envisaged as summing the political and institutional conditions that must prevail in a given society for its political system to aspire to a democratic performance, that is, the necessary – though may be not sufficient – conditions for democracy to thrive. This approach elaborates on the procedural analysis developed in the wake of Schumpeter, but unlike the majority of the writers who proposed them as concepts of democracy, Dahl is more modest and states that democracy is a polyarchy (which can actually be measured by objective benchmarks) with something else that eludes this form of comprehension as it requires an appraisive element. Polyarchy is therefore not a substitute for democracy. ‘It is important to maintain the distinction between democracy as an ideal system and the institutional arrangements that have come to be regarded as a kind of imperfect approximation of an ideal’ (1971: 9). Polyarchy is based on the existence of two different theoretical dimensions in a given political system: first, regimes vary in ‘the extent of permissible opposition, public contestation, or political competition’ (1971: 4). The right to opposition is therefore one of the basic elements of a polyarchy, and variations in this index will impact on the quality of its performance. Secondly, regimes also vary in the ‘proportion of the population entitled to participate on a more or less equal plane in controlling and contesting the conduct of government’ (1971: 4), and regimes may be classified according to the degree of inclusiveness which they accord to their citizens. Although in the best solutions both these principles coexist in a given political system, historically they have evolved independently, and have manifested themselves in rather different ways. In Switzerland, for instance, for over a century citizens are frequently called to the polls to vote in referendums, which would indicate a high level of popular participation.

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However, women only acquired voting rights in 1971, thus forcing us to qualify its success in this regard, as half of the population has long been excluded from participation. In the USSR and the Eastern Bloc countries during the Cold War, universal suffrage was implemented (granting the basis for extensive popular participation), but public contestation was severely restricted. In most liberal regimes of 19th-century Europe, free contestation went hand in hand with severe restrictions to electoral rights. For Robert Dahl, the two fundamental principles of polyarchy can be translated into eight institutional guarantees that must all be positively answered if a polity is to be classified as such. However, the formulation of these conditions is not formatted in specific rules that would have universal validity, but remain as general guidelines capable of being tailored to actual instances of real-world democracies. These features also respond to three enabling conditions which reveal the extent to which citizens dispose of unimpaired opportunities as morally equal individuals to formulate their own preferences, to signify those preferences to their fellow citizens and the government either by means of individual action or through collective action, and to have their preferences weighted equally in the conduct of government without any form of discrimination (1971: 2). Those eight cardinal conditions are: (1) freedom to form and join organizations; (2) freedom of expression; (3) right to vote; (4) eligibility for public office; (5) right of political leaders to compete for support; (6) alternative sources of information; (7) free and fair elections; and (8) institutions for making governmental policies depend on votes and other expressions of preference (1971: 3). I would like to call the readers attention to the underlying assumption that individual preferences are formulated in an institutional environment of freedom (conditions (1), (2) and (6)) and moral equality (conditions (3), (4) and (7)). Also, the final condition is that democratic procedures must be consequential, that is, the results thereof must be binding and fully translated into political options. In this light, much was gained from Dahl’s approach. Although Dahl does not posit that the organs of power must be diversified, or more precisely, comply with the tripartite division of power, or that time limitations on mandates are necessary, the etymology of his neologism – conceived as an antonym to the well-established ‘monarchy’ (without implying that these can never be democratic) – suggests that limited power is an underlying condition to be observed. In fact, the etymology of polyarchy brings together two Greek words, polys (many) and arkeion (to rule), or the rule by many. This means that multiple and overlapping hierarchies of power contribute to ensuring pluralism as no single elite is allowed to monopolize power, and thus guarantee a quantum of democracy (Maier 1992: 148).

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Elaborating on this proposal, Philippe Schmitter and Terry Lynn Karl suggested that two further elements be considered, one representing a refinement of condition (1), while the second might be conceived as a precondition to the whole set proposed by Dahl. In the first place, ‘popularly elected officials must be able to exercise their constitutional powers without being subjected to overriding (albeit informal) opposition from unelected officials’ (1991: 70). This new element also reinforces Dahl’s condition (8) and makes it more explicit that democratic procedures need be consequential. In fact, Colin Crouch (2004) has strongly argued that in a growing number of apparently democratic polities elected offices and elites are being captured by interests that have not undergone the trial of public deliberation, casting a dark shadow on the efficacy of the established procedures to deliver results according to the popularly expressed views – a trend he conceptualizes under the notion of ‘post-democracy’. Secondly, ‘the polity must be self-governing: it must be able to act independently of constraints imposed by some other overarching political system’ (1991: 71). We have already seen above that real independence of the modern state is a condition for democracy, and this new element makes that principle explicit when assessing the extent to which a given polity may or may not be considered a democracy. Schmitter and Karl further elaborate on two different aspects: on the one hand, they consider differentiation which is internal to democratic states; on the other, they consider what democracy is not, in spite of the understandable temptation to load too many expectations on this concept. In fact, in line with the modesty requirement that I have adopted in my search for an operational definition of democracy, they claim: Democratization will not necessarily bring in its wake economic growth, social peace, administrative efficiency, political harmony, free markets, or the ‘end of ideology’. Least of all will it bring about ‘the end of history’. […] Instead, what we would be hoping for is the emergence of political institutions that can peacefully compete to form governments and influence public policy, that can channel social and economic conflicts through regular procedures and that have sufficient linkages to civil society to represent their constituencies and commit them to collective courses of action. (Schmitter and Karl 1991: 73)

The nine constitutive elements of polyarchy presented above can thus be regarded as the institutional minimum that sustains an empirical definition of democracy. They will be used in my attempt to respond to the question of ascertaining whether Timor-Leste is a democracy.

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Moving beyond procedures: An ethos for democracy This sort of approach was further developed by Giovanni Sartori in what has become the standard text for the empirical theory of democracy. Today, he writes, [W]e are all highly sensitized to the hiatus between the ideal and the real [notions of democracy]. By and large, the normative theory applies to, and elaborates on, the ideas and values of democracy. Whether or not it deliberately prescribes, it certainly ends up with a prescriptive definition. Conversely, the empirical theory applies to, and generalizes from, the facts: how democracies actually perform and what democracies are in the real world. Hence, the empirical theory ends up with descriptive definitions of democracy. (Sartori 1987: xi-xii)

However, Sartori immediately acknowledged that ‘those “facts” that display, to some degree, democratic properties are, in truth, patterns of behaviour shaped by ideals. The harsh observer of real-world democracies is observing in truth value-molded facts’ (1987: xii). This has led him to claim, as we have seen, that ‘what democracy is cannot be separated from what democracy should be’ (1987: 7). In this sense, an empirical theory of democracy, important as it may be in terms of facilitating our enquiry into the nature of a given political system, must not be understood as a replacement for a wider theory that encompasses both description and prescription, or put in other words, that contemplates democracy as an institutional system with an ethos. Sartori sums up his vision of modern real-world democracy in those words: Large-scale democracy is a procedure and/or a mechanism that: (a) generates an open polyarchy whose competition on the political market (b) attributes power to the people and (c) specifically enforces the responsiveness of the leaders to the led (1987: 156)

From this solid empirical basis Sartori goes on to argue that the next problem is that of ‘the furthering in the democratization of democracy’ (1987: 156) – a statement that seems equally apt to indicate a need to further elaborate the conceptual framework and to open the doors for real-world experiments. Boaventura de Sousa Santos (2002, 2005) has used the very same expression when conducting research on present-day social experiences, namely outside the industrialized world. This is a real problem which

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has been taken up by a host of other political theorists. The ‘democratization of democracy’, understood as a refinement in the conditions for classifying present-day real systems which may combine institutional features with prescriptive principles, is a vast subject that cannot fully be grasped here, as it derives from the reflexive and critical nature of human experiment. The 21st century will undoubtedly bring novelties both in social practices and in the realm of intellectual conceptualization – including the development of some traits that have already emerged but are not yet dominant in the political landscape. Those developments may in some cases be compatible with the extant institutions and will refine their ability to perform democratically. In some other instances they may posit the need to abandon current practices and institutions in favour of emerging ones that better respond to the normative values of democracy. However, at this specific point in time, we can assume that the elements mentioned so far are the best possible instrument to assess polyarchy at the start of the millennium – that is, a minimal quantum of democracy that is not limited in its possibilities and expressions by those benchmarks. Supporters and adversaries of democracy, no matter how vehemently they oppose each other and disagree as to the virtues and pitfalls of this form of political regime, tend to converge on the idea that the word they contend about implies some sort of conjugation of two terms – power and people. At the very root of all definitions of democracy, however refined or complex, sits the idea of popular power: ‘a situation in which power, and perhaps authority, rests with the people’ (Arblaster 2002: 9). In this light, the most radical of all political moves pertaining to the issue of democracy in the 20th century was undoubtedly the generalization of truly universal suffrage for all adults, which enfranchised in the very notion of ‘people’ the largest proportion of the human genre ever attained. This generalization occurred much later than is often supposed, as only a few odd examples predate the onset of the ‘third wave of democratization’ in the last quarter of the century. But once it was obtained, it created an altogether new setting for our problem. In the first place, democracy is the political regime that acknowledges the sovereignty of the people defined by the largest franchise of all adults. This acknowledgement is made real by the notion that ultimate power belongs to the people, that is, by virtue of empowering the people to exercise self-government. The exercise of popular self-government reposes on a double principle: that formal equality of opportunities is offered to all members of the community (normally via legal institutions that guarantee such equality), and that

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conditions are created for the largest number of citizens to be actually capable of taking those opportunities in order to express their interests and values. In other words, democracy implies that the instruments designed to offer a vehicle for the expression of the citizens’ choices to be fully comprehensible for those who use them, and that material conditions will be developed in order to remove all sorts of barriers that might exist between citizens and the fruition of their stipulated rights. It moves beyond strictly procedural artefacts and touches the very notion of what public policies are supposed to deliver: increased capacity to use the instruments of self-government. In sum, ascertaining whether or not a given set of institutions or public policies contribute to granting the rightful owners of political legitimacy increased capacity to make use of their rights to express interests and values – or simply put, to promote the empowerment of the citizens – is therefore the first element that pertains to the ethos of a democratic polity. In this light, one may consider that the verification of the principles of principal/agent theory be met in such a way as to guarantee the primacy of the collective will freely expressed. This is what ‘government of the people’ is supposed to mean. A polyarchy is, as we have seen, a neologism that means ‘the power of the many’ rather than the concentration of all power in a single person or institution. From here one may derive that democracy implies that each person will possess but limited power. Unlike the collective society, or ‘the people’, which is an abstract category entitled to possess sovereign powers in perpetuity, all power vested on individuals is limited by both by the powers bestowed upon other power-holders, and by time limits. The maxim ‘one person, one vote’ signifies precisely that each citizen disposes of a modicum of power which is limited by the fact that such a circumstance holds true for every other citizen. A democratic polity is characterized by the coexistence of a constellation of power loci. After the 18th century, the theory of tripartition of powers led to the emergence of independent legislative, executive and judiciary branches of governance, but one could also consider that the structuration of the state administration in superimposing levels from the local community to the regions and the central national, all of which ought to be directly or indirectly accountable to their citizens, offers another example of the necessary functional distribution of powers and their desirable balance. In order for the power to remain with the ‘people’, decisions that were agreed upon ex ante through a process of deliberation must be subject to the citizen’s ex post scrutiny, and the possibility that a change of opinion has occurred as a result of the direct experience of the effects of any given political decision must remain open. For this reason, agreement on the

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conditions for any public policy must be considered provisional, and time limited. A reversal of the citizens’ ruling may legitimately occur. Political mandates need be defined not only in their essential scope but also on the time dimension they imply. A final limitation on people’s power is that the agreed basic rights of citizens may not be overruled by simple majority decisions. They must respect established codes that guarantee equal rights for all citizens independently of their being part of the majority or, rather, of any minority. The third and final element that I will consider in my search for the structuring elements of a democratic ethos is the notion of control. It derives directly from the first two elements – popular sovereignty and limited nature of individual power – and articulates with the notion of accountability. Structures and institutions designed to perform in the political realm tend to absorb the capacity to make decisions that impact on citizens’ lives based on legitimacy principles that most often are of an indirect nature and do not derive effectively from the involvement of all the ‘people’. Citizens vested in political positions dispose of limited legitimacy – both in terms of its scope and its temporal dimension – and are subject to public scrutiny. Accountability operates horizontally when different organs of power exercise their independent but related functions. Parliaments, judicial institutions, governments, central banks, community leadership – all discharge precise functions that are monitored by some other organ whose mission is to ascertain whether those functions are being statutorily performed in accordance with the established rules. Every single institution is under control by some other(s). Pedro Bacelar de Vasconcelos (1996) has elaborated on the juridical control of public power as a critical feature of democratic regimes. But political mechanisms of checks and balances are also supposed to operate in democratic polities. More important for the ethos of democracy is to guarantee that vertical accountability takes place and that ‘the people’ retain the capacity of controlling the performance of power-holders in order to safeguard their sovereignty. This implies that political decisions be made in the public arena and that conditions exist (for instance, though the means of independent and free media) for their critical scrutiny. In sum, democracy may be framed as the regime of the people’s sovereignty exercised through limited forms of power-holding subject to citizens’ control. Empowering ‘the people’ by means of guaranteeing both formal equality rights and material conditions permitting an active participation in the life of the polis and granting them the right to control political decisions are therefore at the heart of the democratic ethos.

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Is Timor-Leste a democracy? Earlier parts of this chapter have dealt with issues of sketching the lineages and configurations that democracy exhibits as a vivid concept at the beginning of the 21st century. Time has come to reflect upon the empirical reality of Timor-Leste in the light of the previous discussion, and to come to terms with the problem of ascertaining whether the country merits to be classified as a democracy. Comparative political literature offers two basic avenues to deal with this question. The first is to rely on ‘democracy indices’ that have been proposed over the years by a myriad of entities. Joe Foweraker and Roman Krznaric surveyed ‘45 existing studies that provide explicit or implicit measures of democratic performance’ (2000: 761). Democracy indices of this nature are useful tools for comparative analysis, and within a certain degree of confidence, they offer a starting point for deeper analyses. However, they share serious conceptual problems. Although the most popular indices (Freedom House, Polity IV, The Economist Intelligence Unit’s Index of Democracy) yield a positive image of Timor-Leste as pertaining to the realm of democracies (or at least, as a non-authoritarian state), they will not be considered in detail in this book for reasons pertaining to the significant shortcomings involved in the use of such indices. The second avenue consists of using empirical definitions of democracy and applying them to specific cases. There is no shortage of choices in this field, and the exercise could be almost endless. In the present context, an approach will be followed that consists of a personal application of two empirical definitions to the case of TimorLeste, keeping in line with what has been established in earlier parts of the chapter. This will be followed by a short discussion of the ‘democratic ethos’ whose importance to the comprehension of a democratic regime has already been highlighted. Applying standard definitions of democracy For the purpose of ascertaining whether Timor-Leste is indeed a democracy, we shall now consider two sets of criteria that have been proposed, the first one by Cheibub, Alvarez, Limongi and Przeworski (1996a), the second one emerging from Schmitter and Karl (1991), as discussed earlier. Cheibub and his colleagues have proposed a minimalist set of criteria in order to facilitate the classification of political regimes, arguing that what is really ‘essential to consider a regime as democratic is that two kinds of

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offices are filled, directly or indirectly, by elections – the chief executive office and the seats in the effective legislative body – and that the office holders are responsible only to the electors, and not to any non-elected powers’ (1996: 5). As such, a test has to be passed, consisting of four questions (see also Cheibub, Gandhi and Vreeland 2010: 69). This model has been praised by Munck and Verkuilen as being ‘particularly insightful selecting indicators and especially clear and detailed concerning coding rules’ (2002: 27), although the reliance on electoral issues can be regarded as too short an approach to the full dimension of democracy (Hadenius and Teorell 2005: 22). We take all four questions in turn: (1) The chief executive must be chosen by popular election or by a body that was itself popularly elected. The case of Timor-Leste responds positively to this criterion, whether one considers the chief executive to be the President of the Republic – elected by direct universal suffrage – or the prime minister, who is responsible before the elected parliament. (2) The legislature must be popularly elected. The National Parliament of Timor-Leste after 2007 has been directly elected through universal suffrage. (3) There must be more than one party competing in the elections. In all legislative elections not only there were more than one party competing but also a significant number of parties managed to elect members of the National Parliament. In presidential elections, which require particular arrangements in order to permit that candidates do not need the endorsement of political parties, freedom to stand as a candidate was always granted. (4) An alternation in power under electoral rules identical to the ones that brought the incumbent to office must have taken place. This criterion requires particular attention in the case of Timor-Leste, as the elections that took place just before the proclamation on independence were fought under UN sponsored laws that were subsequently amended. In presidential elections, each one of the three elections produced a different winner, and in 2012 the incumbent was defeated at the polls. As for the

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legislative elections, in 2007 the governing party was ousted from power although it polled the plurality of the vote (but was unable to generate a majoritarian support basis in parliament). Five years later, in 2012, the ruling coalition suffered a significant alteration, as the party of the prime minister gained several seats at the expense of some of his coalition partners who were evicted from parliament (and therefore from government). In these terms, it is possible to argue that not only one but actually two alternations of power have taken place. Summing up, and according to the model under review, Timor-Leste successfully passes the test of democracy as it meets the requirements of all four rules. Schmitter and Karl propose a more elaborate set of criteria, based on Dahl’s original listing of eight definitional elements, refined to produce a nine items checklist (1991: 251). As referred to above, this remains a fundamentally procedural approach, but one that is sufficiently rich to overcome basic fallacies. Let’s consider all nine items in turn: (1) Control of government decisions about policy is constitutionally vested in public officials. Timor-Leste responds positively to this criterion, as the executive branch is constitutionally responsible before elected officials. (2) Elected officials are chosen in frequent and fairly conducted elections in which coercion is comparatively uncommon. Elections are held for the legislature and the presidency every five years, and the historical record reveals that they have been widely regarded as free and fair. (3) Practically all adults have the right to vote in the elections of officials. Timor-Leste uses universal suffrage with the widest possible franchise of men and women aged 17 and above. (4) Practically all adults have the right to run for elective offices. Active and passive electoral capacity is a general rule. Only in presidential elections is the passive electoral capacity restricted to electors above the age of 35, a point that does not distort the general rule.

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(5) Citizens have the right to express themselves without the danger of severe punishment on political matters broadly defined. Civil liberties are generally respected, and no case of ‘severe punishment’ is known to have occurred. (6) Citizens have the right to seek alternative sources of information. Moreover, alternative sources of information exist and are protected by law. Political campaigning is free offering the means to disseminate different points of view, during electoral periods and at any other time. Public funds are available for electoral campaigning. The media are pluralistic, and public media offer wide coverage of competing agendas. There are both public and private media competing for coverage of events. (7) Citizens also have the right to form relatively independent associations or organizations, including independent political parties and interest groups. This is indeed the case in Timor-Leste, where the political parties legislation is fairly liberal, and where public funds for political campaigning are made available to all candidates. Freedom of demonstration is also granted, and the possibility of setting up organizations in defence of particular interests is constitutionally granted. (8) Popularly elected officials must be able to exercise their constitutional powers without being subjected to overriding (albeit informal) opposition from unelected officials. In Timor-Leste neither the military nor a powerful civil service – the most obvious candidates for such an endeavour – have captured the political system, and elected officials do possess the means to exercise their mandate without undue tutelage. (9) The polity must be self-governing: it must be able to act independently of constraints imposed by some other overarching political system. After traumatic experiences with Portuguese colonialism, Indonesian neocolonialism, and the UN ‘benign’ protectorate, Timor-Leste has achieved

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political independence and is reasonably free from external arrangements that might constrict its own capacity to ensure that popular sovereignty is effective exercised. Although for the duration of the period considered in this book the UN and the international community did maintain a significant presence in the territory – one that on matters of security extended beyond mere advisory functions and assumed executive form – their eventual withdrawal on the last day of 2012 heralded a new phase in the life of the young nation, one that is grounded on the historical demonstration of capacity for self-rule. A positive response to every one of these nine conditions signifies that Timor-Leste is in a position to claim the unqualified status of a democratic polity under the more stringent model proposed by Schmitter and Karl on the basis of the original suggestion by Dahl. Both models put to the test converge in pointing out the same conclusion. However, we may be ambitious and try yet another step: to approach the ethos of the political system as it is performing in Timor-Leste. Reflecting on democracy in Timor-Leste In an earlier section of this chapter, I have argued that in order to ascertain whether a given political regime can be considered a democracy one has to grasp its ethos. In short, one has to ascertain whether the political regime under scrutiny does or does not contribute to empowering the citizenry to exercise the constitutional right to sovereignty by means of offering them effective means of control over those who happen to be in positions of power. This is the reason why there are stringent criteria to analyze both freedom and equality, which represent sine qua non conditions for a democratic polity. On the other hand, the regime must also respond positively to the request of granting the citizenry effective control over the political process. There seem to be two ways to ensure the control of these in power. First, there is the juridical control implicit in a constitutional state under the rule of law (Vasconcelos 1996). As far as the citizenry are concerned, this is an indirect form of control, but an essential one for the determination of the regime’s own ethos. On this count, Timor-Leste has to be credited with a reasonably efficient constitutional rule, which has been used to curb excesses of the executive branch in several instances along the ten years under consideration. There are several examples of legislative proposals that the President of the Republic decided to submit to the constitutional court that were subsequently declared in contravention to the fundamental law of the land, and therefore returned without promulgation.

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As far as the role of the judicial branch is concerned, one has to admit that this remains an underdeveloped corps of the state, and that a significant effort is required to clarify the realm of traditional and modern forms of justice administration (both clearly contemplated in the constitution), as well as to strengthen the administrative capacity of the formal courts of law and their ability to deliver a modicum of justice. The contentious issue of guaranteeing that Timorese nationals effectively occupy the most relevant positions in this branch of governance is a clear sign of the hurdles that the affirmation of national sovereignty still needs to overcome. In spite of this asynchronous rhythm of state-building which renders the judicial system weak in comparison to other state organs, evidence exists that, in the period under analysis, it did perform according to basic tenets of independence. One striking example is the sentencing of former Minister of Justice Lucia Lobato on charges of corruption few months after stepping down from government, even if the prime minister at the time of conviction was the very same person who headed the government of which she was a part – and this has already been replicated in other cases which reveal a fair amount of judicial independence. Horizontal accountability and its correlate inter-institutional control does also include purely political mechanisms. In Timor-Leste, apart from the fact that the National Parliament exerts political control over the government, which must obtain at least its acquiescence to remain in power, and which responds frequently to MPs free questions, the system contemplates one further element: the active role of the President of the Republic, as is typical of a semi-presidential regime. Regardless of the actual competences of the President of the Republic, this political figure has a very high popular standing in a society in which patriarchal values and notions of personal authority are outstanding. In this light, it is critically important to notice that in three different elections the Timorese have elected three different presidents. This is a significant example of the power of popular voice being institutionally translated. A more direct approach to the idea of control is thus offered by the electoral process. Does it actually reveal that the citizens make their choices and that those are effectively translated in public policies? The answer to this question is facilitated by the use of the principal-agent model. Take, for instance, the critical issue of the major political crisis that rocked the foundations of the new state in 2006. At the height of the crisis, a provisional solution was found based on the survival of the extant National Parliament’s composition, with a change of prime minister and some cabinet members. This solution, which involved negotiations among the elite without

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recurring to the electorate, was deemed sufficient only to re-establish a situation in which democratic elections could be envisaged – and elections were duly organized in 2007. From those highly participated polls resulted the election of a new President of the Republic, soon followed by the election of a different parliamentary majority. The National Parliament itself became the locus for further negotiations, as no party secured an overall majority, but the solution that was eventually found corresponded to the political desire for political change expressed by the electorate. The outcome of the 2007 electoral cycle was the establishment of a new government, which has endured for five years and has been credited with a different approach to the momentous issues facing the country. In this context, the fact of returning the voice to the citizens represents the bedrock upon which a durable solution to the crisis could emerge. Again in 2012 the electorate was called to make critical decisions. The popularity of the prime minister was rewarded with an increase of the vote in his own party, at the same time that some of his coalition partners, publicly regarded as faulty in their action as members of government – like the case of the Minister of Justice referred to above – were severely punished (in this case, her political party was wiped out of parliament). This seems to indicate that the citizenry has been closely attached to the changes that have occurred in Timorese political life, rooting the regime in popular consent expressed regularly in a free and fair manner. The extent to which one can generalize that popular participation is critical for the definition of the Timorese regime needs to be asserted. In fact, this statement holds true for the national level of policy-making, leaving in the shadow sub-national levels of governance that are nevertheless enshrined in the constitution. Local communities have been called to choose their leaders, and they have responded to the challenge by returning in very large numbers to the polling stations. However, local community leaders are not regarded as members of the state administration – only as legal representatives capable of advocating the interests of their fellow countrymen without actually being able to make binding decisions on most relevant issues, namely those which imply the manipulation of public funds. In this sense, local communities are not really empowered to self-rule, and the election of leaders does not fill the necessary gap that exists between the state administration and customary rule. It can, and perhaps should, be regarded as a positive step in the route towards the establishment of a multi-tiered public administration as contemplated in the constitution, but so far it has fallen short of the goal.

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Summing up: the political regime in place in Timor-Leste does seem to respond positively to the double process of accountability: horizontal accountability, especially as expressed by the juridical control of public power, but also in the political mechanism of checks and balances of which the semi-presidential system of government is a major feature; and vertical accountability, in the sense of effectively granting the control of public policy to regular, free and fair consultations of the citizenry as a whole. Popular control over the political process seems therefore to be established, at least as far as its roots are concerned. This conclusion – which does not pretend to overcome serious shortcomings and deficiencies, and different opinions on the whole process – permits the affirmation that Timor-Leste, as of the end of 2012, deserves to be considered a democratic country. The remainder of the present book is dedicated to discussing how this has been made possible, and what hurdles have been and still are on the road to achieving a full democracy with improved quality.

2

Assessing the odds Could Timor-Leste become a democracy?

Oslo, Norway, 10 December 1996. In his acceptance speech of the Nobel Peace Prize that had been bestowed upon him and the Roman Catholic Bishop of Dili, Dom Carlos Ximenes Belo, José Ramos-Horta publicly reiterated the Timorese Resistance plan for the territory agreed a few years before which envisaged a three-step process lasting up to 12 years before the issue of self-determination would be directly addressed, and added some elements of their common ‘vision for our country’s future’ should the option for independence prevail, including: ‘We will endeavour to build a strong democratic state based on the rule of law which must emanate from the will of the people expressed through free and democratic elections’ (RamosHorta 1996). Most observers considered this plan overoptimistic, and very few believed it would be taken as a realistic proposal in the near future. Breaking away from Indonesia was in itself a daunting goal, and building a democratic state perhaps an even more difficult ambition. Yet, three years after the Oslo ceremony, the optimistic proposal had been superseded by a rapid succession of events, and Indonesia had left the territory. One fundamental step had been taken. The Indonesian invasion of the former Portuguese Timor in 1975 had met no significant international resistance, and counted on the complacency if not outright support of major players, none of which ever recognized the short-lived unilateral proclamation of independence staged by one of the nationalist forces, FRETILIN (Fernandes, 2011). Portugal had not relinquished its official status as ‘administering power of a non-autonomous territory’ and deployed efforts to keep the issue of an effective process of self-determination in Timor alive at the United Nations, refusing to accept the fait accompli. But realpolitik at the time of the Cold War – in which the invasion of the eastern part of Timor was but ‘a mere footnote’ (Ramos-Horta 1996) – left an exiguous room for manoeuvre, and the issue was last brought before the UN General Assembly – where Indonesian positions were gaining ground – in 1982. Only the Security Council and the Secretary-General remained active (but not much) in this respect (Carey 2008). The ‘pebble in the shoe’ that haunted Indonesian Foreign Minister Ali Alatas (1988-1999) started to grow visible in 1989 when the visit of Pope John Paul II ‘put this little country back on the map’ (Belo 2011) by providing coverage to demonstrations that signified wide-ranging Timorese opposition

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to Indonesian rule. In November 1991, Max Stahl’s film footage of the Santa Cruz massacre was broadcasted worldwide to audiences increasingly focused on issues of human rights abuses and ready to accept that the end of the Cold War should bring changes on both sides. This was perhaps the moment when the tide really changed (Alatas 2006), and the Oslo ceremony was a high point demonstrating that in five years Timor had become a cause célèbre in the new world public opinion, if not sufficiently powerful to affect the fate of its people. It would take the severe financial crisis of 1997 and its dire consequences to shake the roots of Indonesian authoritarian regime, and the eventual downfall of Suharto (1998), for significant events to knock at the Timorese people’s door. The new President, B.J. Habibie, signalled an overture that eventually led to an agreement between the Republic of Indonesia and Portugal (acting in close coordination with the Timorese Resistance), signed in New York on 5 May 1999, which paved the way for the staging of a self-determination referendum on the future of the eastern part of Timor island. On 30 August 1999 the Timorese were called to the polls to vote in a UN-sponsored ‘public consultation’ and overwhelmingly rejected an offer for extended autonomy inside the Indonesian Republic thus opening up doors for their own independence. The moment came after a period of transitional administration by the UN officially devoted to lay the foundations for the independence of the new nation, namely building a basic state administration, and the establishing the bedrocks of a democratic polity. On 20 May 2002, Timor-Leste emerged as an independent country and was also hailed as a success in ‘democracy-building’. The second step was taken. As Guillermo O’Donnell has argued, the installation of democratically elected authorities in a country having a previous experience of authoritarianism generally opens the way for a process that is often longer and more complex than the initial transition, for it implies not only the establishment of a government but of an institutionalized, consolidated democratic regime the crucial element of which is the success obtained in ‘building a set of institutions that become important decisional points in the flow of political power’ (O’Donnell 1994: 56). Was Timor-Leste prepared to accept and develop a democratic regime? After an initial impulse to design democratic institutions, was the country capable of sustaining the continuous effort it takes to root them in the social and political landscape? To assess the chances of survival of the Timorese democracy at the time of its inception requires that we turn our focus to the moment when the process was initiated (say, the period of UN provisional administration) and ask what was it that made democracy both possible and limited in

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its scope? What were the factors that supported or represented obstacles to democratization? How did they interact? What choices proved to be adequate? Our quest now is not so much for the history of the moment when the installation of an elected president and government signalled a democratic polity was born, nor why democracy was actually chosen from a set of alternatives. Rather, it takes those historical facts for granted and purports to see the conditions under which democracy was to live, assuming that the circumstances or causes that sustain a democracy need not be the same as those that favour its birth (Rustow 1970: 3). In other words, this exercise is not about ‘preconditions’ (which entail a strong causality model and focus attention on potentially positive elements) that would explain the birth and development of democracy. Such an approach, as Albert O. Hirschman has argued (1963: 6), might well turn into an endless spiral search for ever more numerous prerequisites ending up by showing that the emergence of an actual democracy would paradoxically be impossible. This is not equivalent to denying that elements exist that should be transferred from ‘the quiescent state of preconditions to that of active elements of the process’, to quote Rustow once again. It is about understanding the broad landscape of favourable and adverse elements that combined to form a unique environment to which Timorese citizens had to adapt in order to successfully consolidate their experiment with democracy. As Lipset has argued in his seminal piece, once having arisen for whatever unique historical reasons – as was the case in Timor-Leste – ‘a political form may persist under conditions normally adverse to the emergence of that form’ (Lipset 1960: 28). Our task is to understand those conditions and analyze the decisions that were taken with the aim of favouring democratic development. In order to address in a systematic way these problems, I propose to use dynamic SWOT analysis in this section.

On dynamic SWOT analysis and its application Dynamic SWOT analysis is a heuristic device originated in the world of business organizations based on the idea of open cognitive systems and structures for the development and formation of pertinent knowledge mainly in the domain of strategic planning (Dealtry 1992). It is a tool devised to contribute to the analysis of critical factors of a market, industry or corporation and evaluate the ways in which a given actor can build comparative advantage in order to ultimately improve its level of performance in competitive contexts (Porter 1985). Over the years, it has expanded to

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other areas in which strategic planning is necessary, like territorial public policies, given its adaptability to situations that require a structured and comprehensive analysis to sustain a programme of action. In fact, the basic assumption of dynamic SWOT analysis is that strategic planning or any other form of purposeful action is largely case-specific and can be enhanced by a tool that articulates clear diagnosis with the design of the solution. As such, the analysis of a given design for a programme of democratization and the performance of the resulting institutional provisions seem to meet the requirements for a genuine application of this device in political analysis. Dynamic SWOT analysis in a typical business or policy-design environment contemplates four steps: situation analysis and diagnosis; formulation of proposed actions; implementation of development programmes; and monitoring the results. A political analysis of a given historical situation like the one proposed here will tend to place a great emphasis on an ex post diagnosis of the situation as it existed at the starting point (i.e., TimorLeste in 1999); on an evaluation of the programme actually conceived and deployed in close relation to the previous diagnosis in order to ascertain its adequacy (the UN administration and the institutional provisions stemming from the adoption of a constitution for the new country); and finally it should monitor the narrative of its historical implementation in the light of the diagnosis obtained in the first step of the analytical process. In order to frame a comprehensive and structured diagnosis, dynamic SWOT analysis uses a matrix composed of two pairs of categories. One pair focuses on internal features which are divided into positive and negative. Those positive characteristics that pertain to the internal realm of the situation under consideration are called Strengths, whereas those reputed to be negative are labelled Weaknesses. Take as an example an exercise based on a fictional wine which we shall call here ‘Blue Wine’. One could say that this was a well-known wine reputed for its unique features that clearly distinguish it from others (which its odd colour designation symbolizes here). Its ‘uniqueness’ could be regarded as a Strength given that it is an internal feature of such product with positive effects in its position regarding competitors. International fame is a corollary of this feature. However, this wine grows in a region of steep mountain slopes that renders mechanization very difficult, and imply a degree of manpower that is responsible for high production costs. Again, this is an internal feature which represents a negative aspect of this wine’s capacity to compete with rival products, and is thus regarded as a Weakness. The second pair of features are external, that is, derive from the environment in which the unit of analysis is immersed. If one salient feature of this

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environment is perceived as representing a positive contribution to the defined goals, it will be labelled as an Opportunity. Following our example of ‘Blue Wine’, an international commercial agreement that eliminates taxes on wine sales can be understood as creating a positive situation for the expansion of overall wine consumption. On the other hand, if this process of liberalization of wine trade is accompanied by a deregulation of intellectual property rights that would allow others to produce and market a product very similar to ‘Blue Wine’ which would be directed at the same target consumers, then we would be before a negative feature of the situation which would then be called a Threat. The acronym is thus explained. Basically, SWOT analysis structures diagnoses using this framing matrix, which can subsequently be expanded dynamically. Where Strengths and Opportunities meet, one has a competitive advantage; where Strengths and Threats interrelate, one can speak of defence capacities. On the other hand, the confluence of Weaknesses with Opportunities defines a field of necessary reorientation; and finally Weaknesses and Threats combine in defining vulnerabilities. A diagnosis that encompasses all these elements can be used to sustain an action programme which will contemplate two basic elements: one implying conversion strategies (of Weaknesses into Strengths, and Threats into Opportunities), the other one matching strategies to marry Strengths with Opportunities. In very broad and general terms, those strategies should aim at (a) building on Strengths; (b) eliminating Weaknesses; (c) exploiting Opportunities; and (d) mitigating the effect of Threats. For the purposes that concern us, that is, to examine in detail the experience of Timor-Leste with democratization, dynamic SWOT analysis can be a helpful tool. As has been stated before, the underlying approach to democratization stems from the consideration that this a ‘complex, longterm, dynamic and open-ended process’ which is tributary to a notion of democracy that in itself is contextually variable, one which carries a great deal of historical baggage with it (Whitehead 2002a: 26-28). This approach stems from the consideration of the paramount importance of human agency and its contingency does not rule out that general traits common to some historical processes may exist (which a careful comparative approach may highlight and allow for some kind of general inferences), but rather implies the importance of adequately contextualizing historical cases without a priori assumptions of a single path or necessary outcome to sustain a credible narrative. In this context, and having in mind the need to frame our inquiry in a comparative perspective that takes into account theoretical advances and open questions in studies of democratization,

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the importance of the initial step of elaborating sound diagnosis of the situation on the ground becomes paramount. In fact, I am positing here that a successful democratization process is one that adequately responds to the goals it has set through the ways in which it adequately (or not) acts upon case-specific historical situations and manages to transform them in a positive manner. Two questions can thus be addressed through the use of SWOT analysis. The first one is the elaboration of a structured and comprehensive diagnosis. This fundamental step will have to consider simultaneously the collection of empirical data and a theoretical frame that allows for the classification of each of its elements into a matrix. Theoretical considerations not only guide our search for empirical elements, they also inform the way in which their existence is valued and thus the place they will occupy in the SWOT matrix. This step will provide valuable pertinent knowledge to be used to discuss the prospects for democratization that were present at the onset of the process. In its basic form, this is a qualitative exercise, and the fact that one of the four boxes in the matrix has a greater number of elements does not necessarily mean that it outweighs those in the next one. The purpose of our study is not to elaborate a programme for action. Rather, it takes for granted that one such programme was actually conceived (regardless of the level of formality it assumed in the minds and hands of its proponents) and implemented. This can be regarded as historical evidence, since an articulate set of actions was actually deployed in the territory that achieved measurable results. What is required as a second stage of our endeavour is to make such an implicit programme as explicit as possible and discuss the relations it bears with the issues detected in the diagnosis. This should be done not as a mere abstract exercise derived from a discussion of its intrinsic features (as would be the case should we be conceiving the programme) but rather grounded on the monitorization of its implementation, thus extending the realm of a typical fourth stage of SWOT back over the previous ones. It is thus the valuation of historical results – a stabilized but unconsolidated democracy – that guides our appraisal of the model and grounds whatever conclusions on its flaws and positive achievements we may find. A f inal note must be added to stress, again in line with Albert O. Hirschman’s cautious methodology, that ‘many among the conditions and attitudes that are widely considered as inimical to change have a hidden positive dimension’, and change would be ‘unintelligible and inconceivable’ unless we are ready to admit the ambivalent nature of the social phenomena under scrutiny (1963: 6). This means that once we take a decision to consider

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one given factor in one of the four cases of our matrix, this does not immediately exclude that it will overlap with another aspect considered in an adjacent case. Table 2.1 summarizes my diagnosis of the Timorese situation referring to the moment the country became independent, bearing in mind all factors that may be pertinent to an analysis of a democracy-building experiment. The attempt is made to provide a comprehensive picture, though not an exhaustive one. Table 2.1 Timor-Leste SWOT features Strengths

Weaknesses

National Unity and Identity Plural Nationalism Nationalist Narrative Democracy-leaning Leadership Size of the Country Free Constitution-making Natural Resources

Poverty ‘Oil Curse’ Embryonic State Colonial Legacy Repercussions of Authoritarianism Conflict Legacy Political Polarization Guerrilla Fighters Charismatic Leadership Rudimentary Political Parties Fragile Civil Society Ethno-linguistic Diversity Sizeable Displaced Population Financial Costs

Opportunities

Threats

Zeitgeist Democratic ‘Linkages’ Democracy Promotion International Aid International Oversight

Democratic Recession Regional Context Alternative Narratives Democratic Façade Regimes Pockets of Permissiveness International Agents Leviathan

Strengths National unity and identity Dankwart Rustow, in his seminal article that remains a major inspirational source for much of the work on democratic transitions, posits that there is only one background condition that must precede all other considerations

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about democratization: national unity. By this he means that ‘the vast majority of citizens in a democracy-to-be must have no doubt or mental reservation as to which political community it belongs to’, a condition that ‘is best fulfilled when national unity is accepted unthinkingly, is silently taken for granted’ (1970: 351). Being part of a relatively small island (15,000 square kilometres in all) whose population arrived in two waves – one over 40,000 years ago from Papua, the other about 3,500 BCE from Asia via Taiwan – that dispersed throughout the territory, Timor-Leste owes in part its unity and identity to the history of the colonial period. By the mid-19th century, Portuguese and Dutch colonial powers agreed on a partition of the island along borders that remain mostly stable to this day. Later in the century, the Portuguese initiated a new phase of their domination trying to guarantee territorial occupation in tune with modern concept of colonialism, although they remained attached to notions of indirect rule (Figueiredo 2011). Civilian efforts followed those of Catholic missions that had established in the territory for a long time, and grew identified with the Portuguese rule. Thus, Roman Catholic Church, Portuguese language and to an extent an indigenous lingua franca (Tetum Praça) were visible signs of a differentiated territory. This part of the island was spared integration into the recently independent Republic of Indonesia up to 1975, when it was invaded. Integration, however, maintained its colonial limits which were then transformed into those of the ‘27th Province’. No question subsisted about the territorial limits that offered so much ground for bitter contestation overlapping with democratization, nor about national identity (Whitehead 2001: 17). Benedict Anderson (1993) has argued that the incapacity of the Indonesians to absorb the eastern part of this island actually resulted from the very rapid development of Timorese nationalism in a particularly difficult situation. Against much of his anticipated relationships with the spread of print, rising literacy, capitalist development and ethnic uniformity, the Timorese from the east managed to ‘imagine’ themselves as a national unit as they were confronted not with ‘brethren’ but with a new colonizing power, this time endowed with mighty resources that were used for the better and the worse. This was a particularly strong experience which produced rapid, if non-anticipated, results in terms of reinforcing the east Timorese identity. If nationalism has been portrayed in Renan’s famous utterance as a ‘daily plebiscite’, the result of the one referendum organized in Timor in 1999 left no doubt as to the nature and intensity of a sentiment of both commonality and distinctiveness that pertained to the overwhelming majority of its

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population. Two examples illustrate this point. First, the Catholic Church, that had welcome the Indonesian invasion (led by a Catholic general) in fear of a radical independence in 1975, purportedly led by secular Marxists, was soon deeply transformed through a process of ‘timorization’ that was epitomized by the appointment in 1977 of the first indigenous bishop of Dili, Msgr Martinho da Costa Lopes (1918-1991). From an official following of roughly a quarter of the population, it expanded to over 90% in two decades, in line with an increased alignment with the most critical voices against the barbarous behaviour of the Indonesians, and a capacity to articulate the suffering of the people in a culturally unified manner. As João Frederico Boavida has keenly argued, this was a political rather than a purely religious statement (1993). The joint award of the Nobel Peace Prize to Bishop D. Carlos Ximenes Belo is a testimony to the increased importance and changed role of this institution, whose critical role in the process of producing a self-image of the people had been highlighted with the visit of Pope John Paul II in October 1989. Second, on an apparently more trivial tone, I have argued that the widespread adoption of ‘Portuguese names’ (a category that encompasses not only anthroponyms belonging to the legacy of the European presence in the island but also many others created ex novo and classified by the Timorese themselves as ‘Portuguese’) at a time when the use of that language was forbidden and actively persecuted reveals the extent to which they wished to use simple but highly symbolic gestures such as that of exhibiting one’s own name, to signify they were collectively different from the new rulers (Feijó 2010c). A polity existed in 1999 that subsumed ethno-linguistic diversity into a common territory with fixed and historically established boundaries. No internal secession or aspiration to external merger actually existed that might thwart the exercise of sovereignty – a condition that is presumed for a democracy to be possible (Coppedge, Gerring, Lindberg and Teorell 2012: 3). A stable nation thus existed with a strong sense of identity that could start a process of self-government. Plural nationalism Modern nationalism was born in the Portuguese Timor very soon after the 1974 Revolution in Lisbon. Within a month, the newly re-established freedom allowed Timorese to delve in their historical past in search of nationalist roots and voice their options by forming three different parties. The first to appear (11 May) was UDT (União Democrática Timorense [Timorese

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Democratic Union]) which stood for a short-term continuation of the association with Portugal in view of a middle to long-term independence. The second to be formed (20 May) was ASDT (Associação Social-Democrática Timorense [Timorese Social-Democratic Association]), a party that clearly stood for a short-term, negotiated independence. With the arrival in Dili of Timorese students who lived in Lisbon, this party took a swing to the left, and was transformed into FRETILIN (Frente Revolucionária de Timor-Leste Independente [Revolutionary Front for an Independent Timor-Leste]) (Hill 2002). APODETI (Associação Popular Democrática Timorense [Timorese Popular Democratic Association]), defending negotiation for the integration of the territory in neighbouring Indonesia was the third one (27 May). The example of the ‘Freedom Fighters’ of Portuguese Indian colonies (Goa, Damão and Diu) who had promoted links with the Indian Union, which eventually annexed those territories in 1961, was probably a source of inspiration, which did not preclude attempts to appropriate in its favour recent events like the Rebellion of Viqueque in 1959. Curiously, this party is supposed to have benefitted from the support of senior Portuguese officials (Hicks 2016). In the space of 18 months, much was to take place in Dili. First, UDT and FRETILIN made a pact in view of the upcoming negotiations with the Portuguese, since both espoused a claim for independence. However, this alliance was short-lived, and in August 1975 UDT staged a coup d’état in Dili in order to defeat FRETILIN – but lost the ensuing brief civil war, and moved to join forces with APODETI in claiming Indonesian intervention. FRETILIN was left alone as a pro-independence force, and eventually declared unilateral independence on 28 November 1975. Ten days later, Indonesia invaded the territory and stayed on for 24 years. In the early years, prominent members of both UDT and APODETI were given relevant public positions in the new regime, whereas FRETILIN took to the mountains where it started a guerrilla war that would be alive until the Indonesian withdrawal in 1999, coupled with the efforts of a diplomatic front active in the diaspora. The 24 years of Indonesian rule witnessed profound changes both in political and social terms. If those who opposed integration from the start were at some point confined to the mountains and weakened by massive violence, their struggle never subsided. On the other hand, the evolution of Indonesian rule would split those who had advocated it, and by the late 1990s UDT was again converted to independence. Important changes like the growth of urban population (Dili passed from 20,000 to well over 100,000 in a quarter of a century) or the rise of students as an important social group explain the emergence of contestation movements outside the traditional organized forces. This may have been further encouraged by two other factors. First, the Timorese Roman

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Catholic Church, which had been an ally of Indonesian integration out of ‘fear of communism’, slowly but soundly turned against those who were perpetrating barbaric acts of mass violence, and became a vocal supporter of different solutions for the national question. The other relevant fact was the decision taken in the mid 1980s by the Resistance leader Xanana Gusmão (followed by some other key figures like José Ramos-Horta, then the Resistance special representative abroad) to formally abandon FRETILIN, retaining the command of the guerrillas which were transformed in ‘national’ (rather than party) forces. This implied a lengthy reorganization process that came to its final form in 1998 when the CNRT (Conselho Nacional da Resistência Timorense [National Council of Timorese Resistance]) was formed, comprising the various branches of Timorese nationalism. FRETILIN and UDT joined forces with Catholic activists and students militants and several other political parties in an umbrella organization which had at its head Xanana Gusmão, then imprisoned in Cipinang. Twenty-five years after its first manifestations under freedom, Timorese nationalism had evolved significantly and was constituted by many different organizations and, more important, a vast array of public sectors with informal institutional characteristics. It did not speak for the whole of the population, as the Referendum made clear, but it commanded the support of a sizeable majority of the people. Scars of the civil war and the strife that followed the Indonesian occupation were not entirely healed. But peaceful coexistence among former foes, and respect for a plurality of views and political trajectories had given the first steps. Plurality is a key stone in the building of democracy. Unlike many postcolonial instances in which liberation forces had combined under a united front in which dissent was downplayed or even suppressed, and which in turn led to many cases of single-party or dominant-party rule after independence was achieved, Timor-Leste’s nationalist movement was representative of all major strands of society and contemplated organizational forms that respected pluralism and diversity. In a sense, it incorporated ‘entrenched and serious conflict’, an ingredient that Rustow (1970) considered indispensable to the genesis of democracy. This was perhaps its greatest strength. Nationalist narrative In spite of marked differences that enlivened the debate in the nationalist camp, a few traits were present that offered a sound basis for a nationalist narrative to emerge as a focal point of unity.

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First, Timorese nationalism revealed immense pride in the deep historical traditions of its people, dating back to precolonial times. Second, it acknowledged that the Portuguese colonial rule had exerted fundamental influence in the shaping of the current nation. Elements as different as the demarcation of borders (that were assumed to have created lasting impact on the partition of the island) or the diffusion of the Catholic faith can be viewed both as colonial legacies and constitutive elements of the new national consciousness and sense of identity. The role of the Portuguese language, regardless of a number of polemics that still surround it, has been consistently regarded as part of this positive legacy of the colonial period. Third, it assumed that the struggle against the illegal occupation between 1975 and 1999, formed by three resistance fronts (the Armed Front, the Clandestine Front and the Diplomatic Front), and embodied in such institutions as the National Council of Maubere Resistance (1987) and the National Council of Timorese Resistance (1998) legitimately expressed the will of the people. This third element is closely associated with a critical item in the democratic agenda: human rights. As the Indonesian occupation was rightly associated with gross violation of human rights, the struggle against the invaders was equated with a fight against those practices and the defence of policies based on the respect for fundamental human rights. These principles were to be enshrined in the new constitution, namely in the preamble and in sections such as the one that consecrates the Valorization of Resistance (Section 11). On another level, the creation of the Museum and Archive of the Resistance, in Dili, epitomizes the importance of the nationalist narrative in the creation of a deep sense of national unity. Conversely, different perceptions of the impact of this narrative in the management of the armed forces were the source of the most serious episode of political crisis in the country, in 2006. The nationalist narrative is important on two counts: for one, it contributes to the definition of the nation as opposed to foreigners. Considering that Timor-Leste occupies only half an island, this aspect deserves especial attention as it may be counter-opposed by narratives that equate the island’s division as a product of colonialism and introduces the issue of national borders with potential disruptive effects. On the other hand, the half-island is comprised of several ethno-linguistic groups, many of them having their own identitarian narratives that could challenge central issues of the constitution of the nation. The existence of a comprehensive nationalist narrative that does not discriminate against citizens but promotes their diverse contributions to the common cause is thus an important element in the stability of some prerequisites to democratic consolidation.

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Democracy-leaning leadership Adopting a perspective that stresses agency over structural determinism means that considerations regarding the political orientations of the leading elite assume a critical importance in democratization processes. It is not necessary to follow Dahl’s suggestion of an optimal path to a stable polyarchy, in which the rise of political competition precedes the expansion of participation so that the culture of democracy first takes root among a small elite before being diffused to the population at large as it becomes incorporated into electoral politics (Dahl 1971: 33-36), in order to sustain this view. Historically, decisions in favour of democracy result from the interplay of a great number of forces and ‘since precise terms must be negotiated and heavy risks with regard to the future are taken, a small circle of leaders is likely to play a disproportionate role’ (Rustow 1970: 356). It is therefore critical for democratic development and stabilization that a commitment to democratic values and rules be present among professional politicians. As a result of the historical evolution after 1974 sketched above, the leadership of the Timorese Resistance grouped under the umbrella of CNRT – which had at the time the clear supremacy among the country’s elites – broadly subscribed to democratic principles that were enshrined in their Magna Carta. Xanana’s decision to break away from a political party to embrace a nationalist posture that formally recognized the contribution of different strands of opinion ultimately resulted in the creation of a new Resistance organization based on democratic principles. Henri Myrttinen noticed that young members of the elite who grew up with increased literacy levels were socialized in the underground proindependence movements which were actively linked to the Indonesian students movements. For many of those youths, ‘the demands for ‘Free East Timor’ and ‘Demokrasi’ went hand-in-hand’ (Myrttinen 2006: 10). For older generations, it was the length of time a great number of them spent in countries with democratic regimes, where they had been welcomed and had found support for their cause, that produced a substantial impact. Australia, Portugal and New Zealand are but a few examples. Those who had sought shelter in former Portuguese colonies in Africa, mainly Mozambique, which also generously supported the liberation struggle, had witnessed the transformation of an autocratic, single-party regime into a democratic one with a considerable impact on the establishment of peace and growing living standards of the population – a movement that they could well project into their own country’s experience. Finally, world public opinion expressing concern for the atrocities in Timor and voicing support for a

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change of regime that would sustain human rights was mostly heard coming from democratic countries, even if relatively small and far away like the Republic of Ireland. All those factors played a role in inscribing democracy as a common narrative to the most important sectors of the local political elite. Size of the country There are at least three counts in which the size of Timor-Leste – a country of some 15,000 square kilometres and one million inhabitants – may be regarded as a positive factor in sustaining democracy. First, on a purely statistical note, Larry Diamond has found ‘a striking correlation between country size and regime type’. In fact, ‘countries with populations under one million are much more likely to be both democracies and liberal democracies’. Thirty per cent of countries with more than one million people are democracies, whereas that proportion rises to two-thirds in those that are smaller (Diamond 2002: 27). Second, Robert Dahl and Edward Tufte pioneered the debate on the relationship between the size of the political unit and its democratic achievements. Their conclusion being that ‘no single type or size of unit is optimal for achieving the twin goals of citizen effectiveness and systemic capacity’ and therefore ‘no single unit should be judged as optimal for democracy today’ (1974: 138), they nevertheless acknowledge that the nation-state is the required unit for ‘system capacity’. A relatively small nation-state can offer good grounds to develop the capacities to respond in a substantial manner to collective preferences – which are critical to the establishment of a democratic regime – namely where the development of nationalism ‘has helped to keep down severe conflicts of loyalties […] by means of a clear hierarchy of loyalties’ and the nation is generally held to be ‘the unit of ultimate loyalty’ (Dahl and Tufte 1974: 141). As such, the conflict with the principle of ‘citizen effectiveness’ (i.e., that which guarantees that citizens acting responsibly and competently fully control the decisions of their polity) is not eliminated but certainly reduced. A small nation-state is probably closer to its citizens, even at the top level of political authority, than a larger one, and offers more favourable conditions to build systemic capacity without undue pressures. Claude Ake has made a point along these lines, arguing from a critical standpoint that a large nation-state exhibits a tendency to focus on the creation of strong mechanisms of representative democracy to the detriment of other forms, namely participative democracy. Those other forms of democracy may find larger room for a multi-stranded

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version of the political regime in smaller countries whose institutions are less developed and where the urgency for representation is less acutely felt (Ake 1997: 267-268). The third reason bears a parallel with the one just discussed: in a small country, the impact of some economic and financial factors such as external aid or the exploitation of natural resources can be proportionally bigger than in a large one. Consider that foreign aid is reasonably inelastic and can be translated by a fixed amount of US dollars. The amount of milk per child that a thousand dollars buy in a country the size of Timor-Leste is larger than in, say, Mozambique. So the impact of a thousand dollars in aid to, say, the electoral process will be substantially greater in the smaller country. In a comparative way, the same amount of revenues from oil will impact the Timorese society much more significantly than if those were to be distributed to the enormous Indonesian population. In this sense, the effectiveness of a single dollar is greater where the size of the country is smaller, and when the availability of resources constitutes a challenge to democracy. On the whole, the small size of Timor-Leste may be counted as a propitious factor for democratic sustainability. Free constitution-making More than a formal legal document, constitutions are deemed to express a social contract that underlies the process of transition and later on, of democratic consolidation. They are distinguished from current legislative pieces by the combined fact that they cover in a comprehensive way the basic and fundamental issues of the legal organization of a polity and by being subject to more stringent amendment procedures with the aim of offering them greater stability. It is therefore very important to observe the mode in which constitutions come into being in new democracies. Jon Elster suggests that one may find eight different ‘modes of constitution-making’ (Elster 1997: 125-131), ranging from imposed (internally or externally) constitutions to models based on freely elected special assemblies. Historical examples encompass disparate examples like Chile, where the constitution was drafted by the authoritarian regime and its acceptance made a condition for the democratization process to begin, those of Spain and Poland, in which hard negotiations between the authoritarian regime and opposition forces conduced to a ‘pacted’ constitution, or that of Portugal, where a constituent assembly was freely and directly elected after the collapse of the previous regime. A distinct point seems to be the existence

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or not of imposed constraints. These may derive from diverse causes such as international agreements to put an end to conflict (like in Kosovo), conditionality clauses such as the ones laid out by the European Union for prospective candidates (quite influential in some Eastern European nations), or even military power in the aftermath of armed conflicts. The case of Timor-Leste offered prima facie excellent conditions to grant its people considerable freedom of choice as well as ownership of their constitution-making process. One part of the civil strife was soundly defeated in the 1999 Referendum and withdrew from the scene, leaving the field open for the supporters of independence to take central stage. There was no overt external conditionality attached to the process. The sole instance which might be regarded as a constraint was the fact that the UN assumed all powers in the transition period, that is, the time at which the constitution had to be drafted. That circumstance could signify that negotiations were eventually required on two counts: the procedures leading up to constitution-drafting, and the content of the constitutional provisions. In actual fact, the former instance became a contentious issue, as we shall see below in Chapter Three. On the whole, however, starting conditions were positively biased towards achieving a lasting social contract in an environment mostly devoid of imposing conditionalities. Natural resources One of the factors explaining much of the events that followed the opening of the self-determination process in 1974, namely the Indonesians’ decision to capture the territory and their subsequent efforts to obtain diplomatic coverage for that operation, transcends the alleged security problems and resides in the fact that the small island of Timor is rich in natural resources, especially in oil and gas. It is infamously known that the foreign ministers of Indonesia and Australia celebrated their diplomatic agreement over the fate of the territory while sipping champagne on board a plane flying over the rich oil fields of the Timor Sea (Fernandes 2011: 85). Income from oil and gas was not flowing to Timor-Leste at the time of the Referendum, nor in the first few years after the proclamation of independence. It took long and very hard negotiations between the new nation’s government and the Australian authorities before an agreement between the two countries could be reached in 2005 that enabled the start of the commercial exploitation of Timor’s oil fields. After that, the newly established Petroleum Fund grew from zero (in 2005) to an accumulated capitalized wealth of US$16.5 billion by the end of 2014 – and it provided

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generous funds for the state budget along those years. For comparative purposes, the amount kept in the fund corresponds roughly to ten annual state budgets. Abundant natural resources encourage forms of development, but are not per se inducive to democratic solutions. Rather, they tend to offer an important basis for established regimes – be they democratic or authoritarian – to sustain popular support by reinforcing their capacity to deploy public policies that address social needs. Having established a democratic form of government, Timor-Leste could anticipate that the exploitation of its natural resources would increase very significantly the new regime’s capacity to deliver political goods, that is, measures that address the fundamental expectations of its citizens, and thus contribute to equate ‘democracy’ with ‘prosperity’ and foster its consolidation. Rather than an argument in favour of a causal link between growing prosperity and the promotion of democracy, what is at stake in this heading is merely the intuitive propensity of increased and perceived prosperity to strengthen the legitimacy of the regime that is producing it. Fortunately, the Timorese regime that is being associated with new forms of wealth is a democratic one, and it is democracy that benefits from this association.

Weaknesses Poverty Ever since Seymour Martin Lipset’s seminal pieces (1959, 1960) proposed the basic tenets of the theory of modernization, it is widely assumed the existence of a positive correlation between the level of economic development of a given country and the likelihood that it will develop a democratic form of government. The established correlation is positive but not perfect as some developments in the real world (i.e., Latin America in the 1980s or the persistence of an authoritarian regime in Singapore) fail to adhere to the main expectations. There seems to be a general consistency of the theory, but not a consensus on what are the real mechanisms at work, as the causal sequences accounting for the persistent relation are poorly identified, together with the historical routes through which democratizing processes may evolve. It appears, though, that two extremes can be identified in a continuum: where low levels of economic development occur, the chances for democracy survival are limited; where high levels of development are present, the survival rate of democracies is high. In between those poles,

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one does not f ind a straight line, but rather an S-shaped curve whose precise form is influenced by a host of historical circumstances (Geddes 1999: 118). What can be extrapolated from the theory is not that high levels of economic development imply democratic transitions, but rather that countries in those circumstances that, by virtue of several factors, happen to be democratic have greater chances to remain so and defeat authoritarian attacks or temptations. In its broad outline, the modernizing theory echoes the predictions of Karl Marx, and also Lenin, who postulated that ‘bourgeois (censitarian) democracy’ is the tailor-made suit that best dresses the developed capitalist order – and that failing such development it would lack the structural conditions for survival. In this light, one can recall Rustow’s advice, according to which ‘[a]ny generic theory of democracy would do well to assume a two-way flow of causality, or some form of circular interaction between politics on the one hand and economic and social conditions on the other’ (Rustow 1970: 344). The second way to look at this problem is to consider the low development pole: poverty. As Ruschemeier and his colleagues (1992) have noticed, democracy is extremely rare in agrarian societies, or for that matter in what Rod Nixon has termed ‘neo-subsistance states’ (Nixon 2011). In fact, several authors have established that poverty (and poor economic performance) increases the likelihood of defeat of incumbent democracies where they exist, and also of authoritarian regimes finding grounds to thrive (Diamond, Linz and Lipset 1989). Timor-Leste was, in 1999, the poorest nation in Southeast Asia (at about US$500 for its GDP per capita), only faring better than some sub-Saharan countries in Africa. All were a great distance away from favourable grounds. It has been estimated that democracies are ‘almost certain to survive when per capita income rise above US$4,000’ (Przeworski, Alvarez, Cheibub and Limongi 2000: 273) – even if the ‘third wave of democratization’ has produced several examples quite below this magic line (Bermeo 2003b: 169). Poverty was thus a most important obstacle to overcome if democracy was to survive. The ‘oil curse’ Oil production is far from being an unqualified gift, as can be grasped from the famous words of a Venezuelan minister who labelled petroleum as ‘the devil’s excrement’. Not only can it produce significant distortions in a country’s economic structure, but oil production and democracy do not

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seem to be easy partners either. The World Bank list of the most affluent countries (measured in Geary-Khamis dollars) reveals that among the topten countries five are not democracies, and four of those (Qatar, Kuwait, Brunei and the United Arab Emirates) are oil-rich countries. OPEC, which is supposed to control over three-quarters of the world oil reserves, is not a nest for democracy either – from its current 12 members, only 1 (Ecuador) receives 3 points or less in the Freedom House rating, most being classified as countries that are ‘Not Free’. Of course, there are exceptions to the rule, as major democratic countries – like the United States or Norway – have not been affected by this ‘curse’, probably due to the previous existence of strongly rooted democratic institutions, and to the weight of the oil industry on the overall economy being smaller than in oil-dominated countries. The situation has been described as ‘the paradox of plenty’ inasmuch as countries with abundant resources, especially non-renewable energy sources, tend to have worse development outcomes than others endowed with fewer natural resources. A moderate effect of the ‘oil curse’ does not necessarily refer to the overall classification of regimes as democratic or not, but affects the regime’s ability to provide or enable the relevant factors that sustain democracy. The relationship between state and society can be significantly distorted in the sense of aggrandizing the size and the role of the state at the expense of the wealth of society. A tendency has been noted in the last half century for ‘underdeveloped’ nations to build fairly centralized states with expanded economic and social roles. Natural energy resources are critical elements of the wealth which is at some of those governments disposal. Control of the state itself thus becomes a fundamental means of wealth accumulation, putting enormous pressure on state employment and contracting to avoid illegitimate diversions of public funds and manipulation of state resources. Extended statism is fairly commonly associated with corruption and abuse of power as instruments of upward mobility, as well as more lenient forms of social engineering prompted by affluence. The critical point is that much depends on the state and who actually is in control – and this fact depresses society’s capacity to stand pressures from above. Larry Diamond claims that ‘this distorted relationship between state and society has been one of the fundamental causes of democratic breakdown in Africa and Asia following decolonization because it has generated many of the other factors superficially identified with democratic malfunctioning’ (1992b: 482), and he concludes: ‘Statism is uniquely toxic to democracy at low levels of development precisely because it places such a high premium on control of the state’ (1992b: 483). As such, this is an instance of alterations

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in the relationships between state and society in which economic growth and development fails to favour the emergence of factors conducive to democratic rule anticipated by the modernizing theory. It is by no means an unavoidable route, but it requires adequate consideration. Embryonic state Democracy is a form of organization of structured states and public administrations. Conceived in this way, democracy requires that state institutions be in place that can be modelled according to new precepts. This was not the case in Timor-Leste, where the sudden collapse of the Indonesian administration after 24 years implied that a gigantic effort in state-building be inscribed in the political agenda of the territory. Recent international interventions with the purpose of expanding democracy in critical areas of the globe, such as the Balkans or Indochina (Tansey 2009) could build upon pre-existing administrations, even if the nature of democratic power implied significant reforms. Other processes of independence, generally associated with the negotiated departure of colonial powers, also benefitted from the survival of critical elements of public administration. José RamosHorta acknowledged this fact when he testified before the National Council in the consultation process about the roadmap towards independence, in January 2001. His conclusion was that the democratizing process required an adequate time frame longer than other international experiences. The democratizing agenda was thus confronted with a competing effort dedicated to state-building. These need not be adversarial, but cannot escape the fact that competition for very scarce resources implied some form of compromise and accommodation through a complex negotiations. Democratization was not the sole goal of the process. Two aspects of this tension may be singled out. First, the collapse of the occupying administration did not entail the disappearance of local forms of political legitimacy that persisted during that period, and had concrete expressions mostly at the level of local communities. In this sense, the administrative ‘void’ of 1999 was not mirrored in the absence of traditional authority patterns. The state-building agenda was thus required to address the issue of ‘sustainability in the relationships between influential conceptions of traditional community and modern state institutions’ (Leach et al. 2013b: 4). Not only could this pose questions of possible centripetal forces operating to make the construction of a common house more difficult, but traditional conceptions of authority were not necessarily based on democratic principles of equality and fair representation. This creates a

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field of tension in the development of proper democratic institutions at regional and local levels, as we shall see in Chapter Six. The second consequence of the extreme breadth of the state-building agenda is the impossibility of creating the whole administrative structure in a short time span. Rather, this task requires a protracted time frame, in the course of which some instances take precedence over others. The different pace of institutional construction (say, for instance, of the judicial apparatus in its entirety, or the different rhythms of development that could be seen in the presidency, the parliament and the government) impact on the capacity of the different branches of the state administration to discharge their functions. As such, a major impact is to be expected on the balance of powers and the ability to fully exercise the competences each one has been assigned in the process of horizontal accountability. This probable impact on the ability to erect in the short term a system of genuine horizontal accountability in line with constitutional provisions represents a major challenge to the effective deployment of democratic control over power-holders. The embryonic state was therefore a critical element posing important challenges to the democratization agenda. Colonial legacy It is inescapable to consider that countries that experienced colonial status and exogenous influences have also differentiated historical records, as the colonizers adopted very different strategies with correlate diverse institutional frameworks and social outcomes. Early institutions tend to persist and contribute to formatting those of the present, and to the extent that institutions matter in processes of democratization, colonial legacies are relevant. As Acemoglu and his colleagues noticed, in one extreme we find cases such as those of the United States, Australia and New Zealand where colonizers set up institutions that by and large upheld the rule of law, which were also present in more recent cases such as India, whereas in the opposite extreme we find ‘extractive states with the intention of transferring resources rapidly to the metropolis’, as most African colonies exemplify (Acemoglu, Johnson and Robinson 2001: 1395). The former cases may have been associated with the creation of a superior civil service or the adoption of a colonizer’s language as the lingua franca even if only for an elite, whereas in later cases rarely contributed to foster amicable institutions to democratic rule. Portuguese rule in Timor was mostly feeble, and it did not develop a significant administrative presence until the very end of the 19th century,

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when the winds of the novel colonial approach blowing from the Conference of Berlin (1884-1885) made very timid inroads (Figueiredo 2011). Just before the 1974 Revolution that would forever change the fate of the territory, only 300 white settlers were living in the Portuguese Timor, which showed Portugal’s very low levels of commitment to its development in the wake of the severe effects of the Japanese invasion during World War II, if compared with its other, mainly African colonies. However, the exploitation of Timorese resources was a fact that brings this example more in line with the ‘extractive state’ type of colonialism. Moreover, in the last half-century of colonial rule, Portugal lived under an autocratic regime that would not favour the emergence of any social or political element with democratic intent, and both the small elite and the population at large suffered from the repressive nature of the regime (Feijó 2010b). Perhaps only the colonizers’ language and religion could be regarded social features with impact in the formation of a local elite, although in a very embryonic state. Analyzing the relationship between Western overseas colonialism and democratic performance around the world, Bernhard, Reenock and Nordstrom have argued that former colonies, independent of their specific colonial power, are less likely to sustain democracies than other countries, and that ‘colonial legacies have deleterious effects upon democratic survival’ (2004: 240-241). Among the factors explaining such propensity are the impact upon economic development, social fragmentation and the relationship between state and civil society. As would be expected, Portuguese colonies do not stand apart from the general picture. The ‘civilizing mission’ of the Portuguese as expressed historically up to 1975, rates among the factors that would not provide support to the democratic experience. As Guillermo O’Donnell aptly expressed: This is the drama of countries bereft of a democratic tradition: like all emerging democracies past and present they must cope with the manifold negative legacies of their authoritarian past, while wrestling with the kind of severe social and economic problems that few if any of the older democracies faced at their inception. (O’Donnell 1994: 68)

Repercussions of authoritarianism All forms of authoritarian rule are not the same, and considerable efforts have been deployed at fine-tuning different categories of the same genre. Moreover, the specific kind of authoritarianism that prevails in any given situation is bound to influence the prospects for democratic survival

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once a transition has been started. Milan Slovik, for instance, found that ‘a military authoritarian past reduces the odds that a democracy consolidate’ (2008: 154), whereas Hadenius and Teorell argue that ‘different types of authoritarianism have different propensities for survival and for democratization’, even if ‘the breakdown of an authoritarian regime does not necessarily signal the onset of democratic transformations’ (2007: 143, 152). These authors claim that ‘an authoritarian multiparty regime without a single dominant party is the typical stepping-stone to democratization’ as the plural elements of those regimes tend to win out (2007: 152). Indonesia falls both in the category of authoritarian regimes with a military dominance, and in the group of limited multiparty systems. One possible way to bring together both features is to classify Indonesia as ‘military multiparty autocracy’ (Hadenius and Teorell 2006), at least up to the fall of Suharto in 1998. This may be relevant to understand the democratizing process of this country, but is of little assistance to the case of Timor. The national question that overshadowed all others in the case of this half-island, as the results of the 1999 Referendum were to make abundantly clear, means that the repressive nature of the military regime completely dominated Timorese political life, and that the multiparty overture insomuch as it did not contemplate any possibility of expressing dissent in regard to ‘national unity’, was mostly regarded as an affair of the migrant community from other islands of the archipelago and had scant effect in mobilizing the Timorese citizens. It was not a protracted evolution of the Indonesian regime, but rather a sudden change of mind of a new leader under strong pressure, that precipitated events and allowed for the transition in Timor. From a local perspective, therefore, Indonesian authoritarianism in Timor can be equated with the most severe and closed systems, and thus no positive impact is to be expected on the conditions for democratic survival after ties were severed in the wake of the 1999 Referendum. One exception to this overall characterization is nevertheless relevant. Indonesia adopted the principles of Pancasila as a philosophical foundation of its new independence in 1945. This means that the country, in spite of its overwhelming Muslim population, is secular in nature and recognizes the existence of ‘one God’ under various names and institutionalized religions. Therefore, religious pluralism was allowed, and affiliation with one institutional religion actively supported. This form of pluralism would be consequential in terms of the Timorese efforts to create their national identity around the Roman Catholic Church.

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Legacy of conflict ‘Countries rarely emerge from wars as democracies’ (Zuercher 2006: 1), although wars can bring down authoritarian regimes, as was the case with World War II, or more recently the case of the colonial wars that provoked the demise of the Portuguese authoritarian regime in 1974, opening up a process of democratization and decolonization that was to have significant impact in Timor-Leste. This is the reason why Rustow claimed that ‘warfare has been a major democratizing force’ (Rustow 1970: 348). However, Nancy Bermeo has recently stated that ‘[t]he classics in the democratization literature are surprisingly reticent about the links between war and lasting democracy’, although they tend to ‘portray the association between war and the transition to democracy as broadly positive’ (Bermeo 2003b: 159, 161). For many, the collapse of an authoritarian regime through war or similar use of force and violence posits the necessity of an intermediate stage of autocratic rule in order to overcome societal divisions and rebuild the fundamental political institutions of the territory. The reason behind this necessity resides in the fact that such cases are fundamentally different from cases of peaceful transitions, and call for different agendas, in which issues such as reconciliation as a precondition – both in logic terms and in the form of a schedule for the process – for the emergence of a new political regime assume special relevance. When democracy-building marches along efforts to re-establish peace, ‘factors that will affect peace and democracy do not necessarily simply add up, but they may cancel each other out’ (Zuercher 2006: 3). One might recall the famous aphorism by von Clausewitz and somehow invert its terms, stating that ‘politics is the continuation of war by other means’. If this holds true – or as long as it does – democracy has few chances of survival as the essence of this form of political organization consists of finding ways to accommodate different strands of opinion, not to eliminate the expression of diverse interests and opinions. The fact is that Timor-Leste witnessed a protracted period of social strife, whose origins may be traced back to the years of 1974-1975, and endured through the next quarter of a century in what Myrttinen labelled the ‘East Timor war for independence’ (Myrttinen 2006: 3), ending in the folly of violence and destruction that followed the Referendum of 30 August 1999. The creation of an interim period under UN administration addressed the need to dispose of time in order to lay the foundations for the democratic agenda, and to develop an independent agenda for peace that was required before proclamations such as the equality of all people could be made without fears of artificially erasing memories of acute suffering or disregarding individual

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responsibilities in the atrocities that had marked the history of Timor-Leste over the years. The length of the UN administration of the territory, however, owed as much to circumstantial reasons of the international community (including the cost of the mission) as to palpable developments on the ground, and was not solely dependent on the progress of the democratizing process on the ground. At a central, national level the task was facilitated by the fact that many of those who represented one face of the conflict vanished with the withdrawal of the Indonesian administration. This entailed a kind of a social void opening up the possibility of a thorough replacement of the ruling elite, rather than favouring compromise and settlement between the old and the new elites. As for a great deal of the rural areas in the ‘districts’, this does not necessarily hold true, as those who had been associated with the occupiers remained in their towns and villages. In addition, the need to address past grievances also included those that resulted from the 1974-1975 conflicts, and these brought face to face Timorese of different persuasions. To a large extent, the conflict of the late Portuguese colonial period was understood as a consequence of the formation of different political parties, and this represented a direct challenge to the centrality that those parties were called to perform in the new democratic polity. All added up, the legacy of conflict was multi-stranded and introduced in the local political agenda items that concurred with the goal of establishing democratic rule over the short run. Political polarization Timor-Leste is a small country which, in the course of the 20th century, witnessed several episodes impacting the structure and the allegiances of its elites. This long history started in the early years of last century when Governor Celestino da Silva conducted ‘pacification campaigns’ destined at enforcing more effectively the colonial dominance, which rocked the foundations of the previous model based on indirect rule and respect for the legitimate local rulers of the Timorese. His approach was bitterly resented by many, and a number of revolts, the most important of which was the War of Manufahi (1911-1912), broke out in response to the colonial administration new course. One generation later, during the War of the Pacific, the territory’s proclaimed neutrality was broken by the invasion of Australian troops, soon followed by an attack by Japanese forces, which took control for about three years, spreading terror and attempting to divide the ruling elites, some of whom joined their ranks. After the Portuguese democratic

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Carnation Revolution, political parties were formed that expressed three basic strategic options: maintenance of ‘special relations’ with Portugal in an evolving multinational state; integration into the Republic of Indonesia; or a proclamation of independence. In 1975, confrontation between different forces escalated into a brief but intense civil war, which was to be long associated with the emergence of political parties. In the wake of the unilateral proclamation of independence, Indonesia invaded the territory and maintained it under tight grip for almost a quarter of a century. The massive vote for independence in the Referendum of 30 August 1999 was followed by Indonesia’s policy of scorched earth, the destruction of valuable infrastructures, and the eruption of violence that killed several thousand people in less than two weeks. This brief survey of the most striking episodes of a violent history reveals the extent to which Timor-Leste had a track record of political polarization with severe implications on the levels of conflict both among the elites and among the masses. For one observer, ‘[p]olitical and personal fissures, both at home and abroad, were seemingly mended during the long years of the struggle [for independence]. In hindsight, they seem to have been papered over’ (Myrttinen 2006: 21). What I have called ‘plural nationalism’ must not hide the fact that ‘much bitterness’ was alive mainly among the elites that had little changed since 1975 (Kingsbury 2009: 50). The situation evokes Talleyrand’s famous utterance about the nobility that had fled France after the Revolution and was returning in the wake of the fall of Napoleon: ‘Ils n’ont rien appris ni rien oublié’ (‘They have learned nothing and forgotten nothing’). Cause for concern was therefore very present in the likelihood that grievances endured by people who had survived at least a quarter of a century of political turmoil could resurface. On another count, the fact that a sizeable part of the elite was the same as the one who had lived the traumatic events of 1975 also created the possibility of a fault line emerging that divided ‘historic figures’ from ‘newcomers’. The soil was therefore fertile for the relationships between key players in the democratic process to involve serious challenges for political power and struggles within the political elite. Guerrilla fighters The demise of the Indonesian rule in Timor-Leste was brought about by a host of concurring factors that range from very general features of the post-Cold War political landscape, to very precise local elements. Among the latter, one must reckon the role of the Resistance, capable of upholding an uneven struggle for almost a quarter of a century. Inside the vast Resistance

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movement, a key role was played by the ‘Armed Front’, that is, the guerrilla force that, at the end of 1999, comprised several hundred men in arms (Niner 2009). These men could legitimately claim their critical role in keeping alive the flame of the Resistance, and to a large extent, to be the bedrock where victory could lay its foundations. This positive self-appreciation was shared by vast swaths of the public, contributing to the elevation of the freedom fighters to the status of national heroes. The process of moving the territory towards independence, however, had other components, and after the Referendum it was mostly conducted in political (and largely diplomatic) terms, effectively reducing the role of the guerrilla force in the new juncture. The central issue was to find a satisfactory solution that responded both to the expectations those men had created in their long years of strenuous struggle, and to the requirements of the new political basis for the emerging state. Among the key elements to be observed ranks the need to raise the costs of violent competition, making the use of physical force undesirable, and also making coercive agents in the security and armed forces subordinate to civilian elites (Bermeo 2003b: 163). This was an obvious challenge to a group of tough men raised in accordance with very different principles, disposing of the capacity to intervene in the political scenario with weapons in their hands, and benefitting from positive popular support. In addition, Timor-Leste’s tradition of ‘martial arts’ groups offered an organizational framework for dissatisfied individuals to challenge the monopoly over organized force that was supposed to be entrusted to the regular security forces. The possibility that violence could erupt was always present, which was certainly a sensitive issue for those seeking to establish a sound basis for democratic governance. UNTAET’s original mandate did not openly contemplate disarmament, demobilization and reintegration (Myrttinen 2006: 28-29). The issue of national security has been one of the major problems in Timor-Leste after independence (as made explicit in the crisis of 2006), in part due to the ways in which the question of former freedom fighters was handled. On another count, guerrilla fighters are core elements of what has been designated as ‘veterans’, a social and politically recognized category that pays tribute to all those who have been associated, in various degrees, with the Resistance struggle. To this day, full recognition of all those who participated in the struggle remains an open-ended process, and ‘veterans’ play, in more or less organic ways, significant political roles, suggesting that it is possible to address this issue in the framework of a democratic polity only if careful attention and particular status is accorded to those special citizens.

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‘Charismatic leadership’ Max Weber famously proposed a distinction between three different forms of legitimate authority, one of which was charismatic leadership ‘resting on devotion to the specific and exceptional sanctity, heroism or exemplary behaviour of an individual person and of the normative patterns or orders revealed or ordained by him’ (Weber 1947: 328). It is undisputable that Xanana Gusmão built over the years as commander of the guerrilla force and chief strategist of the Resistance movement the sort of legitimate power derived from his own qualities of extraordinary insight, heroic behaviour and political accomplishment that was tested by the unfolding of historical events, and which inspired widespread loyalty and obedience from Timorese citizens. His personal authority was also extended through a subtle manipulation of another instance of legitimate authority in the form of alliances with traditional leaders at grassroots level (Niner 2009). From these alliances, which often assumed a ritualized form involving blood exchanges, and comprehended village leaders all over the country, resulted the convergence of charismatic leadership with the legitimacy that rested upon ‘an established belief in the sanctity of immemorial traditions’ and the acceptance of ‘the status of those exercising authority under them’ (Weber 1947: 328). Weber saw charismatic authority not so much as a sum of character traits of a leader, but as a form of defining a specific sort of relationship between a leader and his followers. In this light, the fact that Xanana was intent on promoting democracy weighs positively, but must be judged against the fact that this sort of legitimate authority might challenge the foundations of the new regime. The relationship between the leader and democracy was contingent, not structural. Charismatic authority ‘has a character specifically foreign to everyday routine structures’ (Weber 1947: 363) and frequently endangers the boundaries of the other forms, namely the third one in the Weberian model: rational-legal authority. That is to say, if a democratic regime in the modern sense is primarily based on rational-legal legitimacy, and a bureaucratic apparatus sustains its functioning, it may be challenged by the strong presence of a competitive, eventually alternative source of legitimate power. Charismatic leadership often endangers the boundaries set by the other forms of authority and assumes a ‘revolutionary’ character. Charismatic authority is by nature ephemeral or temporary, and it tends to evolve into one of the other two through processes of ‘routinization’ which normally follow. The possibilities that it fuses with rational-legal authority in such a process competes with an alternative path that leads

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to authoritarian solutions. The leader whose legitimacy rests on his personal charisma may chose to submit himself to a novel mechanism which allows his followers to freely elect him and elevate him to formal democratic power, and even to eventually depose him, making two different sources of legitimacy combine; or he may chose not to do so and protect his charismatic authority by remaining outside the electoral game, and thus maintaining a significant capacity to challenge it from the outside. In democracies, followers hold ultimate authority and leaders become formally and informally accountable to other citizens. While they may retain a specific and untransferable status, they are bound to have limits put on their privileges and capacity to perpetuate themselves in power (Keohane 2010: 82, 192). As Whitehead has noticed, ‘given the strong elements of contingency that characterize most democratic transitions, it is of very real significance to the dynamics of the process whether one type of leader prevails or another’ (2001: 43). The worst possible scenario is the ideological denial of the historical reality. In any case, the charismatic leader is effectively not just any citizen, as a democratic election presupposes, but someone who possesses political capacities that single them out and require that their position be treated with respect to the special status they enjoy. To square presumptions on equality with the acknowledgement of a special status is thus a dangerous challenge for any nascent democracy. Rudimentary political parties No democracy can survive without a modicum of institutionalization, and in this framework, political parties play an irreplaceable role in the process of political representation in contemporary mass democracies. They are the instruments that format a pluralistic public sphere, structuring a vast array of ideological options and socio-economic interests. In this sense, political parties are consubstantial with modern democracy. According to Alan Ware, ‘[a] political party is an institution that (a) seeks to influence the state, often by occupying positions in government; and (b) usually consists of more than a single interest in the society and so, to some degree, attempts to aggregate interests’ (Ware 1996: 5). Conceived in this light as a socially signif icant institution, political parties can assume diverse forms. What is important to notice, however, is that these social organisms cannot be narrowly def ined solely by the abidance to a specif ic legislation that requires some formal procedures to be obeyed. In this narrow sense, Timor-Leste after 2001 – when the

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first legislation was introduced under the auspices of UNTAET Resolution no. 2001/02, later to be supplemented by Law no. 3/2004 – was rich in the number of parties. No less than 16 parties contested the elections for the Constituent Assembly in 2001. However, from a substantial point of view, the party system could be described in signif icantly different terms: one major party (FRETILIN [Frente Revolucionária de Timor-Leste Independente (Revolutionary Front for an Independent Timor-Leste)]) with deep historical roots, that had constituted the skeleton of much of the Resistance and was regarded as its most consistent strand; one party that re-emerged from a common past with FRETILIN with a respected leader (ASDT [Associação Social-Democrática Timorense (Timorese Social-Democratic Association)]); and a few new parties that aimed at organizing different strands of the Resistance, like the students’ movement (PD [Partido Democrático (Democratic Party)]) or the more conservative elements who had sided with Indonesia and moved to the other camp (PSD [Partido Social Democrata (Social Democratic Party)]). Along these, a myriad of smaller parties, some of them with historical roots (KOTA [Klibur Oan Timor Aswain (Association of Timorese Heroes)] or UDT [União Democrática Timorense (Timorese Democratic Union)]), some others formed around some well-known individuality without much of a social basis (Saldanha 2008; Shoesmith 2011). Henri Myrttinen has noticed that ‘some minor political parties are based almost exclusively on localized networks of support of a particular leader’, which tend to be ‘characterized by patron-client relationships [that are often used] for political patronage’ (Myrttinen 2006: 6). However, this is not a feature that divided small from larger parties, as this type of practices could be found in practically all of them. One other face of this coin is also important: many well-known figures, including the undisputed leader of the Resistance, Xanana Gusmão, and others like José Ramos-Horta, declined to join or form any political party at least until 2007, thus adding another element to the paradox that a great number of political parties may not represent a structured and comprehensive political landscape. In fact, ‘political parties’ in a broad sociological terms, extend beyond the formalities of the law, and comprise an informal branch that was much present in Timor-Leste in the early days of the democratizing process. The emerging party system did not dispel fears that Timor-Leste might travel the road of ‘one party rule’ (Shoesmith 2013: 122), if not in formal terms, at least in substantial fashion, as the difference between FRETILIN and all the others was enormous, and FRETILIN’s leaders regarded their

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own organization as the ‘foundation party’ of Timorese nationhood with a special right to govern (as the choice of the date for the proclamation of independence, coincident with the date of the foundation of the party in 1974, clearly illustrates). The level of fragmentation of the political system also placed a substantial weight on the capacity to generate coalitions, as the events after 2002 would reveal with clarity, and these are not necessarily easy to achieve. One of the key issues in the process of transition consisted of the role to be attributed to political parties and to competitive elections in its early stages. An alternative existed that was embodied in CNRT, the Resistance umbrella institution where different organizations, including political parties, were present and could operate according to principles of ‘consensual democracy’ and coalition formation, while allowing the time for actual political parties to mature. The conclusion arises that the party system that emerged in 2001 was not robust, as it consisted of very different entities in terms of their social signif icance, and possessed an important informal branch. More than that, the prevalence of one historical political party could lead, as it arguably did, to a situation in which ‘parliament and opposition parties were relatively impotent, sidelined by a government in control of a centralist party’ (Shoesmith 2013: 137) – and thus to a critical path to democratic consolidation. A crucial element to assess the impact of the described situation would be an analysis of the performance of the National Parliament in the f irst legislatures after 2002. As such, the fragile party system was at odds with Geddes’ claim that ‘the likelihood of [a] stable democracy is increased by the existence of well-established, coherent parties capable of making credible commitments’ (Geddes 1999: 140). The widely accepted hypothesis that party systems are greatly influenced and shaped by electoral laws implies that they are also responsive to external conditions, and these may well evolve and significantly impact the system. This is particularly important given that there is a general consensus in the literature that systems comprising too many parties are unlikely to survive, and can thus harm the prospects of democratic consolidation (Bermeo 2003b: 167-168). The underlying assumption in this section has been that a weak party system permeable to self-serving party elites may actually disempower citizens rather that structure the public offer of substantive alternatives. But it may evolve positively in the way of consolidating robust political parties.

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Fragile civil society Modern theories of democracy require that all power be limited, not only by the internal balance of different institutions that exert horizontal accountability, but also, and to a substantial degree, by an active civil society. In Timor-Leste, however, the civil society was fragile, not least in account of the legacy of violence that characterized its recent past. According to the entry in the Encyclopaedia Britannica written by Michael Kenny, civil society is the ‘dense network of groups, communities and ties that stand between the individual and the modern state’, the existence of which is a necessary condition for the emergence of any truly meaningful social contract. This approach has diversely been followed by those who espouse a sociological view of democracy, not least by Alexis de Tocqueville’s Democracy in America (1835), or more recently by Robert Putnam’s concept of social capital (1993) as an element in the success of democratic ventures. Because the centrality of this association is closely bound with liberal doctrines about society and politics, some have argued that the very concept of civil society carries the danger of ethnocentrism when applied to nonWestern societies. Although the peril really exists, it need not necessarily deny the validity of a qualified search for civil society in other parts of the world, as Kaviraj suggests in his quest for ‘civil society in the Third World’, namely in colonial and postcolonial settings (2001: 306-310). An authoritative voice as that of Jack Goody conceded that ‘[t]he Western orientation embedded in the notion of “civil society” is not of course an impediment to its use’ (2001: 151). On the contrary, reflecting on this issue may lead to reappraisal of non-Western societies in a different light than that of a strict opposition poised by Marx or Weber (Goody 2001: 160). In brief, it is possible to address the issue of the emergence and dynamics of civil society in a society like the one of Timor-Leste without unduly succumbing to methodological fallacies. The period right after the Referendum, extending into the first years of independence, was marked by massive international aid which comprised support given by international NGOs to the establishment of their Timorese branches or the emergence of new organizations supposed to mobilize critical sectors of the local civil society. A significant number of NGOs – widely regarded as the most legitimate expressions of civic participation in the political arena – was thus established, mostly in Dili, and they attracted popular support. However, international influence was felt in the definition of ‘politically correct’ agendas that limited the appeal of those institutions to wider sectors of the population, restricting their appeal to the same elite

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that was mostly constitutive of the ‘political society’. Beyond Dili and an urbanized and educated segment of the Timorese population, the capacity for self-organization and expression of interests was thus very limited. Benefitting from wide popular support in all sectors of the population, the Catholic Church was a force to be reckoned with in the mobilization of public opinion. However, this powerful entity showed clear signs of difficulty in dealing with a secular state, as the large demonstrations organized in 2005 amply reveal, and to lend its support to decentralized forms of civic intervention. Rather, it assumed frequently an attitude of centralizing the expression of grievances and calling for a direct dialogue between the state authorities and its own hierarchy in order to advance political negotiations, without ever accepting to take part formally in state institutions (although it accepted to be part of ad hoc commissions set up to deal with specific issues). International aid was mostly channelled to Timor-Leste through state agencies, as the existing model set up by UNTAET placed the state as the main actor in the social arena. The weight of the state in a society devoid of a significant middle class (whatever had existed had mostly followed the Indonesians upon their departure) was particularly felt, and implied that the state retained the reins of wealth distribution, and of the most significant avenues for upward mobility. It was the public sector, not the private one, that gained prestige – and the capacity of the ‘civil society’ to dispose of actual means to counterbalance state power was thus reduced to next to nothing. All things considered, Timorese ‘civil society’ was much praised in the official discourses, but its status remained very fragile (Barbara et al. 2015: 14-15). Ethno-linguistic diversity The fabric of Timorese society is rather complex. In the relatively small area of this country, there are more than a dozen ethno-linguistic groups who share fundamental principles, but also accommodate significant variations in their cultures. Among the elements that usually define a strong nation, a special role is normally assigned to a national language. This is not the case in TimorLeste. There is one local lingua franca called Tetum Praça, disposing of historical roots, and officially adopted as one of the country’s languages. However, its diffusion is far from covering the whole of the population. The fact that the Catholic Church adopted Tetum as a liturgical language in the late 1970s was a reason for its success, and nowadays it remains a powerful

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factor behind its expansion. A recent polemic about what language to use in schools to teach young children has revealed the extent to which Tetum is perceived as an external language that does not yet compete on an even footing with other local languages (Conceição, 2015). In the time of Indonesian occupation, a great effort was deployed to foster the spread of Bahasa Indonesia. This effort had a limited success, and to this day, this is a key language of written literacy but not a true lingua franca. However, for comprehensive political reasons, this language has been relegated to the status of ‘working language’ by the Timorese constitution, and is no longer actively promoted. Then there is Portuguese, the language of the colonial period, which has had a recent surge in its use, after being formally banned during the occupation period. Portuguese is also associated with the Resistance and to a certain extent to a mythical image of colonial times as times of plenty, as opposed to the more recent neo-colonial experience which is widely regarded as a time of starvation. As such, there is popular support for the inclusion of Portuguese as an ‘official’ language, although the number of speakers may not reach, in 2013, a third of the population. This is mirrored in the perceived importance attached to official language abilities as a critical component of national identity, as Michael Leach and his colleagues have recently shown (Leach et al. 2013b: 15-16). However, it is important to notice that the valuation of a given language is different from actual fluency in that or those languages, and both official languages of Timor-Leste are far from achieving the desired goal of being truly national. This is one of the reasons why the language issue remains to this day one of the most controversial ones in Timor-Leste (Borgerhoff 2012). The language issue is important inasmuch as it may be a form of revelation of deeper problems of social cohesion and even state cohesion, associated as they often are with tendencies for centripetal movements and to the crystallization of divisive attitudes. In a country whose nationalist movement is relatively recent and owes a great deal of its strength to the formation of repulsive sentiments in regard to the violence exerted by the occupying forces, which no longer exists, ethno-linguistic diversity, which in itself is not a sign of weak national sentiment, may give rise to some form of challenge to the national unity. In historical times, the colonizers used to distinguish between ‘firaku’ and ‘kaladi’, suggesting a division between easterners and westerners in Timor, supposed to embody two different attitudes in regard of the central administration of the territory – the ones more prone to rebel, the second more inclined to silently accommodate to its demands. Similar divisions

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erupted in 2006 between ‘lorosaes’ and ‘loromonus’, the easterners and the westerners, a division that to a large extent followed ethno-linguistic divides (McWilliam 2007). The existence of a plurality of ethno-linguistic groups in Timor-Leste, although not an immediate threat to national unity, implied that negotiations be carried out in order to secure that the new administration developed mechanisms to ensure that diverse social strata could find adequate protection in a state with a modicum of decentralization and respect for internal differences. Democracy could not thrive without making adequate room for genuine diversity. But as Selver B. Sahin has noticed, ‘[t]he difference between civic and ethnic models of national identity derives from the inclusive or exclusive character of the process’ (2011: 228). Civic nations tend to be inclusive, whereas ethnic nations are generally based on principles of exclusion that conflict with the former – and this is a force which is necessary to contemplate when analyzing Timorese society. Sizeable dislocated population One critical assumption for a polity to establish a democratic regime is that its boundaries are fixed so that self-government can actually be exercised by its population. A correlate of fixed boundaries is the existence of a stable population. This may not necessarily imply that all live inside the country, as large migrant communities are not known to pose any threat to the regular functioning of the state’s authorities, but requires that those populations be stable in their relation to their country and ‘have no doubt or mental reservation as to which political community they belong to’ (Rustow 1970: 9). As we have seen, Timor-Leste disposed of well-defined territorial boundaries, but at the onset of its path towards independence, a sizeable proportion of its population had been dislocated and was living across the border in precarious conditions. In a population that by 1999 was smaller than one million, east Timorese dislocated to the western part of the island were at some point close to a quarter million. As important as the sheer size of this population is the fact that they were mostly driven by force in the aftermath of the Referendum when the Indonesian military were trying by all means to revert its results and fancied the idea that a massive dislocation could be read as ‘voting with their feet’ (Fernandes 2004). The presence of this population was thus highly politically charged. Also, not only did this dislocation impact quite strongly on their communities of origin, leaving open questions as to the ways in which residents could actually settle in new conditions, and forcing the new regime to tackle sensitive issues, but

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it had a major impact on the diplomatic relations of the new country with the former occupying power, as the potential existed for tensions to erupt next to the border. In the long run, even in the case of massive return to their land of origin, dislocated people might form a significant social group with cohesive attitudes. It could not be ruled out that they would sustain views against the new political course which had had heavy costs for them, and turn into a focus of unrest undermining democratic consolidation (Damaledo, 2015). On the other hand, most of those who fled across the border were considered as citizens of the new country, and had been registered in the electoral census used for the Referendum, which was also the basis for subsequent elections. Living in precarious conditions outside the national borders, unable to gain integration rights into the Indonesian Republic that could provide them with an anchor, they were excluded from their voting rights in Timor-Leste, and therefore amenable to consider themselves excluded from the democratic regime. And yet, being so close to their country of origin, they might negatively impact its stability. They were a thorn sticking in the flesh of the new polity. Financial costs Democracy entails costs: elections must be organized on a regular basis, independent branches of power must be endowed with resources to sustain their constitutional role, and the price of staging all those formalities and keeping in place a sizeable body of politicians is not necessarily understood in a time of dire necessities. Timor-Leste disposed, at the onset of democratization, of very scarce resources that were mirrored in the first national budgets of less than half a billion dollars. International cooperation was fundamental to keep the basic state functions. In this context of tight budgetary constraints, the cost of upholding democratic procedures and building a state based on the rule of law faced the competition from pressing demands for alternative allocation of funds, and room existed for populist stances advocating restraint in what might be perceived as superfluous or luxurious options. Direct external assistance to meet the financial costs associated with democratic rule might also induce a perception that a strong component of international conditionality was being imposed to sustain the choice of political regime, forcing a diversion of resources and raising doubts about the ownership of the whole process. As such, costs became, directly and indirectly, a sensitive issue given the impact of even small amounts of money on the country’s budgetary capacities.

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Opportunities Zeitgeist Democracy represents the zeitgeist of the new millennium, a triumphant narrative reborn after the demise of the Cold War. One need not go as far as to see in democracy ‘the end of History’, as Fukuyama famously proposed (1989, 1992), to acknowledge the widespread appeal that this political form has gained throughout the ‘third wave of democratization’ said to have started with the Portuguese Revolution in April 1974, and accelerated after the fall of the Berlin Wall in November 1989. From a preserve of the Western world and few of its developing offshoots, by 2000 it had grown into a truly global phenomenon touching every region except North Africa and the Middle East. Nowadays, assuming a minimalist definition that identifies democracy with a political system in which people can chose their leaders in regular, free and meaningful elections, it represents ‘the most common form of government in the world and the type of political system in which the majority of humanity lives’. (Diamond 2011a: 299) – even if it is true that very large and populous countries like China or Russia may not be counted in this context. The spread of democracy is associated with the emergence of a unipolar world dominated by the primacy of American global power, which significantly altered some of its previous associations with authoritarian regimes, and contributed to rise the costs of repressing democratic aspirations. A second association involves the success of the free-market economic system over its statist competitors, which was also accompanied by the consolidation of more uniform rules and international procedures concerning international economic activities that presented countries with increasingly convergent opportunities and constraints (Whitehead 2002a: 1). In the specific case of Timor-Leste, it is important to underline the close relationship between democracy as a political solution, and the discourse on human rights that sustained and articulated much of the criticism and deep rooted antagonism to Indonesian rule. Both at home and abroad, in Indonesia or the wider world, the frontier was tenuous between the critical appraisal of the human rights record and the promotion of democracy. This had already been acknowledged by the Timorese Resistance umbrella organization that inscribed democratic rule in its Magna Carta approved at the foundational conference in 1998. In this broad sense, democracy appeared as a natural choice of political regime for the new nation. Of course, democracy is itself a broad concept

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that encompasses different formulations that had to be discussed and tested, and a wide range of recurring problems in young democracies reveal that it does not dispense nurturance. What should be emphasized here is the is that democracy can be spread by ‘neutral transmission mechanisms’ that may induce countries to replicate the political institutions of functioning democracies, mainly if there are examples of this sort of system in their vicinity. That’s what Laurence Whitehead has called the contagion effect (2001: 5-8). In the last resort, and in broad terms, there is an element of teleology in democratization, in which the belief in this elusive concept may play a significant role in driving forward the process that defies a priori assumptions of a single path, necessary outcomes or irreversible advances (Whitehead 2002a: 239-240). Democratic ‘linkages’ Among the factors in the external arena that can play a positive role on democratization one should contemplate what Pridham termed ‘democratic linkages’ (1991). These ‘linkages’ that operate between a democratizing state and international actors may assume the face of cultural and media influence, elite networks, direct pressure from governments, or simply demonstration effects (Levitsky and Way 2002). On the long run, high density ‘linkages’ are likely to have positive implications for the prospects of democratizing polities. The rise in the level of ‘linkages’ tends to raise the costs of authoritarian alternatives to democracy (Tansey 2009: 39) and as such it provides incentives to strengthen democratic options. Timor-Leste lived a great number of years in isolation from the external world. Nonetheless, during that period a sizeable diaspora left the country to establish itself in numerous democratic countries, thus increasing its own exposure to new influences. On the other hand, in the 1990s, TimorLeste rose to a prominent place in the eyes of the world, in the wake of the demise of the Cold War and in particular after the wide circulation of Max Stahl’s footage of the Santa Cruz massacre (1991). As a result, the solidarity movement grew in size and strength, and important governments and international organizations took seriously the struggle for self-determination and democracy in Timor-Leste, adding a new layer of influence and pressure to existing networks. The boom in media diffusion had a similar impact: the new means of communication defy traditional ways of exerting censorship and control the flow of information, and Timor-Leste was not exempt from this process (Fernandes, 2011). With the vote for independence, Timor-Leste

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banished censorship and established the freedom to produce and circulate information, that came not only from inside, but to a large extent from the outside. The establishment of basic principles of freedom of expression exposed the country to a massive flow of information that constitute an enabling condition for genuine democratic practice. Democracy promotion In the wake of its popularity and increased penetration in the public opinion, massive democracy promotion operations, often combined with peace-building and/or state-building missions, became fashionable and feasible after the end of the Cold War. Timor-Leste is a case in point of the new approach to regime-building through international administration, of which Kosovo and Bosnia are other relevant examples (Tansey 2009). Missions of this nature are distant relatives of traditional peacekeeping ones of the past, and have been labelled ‘fourth generation’ missions or ‘new trusteeships’ (Kondoch 2001: 246). These are extreme cases of a general trend that flourished in several regions of the world. The most successful example of the promotion of democracy is that of the European Union that made extensive democratic credentials a prerequisite for membership, and thus induced changes in neighbouring countries enticed to become members of an affluent club. External pressure was thus met with internal willingness to operate the necessary change. The same explicit promotion of democracy as a universal value were carried out in Latin America and in a limited scale in Africa (Diamond 2011a: 303). The United States also made swift changes in their approach to democracy, a goal that was formally present in its agenda since the 1960s, but which was downplayed in favour of aiding anticommunist authoritarian regimes during the Cold War (Carothers 1999: 45). In Southeast Asia, however, where the United States at least until the financial crisis of 1997-1998 deferred to the ‘Asian values’ argument, accepting that the West should not push too hard for change mainly in countries that were thriving economically under authoritarianism, this role was left to the United Nations who filled the void of a comparable regional organization, given that ASEAN was not in a position to assume the task. The importance of this aspect of democracy-building resides in the fact that a very large number of democratic regimes owed their origins, at least in part, to deliberate acts of imposition or intervention from the outside, to the point that Laurence Whitehead could claim that it is not mere contiguity but active policies by third parts that explain the spread of democracy

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from one country to the next in a very high number of cases (Whitehead 2001: 9). More than contagion that might be expected form the growing popularity of democracy, we are dealing here with actual external agency that ground a different model of democracy propagation. This was asserted beyond any doubt by the establishment of the UN mission in October 1999 and its ambitious mandate which included ‘support[ing] capacity-building for self-government’ (UNSC Resolution 1272). International aid Timor-Leste was for most of the years spent under Indonesian occupation removed from the central stages of international politics, resisting as a case of unresolved self-determination and human rights abuses only in the agenda of several solidarity movements and very few diplomatic missions (Fernandes, 2011). During that period, external aid to the territory was difficult to assess as it is mingled with funds distributed throughout Indonesia. However, the situation began to change in the 1990s, and after the UN-sponsored agreement of 5 May 1999, the solidarity movement was extended to foreign governments and international agencies ready to provide assistance to Timor-Leste. International aid came both under multilateral involvement, of which the UN direct and specific missions are the most visible, but also comprises the work of institutions such as the World Bank or the Asian Development Bank and UN agencies (UNDP, WHO, UNICEF, UNESCO, ILO), and bilateral assistance. Countries like Australia (AusAID), New Zealand (NZAP), Japan (JICA), USA (USAID), Portugal (Cooperação Portuguesa) or Cuba provided the new country with much needed financial and/or technical assistance on several domains. The links between foreign assistance and democracy are twofold, although not present in all its forms (Cuban assistance, for instance, valuable as it is in the formation of medical students, bears little relation to any of the links discussed here). On the one hand, significant part of this assistance was funnelled to areas that pertain to the construction of a democratic state. The electoral sector is a case in point. The 1999 Referendum was wholly organized by the UN mission (UNAMET), and the same holds true for the 2001 elections for the Constituent Assembly and the 2002 presidential ones, with international actors playing leading roles in the definition of the legal regulations and the management of the electoral apparatus. The UN kept support to the creation and development of a Timorese electoral administration and the following elections, integrating electoral experts in the various successive missions. In the meantime, both USAID (namely

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through their support for a mission of the International Foundation for Electoral Systems) and the Portuguese cooperation (sponsoring the presence of several technical officers of the Portuguese electoral commission to assist Timorese counterparts) provided focused assistance in electoral matters. The second kind of link results from what Philippe Schmitter called ‘conditionalities’, that is, ‘the deliberate use of coercion by attaching specific conditions to the distribution of benefices to recipient countries by multilateral institutions’ (2001: 30). This use, or threat of use, of coercion by individual states falls in an adjacent category of ‘control’ (Whitehead 2001: 8-15). Both presume not that force will actually be deployed, but that assistance may be discontinued if certain objectives and procedures are not actually implemented. Thus, international assistance is conditional on the fulfilment of democratic requirements, and in this way significantly increases the costs of non-democratic options and lowers the ones for democratic solutions by accepting to bear part of those. Little doubt exists that the generous overall international aid was indeed conditioned on Timor-Leste upholding a democratic regime. International oversight Democratization is, in the last instance, tributary to the development of national ownership over the main components of the process, and requires a strong commitment to democracy on the part of a broad range of internal political actors. However, young nations with little previous experience of democratic governance and facing a history of social strife, may derive positive benefits if their efforts are closely accompanied and monitored by experienced international entities and public opinion. Timor-Leste experienced two kinds of international oversight: a very direct assumption of responsibilities by UNTAET that effectively administered the territory for an extended ‘transitional’ period during which the political participation of the Timorese was severely limited, and where international standards were the norm; and indirect oversight of the route the newly independent country was pursuing, both through UN missions and normal but very active diplomatic and media channels. The multi-stranded international oversight, if performed without undue paternalism, can be ranked among the factors contributing to diminish the dangers of reversal of key political decisions, namely those with structural impact on the democratic nature of the new regime (Tansey 2009: 221). The fact that the international community agreed to sustain an institutional presence of some significance, and that the media were free to continue and keep Timor-Leste under the

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scrutiny of a wide public opinion can thus be regarded as positive contributions to the democratization process.

Threats Democratic recession The much trumpeted ‘third wave of democratization’ is a long-term phenomenon that encompasses moments of different intensity, and perhaps even of direction. In hindsight, the opening decade of the new millennium can be regarded as a moment of democratic recession, as nearly one-third of all democracies that existed at the height of the wave actually faltered or broke down (Diamond 2011a: 303). This fact calls our attention to the real meaning of a long-term trend that is made of successive historical cases that alternate success and failure. The verification of a tendency for polities that had initiated transitions to democracy and had travelled along that road for some time to experience difficulties and eventually make a halt or even go in reverse is but a first step towards understanding the phenomenon. Larry Diamond has suggested that the vulnerability of young electoral democracies was indeed associated with two orders of factors. On the one hand, the lower the freedom scores they had attained, the higher the risk was that they would succumb. On the other hand, poverty was a significant factor, not directly (or as function of GDP per capita), but mainly by virtue of some correlate factors, amongst which corruption, low capacity and efficiency of the state administration, weak rule of law and political polarization must be regarded as quite influential (Diamond 2011a: 304-306). As we have seen, Timor-Leste presented some vulnerabilities that could push the country to go down the undemocratic road that others were now travelling along. Regional context In a world characterized by growing levels of globalization, that is, the ‘transnationalization of things’ (Ake 1997: 285), countries cannot be regarded as self-contained units isolated from external forces – for better or worse. This holds true for political regimes. However, the results of globalization are not uniform, and often present paradoxical manifestations and effects, for the main reason that they are historically mediated.

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Brinks and Coppedge have revealed the existence of one such mediation in the form of ‘neighbour emulation’, or ‘a tendency for neighbouring countries to converge to a shared level of democracy or non-democracy’ (2006: 464). This means that a given country is subject to a pattern of diffusion regarding the type of political regime and tends to become more like their immediate geographical neighbours over time. The question that arises is, therefore, what is the predominant form of regime in the vicinity of Timor-Leste? This requires an onion-shaped approach to concentric circles in which Timor represents the centre. In the opening years of the millennium, the south shores of the island were in contact with long-established democracies (Australia and New Zealand). But on the other side, East and Southeast Asia were just beginning to move away from ‘being the cradle and locus of “developmental authoritarianism” to becoming at least a mixed and progressing set of systems’ (Diamond 2011a: 301). However, major regional players like China remained foreign to the faintest suggestion of democratic rule. If one looks at the most immediate circle surrounding Timor-Leste, that of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) whose membership the country would eventually seek, and to which it had belonged while part of Indonesia, the picture was then quite bleak: Brunei, Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia and Myanmar were very closed authoritarian regimes; Singapore and Malaysia had both achieved incomparable levels of economic development but epitomized the region’s ‘developmental authoritarianism’. None of these seven countries had initiated any transition to democracy, as the case was, with different rhythms and achievements, for the Philippines and Indonesia. Both of them were struggling to join Thailand in a group of democratic countries, even though the latter was facing very serious problems. Nowhere to be found was a country that might be regarded as the core for the radiation of democracy, whereas authoritarian forms were associated, in more than one instance, with relative (and even absolute) prosperity. The diffusion pattern at work, although it might be showing signs of new democratic developments, was still too biased in favour of authoritarianism to offer Timor-Leste comfort. Alternative narratives Democracy may well be the mantra of the post-Cold War world, but it does not go unchallenged. In this region, competing narratives dispute the preference of rulers and citizens alike.

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For most of the 1990s the concept was in vogue that Asian people espoused societal values that were fundamentally opposed to those sustaining Western-style democracy. ‘Asian values’ supposedly stem from the prevalence of collective or communitarian forms of social organization with paternalist overtones in the form of respect for hierarchies markedly contrasting with the individualist foundations of liberal polities. These values sustain a predisposition for single-party rather than plural politics, emphasize the virtues of consensus and ‘social harmony’ against competition and free dissent, and lift concern with material well-being over liberal principles of freedom and human rights (Haynes 2001: 40-41; Diamond and Plattner 1998). In a nutshell, they offer a rationale for autocracy based on culturalist arguments and repeal democracy as an ethnocentric political form. Support for this view came mostly from authoritarian rulers such as the prime ministers of Malaysia (Mahathir Mohamad) and Singapore (Lee Kuan Yew), not surprisingly two especially vocal leaders of countries renowned for their ‘developmental authoritarianism’ or ‘soft authoritarianism’ (Means 1996), where significant economic growth had not led to democratic transitions. The Asian financial crisis of the late 1990s may have shown that even prosperous countries were not adequately prepared to face the consequences of growing globalization, and reduced the appeal of this stance, but it never subsided. On the contrary, this sort of rhetoric suits a harder model, that of the Chinese Communist Party. As the People’s Republic of China emerges as a leading economic power, so too the ‘China model’ is capturing ever greater numbers of adepts ‘mainly among elites in Asia and Africa looking for a way to legitimate their authoritarian rule or aspiration, but also among a number of intellectuals and opinion leaders in some developing countries’ (Diamond 2011a: 304). This appeal is further compound by China’s military might and its seductive approach to regional cooperation, which Timor has experienced in the form of both significant ‘gifts’ (the Presidential Palace in Dili and other prominent buildings) and economic partnership in energy (Horta 2009). In fact, ‘counter-hegemonic powers provide sources of legitimacy and military and economic assistance, thereby weakening the incentive for governing elites to maintain formal democratic institutions’ (Levitsky and Way 2002: 61). If democracy was to make its way, it had to bear in mind the road was not a race track where all people move in one direction, but a real highway with travellers moving in different directions.

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Democratic façade regimes ‘Transitions from authoritarian regimes can lead anywhere’, as Schedler aptly noticed (2002: 36). Democratic elements may be present in emerging regimes that fail to meet other substantial tests, and which can better be regarded as ‘hybrid’ (Diamond 2002). Fancy names have been proposed to account for these phenomena, from dictablanda (for liberalized authoritarianism) or democradura (for non-liberal democracies) (O’Donnell and Schmitter 1986: 9) to ‘illiberal democracies’ (Zakaria 1997b), ‘delegative democracy’ (O’Donnell 1994) or ‘competitive authoritarianism’ (Levitsky and Way 2002, 2010). These regimes may at times be regarded as intermediate stages in the process of full democratization, but their persistence over time may also indicate that the change of regime has not developed into polities abiding by the basic tenets of democratic rule. Fareed Zakaria sought to distinguish between two different components of the Western model of modern democracy: ‘constitutional liberalism’ that encompasses the rule of law, the separation of powers and the protection of basic liberties, on the one hand, and on the other the electoral legitimation of rulers. In his view, this is a propitious combination that is not present in what he labels ‘illiberal democracies’. In these cases, ‘democratically elected regimes […] are routinely ignoring constitutional limits on their power and depriving citizens of basic rights and freedoms’ (1997b). According to Levitsky and Way, in these cases ‘formal democratic institutions are widely viewed as the principal means of obtaining and exercising political authority. Incumbents violate those rules so often and to such an extent, however, that the regime fails to meet conventional minimum standards for democracy’ (2002: 52). This can be explained in light of infringements to the rules that Schedler argues must apply to elections in order to produce democratic results: empowerment, free supply, free demand, inclusion, insulation, integrity and irreversibility (2002: 40-41). Staging competitive elections is therefore not enough to secure a democratic regime. Regimes of this nature have been argued to be inherently instable but may be quite enduring. They are associated with a low degree of political institutionalization, weak or non-existing horizontal accountability, and also plebiscitarian tendencies, often represented by the emergence of ‘paternal figures’ supposed to take care of the whole nation and overcoming the factionalism and competition associated with political parties and other actors of the democratic game (O’Donnell 1994: 59-62).

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Maintaining a democratic façade through the staging of competitive, multiparty elections and formally meeting some critical elements that contribute to internationally accepted minimalist definitions of democracy may actually be a means to lower the costs of repression and international isolation without fully dismantling a core of authoritarian features. Many nations in Asia seem to have chosen this path to adapt to the transformations of the post-Cold War world. This poses a threat that goes far beyond academic debates on precise definitions of the word ‘democracy’ inasmuch as it does not purport to support alternative narratives, but systematically fails to uphold all the consequences of the democratic discourse. Pockets of permissiveness of non-democracies Since the end of Cold War, the promotion of democracy has ranked high in many foreign policy agendas, notably of Western countries that fancy being portrayed as ‘beacons of democracy’. However, this is not the sole tenet of those policies, and both economic and security issues have trumped democracy promotion and sustained different approaches (Levitsky and Way 2002: 62). The case of Australia is paradigmatic, as this giant and extremely influential neighbour of Timor-Leste has consistently maintained security issues high on its external relations agenda, to the detriment of more ideologically charged values. For one, reasoning on the lessons learned from the Pacific War and Japanese attacks, it has defined as early as the 1960s that Timor-Leste would pose lesser threats if it were to be incorporated in Indonesia (Fernandes 2016). In 1975 it offered covert support for the Indonesian attack and rushed to sign an agreement over this territory’s natural resources regardless of the pending self-determination issue and the gross violations of human rights to which the territory was by then subjected, infamously celebrating such accord with champagne on board a jet flying over the Timor Gap. This policy was further sustained on a broad by-partisan way (with notable exceptions) through the 1990s in the face of growing opposition from solidarity movements at home as well as from a vociferous public opinion that would be critical in the last minute change of heart of Australian authorities, as shown by Clinton Fernandes (2011). As late as August 1999, John Howard visited the United States and in a meeting with President Clinton, supported Indonesia’s stance on Timor and sought to talk him out of preparing an international peacekeeping force (Fernandes 2004: 70). As a matter of fact, Australian foreign policy fears developments in what it called ‘the arch of instability’ extending from Myanmar to Tonga,

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where ‘failed’ or ‘rogue’ states are considered to have a high probability of causing trouble, with menacing consequences for Australian security. For this long-established democracy, the promotion of democracy is a positive value that calls for sanctioning those who deviate from that route, as the case of Fiji epitomizes that prompted Australia’s efforts to isolate the new autocratic regime in international fora. However, contrasting cases also exist – like Australia’s condescending attitude towards Papua New Guinea’s non-democratic regime – that suggest the overriding importance of security issues when dealing with neighbouring states. Of course, Australia is not alone in pursuing this stance which represents a pocket of permissiveness towards non-democratic regimes. Timor-Leste fully belongs to the area in which the promotion of democracy suffers the competition of other, often higher, foreign policy agendas. International agents The process of popular consultation of 30 August 1999 was organized under the auspices of the UN, which promoted the settlement in the territory of a numerous group of international aides. UNAMET forces on the ground comprised 321 military and police staff plus 667 civilian staff. The mission that was dispatched in October to oversee the transitional process to independence was composed of more than 7,600 military and police forces, and 737 international civilians (to which 1,745 local civilian staff should be added). Figures remained quite high to the end of that mission, and upon the proclamation of independence a new structure (UNMISET) took over from the previous, keeping more than 5,500 people in the security area and 465 civilians for the first three years (Myrttinen 2006: 34-35). Sure, all these people came with the best of intentions, disposed to endure sacrifices and face risks in an unstable environment, and in the context of international aid to a democratizing process. I was one of them. However, their presence in Timor-Leste is a multi-stranded phenomenon that requires attention. The nature of this complexity has been seized by Damien Kingsbury when he called them ‘benign colonizers’ – but colonizers nonetheless. First, the UN forces absorbed almost half the generous amounts of money made available to the Timorese. In the period 1999-2006, Timor-Leste is supposed to have received US$3.65 billion in assistance – which makes this one of the developing countries most strongly supported, on a pro-rata basis, by the international community in recent history – of which US$1.75 billion was used for the combined UN forces on the ground (Myrttinen 2006: 44). Not only is this a questionable allocation of financial resources, but it also

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had consequences in the local people’s perception of democracy as a foreign value. Many observers did not fail to notice blatant cases of misconduct on the part of UN personnel, as well as discrepancies in the lifestyles of the foreign employees and Timorese citizens that disproportionate levels of payment actually induced. Sometimes the demonstrations had the opposite effect, causing expats to feel contempt for the local culture. Many locals, on their part, expressed time and again their discomfort with such demonstrations, sometimes in a rather violent manner. As late as 2012, the people who staged civil unrest in the aftermath of the legislative elections aimed their stones at UN vehicles, as had occurred a few times in past episodes. Second, the generally high level of pay attributed to international agents developed in them vested interests to prolong their presence in the territory and guarantee their jobs. Although ‘capacitation through on-the-job training’ was the mantra of the whole operation, many were reluctant to admit the goal had been achieved and their presence was no longer needed. Third, in a significant number of occasions, Timorese bitterly resented patronizing attitudes that saw them fit to work only under guidance and supervision by international superiors. Few of them actually resisted the temptation to make decisions on behalf of those they were supposed to be assisting and who felt utterly disempowered by the international actors. This attitude resulted in delays in the process of entrusting the local population with the instruments of self-government in order to complete the transition (Tansey 2009: 215). Fourth, the consensus that broadly existed between Timorese and foreign aides as to the main goal of the programme – the establishment and consolidation of a democratic regime respectful of human rights – did not necessarily involve coincidence of opinions as to the specific pathways it should follow and or how some critical issues should be resolved. ‘Politically correct’ agendas were at times regarded as a form of neo-colonial impositions that failed to be in tune with sovereign decisions assumed by the legitimate local authorities. Two examples will reveal this situation: the Constituent Assembly hotly debated the languages issue, and agreed on defining two ‘official languages’ (Tetum and Portuguese) and two ‘working languages’ (Bahasa Indonesia and English). This decision is to this day openly and vociferously criticized by a significant portion of the international aides who used English and believed the language deserved a more formal role in the new country’s cultural panorama. The evaluation of ‘serious crimes’ and the course of justice to be pursued against those who were found guilty of atrocities in the past was also a source of significantly differentiated views that opposed those who espoused a ‘punitive justice’ to those – and they

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were many in positions of legitimate command – who favoured ‘restorative justice’, eventually based more on traditional procedures and values than on formal modern codes. This is an issue with clear and significant repercussions on the establishment of diplomatic relations with Indonesia, as many of those who were supposed to have committed such acts were citizens of that country (and some had risen to prominence in the process of democratic transition in Jakarta). It might be added that political correctness tends to compress the longterm tasks of establishing, consolidating and qualifying democracy into a short-term ambitious programme that contravenes gradualist approaches and increases the difficulties of prioritizing steps to be taken. As Whitehead has pointed out, democratizing processes comprise different stages and each contains its own logic, ‘transition’ phases differing from ‘consolidating’ ones, and so forth (Whitehead 2001: 5). Obscuring this distinction, however rapid the ‘transition’ period may have seemed to be, has a non-negligible effect in heightening expectations that came with independence and that contrast with the reduced capacity of the Timorese new state to deliver, provoking rising tensions. As such, political correctness ‘was and remains exceptionally dangerous for East Timor’s political future’ (Kingsbury 2009: 5). Regardless of the sympathy one might feel for some of the views that a cosmopolitan expat community exhibited, the bottom line is that there were frequent clashes between those and the ones that the legitimate local authorities had democratically determined. The fact that international aides occupied intermediate positions in a chain of command and were prepared to discuss instructions coming from above contributed to generating confusions as to the legitimacy of the decisions that were being challenged. On the whole, the presence of international aides in Timor-Leste amounts to precious support for democratization. However, it is not exempt from the vices that hamper the assumption of full responsibilities by the local legitimate authorities and introduce noise that may eventually upset the unfolding of the process. Leviathan After the Referendum and the wave of destruction brought about by the Indonesian-backed militias, the United Nations, on behalf of the ‘international community’ established a ‘Transitional Authority’ in Timor-Leste with the stated purpose of administering the territory until such a date when independence could be actually proclaimed, and to promote all

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the necessary steps for new institutions to be created that would sustain the functioning of the new state. This was a most ambitious project that consisted in drawing a country’s new institutional framework from scratch. It was backed by Resolutions of the UN Security Council, and was made possible by generous funding for the mission which was to liaise with Timorese leaders to discharge its functions. The great Spanish painter Francisco Goya has a famous etching in the series Los Caprichos entitled El sueño de la razón produce monstruos. It has been aptly translated as ‘The sleep of reason produces monsters’. However, the Spanish term ‘sueño’ has a double meaning as both ‘sleep’ and ‘dream’, and an ambiguity seems to lurk behind the title – mostly so after the devastating results of ‘rationalism’ in the history of the 20th century. Dreams of reason can also be monsters, and often Hobbes’ Leviathan is referred to as an example. The danger of reason’s dreams is that a complete and comprehensive state structure emerges on paper with scant relation with the local reality, a beautiful clipper ship that lacks the fundamental capacity to float on the water. The design of a intellectually irreproachable model that obeys the requirements of the most stringent international criteria was in a way abandoned when the transitional authorities gave up on the idea of entrusting the creation of the Timorese constitution to a panel of international experts, following the example of the Fiji, where a similar experiment succumbed. But the tendency to engineer an intellectual construct with the intent of serving as a beacon to the future, and admitting that the full deployment on the ground of the suggested state structures could be the task of at least one generation, if not more, presents important risks. First and foremost, the implicit idea that the state itself is more of an intellectual than a social construct, and that there are timeless virtues irrespective of their current capacity to frame social developments. Then, there is an inevitable gap between what is prescribed in the model and what can be actually implemented on the ground, which tends to be unevenly developed and produce perverse effects. Finally, there is the question of the necessary resources – from human to financial – that is often neglected in the design of the utopian model, leading to the creation of high expectations that are difficult to meet. Perverse effects, exaggerated expectations and dysfunctional practical solutions are all likely correlates of a tendency to ‘dream’ of a utopian state structure without firm articulations with the social, economic and cultural conditions of a given polity. This tendency existed in several degrees in the case of Timor-Leste, and tensions regarding the effective design of the state institutions marked the early stages of development in the new country.

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Looking ahead The purpose of the current exercise was not to draw a strategic plan for the implementation of democratic rule in Timor-Leste, but rather to assess the conditions for the success of such an endeavour. A systematic and comprehensive survey of Timorese historical conditions at the time of preparation for independence has been conducted. The conclusion emerges that there were a significant number of favourable conditions, both pertaining to the internal realm (that we have labelled Strengths) and the international context (conceived as Opportunities). However, the list is long of features that might endanger the process and constitute serious obstacles to its completion, also covering both phenomena of a contextual nature (that have been called Threats) and, critically, others that derive from the very fabric of the Timorese society (designated as Weaknesses). The construction of democracy in independent Timor-Leste defied high odds, and a realistic appraisal of its chances of survival departs from the shining path that was often portrayed, namely by international organizations present in the theatre of operations. A bumpy track of dirt road in the beautiful mountains of Timor is a better illustration of the way ahead than a road on the Dili seafront recently paved to international standards. At a given point, parliamentarians were all offered robust all-road vehicles, not fancy limousines for city traffic, epitomizing the nature of their required activity in liaising with their constituents. A successful programme to build democracy would have to aim at reducing the weight of weaknesses and threats, and enhance the virtualities of strengths and opportunities. Under the circumstances observed in TimorLeste, four critical issues emerge that provide a framework for practical measures: time, ownership, inclusiveness and control. Time An adequate time frame is critical for the success of democratization. Timor-Leste faced the abrupt departure of its Indonesian rulers and the arrival of the ‘international community’ with democracy in its backpack. The proclamation of its renewed independence was done under the aegis of a ‘democratic republic’ equipped with a constitution and elected leaders. However, it would be an illusion to admit that the success of democracy would be assessed at that moment, no matter how rudimentary its concept might be. Rustow stressed that democratization implies the emergence of new groups and the formation of new habits, and is the task for one

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generation (1970). Philippe Schmitter and Javier Santiso also posited that a reasonable time frame for democratization would be around three legislatures, that is, between 12 and 15 years (1998: 83). The fact that Timor-Leste had a comparatively very short period of time to ‘transition’ to democracy, and one mostly lived under international administration which had brought its own agenda and principles that were transferred to the foundations of the new polity with a small amount of translation work, signifies that one could expect the second phase of democratization – ‘consolidation’ – to be more protracted than comparative examples might lead one to expect, and in need of addressing some of the issues that were overlooked in the first moment due to the specific circumstances (Feijó 2006). The argument is that there was something artificial in the democratic construct adopted by the new nation that was shallow in its level of acquired socialization, and would better leave room for an enlarged view of a process with overlapping phases and an entanglement of their own internal logic behind the formal screen. The second issue that comes under this heading is the necessity to establish a sequential calendar based on priorities. The scope for choices was substantial, but the critical resources (in terms of capital as much as state structures and human capacities) dramatically short. All issues could not be taken at once, and adequate timing of their execution would have major influence on the development of a wider social basis for the new regime. Ownership Timor-Leste is just another example of a country in which the advent of democracy is closely associated with external factors and important international impetus (the withdrawal of Indonesian rulers, UN assistance missions, etc.). Even if we supposed that the establishment of the democratic regime owed more to external impositions than to internal forces, which is not the case, the issue remains that democratic consolidation cannot avoid being a process based on the mobilization of national forces. The underlying assumption is that regardless of the nature of the actors in the play, the ownership of the show belongs to the nation’s citizenry. As we have just seen, a critical element of the whole process is the calendar for the succession of decisions and reforms. The implementation of these actions may imply the concourse of differentiated actors, and their design may also be assisted by numerous entities. The decisional process, however, must fundamentally reside with national citizens whose sovereignty is the ultimate rationale for the new polity.

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Two opposite attitudes could put at risk the ownership of the process and significantly impair the rhythm of democratic consolidation. On the one hand is a holistic belief that the Timorese people required a kind of protectorate in which benign foreign rulers would thrive to develop the prerequisites for a genuine democracy while maintaining local actors in secondary positions devoid of substantial deliberative power. An approach along these lines might lead to a misconception of the mandate attributed to the UN mission and to generate a false dilemma between a ‘strong’ international presence with quasi-autocratic powers or the withdrawal of those missions with the consequent reduction of the amounts of international assistance. A balanced view would require a firm commitment to Timorese sovereignty that implies the recognition of their autonomy to make the structural decisions, and an understanding of international aid as a complement to their needs, not as a replacement for their decisional capacity. Assuming that Timorese necessities in terms of international assistance are better situated in the mid-term, assistance programmes should take that time frame as a matrix and avoid a succession of short-term commitments that generate instability. The second attitude that actually challenges national sovereignty is the fragmentary approach of those involved in the process who came to Timor with both their technical skills and an underlying political agenda, and endeavour to pursue it without clear recognition of who is the sovereign owner of the whole process. Technical skills and political wisdom are not two sides of the same coin, and their confusion seriously challenges the sovereign capacity to set a calendar and sort out priorities. Ownership is different from formal recognition of status. The metaphor of translation is adequate to render the double nature of its implications. For one, if democracy is to be a viable regime, and independently of the concept that may be used to gauge it, then the international Esperanto – a language of the cognoscenti more than the people – would have to be converted into Tetum. It is unconceivable that a people, or the leading part thereof, may express its own will and preferences if not in command of the basic tenets of the language of power. Conversely, Tetum and all it represents here of a social and cultural dimension of power structures deeply rooted in Timorese culture that constitute everyday tools to organize social relations, requires a conversion into democratic Esperanto. As Umberto Eco has argued, translation as a shift that involves more than languages to include cultures, is a process of iterative negotiation that defies automatisms and requires context analysis (Eco 2004). Ethnocentrism and culturalism are twin vices that impair full understanding of the nature of political

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ownership in the context of democratization. The need for a dictionary is therefore paramount in order to guarantee congruence between the message and the means of expression. Inclusiveness Democracy has been aptly described as a ‘common house’ where a multiplicity of strands of opinion find shelter and organize themselves. The most prominent implication of such an approach is that majority rule must be made to rhyme with minority rights so that both can comfortably coexist within the system and attempts to challenge it from the outside be discouraged and weakened. The design of a novel democratic polity should meet some basic requirements in order to deliver on its stated goals, and promote inclusiveness in its main foundation. To comply with the principle of inclusion, the first item in the checklist should consist of the broadest possible basis for the mechanisms of political legitimation. In practice, this is first reflected in the choice of franchise for the electorate. Timorese democracy started its journey in the Referendum of 30 August 1999, which was organized with the widest possible franchise of all Timorese, men and women, aged 17 and above. Everyone was given a vote, each vote weighted the same, and the game was overseen by a neutral arbitrator, so the moral sustainability of decisions reached in this way was firmly grounded. This was a promising start, and a clear indication of the route to be pursued. Pursuant in this line, the adoption of the system to transform popular votes into political mandates, namely in parliamentary elections, would have to weigh fair representation above eventual facilitation of government formation or other considerations of similar nature. The choice of a proportional representation model, combined with a minority of seats reserved for a first-past-the-post system destined to enhance the responsiveness of parliamentarians to their local constituencies, was similarly a positive indication that the elections for the Constituent Assembly of 30 August 2001 left for future steps in democracy-building. The third element under this heading relates to the necessity to assure the implementation of a political system that would allow and even favour power-sharing. Although Timor-Leste is different from countries in which a prolonged conflict was brought to an end, keeping both sides active in the life of the polity and generating the need to consider power-sharing between previously warring factions, it is important to recall that the nationalist movement that triumphed in 1999 and embraced the overwhelming

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majority of the local political actors, was plural and multi-stranded, and that the scars of a quarter century of civil strife were still visible in the quite small local elite. Options based on models in which the winner-takes-it-all (and the loser loses-it-all), postponing the access of minorities to a position of some influence until a turnover of power becomes possible in a foggy future, reducing them to virtual irrelevance in a formal parliament devoid of actual power, had the potential to undermine the efforts to build the said common house. The need to carve institutions that positively responded to the multiplicity of facets that inclusiveness may assume ranks high in the agenda if democratization was to overcome the obstacles in its route. Control The nature of democratic power is that it is limited, both in scope and in time. A fundamental aspect of this assertion is embodied in Montesquieu’s famous distinction of three independent branches of power – judiciary, legislative and executive. However, by itself, this distinction is insufficient to address all the problems posed by present-day ways of exercising of power and the relations between those independent spheres. A critical element resides in the need combine their limits with provisions that guarantee democratic control of the system. In its simple formulation, a concept of democratic control has three implications: first, there is vertical accountability in the sense that those who happen to be in a position of power do so by virtue of some form of delegation. The mechanisms that establish delegation of power assume that the main source of legitimacy remains with those who delegate and can regularly appraise the performance of delegates. Electoral provisions are the critical but not the sole element of vertical accountability in our time. Second, there is horizontal accountability. This is operationalized through the mechanisms of checks and balances that involve all branches of power in a wider network. In a nascent democracy which has at its disposal a rudimentary, embryonic state, in which the different branches may have significantly disparate levels of development and capacity to discharge their duties, it becomes critically important to move beyond formal constitutional dispositions (drawn in view of a perfect and evenly developed state) and ascertain whether mutual controls, and especially control over the executive, can be effectively exercised. Third, a global view needs to be directed to the whole system to evaluate whether or not those who are bound in the network of dual accountability

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– simultaneously vertical and horizontal – actually do command a controlling position over the political process. By virtue of adverse factors such as institutional frailty, it may happen that important sectors of activity are actually outside the control of legitimate authorities and under a de facto regime of impunity. The existence of fields of activity outside the actual control of legitimate authorities diminishes their capacity to be held accountable, and seriously impairs the basic assumptions of democratic rule. Taken as a whole, these four substantive issues frame the core of the decisions that would affect the design of a democratic model and its chances of survival. They will guide the survey of Timorese politics in the next four chapters, focusing on the constitutional issue, elections, government system and decentralization.

3

Constitutionalism old and new in the ‘UN Kingdom’ of Timor-Leste

Over the last quarter of a century, constitutionalism has been an important feature of the Southeast Asian political landscape. The notion of constitutionalism encompasses two different (although sometimes associated) meanings. In a narrow, mostly juridical sense, constitutionalism can be regarded as the process through which formal constitutions are drafted (or redrafted). It contains an institutional dimension most often supported in specifically designed state bodies, as well as the expectation that the emerging charter will frame the life of the polity in the future. However, this term can also be understood as a significant step in the adoption of ‘constitutional policies’, or the development of key political elements, such as the separation of powers, rule of law, checks and balances, or human rights, that enrich the basic notion of polyarchy. In this light, constitutionalism is closely associated with the spread of democratic polities, a trend that Samuel P. Huntington (1991) dates to the Portuguese Carnations Revolution of 1974. It was then stimulated by the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 and is said to have reached Southeast Asia in the 1990s. True, constitutions exist in nations that do not possess democratic regimes; but practically all democracies elaborate fundamental charters in which the basic tenets of the political structure are spelled out. A fundamental condition for the existence of democracies, in the words of Juan Linz (1997: 117), is the establishment of the a formal state based on the rule of law, which in turn is normally grounded on the provisions of a constitution. Bjoern Dressel and Marco Bunte have argued that constitutional practices now sweeping Southeast Asia had important impacts in four critical areas – individual rights and religion; the place of the military; the rule of law, courts and justice; and the very process of constitutional drafting. In all of them, significant levels of political contestation have been channelled to the emerging constitutional practice, offering an important basis on which democratic developments could lay their foundations. This chapter takes a close look at one of these areas – the process of constitutional drafting in Timor-Leste under the aegis of the UN administration. Constitution-making is indeed one of the most visible arenas for contestation, and the experience of Timor-Leste should be regarded in this context. Of course, drafting a new constitution is an important step in the democratic process, but ‘[f]or constitutionalism to take hold, clearly it will take more than institutional

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change on paper. Instead, elites and regular citizens alike must come to agreement’ to support the fundamental tenets of the new constitution (Dressel and Bunte 2014: 4). The argument will be made that an important relationship exists between the way in which Timor-Leste conducted the process of constitution-drafting and the ensuing difficulties in engaging ‘the elites and the regular citizens’ in observing the dispositions of its new constitution. In fact, two alternative models were put forward in the early stages of the process – what I am calling ‘new’ and ‘old’ constitutionalism. The option for the more conservative approach may have alienated significant sectors of the elite as well as introduced a major gap between the ruling group and wider sectors of the population in matters pertaining to the organization of social and political life. For this reason, although the constitution of 2002 has been permanently in force ever since independence was proclaimed, and so far no attempt has been made at revising it, it can certainly be argued that the relationship between the constitution and the real state for which it was created is not fully established, some major points of friction being visible in intervening years.

Constitution-making: The importance of processes On 30 August 1999 the people of Timor-Leste voted on a UN-organized referendum to end the 24-year-long annexation to the Republic of Indonesia, and reiterated their choice for independence. After the Referendum, TimorLeste engaged two simultaneous political processes: the construction of the foundations of a new independent state and the definition of institutions and mechanisms of a democratic polity (Tansey 2009). For both, the centrality of a constitution was widely accepted. The recognition of a new political entity is contingent on the existence of a matrix legal framework that defines the main beams of its institutions and political mechanisms, and democracy cannot thrive without a broad consensus on clear rules for the political game. All those elements add up and are normally enshrined in new constitutions if they aspire to represent and embody a real social contract. In 1975, Portugal had put forward a proposal to elect an assembly in Timor Português destined to take all relevant decisions pertaining to the process of self-determination of the territory, including provisions for a constitution to be drafted defining the status and political institutions of the new polity, which was to emerge on 15 October 1978 (Carey 2008: 346). Subsequent events took unprecedented turns and this process never took

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off, namely because of the civil war that broke out in August 1975 (Kingsbury 2009; Molnar 2011). Later that year, as FRETILIN unilaterally proclaimed independence on 28 November, a constitution was approved by its own central committee. This was a document with historical relevance, but totally unfit to meet the requirements of an altogether different situation. Drafted in a time of emergency and inspired by African models of singleparty regimes, the old constitution no longer inspired even those who had made it (Alkatiri 2014). A new constitution was needed. Substantial parts of the transition phase were dedicated to debates that first centred on the model to be used in the pursuit of the desired goal, and later revolved around the substantial choices to be enshrined in the constitution. As Aurel Croissant (2015) remarked, a link has long been established that articulates the modes of constitution-making, the acceptance of the constitutional provisions by the citizenry, and the democratic quality of the emerging regime. This assertion signifies that a critical variable on which a positive outcome depends is precisely the form of the institutional process. Kristi Samuels (2006) considers that four items can be used to analyze the significance of those procedures: (1) are constitutions imposed top down or do they derive from negotiations involving different actors? (2) is the process inclusive or restricted to a segment of the stakeholders? (3) how representative of the citizenry is the entire process? and (4) what sort of participation of the citizens is allowed in the process of drafting the constitution? These considerations frame our attempt to evaluate the historical process of constitution-drafting in Timor-Leste. Also, they are pertinent to ascertain the degree of legitimacy achieved by the new constitution. As Jon Elster (1997) maintained, constitutional legitimacy may be sustained in three different ways: ‘upstream legitimacy’ if the body producing the charter was established according to a legitimate manner; ‘process legitimacy’ if it disposed of autonomy to deliberate and was not subject to external pressure or limitation of its liberty; and ‘downward legitimacy’ in those cases in which the end product was subject to a referendum or any form of public approval by the citizenry at large. For these reasons, scrutinizing the constitution-drafting process in Timor-Leste is an important element in any endeavour purporting to understand the emergence of a democratic polity in the first new nation of the 21st century. Four issues stand out when dealing with the relationships between constitution-making and democracy. Two of those issues precede the drafting of a constitution, and are considered in detail along the survey of the roadmap to independence; the third pertains to the essence of that process, and is addressed here by means of examining one instance of negotiation

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and limited compromise; and the last one is considered when assessing the overall importance of the new charter. This assessment requires that another four dimensions of the constitution-making process be evaluated ex post in their articulation with the creation and consolidation of a democratic polity: durability of the new constitution; temperance in the balance of powers enshrined in its provisions; effects on the performance of the new institutions; and the democratic nature both of the process of its own creation and the capacity revealed to sustain the rule of law. These will be considered in the last section. First: Fareed Zakaria has argued that the timing of constitution-drafting is critical to the success of democratization processes. Retrieving an historical argument that postulates that the rule of law developed before adult universal suffrage – although recent developments analyzed by Miller (2013) indicate that there are alternative paths – Zakaria places ‘paper power’ before ‘people power’, and adds: ‘It’s crucial that before the first elections, before politicians gain enormous legitimacy through the polls, a system is put in place that limits governmental power and protects individual liberty and the rights of minorities. […] The focus should be more on constitutions, and less on elections’ (Zakaria 2013: 33). The precise articulation of a process that gains as much substance as it is capable of mobilizing a plurality of actors to a broad consensus, with another one which is competitive in nature and therefore stimulates confrontation and often verges on ‘the winner takes it all’ that alienates part of the stakeholders, becomes a central issue. The second issue refers to the institutional model framing the decisionmaking process. As Garrison has noticed, ‘[t]he degree of legitimacy and public support for a new constitution are critically affected by decisions about the time frame of the constitution-building process, about who is to make key decisions, and about what the extent of the political participation will be’ (2005: 2-3). In brief, there are two polarizing models: a classical approach based on a process restricted to the political elites in which formal institutions (Constituent Assembly, political parties, etc.) take full responsibility for the preparation, writing and approval of a new constitution; and a model which has been designated as ‘new constitutionalism’ (Hart 2003: 4), and sustains the necessity to involve wider sectors of the citizenry through participatory processes. Mixed forms are possible such as the possibility of submitting the proposed text of a new constitution to a referendum or the articulation of a Constituent Assembly with an institutionalized process of popular consultations. In fact, scholars have identified no less than 18 alternatives to design a constitution (Ginsburg, Elkins and Blount 2009: 205), and still more could be conceived. The relevance of analyzing

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processes of constitutional elaboration has been stressed by Ginsburg, Elkin and Blount who believe that ‘the conditions under which founders write, deliberate and ratify are consequential’, as they postulate the existence of links between processes and outcomes, and conclude that there is a close association between ‘processes that involve the public in the adoption of the constitution and the presence of rights and certain democratic institutions in the resulting document’ (Ginzburg et al. 2009: 202, 219). Among the aims of the current chapter is a presentation and discussion of the actual Timorese process and its consequences, as this issue represents the other face of the same coin referred by Zakaria. Third: Arend Lijphart has written extensively on ‘constitutional design for divided societies’, arguing that it is possible to draw some generic lessons from the myriad of constitutional design experiments that the world has witnessed in recent times (e.g., Lijphart 2004). Rather than copy models – often from former colonial powers – or to delve into the catalogue of the wide array of alternative models, critical elements of successful historical constitutions should be preferred. However, it seems easier to suggest fundamental principles like the establishment of power-sharing institutions and mechanisms, or group autonomy, than to pinpoint the precise morphology of those instances. Real constitution drafters are confronted with choices in critical areas, such as government system or electoral models, or indeed in respect to other institutions such as the judiciary, the military and the police forces, or the civil service, and their option will impinge on the success of the process. ‘The relative success of a power-sharing system is contingent upon the specific mechanisms devised to yield the broad representation that constitutes its core’ as ‘it is naïve to expect that minorities condemned to permanent opposition to remain loyal, moderate and constructive’ (Lijphart 2004: 98-99). The constitution-drafting process of Timor-Leste addressed those issues, but space does not allow us to consider them in detail. The last issue pertains to what may be labelled ‘para-constitutional’ provisions. On the one hand, it is common for constitutions to demand special treatment for some political issues – namely imposing qualified majorities – which are not directly included in their own provisions, and which must be considered as a special case in between the constitution and ordinary legislation. On the other, as Sartori has noticed, beyond the letter of constitutions there are often other elements that pertain to the realm of ‘material constitutions’ – encompassing established practices offering a basis for political action that are not contemplated in the formal text – or ‘the real configuration of the system’ (Sartori 1997: 202). This issue will also be addressed in the framework of the Timorese political process as the gap

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between the written word of its constitution and the actual political frame appeared under two distinct forms: one, the constitutional text could not provide responses to all emerging difficulties, requiring other sources of legitimation; two, the written norms required time and resources to be effectively deployed, delaying in practice the implementation of several constitutional provisions. Both cases call for a notion of ‘para-constitutional’ provisions to fully enlighten the relationships between the constitutional process and the real politics of a living entity. In brief: the global process of constitutional drafting is a central element to bear in mind when one purports to investigate the legitimacy and the stability of the democratic polity that adopted it. If this process managed to channel political contestation to the assembly and produced a charter that accommodates the aspirations of the vast majority of stakeholders, then it is likely that the emerging regime will have a strong legitimacy basis capable of sustaining political stability. Failure to address those requirements would diminish the capacity of the new regime to sustain peaceful solutions when confronted with contestation playing outside the realm of the novel, narrowly defined institutions.

Setting the frame The United Nations faced a twin problem to solve in Timor-Leste – to provide humanitarian aid on a scale far superior to anyone’s worst expectations, and to guarantee some form of transition to Timor’s independence. The Security Council (UNSC) adopted Resolution 1272 (25 October 1999) establishing the United Nations Transitional Administration in East Timor (UNTAET). It was the beginning of the ‘UN Kingdom of East Timor’ (Chopra 2000). Unlike other polities, this one was not intended to endure indefinitely, but rather to pave the way for Timorese independence in a limited time frame. The main assumption of the UNSC Resolution was that ‘the East Timorese people expressed their clear wish to begin a process of transition under the authority of the United Nations towards independence’, and thus decided to create UNTAET with the explicit goals of promoting the ‘development of local democratic institutions’ and to ‘transfer to these institutions its administrative and public service functions’. The UNSC endowed UNTAET with the ‘overall responsibility for the administration of East Timor and […] empowered [it] to exercise all legislative and executive authority, including the administration of justice’. The scope of competences entrusted to the Transitional Authority, personalized

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in the Special Representative of the UN Secretary-General, the Brazilianborn UN career official Sergio Vieira de Mello, was the largest ever in UN missions (Tansey 2009). The first point to mark the individuality of this endeavour is the amplitude of the state-building effort. The collapse of the public administration was much more profound than in any similar circumstances, and contributed to include in the definition of the UN role the task of providing the basic infrastructure of the state as a prerequisite for its operation. However, from the acknowledgement of the collapse of public administration many international actors derived a false conclusion: that all legitimate power had ceased to exist and a power vacuum had been installed over the ruins of the Indonesian governance. This view, which was to imply pervasive effects in the handling of the situation, clearly underestimated both the deep organizational roots of the Resistance movement and the persistence of entrenched notions of political legitimacy that sustained a political hierarchy in the country (Hohe 2002b). This configuration of powers raised two substantial problems. First, if the establishment and development of democratic governance was a major goal of the process, the chosen method ran contrary to the very essence of democracy in that it amalgamated in a single individual the whole range of powers that are supposed to be separated and to provide checks and balances to the political system. This method has been termed ‘benevolent autocracy’ (Chesterman 2004b), ‘benevolent despotism’ (Beauvais 2001) or ‘benevolent dictatorship’ (Powell 2008), and the Transitional Administrator was compared to a ‘pre-constitutional monarch in a sovereign state’ (Chopra 2002). Second, the stated goal of the intervention was to ‘support capacitybuilding for self-government’. But the initial approach was to entrust governance to international personnel. UNSC Resolution 1272 called for the establishment of a structure comprising at least two components: ‘a governance and public administration component, including an international police element, with a strength of up to 1,640 officers’ and ‘a military component with a strength of up to 8,950 troops and up to 200 military observers’. In this context, little room seems to have been allocated to the Timorese in the transitional administration. Because some of the goals ascribed to this force derived from the international community’s own political agenda and were to be enforced though the presence of a strong bureaucratic apparatus mainly composed of foreigners that would retain the reins of the process, Damien Kingsbury labelled the exercise as ‘benign colonialism’ (2009: 77).

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To solve the paradox and circumvent the contradiction between ends and means, an approach was conceived that consisted of separating two independent goals for the UN mission: in the short term, to build a state apparatus and a public administration capable of delivering basic services and prefigure the future independent state’s own structure, and which was to be conferred to the international personnel deployed on the scene; in the medium term, to help the Timorese develop their own organization which was to take over from the UN mission at the time of independence. The two were conceived as self-contained goals without much in common. In accordance with this view, Vieira de Mello promulgated Regulation 1999/2 on ‘the establishment of a National Consultative Council’ of 15 members. In spite of references to ‘decision-making’, Section 1.1 stipulates that the Council was established to ‘provide advice to the Transitional Administrator’. It was conceived as ‘a joint consultative forum of representatives of the East Timorese people and UNTAET’ that could not ‘prejudice the final authority of the Transitional Administrator’ (Section 1.3). The clear distinction between executive capacity, merged with legislative and judicial powers, and reserved for the UN personnel, and consultative functions entrusted to the representatives of Timorese organizations was thus enshrined in the founding regulations of the new transitional administration. This distinction of functions generated controversy, as the Timorese leadership felt its role was relegated to a mere ‘advisory’ capacity. Vieira de Mello conceded the increasingly vociferous frustration was firmly grounded and required an evolution in the political structures he had created in view of increasing the ‘timorization’ of the decision-making process (Powell 2008). In July 2000 he redesigned the original council – which had been ‘a genuine, if largely failed attempt to engage the local population’ (Kingsbury 2009: 84) – in order to become the National Council (NC) ‘established to act as a forum for all legislative matters’ (UNTAET Regulation 2000/24, Section 1), with extended competences, and created ‘the Cabinet of the Transitional Government’ aimed at ‘effectively governing and administering East Timor during the transitional period, leading to the adoption of a constitution and the establishment of a democratically elected government for East Timor’ (UNTAET Regulation 2000/23). The ‘timorization’ process at a high level reduced but did not eliminate frustrations and tensions that were to endure until independence day, and voices in CNRT (Conselho Nacional da Resistência Timorense [National Council of Timorese Resistance]) – the umbrella organization established in 1998 unifying all elements seeking political change in Timor-Leste – were heard in open criticism of the overall approach.

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Pursuing his approach based on a distinction between current governance and the preparation for independence, Vieira de Mello spelled out the two main tasks of the transitional administration regarding the latter issue: to prepare a constitution, and the organization of an electoral process on whose result the new government should find legitimacy to govern the novel country.

A controversial roadmap towards independence The UN Security Council (UNSC) Resolutions did not specify how the shift from the transitional administration to an independent new nation would occur, nor did any agreement exist along the lines of those of Cambodia or Afghanistan, which defined the bases for the state-building effort (Aucoin and Brandt 2010). A need was felt to find ‘a delicate balance between imposing international standards and acknowledging the local historical and political context’ (Charlesworth 2003). The rationale that framed Vieira de Mello’s decisions bears the marks of a major decision that occurred far away from Dili, behind the scenes in New York: the shift of the Timorese file, under the impact of the mayhem that descended upon the territory in September, from the UN Department of Political Affairs (UNDPA) which had been responsible for its development over the years, including the organization of the Popular Consultation, with prima facie knowledge of all parts in the conflict, to the UN Department of Peace Keeping Operations (UNDPKO) (Suhrke 2001; Garrison 2005; Kingsbury 2009). The former had extensive knowledge of the political landscape and entertained relations with the major figures of the Resistance, whereas the latter advocated a novel attitude based on neutrality principles that constitute a standardized blueprint to be deployed in post-conflict situations in which rival parts face each other, but was difficult to justify in the case of Timor-Leste. One of the conflicting parts had withdrawn from the scene, and no ‘political void’ ensued, as often was assumed. Independence had been gained through peaceful and legitimate means and was supported by an important political organization that had been recognized by UNAMET, its own symbol having been deployed in the ballot papers of the Referendum in opposition to the Indonesian flag. But some do not seem to have realized the conflict was actually over. The result was not satisfactory. According to Pedro Bacelar de Vasconcelos, ‘UNTAET did not understand an elemental truth: it is the people who build democracy from the first instant’ (2001: 1). He added: ‘The new

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Transitional Administration sacrificed to its own organizational interests, the preservation of its sovereign status, its conveniences for technical equipment, and the growth of its bureaucratic apparatus, the precious capital it had inherited from UNAMET’s [United Nations Mission in East Timor] esteemed experience’ (2001: 1). In the meantime, the Timorese organizations remained active. CNRT convened a conference at Tibar in late May 2000 to analyze the prospects for the future, and reaffirmed its commitment to a strategic plan for drafting a constitution through a ‘constitutional convention’ with ample public consultation as had been agreed in April 1999 in Melbourne. According to Aucoin and Brandt in the Tibar conference, the UNTAET Department of Political Affairs under Peter Galbraith proposed an alternative path: ‘[e]lections will choose a Constituent Assembly which in turn will write, debate and adopt a constitution’ (2010: 251). The Transitional Administrator was careful to keep doors open at CNRT’s Congress in August, when he addressed the delegates and clearly stated that both options – the convention and the assembly – were legitimate. But in September he addressed the UN Security Council and only presented the plan to hold elections for a Constituent Assembly without reference to an eventual ‘constitutional convention’ or any form of public consultation. After extensive negotiations with CNRT and lobbying at UN headquarters, Vieira de Mello issued Regulations 2000/23 and 2000/24 (14 July) establishing a ‘Cabinet of the Transitional Government’ and a National Council (NC) as a more inclusive body to replace the ill-fated National Consultative Council, which was only appointed in October. This effort was later mirrored in UNSC Resolution 1338 (31 January 2001), which requested the Transitional Administrator to ‘continue to take steps to delegate progressively further authority within the East Timor Transitional Administration to the East Timorese people’. The first of those regulations regarded those who should be ‘effectively governing and administering East Timor during the transitional period’. It instituted a ‘government’ composed of four Timorese (Mari Alkatiri, Ana Pessoa, João Carrascalão. Father Filomeno Jacob) and four international ‘Cabinet Officers’ appointed by the Transitional Administrator. A fifth Timorese, José Ramos-Horta, would later be added in order to take responsibility for ‘external affairs’. All Cabinet decisions were ‘subject to the review and approval of the Transitional Administrator’ (Section 4.3). The National Council was set up ‘for the purpose of establishing a legislative mechanism’, and was composed of 33 Timorese in representation of relevant organizations (Section 1.1) who had the power to elect their own chairman (Section 4) – and they chose, quite naturally, Xanana Gusmão.

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The Transitional Administrator retained powers to approve ‘in his sole discretion’ the draft regulations produced by the Council (Section 2.3). The inversion of normal democratic procedures, maintaining the legislative in the dependence of the chief executive, remained in force. Despite a marked improvement in the engagement of Timorese leadership in matters pertaining to transition, the sentiment that ‘ownership of the process’ was in foreign hands did not subside. A substantial number of political actors could not understand why the results of the popular consultation – in which the symbol of CNRT had been used to signal Independence – were not translated into actual transfer of power. As relations with UNTAET grew strained, the proclamation of Independence emerged as the only way to achieve such a goal. At the end of 2000, the National Council, acting after Sergio Vieira de Mello had asked for its advice, discussed a road map concerning steps towards full independence and their calendar. The Council referred the matter to its Political Affairs Committee (PAC) where Aniceto Guterres, Milena Pires, Salvador Ximenes and Agio Pereira sat beside Xanana. This group ‘felt it necessary and important to conduct a consultation process’. The Timorese leadership was torn between two conflicting considerations. They recognized the immense difficulty of the tasks ahead and the need for time to lay the foundations of the new state, and were bound by earlier decisions pointing a to transitional period lasting ten or more years; on the other hand, they felt marginalized in the decision-making process by the domineering presence of the UN administration and aspired to assume rapid control over the destiny of their country. Given the limitations that would subside as long as the UN retained the control of the situation, designing a road map to full independence was thus a major opportunity to take matters in their own hands on two counts: by assuming a key role in the definition of those steps and their calendar, and by making sure that in the subsequent process local actors would take central stage in crafting the tools required for independence. The debate would be lively, and it brought together Timorese stakeholders and prominent representatives of the UN administration apparatus. Unsurprisingly, two major lines of argument were presented before the PAC: one favouring a protracted period of transition to independence which could be associated with an increased role for the Timorese in the process, which was coupled with an approach centred around the idea of a ‘constitutional convention’ as the instrument to craft the fundamental law of the new nation; another supporting a rapid move and adopting the view that setting up formal democratic institutions and staging competitive

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elections for a Constituent Assembly were a requisite for independence. Although two differentiated issues were at stake, the association between protracted transition and new constitutionalism, on the one hand, and rapid evolution towards independence and a constituent assembly directly elected, on the other, was very pronounced. The constitutional issue must be analyzed in this context. The first vision was rooted in the history of the Timorese Resistance. Ramos-Horta’s speech in Oslo on the occasion of his acceptance of the Nobel Peace Prize (1996) proposed a three-stage transitional period from Indonesian rule lasting up to ten years, or more. This was based on Xanana’s own proposal put forward before his arrest in 1992, which had received scant public attention but was widely accepted by the Resistance. A similar lengthy period was again agreed upon when the various branches of the opposition to Indonesian rule met in Peniche (Portugal), in April 1998, and formed the new CNRT. Its rationale was twofold: it allowed Indonesia the time to organize an eventual withdrawal without turbulence, safeguarding its interests; and it offered the Timorese themselves time to heal the scars of past disputes that only recently had been overcome by their political elite represented in the CNRT. If the first argument had been overturned by the sequence of events that followed the agreement of 5 May 1999 (Marker 2009) the second reason had not been disposed of, and remained a central concern of a sizeable part of the Timorese leadership. This view was not unanimous. José Ramos-Horta came before the PAC on 19 January 2001 and stated: In my modest opinion, it is better to move slow and sure so that as we reach the D-date (Independence), the institutions of the country, such as the Constitution, democratic assembly, courts, banks, investments, law of property and other law, including diplomatic relationships are established properly. Without forgetting at the same time as we are working on the calendar for independence, each one of us should bear in mind the need for peace, stability and security. Any acceleration of the process may jeopardize the question of peace, security and stability itself. (ETTA 2001: 17)

He further proposed that according to views expressed by ‘various members of the CNRT and political parties’ and discussed when Xanana was in home arrest at Salemba, a constitutional convention be organized along the same lines that led to the constitution of the National Council, but with a broader

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composition in order to secure ample participation. This convention would draft a constitution, benefitting from the counsel of international experts. He explained: Once this job is done, with a document in hand, such document would be submitted to an elected constituent assembly […], a democratic body elected by the people to study the project that would come from the constitutional convention, make some changes, but with a mandate not to go beyond one month. Immediately the constituent assembly would then vote to ratify the final product and East Timor would have its Constitution. (ETTA 2001: 17)

In brief, Ramos-Horta pleaded for the continuation of political work based on the imperatives of consensual democracy through the enlarged participation of all streams of opinion, and disposing of time and power to organize wide public consultations, which should precede the opening up of a second phase with competitive mechanisms and majority rule only when sound bases had been established on various fronts. In its broad outline, this position that we may call ‘New Constitutionalism’ given its emphasis on wide popular participation in the drafting process, was supported by the majority of those who testified before the PAC, including representatives of several political parties and other organizations. The Catholic Church, through Bishop Ximenes Belo, co-recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize – who had long taken public positions along similar lines (Smythe 2004: 40) – presented a document on 9 February, which reads: The Constitution is like the house of our dreams. You cannot build it overnight […]. A Constitution is not satisfactory unless all major groups and political interests in the society are agreeable to the terms of the Constitution. The Constitution should be a document of the people. Such agreement only comes after a process that is truly inclusive, consultative and responsive to the different perspectives in the community. (ETTA 2001: Annex, ‘Constitution Making and Process. Church Position’, 2)

A similar point of view was reported by the representative of the Jurist’s Association, Adérito Soares: ‘The Constitution is something that needs to be written through the blood and sweat of the people of the nation’ (ETTA 2001: 44). Among those who expressed views on behalf of the ‘civil society’, Joaquim Fonseca (NGO Yayasam HAK) put things blatantly: ‘We feel that there has been a rush linked to the timetable [proposing the election of a

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constituent assembly] that relates more to UN priorities and the priorities of some political leaders rather than the priorities of the people to make up their mind’ (ETTA 2001: 57). Curiously enough, no statement is reported from FRETILIN, in either official form or through some leading figure in an individual capacity. It is known that the party opposed this approach and actually sided with high-ranking international officers, some of whom also appeared before the PAC, in defending an alternative path, as they had already done at a CNRT convention in Tibar. This was clear in several testimonies. Finn Reske-Nielsen, on behalf of the local UNDP station, wrote: The proposed calendar [i.e., elections for a constituent assembly by mid2001] is, I believe, tight but realistic. Nevertheless, it is going to require a lot of hard work and dedication on everyone’s part to successfully go through the process of establishing political parties, agreeing on an appropriate electoral system, ensuring effective and transparent registration of voters, conducting elections in an atmosphere free of fear and intimidation and building a consensus on the constitutional arrangements for a free and independent East Timor. (ETTA 2001: Annex)

The optimistic view that much depends on voluntary action capable of removing the most serious obstacles in a matter of weeks or few months was coupled with his paternalist notion that the whole process should move top-down and from the centre to the periphery: One of the most important challenges in the transitional period is to disseminate appropriate information to the electorate to ensure that everyone is fully cognizant of his or her rights and obligations in a democratic state, that he or she is well informed about the available political choices, etc. In this regard the UNDP has been asked by ETTA to draft an ‘action plan on national framework on civic education’ under the guidance of the Transitional Administrator and the newly established National Steering Committee on Civil Education. (ETTA 2001: Annex)

The most outspoken proponent of this path was Peter Galbraith, Cabinet Officer in charge of Political Affairs and Timor Sea. The terms of his testimony could hardly be more explicit: The f inal phase of Political Transition begins with the election of a Constituent Assembly with a mandate to prepare the constitution for

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an independent Timor-Leste. UNTAET has an obligation to hold free and fair elections that meet the highest international standards and are open to all political parties and viewpoints. Only in this way can UNTAET be certain that it is turning power over to bona fide representatives of the Timorese people. The Constituent Assembly will have full plenary power. It can decide on the type of constitution, the method of drafting the constitution, the extent of debate on its adoption, and the method of ratification. Both theoretically and practically, it will be impossible for an un-elected National Council and Cabinet to limit the scope of the Constituent Assembly writing authority. (ETTA 2001: 27)

Contrary to those who defended that the process of constitution-drafting should come down to the level of the people and be organized in such a way that it allowed for ample popular participation, this view held that formal conditions had to be guaranteed that facilitated the delegation of power from the people to a handful of members of the elite who would assume the burden of preparing and voting on the new constitution. Together with other high-ranking international officers, Galbraith was concerned with an ‘exit strategy’ for UN involvement in Timor-Leste. They were clearly concerned about finding the quickest and least expensive exit that would still meet expected international standards and protect the UN against international criticism (Garrison 2005: 2). They were aware of Kofi Annan’s view that the whole process should not extend beyond two to three years (and they all knew the Security Council would only give its approval for short-term missions), thus suggesting both an ambitious mandate and a tight timetable. In this light, all other considerations were overridden by a procedural concept holding that competitive elections are the ne plus ultra of democracy that must be organized at all costs because they are indeed regarded as a prerequisite for the attribution of legitimate status to any sort of polity. The UNTAET Electoral Affairs Division under his supervision had, as of December 2000, prepared eight working papers detailing ‘basic electoral decisions and criteria for choice’, which were circulated to NC members. Galbraith and those who sided with him, like FRETILIN, were the winners of the dispute. The National Council (and those who espoused the ‘new constitutionalism’ approach) realized that a price had to be paid in order to secure the advancement of self-rule, and that would take the form of the methodology to design the constitution. Thus, the National Council adopted a recommendation including the staging of elections for a Constituent Assembly by mid-2001. However, it also took note of the reservations and

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objections pertaining to the short time allowed for its preparation, the need to foster popular participation in the process, and the defence of gradual methods leading up to the final election of such assembly. In this vein, the National Council adopted two further statements. First, it took upon itself ‘the responsibility of organizing a National Convention for the purpose of drafting, debating and adopting a Pact of National Unity’ (ETTA 2001: Recommendations, B.1). This would imply that the Constituent Assembly […] adheres to a Pact of National Unity which includes respecting the results of the Popular Consultation of 30th August 1999, obeying the principles consecrated in the Magna Carta approved in the first CNRT National Convention held in 1998, and practice democracy at all levels of the party structures. (ETTA 2001: Recommendations, B.4)

The Pact of National Unity was effectively drafted and subscribed by all but two parties (PARENTIL and PNT) running in the August 2001 election. Second, it also decided to ‘establish a National Constitutional Commission to facilitate the process of consultation throughout the 13 districts of Timor-Leste’ (ETTA 2001: Recommendations, C.1), the results of which were to be handed to the Constituent Assembly upon its election. Compromise was obtained on a multi-layered approach that aimed to combine the two methodologies. However, the calendar that was also established actually reduced the chances of the National Constitutional Commission carrying out significant work due to the short time made available for that purpose. On the other hand, through the Pact of National Unity, the National Council imposed guidelines that the Constituent Assembly was to respect, thus actually limiting its powers. Although a distinct attempt at a compromise between alternative strategies is discernible in the final outcome, Xanana felt uncomfortable with what amounted to a substantial defeat of the ‘new constitutionalism’ approach based on enlarged participation and eventually resigned as chairman of the National Council in March on the basis of disagreements over the limitations to the consultation process. By late February 2001 the design of the road map was completed and time had come to move along the chosen path. For UNTAET, the ‘early adoption of a new constitution would be a benchmark of success for the mission which needed to illustrate results to justify its huge expense’ (Aucoin and Brandt 2010). At a time when the success of UN missions in Indochina and the Balkans was open to criticism, the chance of obtaining a result that vindicated its overall approach was too tempting to be allowed to fail. For the Timorese, the coveted prize of independence overshadowed any shortcomings. Just as

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the elections for the Constituent Assembly were set in motion, Sergio Vieira de Mello disbanded the National Council (UNTAET Directive 2001/8, 14 July) to prevent the coexistence of two bodies vested with legislative powers. In the following sections, attention will be paid to the way in which ‘old constitutionalism’ was set in motion and actually operated, and to the limited contribution of ‘new constitutionalism’ to the drafting process.

Old constitutionalism at work: On the Constituent Assembly Elections for the Constituent Assembly were scheduled for 30  August 2001 – exactly two years after the Referendum that decided on the issue of independence. The Assembly was given a first period of three months, later extended for another three, to complete its gigantic task. This compares with an average time frame of 16 months, and a mode of ten months, found by Elkins, Ginsburg and Blount for a large sample of constitutions (2009: 207). It is clear that severe time constraints were placed on the members of the assembly, which would have significant reflections on the way it was to discharge its function. Elections were preceded by a period of a few months during which political parties had to register and offer proof of a modicum of support – a period that was widely criticized for its short span which was deemed to unduly favour the long-established FRETILIN, and generate substantial obstacles to other currents of opinion that had emerged in the later period of Indonesian domination and were represented more informally in CNRT. In brief, the process of formalization of political parties represented an obstacle to a wider franchise. To counteract those effects, two devices were adopted. On the one hand, 75 out of 88 seats would be allocated through proportional representation (thus allowing minorities who succeeded in forming a party to have representatives in the assembly), mostly – but not necessarily – awarded to formal political parties. This followed what seems to be the academic consensus on the virtues of proportionality and power-sharing in institutional design (Lijphart 2004). On the other, 13 other seats were to be fought on a first-pastthe-post system in every district, and those would be open to individuals without party affiliation in an effort to enlarge the franchise beyond the reaches of political parties. The result of these combined provisions was an assembly in which one party (FRETILIN) secured 12 of those 13 seats as well as 43 of the 75 of the national constituency, and thus dominated the process. However,

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it fell short of the 60 seats necessary for approval of the constitution, and was thus compelled to negotiate (albeit in a strong position) with 11 other parties. More important is the fact that the elections for the Constituent Assembly failed to attract some key figures of the political elite. Xanana Gusmão, who had chaired CNRT and the National Council, and who actually possessed a special status as a charismatic leader that benefitted from enlarged legitimacy and popular appeal, refused to seek a seat. The same holds true of José Ramos-Horta, the mastermind of the Diplomatic Front who had been Xanana’s deputy on various occasions (namely in CNRT and in the National Council). The list could be enlarged, but it suffices to highlight that the electoral process failed to secure that important stakeholders were actually present in the Constituent Assembly. A second feature of this assembly needs to be stressed: it offered the elected representatives of the Timorese elite an opportunity to conduct business in their own fashion. In fact, in spite of voicing concerns about some aspects of the assembly’s work and making a number of suggestions, UNTAET and its off icials mostly refrained from interfering with the proceedings and distanced themselves from the substance of the drafting process (Charlesworth 2003: 328). International advisors made their presence felt in Dili, but they kept a low profile and refrained from actively interfering with the proceedings. In the context of transition under UN supervision, the works of the Constituent Assembly reflect as much as possible local ownership of the process. The fact that 91% of the electorate showed up to vote on 30 August 2001 was widely read as a sign of popular endorsement for the chosen methodology. In brief, ‘[o]nce the constituent assembly model was adopted for drafting and adopting a constitution, political parties became the key decisionmakers’ (Garrison 2005: 12), guaranteeing the process would be globally controlled by the Timorese elite. However, three contentious issues need to be contemplated. First, political parties were far from being actually constituted as social actors by the time the decision to move ahead with elections was taken. The time offered for them to officially register was short, and implied that beyond bureaucratic compliance with the regulations, they lacked the capacity to fully express the wealth of public opinion that, in a substantial manner, still equated ‘political parties’ with ‘divisionism’ reminiscent of the traumatic events of 1975. Several key figures, not least Xanana Gusmão and José Ramos-Horta, and influential personalities close to the Catholic Church, preferred to keep themselves out of the fray – and the consequence

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was that the Constituent Assembly, in spite of having allowed ‘independent’ candidates, found itself amputated of major stakeholders. The difference between FRETILIN and all the other ‘parties’ was enormous, in that the historical party had long-established roots that more recent currents of opinion that emerged in the latter years of the Resistance obviously lacked. It was not surprising to see FRETILIN supporting early elections in order to take advantage of that factor – and the elections of 30 August 2001 vindicated its stance by returning an absolute majority to this party. However, the number of votes required in the House to approve the constitution had been fixed at 60 out of 88 seats. This implied that FRETILIN, having only 55 seats, was forced to negotiate. In those circumstances, negotiations with only one of the other parties represented in the assembly (ASDT) was enough to obtain the target number of votes, and more inclusive bargaining was actually dispensed with. In the end, the constitution was approved with votes in favour from FRETILIN and ASDT, the majority of parties with seats refraining from siding with them. In terms of inclusiveness and consensus, the Constituent Assembly fell short of the best expectations. Finally, the Constituent Assembly was given the possibility to extend its own mandate and transform itself into the first national parliament for five years without fresh elections. This issue divided FRETILIN from the rest, with important alignments outside the House. A great deal of important stakeholders expressed the view that it was ‘illegitimate’ for an assembly which had been elected with a precise purpose to extend its own mandate without a broad consensus that was obviously missing. In fact, this decision implied that open political competition for elected posts prescribed in the constitution was delayed until 2007 and distorted political choices in that period.

Compromise and consensus: Defining the government system Among the critical choices faced by the Constituent Assembly, the government system ranks high given the close relation it entertains with structural features of political power and the characteristics of the local political landscape. This section deals with the controversies surrounding its inception, showing the extent to which there was a broad consensus on a theoretical model, significant disagreement over the balance of powers between president and prime minister, and negotiations that led to the emergence of some form of limited compromise between competing projects.

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It is not easy to document the background to this issue for lack of written documents. However, interviews with key players contributed to form the views expressed in these pages. According to various sources, when CNRT was created in 1998, electing Xanana Gusmão as its chairman, it was assumed that the political model of the future country would be inspired by the structure adopted for its own organization. The role of a president would be prominent, but no detailed configuration was discussed at such an early stage. Some have suggested that a ‘presidentialist’ model was envisaged, but before sound evidence is produced that goes beyond terminology (often used without precise technical definitions in mind only to denote a prominent role assigned to the president) one should limit findings to the fact that the leadership of Xanana Gusmão was widely accepted both for the current moment and for subsequent stages. The issue resurfaced in 1999 after the 5 May agreement. The CNRT leadership met in June in Salemba, where Xanana was serving his prison sentence, and issued a statement that supposedly alludes to a vague presidentialist model. After another meeting in Darwin in the wake of the release of the Resistance leader, CNRT issued a ‘transition plan’ that is said to contain a reference to ‘semi-presidentialism’. CNRT’s plan for transition recognized the authority of Xanana, who commanded the support of all currents of opinion brought together under that umbrella organization. However, it is possible that the position of FRETILIN may have influenced such reference. In 1998, FRETILIN had produced its own draft proposal for a new constitution from its exile headquarters in Mozambique which drew its inspiration both from Portugal and some African experiences (Charlesworth 2003; Aucoin and Brandt 2010). This draft defined a semi-presidential model albeit with a rather strong president. But this draft had already had been subject to alterations. As FRETILIN leader Mari Alkatiri put it: I had thought the system might be similar to those I knew well in Africa. There is a tendency towards presidentialism in countries like Angola or Mozambique and other former Portuguese colonies, except Cape Verde. But when I returned to Timor, or even before, when I visited Xanana in Salemba, I changed my mind. (Alkatiri 2014: 92)

The seeds for dissention were sown that would later surface. Xanana decided not to run in the 2001 elections for the Constituent Assembly, but he is said to have worked with some aids in a draft project for a constitution. Little is known of this project which did not make it to the Assembly, although ‘UNTAET political insiders at the time said Gusmão’s

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version of the draft constitution would have formalized his highly centralized authority, while precluding the usual checks and balances expected in a plural political framework’ (Kingsbury 2009). It might, however, be in tune with some of the popular ideas about a strong leader expressed in the ‘popular consultation’ process. No less than five projects for the new constitution were formally presented to the Constituent Assembly. FRETILIN proposed its own document, and so did UDT (a fragmentary project as far as it exists today in the archive, with various versions), PPT (a very confused project) and KOTA (whose leader, Manuel Tilman, had once been a member of the Portuguese parliament [1980-1983] and knew well the constitution of that country). PSD adopted as its own proposal a draft elaborated by Portuguese constitutionalist Jorge Miranda. In hindsight, it is possible to ascertain that the project presented by FRETILIN does indeed constitute the basis for what eventually became the Constitution of the República Democrática de Timor-Leste (Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste) (hereafter CRDTL), and that the most consistent alternative was the PSD’s project. If most observers tend to assume that the dominant role of FRETILIN in the Constituent Assembly explains the fact that the final outcome is similar to that party’s proposal, it is nevertheless necessary to recall that FRETILIN was compelled to negotiate because it failed to dispose of the necessary 60 votes stipulated for the approval of the constitution. The broad question of government system can be used to illustrate this point. In general and theoretical terms, the choice of a government system did not generate much debate, since all known projects except the one from UDT explicitly define – if only in nominal terms – their proposal as semi-presidential. Eventual supporters of different models were absent from the Assembly. All drafts conserved in the Library and Archive of the National Parliament do bear handwritten notes classifying them as ‘semipresidentialist’, and indeed all shared the two definitional features of this kind of government system: the popular election of both the President of the Republic and the parliament. In detail, however, substantial differences did surface concerning the extension of presidential competences and the balance of power with the government. Jorge Miranda introduced his contribution stating that ‘this project verges with prudence and substantial normative openness towards a semi-presidential system based on a strong president in relation to the parliament and the government, although not the leader of the executive branch of power and without being assigned duties of daily administration or political management’ (Preface to PSD project).

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This project reflects, to a significant degree, its author’s own experience with the Portuguese constitution-drafting process in 1975-1976, when he was a prominent member of the Constituent Assembly, and his vision of presidential powers pays tribute to the early version that was adopted at that time with the French model in sight. FRETILIN’s project, on the other hand, defined in a narrower sense the competences and prerogatives of the President of the Republic. The final result combines elements of both projects. If one measures presidential powers using the set of criteria proposed by Siaroff with some amendments as used in Lobo and Neto (2009) for all Lusophone countries (Table 3.1), the final result (as observed by Bacelar de Vasconcelos and Sousa da Cunha [2009]) is rated with 8.5 points, whereas FRETILIN’s original proposal would score only 4 points and Miranda/PSD’s proposal 14 points (my calculations). Table 3.1 Presidential Competences Competence Formation of government Dismissal of government Dissolution of parliament Censorship Sub-total ‘non-legislative’ competences Package veto Partial veto Decree Exclusive introduction of legislation Budget Referendum Constitutional referenda Sub-total ‘legislative’ competences Total

CRDTL

FRETILIN Project

PSD Project

1 2 1 0 4 1.5 0 0 0 0 2 1 4.5 8.5

0 0.5 1 0 1.5 1.5 0 0 0 0 1 0 2.5 4

1 2 3 0 6 3 0 0 1 0 4 0 8 14

The full scope of presidential powers is not perfectly reflected in this synthetic model and would increase this contrast. Three examples will illustrate this assertion: the PSD project proposed that the President of the Republic would (a) chair on his own right the Council of Ministers whenever matters pertaining to national defence and foreign relations are on the agenda, (b) possess the right to define ‘in coordination with the government’ the strategic orientations of foreign policy, and (c) have the competence to ask parliament for a revision of the constitution on specific points. None

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of these points is adequately considered in the model, and all would have contributed to defining a more robust role for the President of the Republic. Among the relevant points that pertain to a scrutiny of the Timorese system of government, the following ones deserve particular attention: a FRETILIN proposed that the president be competent to ‘appoint as prime minister the leader of the party that receives the largest number of votes in legislative elections’. The final version of this competence is substantially different and reads that the prime minister be appointed according to the proposal made to the president ‘by the party or alliance of parties with parliamentary majority’ (CRDTL, Section 85 d). The interpretation of this point would constitute the first controversial issue of Ramos-Horta’s presidency (July-August 2007) when he decided to appoint as prime minister the leader of a post-electoral coalition commanding a majority in parliament rather than the leader of the party which had received the plurality of the popular vote. FRETILIN raucously opposed the move and denounced it as non-constitutional, but failed to raise the matter with the competent judicial authority. b The final version grants the president competences to ‘conduct, in consultation with the government, any negotiation process towards the completion of international agreements in the field of defense and security’ (CRDTL, Section 87 d). This is a milder version of the PSD proposal, and a point at all not contemplated in FRETILIN’s initial proposal. c FRETILIN proposed that a presidential veto could be overturned by a simple majority in parliament, and in the final version a qualified majority of two-thirds was considered necessary in a substantial number of cases (CRDTL, Section 88). d The critical issue of the president’s capacity to dismiss government generated debate and ended up being condensed in the following cases: the president will dismiss the government when two motions of rejection of its program are approved, or when one motion of censure passes in parliament or one motion of confidence is defeated there. Other circumstances include the end of the legislature, and the resignation, death or incapacity of the prime minister (Section 112-1). All those are cases in which the president acts only as a consequence of parliamentary decisions or independent facts, and is thus a competence that does not contemplate his own initiative. However, the second part of this section of the constitution stipulates that the ‘President of the Republic shall only dismiss the prime minister in accordance with the cases provided for in the previous item and when it is deemed necessary

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to ensure the regular functioning of the democratic institutions, after consultation with the Council of State’ (CRDTL, Section 112.2). This point, in its narrower sense, comes from FRETILIN’s original proposal, and had a more generous formulation for the president in the PSD project. Here resides one critical issue in the debate about the particular type of semi-presidentialism adopted in Timor-Leste, to which I shall return in Chapter Five. The importance of presidential powers has long been acknowledged by Australian constitutionalist Hilary Charlesworth. The Asia Foundation’s statement on the draft constitution also reveals that the adopted formulation contemplates enlarged presidential competences: As a general matter we would observe that the division of powers between the President and the Government […] presents potential for conflict. The Article 112 exceptional power of the President to dismiss the Government could provide an opportunity for the President to interfere in the council of ministers if the President and Prime Minister do not get along […]. There seems to be a number of uncertainties about these [presidential] powers. In many constitutions there is a clear statement that the President exercises his powers on the advice of the Government or the Prime Minister – unless the constitution states otherwise. The absence of any such statement in this Constitution, and the fact that there are clearly some powers which are to involve an independent judgement of the President creates this uncertainty. (Charlesworth 2003: 9-10)

Recently, Pedro Bacelar de Vasconcelos argued that this provision entitles the president to act upon his own political initiative and is not restricted to the observation of institutional conditions (2011: 342), offering a view of enlarged presidential competences. As often is the case, compromise was obtained on a formulation that contains ambiguity. The picture emerges from these four examples of a political majority in the Constituent Assembly proposing a semi-presidential system that was rather consensual in its broad outline. In the detail of FRETILIN’s proposal, however, the role of the prime minister was enhanced and that of the president clearly limited in comparison to competing projects. But controversy over those terms implied compromise. The shift from the original proposal to the final text reveals an increase, if not extraordinary, of the presidential competences.

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Compromise was thus achieved among the members of the Constituent Assembly, although it did not prevent 14 deputies from several parties (including UDT, PSD and PD) to vote against the final text. The issue of the government system was certainly one of those in which compromise did not reach the status of consensus. A different issue refers to the relation that can be established between the compromise in the House and the construction of solid common ground among the political elite and the citizens in general. In the short run, the fact that Xanana Gusmão decided to accept the constitutional formula and seek election for president would suggest that the assembly had managed to secure the involvement of the main stakeholders in the political process, despite the fact that presidential powers were clearly restricted in view of what might be expected in some quarters of the public opinion, and lay the foundations for the construction of a common house for democracy. However, time would reveal that the balance of powers at the heart of governance was unstable. It would take a major redistribution of political functions among prominent members of the local elite in 2007 to initiate a period of stability, as we shall discuss below.

New constitutionalism: Popular consultations before drafting the constitution… In accordance with the received recommendations, and for ‘the purpose of soliciting the views of the people of East Timor on the future constitution of an independent and democratic East Timor, in coordination with civil society initiatives’, Sergio Vieira de Mello established through UNTAET Directive 2001/3 Constitutional Commissions in all 13 districts : To obtain a broad spectrum of views, each of the Constitutional Commissions was required to conduct at least one public hearing in each of the 65 sub-districts. In addition, those wishing to do so could present their opinions and suggestions through written submissions or other means to the Commission. The Commissions were required, as far as possible, to consult with local leaders and other prominent persons, the Church, NGOs, and community groups. (UNTAET/DPATS 2001: Foreword)

Each Commission was required to present a report to the Constituent Assembly ‘reflecting the consolidated views expressed in those hearings’.

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In spite of all the possible dedication on the part of members of those commissions, and the effort put to fulfil their mandate, this enormous task was to be performed in only one month. Earlier proposals had contemplated a full year as the minimum time span for such an endeavour. That was the case with a proposal submitted to the NC by Aniceto Guterres on behalf of a leading human rights NGO, Yayasam Hak. As it turned out, 205 public meetings were held between 18 June and 14 July. The reports of those meetings were handed over at a high-level ceremony on 16 August to Sergio Vieira de Mello, who then passed them on to the Constituent Assembly on its first day’s sitting (17 September). One member of the commission speaking at the formal ceremony said: They climbed mountains to reach far away places and held off weather, women and men, old people, the illiterate and the educated, everyone, small and big, school children not yet in university, primary school and university teachers, priests and nuns – tireless, without thirst or hunger, full of courage, with one thought in mind, with all their heart, to take part in this most valuable and precious task for the nation. Thirty-eight thousand people! (UNTAET/DPATS 2001: Annex)

One can express sympathy for all their epic efforts. ‘They did wish to participate, and they had plenty of things that they wanted to say’ (Lutz 2003: 3). But one cannot fail to notice that such a process was no more than a mockery of what had been actually suggested by people like Ramos-Horta or Aniceto Guterres. Gathering a crowd of several hundreds to discuss in one day more than two dozen topics ranging from the national flag to public health and the organization of social services, religion and the police, official languages and the environment, is perhaps an adequate way to ‘disseminate’ the value of having a document encompassing provisions on all those issues, but hardly a sound method to forge consensus or even to capture the views of ‘the people’ on the basic tenets of a constitutional text. Besides, according to the Carter Center, many ‘felt that the consultation process had been United Nations-dominated, too short, and not representative of a genuinely East Timorese process’ (Carter Center 2004: 44). The reports exist and are detailed as far as ‘the community’s suggestions or desires to be included in the Constitution’ go. However, the Constituent Assembly failed to consider them as working documents along political parties proposals. Some cases of great symbolic nature (references to the 1975 proclamation of Independence, the flag, the use of the crocodile as symbol of the nation) were openly contradicted by the Assembly. A few of the issues

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raised by the citizens might have put at risk the international standards expected from a modern constitution – such as freedom to participate in public office, freedom of religion or the separation of Church and State – or were of a particularistic nature that made them unsuitable for a general law such as the constitution (Lutz 2003: 2). However, many others expressed simple views that would have been possible to accommodate, like the desire to define a strong mandate for the president.

… and after After the Assembly completed its draft of the Timorese constitution (9 February 2002), another process of ‘consultation and socialization of the constitutional text’ was organized. Teams of deputies were constituted with representatives of different parties, and dispatched to the districts by virtue of a decision of 20 February. FRETILIN and ASDT opposed a move to offer this process one full month’s time to accomplish its mission, and insisted it should be completed in one week (Baltazar 2004: 5). Meetings were held again at sub-district level. For instance, one group organized a meeting on 25 February at the Community Centre of Viqueque from 10 am to 6 pm, with a thousand people attending, 49 of whom took the floor; the next day they moved to the school in Dilor where 1,200 people gathered between 10:30 am and 3:30 pm, 27 of them having asked to speak. This sort of meeting was held all over the country. A survey of the minutes of those meetings allows us to consider that two sorts of interventions were made at this point. Political parties that had presented proposals to the Constituent Assembly which were rejected (for instance, against its own transformation into the f irst legislative chamber) made an appeal to local militants to come before the commission and defend those views. On that specific and prominent issue, FRETILIN, which had voted in favour, mobilized and presented documents with hundreds of signatures; the same happened with those who had opposed the move and supported fresh elections after the approval of the constitution. On the other hand, several issues were raised in a spontaneous manner – mostly concerned again with symbolic matters (independence day, the flag, languages, religion, the figure of the president). Minutes were taken and presented before the Assembly within the deadline of 2 March. The ‘Commission for Systematization and Harmonization’ selected proposals that did not, among other criteria, collide with ‘the unity and

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internal coherence of the draft constitution’, such as the inclusion of a mention of God in the oath of any new president. Recommendations from the popular consultations were merged with those received from different organizations of the ‘civil society’ whose advice had also been sought. Eight recommendations coming from the consultation process in the districts were included in the 21 amendment proposals that the Commission presented to the Plenary. The Constituent Assembly adopted only four of those proposals (Baltazar 2004: 6). The ‘popular consultation process’, both before and after the drafting of the constitutional text, is important per se – not for the results it eventually yielded but inasmuch as it reveals existing tensions. Those mainly consisted of an opposition between a dominant discourse on the virtues of participatory democracy (which required at least the payment of lip service), and the pragmatic options of UNTAET and one of the Timorese political forces – FRETILIN – that emphasized the superior legitimacy of the electoral procedures over the ‘new constitutionalism’ as defended by a host of Timorese political players. According to Nancy Lutz, ‘many national and international political advisors felt that public consultations […] would be the most effective tool for integrating East Timorese people in the political and constitutional process’, and ‘were seen as critical for public awareness and public “ownership” of the new nation’s constitution’ – but in ‘neither the f irst nor the second set of consultations were the suggestions compiled at the village and sub-district level ever seriously considered by the Constituent Assembly’ (Lutz 2003: 3). Notice should be made of the assertion by Simon Chesterman (2010) that ‘local ownership is the intended end of any state-building operation’. However, the Carter Center noticed that the ‘energetic participation of citizens underscores the fact that the people of East Timor are deeply concerned that their voices be heard in their government bodies’ (Carter Center 2004: 45). The road map that had been accepted as a compromise and consisted of a two-pronged approach that combined the staging of competitive elections for the Constituent Assembly with the creation of mechanisms to embrace wider public participation in the drafting process, was virtually amputated. At the end of the day, the consultation process that was supposed to have permitted a wide participation of the population in the definition of its constitutional provisions, and offer a mechanism for the elected deputies to entertain a dialogue with the society at large turned out to be perfunctory. The critical decisions and political bargaining were kept almost exclusively for the elected members of the Constituent Assembly, disregarding other

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stakeholders. This may have affected the degree of legitimacy conferred to the constitution among the people at large. According to Aucoin and Brandt (2010), ‘it seems axiomatic that if constitutions are to serve as a social contract, it is critical that the process be as inclusive as possible’. However, it may not have had the same frustrating effect among the local elite, who were involved in the process.

Assessing the impact of the constitution-making process Time has come to assess the impact of the constitution-making process on the political life of Timor-Leste over the next ten years. Four dimensions will be considered, expanding on Carey’s proposal (2009: 156-159): durability, temperance, stability and democracy. These four dimensions encapsulate the main goals that a constitution may aspire to achieve. Durability The CRDTL became effective on Independence Day, 20 May 2002, and has since remained in force without exception. Two presidential elections and two parliamentary ones have been staged according to its requirements (in 2007 and 2012), and on no occasion has any candidate run a campaign proposing substantial alterations to its contents, let alone its replacement. Interviews with important institutional players such as Xanana Gusmão, Ramos-Horta, Mari Alkatiri (see Feijó 2014d) revealed that the country’s leaders broadly accept the constitutional text and defer any substantial revision for a time when an assessment of its long-term effects can be made. Constitutional revisions of an ‘extraordinary’ nature were permitted at any moment if supported by four-fifths of the members of parliament (CRDTL Section 154-4), and ‘ordinary’ ones requiring only two-thirds could have been made after a period of six years from the date of its enforcement (CRDTL Sections 154-2 and 155-1). The parliamentarians, however, have not embarked on this path. This puts the Timorese constitution’s survival above the mode of 1 year, the median 8 years and on the path to the average 17 found by Elkins, Ginsburg and Melton (2009) for the lifespan of all constitutions of the world since 1789, having surpassed the barrier of ten years by which over half the constitutions have perished. In a regional context, Timor-Leste has now reached the average life span of a constitution (13 years), and outlived those which belong to democratic polities, that stand at 10.1 years. In these terms, it is possible to ascertain that the CRDTL

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managed to rise above the troublesome process of its own inception to a status of wide acceptance at least by the political elite. Temperance If the scope of constitutional provisions varies from limited and institutional predicaments to very broad ones that often encompass a philosophy of social behaviour, an issue runs through them referring to the organization and division of power that, in democratic contexts, implies the setting up of checks and balances. More than assuring the formal tripartite division of power posited by Montesquieu, those are mechanisms that guarantee – in the classical formulation of Madison – that no single political actor can unilaterally make decisions and enforce them. Timor-Leste adopted a model that embodies the division of judicial, legislative and executive powers, and which further divided the latter according to the provisions of a semi-presidential regime. Although the exact terms in which presidential powers were crafted were open to substantial divergence in the Constituent Assembly, the overall design of the political institutions provided incentives for inclusive governance (Feijó 2013a, 2014a). The historical pace of institutional development pertinent to each of the constitutional bodies deemed to participate in the mechanisms of checks and balances, and to exercise horizontal accountability, has been significantly diverse. As it might be expected from the legacy of UNTAET that had concentrated legislative, executive and judicial functions in the hands of one sole person, the development of the executive branch was far superior to any of the others, and received much more attention and support from the international cooperation. Comprehensible as this may be in view of the dire necessities of the Timorese people, this fact posed a serious challenge to the construction of a democratic polity. The critical feature of democratic rule is the limited function and power of individual bodies, requiring the existence of other bodies capable of exerting different forms of mutual control – and this was severely underdeveloped in this case. As Anthony L. Smith remarked, the existence of a strong government can be a sign of a weak state (Smith 2004b). In this context, the construction of an active Presidency of the Republic, endowed with the institutional and material means to discharge its function, and capable of exercising some form of control over the executive branch appeared as the pragmatic route to achieve some sort of accountability. This goal was not made easy by a restricted view of the presidential powers inscribed in the CRDTL; but it was not opposed either by its predicaments. The citizens’ reiterated choice of ‘independent’

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presidents allowed the presidency to articulate political agendas that far surpassed the realm of political parties, engaging actively the Timorese civil society and prominent figures that had found it difficult to express their views through parties. Although temptations may have existed to reinforce the legal competences attributed to presidents, the constitutional provisions have persisted unaltered, and the main political actors have adapted their agendas to the prescriptions of the constitution, and these performed their function in the necessary limitation of individual powers. Stability Stability is taken here not to signify the endurance of the constitution itself, but rather to address its impact on the performance of the political institutions. Did the constitution provide incentives for a stable political environment, or can it be held responsible for the problems that marked the first years after independence? This item must be regarded as the one that offers more scope for a mitigated view of the virtues of the constitutional process. Timor-Leste witnessed a severe political crisis in 2006, when leaders escalated a long-term political rivalry into open confrontation that was only overcome by the resignation of the prime minister. If one prefers a more institutional approach, the first National Parliament supported three different governments (Alkatiri, 2002-2006; Ramos-Horta, 2006-2007; Estanislau Aleixo da Silva, 2007). The first five years after independence were thus prone to manifestations of political instability. After the 2007 elections, stability was only challenged by an act of violence on 11 February 2008 when the President of the Republic was shot and gravely wounded, and the prime minister ambushed. The constitutional provisions for the case of presidential impediment, however, were successfully deployed. The second legislature also showed improved stability as it generated only one government that lasted for its full term. The stabilization of the political scenario was achieved only when some para-constitutional restrictions were abolished and a new configuration of the game emerged that allowed significant changes in individual roles. In fact, the decision taken by the Constituent Assembly to skip fresh elections at the end of its mandate and to transform itself into a National Parliament for a full five-year term deserves critical attention. This option was made in accordance with the rules that presided over the election of the assembly, but it did raise widespread criticism both in the House (the majority of the parties voted against this move) and outside (key figures

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like Xanana Gusmão, Ramos-Horta and the Roman Catholic bishops voiced quite loudly their dissatisfaction with the decision). FRETILIN managed to ‘freeze’ their hold on executive power for five years, not accepting a fresh election that might return a different composition to the National Parliament. On the other hand, the only possibility for the charismatic leader Xanana Gusmão to play an institutional role – for which he was pressured by most international stakeholders – was to accept the circumvention of his popular support and discharge the function of President of the Republic which had been defined with very narrow competences. As soon as para-constitutional constraints on political competition ceased to operate, the political scenario moved in the sense of aligning the strong charismatic legitimacy of the Timorese leader with the electoral legitimacy of the executive power, while the presidency was also in tune with those developments. The conservation of the constitutional text implied a substantial reconfiguration of the political actors, namely of the party system, for the model to operate smoothly. Thereafter, stability could take its roots, as it has actually done. Democracy The goal of a constitution in a democratic polity is somewhat tautologically to ensure that democracy is the driving concept of the political game and receives specific and adequate institutional formulations. Two main issues have to be considered in this section: did the process of constitution-making respect democratic procedures, and what effects did it generate? Did the process actually produce a charter capable of sustaining the regular functioning of a democratic state? The second question is easier to ascertain. The provisions of CRDTL have been consistently judged to meet the requirements of international standards of democracy: separation of powers and limitations on individual power through mechanisms of checks and balances, defence of human rights and civil liberties, enlarged franchise, rule of law. Timor-Leste has consistently been rated as a democracy. Overall, the results of the constitutional process have contributed positively to its democratic goal. However, it would be hasty to conclude that the constitutional process was the key to political developments and democracy actually derives from the fundamental charter. In many processes of transition from authoritarian regimes to democracy, negotiations between representatives of the old order and those who challenged it centred around the drafting of a new constitution, which then became the fulcrum of the bargaining process. This was not

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the case in Timor-Leste. The main contentious issue – independence – was solved through a referendum, and those who had opposed the move actually vanished from the political scenario that was henceforth dominated by a plural nationalism. The constitution-making process stemmed from a consensual stance in favour of independence and democracy embraced by all sectors of the nationalist movement, enshrined in a Pact of National Unity. This very broad consensus was not extensible to other aspects of the process, and bargaining was hard but contemplated mostly what was then considered as ‘secondary’ issues that did not endanger the claim to independence. The importance of the constitution resides not so much in the choice of democracy as an abstract concept that was unchallenged, but rather in the specific institutional provisions that embody it. One would be ill-advised, however, to downplay the investment made by all stakeholders in order to conform the final charter to their vision and interests that were naturally divergent and even contradictory, and therefore the potential for acrimony that might ensue from the use of majority rule to impose solutions that defied consensus. The issue of the procedures requires a more detailed analysis as it impinges on the very notion of democracy. The choice of a Constituent Assembly elected by universal suffrage can legitimately claim the right to be considered a democratic procedure, although this seems to have been the chosen way in only 12% of all cases (Elkins et al. 2009: 205). Alternative methods were proposed which base their claims to satisfy democratic principles, namely the involvement of wider sectors of the elite and the population at large through participatory devices. Assuming the chosen method to meet basic democratic credentials, two problems have to be addressed. First, considering that ‘the content of constitutions depends on who sits at the table to hammer out their provisions’ and that ‘more inclusive constitutional moments instil a widespread sense of ownership in, and commitment to new constitutions’ among citizens and political actors alike (Carey 2009: 176-177), did it contemplate all the necessary steps to ensure that the main actors among the Timorese political elite were present in the Constituent Assembly? The simple answer is no. Placing a great emphasis on formal political parties at a time when important political figures (like Xanana Gusmão or José Ramos-Horta) remained independent and refused to enter the race, and some significant currents of opinion faced great difficulties to actually register as a party and run successful campaigns, Vieira de Mello (with the assistance of Peter Galbraith) designed a model that was formally impeccable but far from inclusive. His underlying assumption seems to have been that, contrary

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to the lessons of classical political theorists from Rousseau to Hegel, who were sceptical about the possibility of implanting constitutions in newly formed states by adopting models tested elsewhere and stressed the need to conceive them as institutions that need to grow locally in dialogue with the people, constitutions should be judged by their internal coherence and adhesion to universal values. The result was that some of the main actors were actually left out of the assembly. Also, one should recall that the majority of the political parties actually voted against the final text of the constitution. For this reason, doubts can be raised about the nature of the end result, for ‘consensus among the political elites at the moment new political pacts are established are essential to their effectiveness and longevity’ (Carey 2009: 157). In this case, formal procedures marched hand in hand with a restricted composition of the assembly and rules about the minimum number of votes required for approval of the constitution that in turn limited the scope of consensus among the elite. The ensuing result could not help being rendered fragile by this lack of inclusiveness that should have fostered shared expectations on the regular functioning of the political game, but actually fell short of such a goal. Enfranchising the population at large is a positive and necessary step in order to empower citizens to exert their rights – and the Timorese responded en masse to the opportunity to participate in the decisional process. But their right to participate need not be limited to voting. Many international organizations have expressed the view that constitution-making should be a process that engages the largest majority of the population in order to ensure that the resulting charter is seen as legitimate and the property of all the people (Commonwealth Human Rights Initiative 1999), and that ‘participatory processes seem to have empowered the people’ (Kirsti’s 2006 report for International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance). John M. Carey summarizes the argument stating that more inclusive constitutional moments generate more democratic politics as well as more constraints on government authority and stronger and more durable constitutions (2009: 159-160). Likewise, Ginsburg, Elkins and Blount (2009) sustained an association between processes that involve the public and strong democratic credentials in the final charter. A process along these lines, consisting of a combination of elections with a participatory model, was put forward in Timor-Leste but failed to attract the sympathy of UNTAET, who nevertheless accepted the need to pay some form of tribute to its virtues. However, this was no more than a formality that failed to introduce real external inputs in the process of constitution-drafting, thus reducing the ownership factor that was in fact limited to a fraction of the elite. By limiting the scope

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of inclusiveness among the political elite and reducing the participatory process to a marginal exercise that failed to generate external input to the writing of the constitution, the model adopted by UNTAET contributed to an unnecessary fragile end result. Formally, the CRDTL responds positively to procedural and substantive claims to democracy. However, the consensus among the elite embodied in the charter was shallow and the limited scope of popular participation in the whole process reduced the sense of ownership on which legitimacy at large reposes.

Finale As it was remarked at the onset of this chapter, the process of constitutiondrafting assumes a critical importance not only in the adoption of what has been termed ‘constitutional policies’ in different domains ranging from human rights to the place of the military in political life, but above all in establishing that rules set on paper actually permeate the workings of the polity and mobilize elite and the citizens as a whole in order to establish a sound agreement as to the rules of the game. I have argued that, in the light of this assumption, the constitution-drafting process carried out in Timor-Leste in 2001-2002, under the auspices of the United Nations and according to a set of rules that could easily be recognized as offering formal legitimacy to the actors of the process, deserves a balanced appraisal, not the unqualified eulogy of official propaganda. On the one hand the Timorese constitution enshrines important elements that allow us to consider that the basic tenets of a democratic polity have been upheld, in consonance with the consensus that had emerged among the Resistance and its several branches regarding the desirable regime after Independence. José Ramos-Horta’s Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech in 1996 prefigured what the constitution actually accommodated in terms of human rights, civil liberties and respect for pluralism and diversity. The articulation of the main tenets of the novel constitution with the political consensus obtained by the Resistance movement prior to the Referendum of August 1999 is the key factor explaining the degree of its success. The effort of the parliamentarians in those days extended far beyond the need to have a minimal document referring to the immediate needs of a country rising literally from the ashes and adopted measures that offer the country a horizon for institutional development over the next few decades. This can be witnessed in the provisions for the judicial system or the development of a decentralized form of state, which have constitutional

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weight but still lack important basic elements in current-day Timor-Leste. The constitution of 2002 has an inbuilt utopian element which is a driving force and an inspiration for current policies. As such, it contributes to the formulation of democratic policies (and is sometime called to curb nondemocratic proposals of new legislation as has been evident in the interventions of the Court of Appeals serving as the constitutional court), even if it may be regarded by some as setting too high a threshold for a country that still lacks elementary building blocks. The Timorese constitution is thus a central element in the process of rooting ‘constitutional policies’ in a much wider sense. However, setting aside the failure to mobilize and respond to wider social groups, as was advocated at the time by many who were not heard, the constitutional process was not all-inclusive even of local elites. The absence of key political figures such as Xanana Gusmão and José Ramos-Horta reveals the fact that the elected body lacked the participation of some of the leading actors and was thus in danger of alienating the allegiance of significant parts of the local elites. This negative element was discernible in the detailed design of the constitutional provisions which tended to be determined by the overwhelming predominance of a single party in the Constituent Assembly, resulting in the negative vote of the majority of the parties which had won seats. As such, one might conclude that, in spite of the formalities followed in the election of the Constituent Assembly, this body would have benefited from a subtle approach that was lacking in several domains. One critical example is the definition of powers of the President of the Republic, an area where FRETILIN’s desire to curb the influence of the first President of the Republic who escaped their control determined its final shape, in contrast to other voices who claimed that more substantial responsibilities should be vested in the chief of state. Later, the issue of presidential powers proved to be a theme of contention, one that is not yet resolved. Also, the decision of the Constituent Assembly to defer elections for parliament to 2007, a power play heavily opposed by public opinion, created a para-constitutional barrier to the spread of a consensus on the rules of the political game, which were also postponed. Some of the decisions taken before the election of the Constituent Assembly as well as some others that were implemented in the course of its mandate, are responsible for some of the difficulties faced by the young Timorese democracy. Viewed in this light, the Timorese constitution-drafting process falls short of the best expectations, and provides less than clear answers to Samuels’ critical criteria: the basic document was provided by a single

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party without significant inclination to negotiate in the House, it excluded important stakeholders from participating in the process, and was mainly cut from the citizens’ desire to contribute, paying little more than lip service to the proponents of a ‘new constitutionalism’. The fact that the Constituent Assembly was conceived in formally democratic terms (and thus possessed ‘upstream legitimacy’) and was reasonably free to take decisions (being granted ‘process legitimacy’) must not conceal the critical fact that its contents were to a great extent devoid of ‘downstream legitimacy’ as no substantial effort was devoted to include the citizenry in their ratification. The constitution of 2002 was born unnecessarily fragile. In this context, the fundamental role of a constitution as a solid basis for an overarching agreement bringing together the elites and the citizens in general has emerged at a slower pace than it would if different approaches which were actually spelled out in the critical months preceding the onset of the drafting process had had a chance of leaving their imprint. The cost of this course was the disjunction between a ‘constitutional order’ and the expression of legitimate dissenting views in the period which culminated in the crisis of 2006 and threatened the survival of the ‘Constitutional Republic’. On the other hand, one must not elude the fact that the Timorese constitution of 2002 has remained in force up to this day, surpassing the average lifespan of identical charters in the region. The endurance of the constitution of 2002 is to a large extent a paradox, given that the conditions under which it was drafted would suggest that it would sooner than later become the epicentre of contestation. By and large, this is not the case. Contrary to the perception of Aucoin and Brandt (2010), who stress that criticism of the constitution has represented a ‘rallying point’ for those who seek to gain favour with the population, which would militate to reduce the legitimacy of the charter, I sustain that it has remained mostly an object of cult, that is, an undisputed charter to which every political actor pays tribute. In fact, even at junctures when the constitution seems to run against the wishes of those in power (or aspiring to be part of the group), no serious attempt has been made to revise its contents – a possibility that the constitution anticipates. Take, for instance, the case of Xanana Gusmão: unhappy with the powers granted to the President of the Republic, instead of taking advantage of his official position and his immense popularity to press for a modification of the constitution in a presidentialist sense that would offer him stronger powers, he adapted himself to its prescriptions and decided to seek the job of prime minister in order to command more executive power. More recently, when Xanana’s resignation from the position as prime minister

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was being discussed in the country, and the idea of a non-elected ‘Council of Elders’ floated as a possibility to accommodate him and several other members of the ‘old guard’, the fact that this body would not fit in the spirit of the constitution (which reserves formal legislative and executive power to elected officers as is proper in a democracy) determined a different solution – not a challenge to its content. The explanation for this paradox resides in the combination of two elements: the capacity to enshrine rather basic elements of a modern democratic polity subscribed by the citizenry, and the attitude of the Timorese leadership – and above all, that of the vastly popular and charismatic Xanana – who opted to accept its terms in spite of the turbulences of the process and the persistence of contentious issues. Finally, the fact that para-constitutional measures were put aside in 2007, allowing for open political competition for all social players, also helped to keep the constitutional text at the centre of Timorese political life. The fact that the constitution has been in force ever since 20 May 2002 without a single amendment should not obfuscate the difficulties that the consolidation of democracy – one of its major goals – still suffers at the hands of critical choices made under the UN transitional administration. The decision of Xanana to resign from his position as prime minister in order to secure the transition to a younger generation may also allow for a recomposition of the parliamentary basis of the government, which now embodies the sort of ‘national unity’ platform that key political figures proposed, unsuccessfully, after the Referendum as a medium-term alternative to open political competition, at least for a transitional period. Perhaps this means a fresh start to the political game – one that may include revision of certain questionable sections of the constitution of 2002.

4

Elections in a young democracy Popular voice and control While democracy must be more than free elections, it is also true that it cannot be less. – Kofi Annan (quoted in Bjornlund 2004: 31)

Elections, independence, democracy In the first half of 2012, Timor-Leste organized the second series of national elections since its independence ten years earlier.2 Elections have been a vital part of this nation’s recent history since the UN-sponsored referendum of 30 August 1999 – the first election in the land to be held in accordance to internationally accepted standards (Smith 2004a)3 – in which the overwhelming majority of its people (off icially 78.5%, with a turnout of 98.6% of all registered electors) voted in favour of ending its 24-year-long incorporation into Indonesia, thus paving the way for independence (Martin 2001; Pereira Gomes 2001; Cardoso Gomes 2010a). Two years later, on 30 August 2001, a new vote was organized to install a Constituent Assembly (Sousa 2001; Fox 2003; King 2003; Smith 2004a). FRETILIN, an historical party associated with the Resistance, comfortably won 55 of the 88 seats and dominated the Assembly, which voted to extend its mandate to become the first parliament for the ensuing five years, thus granting that party the basis for stable government. On 14 April 2002, following the dispositions of the new constitution yet to be implemented and still under UN administration (UNTAET Regulation 2002/1), Xanana 2 In 2004-2005 and 2009 elections were held for local suku and aldeia leaders, which will be considered in Chapter Six below. However, it should be noticed that the UN administration opted to start the electoral process with national polls despite some proposals that sustained the idea of holding local elections first (Hohe 2002a; Ospina and Hohe 2001). 3 In the last year of Portuguese administration (1975), genuinely democratic elections were prepared, but only actually organized in a few districts (Real 2016). General elections were scheduled to take place in 1976 for an assembly that was to exercise the right to selfdetermination and decide the future of the territory (Carey 2008), but the succession of events after the coup of August 1975, which comprehend the unilateral proclamation of independence and the Indonesian invasion, prevented the staging of those elections. Under Indonesian rule, several elections were organized, the last one a few months before the 1999 referendum, but none can be regarded as having the basic features of free and fair elections (Saldanha 2008: 70; Shoesmith 2011: 7).

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Gusmão, the Resistance leader running as an ‘independent’ candidate supported by a large number of smaller parties, albeit not the ruling one, won a landslide victory (83% vs 17%) over Xavier do Amaral, who had briefly been president of Timor-Leste in 1975 (Cardoso Gomes 2010a). Both of these elections were completely organized by the UN mission in Timor-Leste. Thus, when the flag of the first new nation of the 21st century was raised at midnight on 20 May 2002 and the independence of the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste was proclaimed, the country had an elected President of the Republic, a National Parliament that resulted from the transformation of the elected Constituent Assembly into a legislative body and was the source of legitimacy for the country’s government, and also the memory of a decisive vote that had opened up the route to make possible that historic moment. Free and fair elections with an enlarged franchise and overwhelming popular participation are thus inscribed in the genetic code of this country: independence was achieved through democratic electoral procedures. In the first decade since independence, elections have been regularly organized in accordance with legal provisions and established calendars. In 2007, the country organized a round of elections for the presidency followed by legislative ones under the auspices of national electoral institutions supported by international aid. In the wake of the severe crisis that rocked the country in 2006, and in a difficult security situation illustrated by the existence of 150,000 internally displaced people, those elections were mostly peaceful and generally considered as free and fair (Feijó 2009, 2010a; ICG 2007; Jolliffe 2007; Leach 2009; McWilliam and Bexley 2008). The presidential elections required a second ballot for the Timorese to choose between the ‘independent’ candidate José Ramos-Horta and FRETILIN’s Lu Olo, in which the former obtained a comfortable majority of 69% of the vote (Cabasset-Semedo and Durand 2007). His ability to bridge different sides of the political spectrum and maintain an inclusive attitude during the crisis gained him the respect of the electors. The legislative elections of late June returned a new parliament in which no single party commanded a majority, so a coalition was necessary to form a government. The president took the controversial but realistic step of inviting the leader of a post-electoral coalition to form the Fourth Constitutional Government instead of the leader of the largest party, and Xanana Gusmão was sworn in as prime minister. This move generated a serious wave of discontent fuelled by FRETILIN, but eventually this party stopped the escalation and returned to parliamentary tactics of opposition. The first change of government was thus achieved successfully, albeit in a climate of tension.

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The general character of the 2012 cycle of elections was similar to the previous one: substantial popular participation in ballots conducted in a free and fair manner (Feijó 2012; ICG 2012; Leach 2012). The presidential election saw the defeat of the incumbent candidate and the victory of a former military leader running as an ‘independent’, again over Lu Olo. The parliamentary polls later in the year reinforced the party of the prime minister, who was nevertheless forced to accept a recomposition of his ruling coalition due to some of the parties that were part of it having failed to secure seats, while FRETILIN obtained a modest increase in its own vote and remained as the main opposition force. A second handover of the presidency and a recomposition of the government majority were the most noticeable results of this round. The fact that elections have adhered to constitutional provisions and international standards of freedom and fairness, and that they have been associated with mostly peaceful changes in the composition of governments and replacements of presidents suggests that they have been a critical means of expression of popular sovereignty and, as such, a critical element in the process of democratic consolidation. Elections are a sine qua non condition for a polity to claim democratic status and should not be regarded as an ethnocentric diversion from genuine democracy, no matter what amount of ‘political translation’ is involved in the process. However, they are not a sufficient condition on their own, as has been argued consistently in political literature: ‘Elections are meaningful exercises of democratic governance only if voters are able to endow elected officials with real power’ (Schedler 2002: 45). Otherwise, they may indeed be part of what has been termed ‘electoral authoritarianism’ (Levitsky and Way 2002) or ‘hybrid regimes’ that fall short of being democratic. Among other features, they must be free and fair according to well-established parameters. Electoral freedom requires the legal barriers to entry into the political arena to be low, substantial freedom to exist for candidates and supporters of different political forces so they are able to campaign and solicit votes, and that voters experience little or no coercion in exercising their choices. Elections are fair when they are administered by a neutral authority which is sufficiently competent and resourceful to take precautions against fraud in voting and vote counting, when the police, armed forces and courts treat competing candidates with impartiality, when the opposition is not systematically disadvantaged by electoral rules and procedures, when access to the media is granted to all competitors on fair grounds, when independent monitoring of electoral operations is allowed at all locations, when virtually all adults can vote, when procedures for organizing and counting the vote are transparent, and when clear and

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impartial procedures for resolving complaints and disputes are in place (Diamond 2002: 28-29). According to Przeworski and his colleagues, democratic elections also entail contestation, that is, the cumulation of three factors: (a) ex ante uncertainty, or the actual possibility of competing actors securing a victory that is not previously determined; (b) ex post irreversibility, that is to say, abidance by the results of the polls in terms of the actual political outcome, or, if we revert to Schumpeter’s classic definition, that the principal positions of power should actually be filled in accordance with the results of a competitive struggle for the people’s vote; and (c) repeatability, a feature that only longitudinal analysis over time can ascertain (Przeworski, Alvarez, Cheibub and Limongi 2000: 16). One might also take Schedler’s seven-step ‘chain of democratic choice’ that requires a polity to uphold the following features simultaneously in their electoral processes: empowerment, free supply, free demand, inclusion, insulation, integrity and irreversibility (Schedler 2002: 39-41). These considerations constitute the background against which the performance of Timor-Leste will be matched. The aim of the present chapter is to address the general question of the relationship between the organization of free, fair and regular elections and the process of democratic consolidation. Has Timor-Leste upheld the positive expectations derived from its recent history? Have elections helped to increase the system’s responsiveness to changes in public opinion? Have those changes meant more instability? How do elections contribute to a balance of power between the president and the government that responds before parliament? How do political parties react to different electoral challenges? What is the present situation after the second full round of national elections? My analysis will proceed in the following manner: the next section deals with the institutional and legal framework that has been established for the staging of elections and discusses both the main choices that sustain it and its importance to the emergence of a diffused notion of legitimacy associated with electoral procedures. The following sections present a global view of all national elections held in the recent past, analyzing structural or systemic features rather than specific and localized results of each one of them in particular. Four issues will be under our focus: the first is the degree and intensity of popular participation, measured through objective indices. The second part is dedicated to presidential elections and their peculiar characteristics in the framework of a semi-presidential regime. Special attention will be dedicated to the consecration of ‘independent presidents’ as a consistent choice of citizens. Next comes an analysis of parliamentary elections and the relations they establish with an evolving

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party system affected by serious electoral volatility. In the last section, both presidential and legislative elections will be considered together in order to observe some social aspects of electoral behaviour, namely the propensity for regional patterns of voting to emerge and the critical importance of individual personalities in the political landscape. The chapter ends with remarks that aim to bridge the gap between the theoretical issues laid down in the introduction and the empirical analysis of electoral processes in Timor-Leste, debating the extent to which elections have established themselves as the preferential tool to articulate citizens’ preferences and the actors of governance, that is, as essential mechanisms of a democratic polity.

Before the vote: Critical legal and administrative choices The impact of elections on a given polity begins much before an actual vote is effectively cast. A lot depends on critical choices that are made in advance of proper elections, encompassing rules and institutions that bear on the ways in which polls are organized, and also on the public perception of the legitimacy of the ensuing results. Franchise and electors’ registration The very first issue consists of electoral franchise. Timor-Leste opted in the first polls – the Referendum of 30 August 1999 – for the widest possible franchise of its citizens, granting voting rights to all individuals of both sexes aged 17 and above. This decision, which has been upheld for every successive election, defines a universe of voters that comprises all the adult population (including youths aged 17, a not so common feature), and refuses any form of discrimination or exclusion. This must be regarded as the first solid step towards establishing elections as a democratic tool for the expression of citizens’ sovereignty. Between granting the abstract right to vote and recognizing each individual’s capacity to express his or her right mediates a process of voter registration. One should not minimize the risks of manipulation offered by this process, and attention must therefore be devoted to a survey of the measures put in place to prevent deviation and undue use of this process. The registration of eligible voters was a critical task undertook by the UN mission in preparation for the 1999 Referendum, and remains to this day a closely monitored process which has been subject to public debate in the wake of a legislative alteration for the most recent elections (2012). This

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change in the law made it compulsory for citizens to vote in the place of their original registration rather than allowing them to exert their right in the polling station of their choice, namely the one closer to the actual place of residence – a move that implied sometimes lengthy and costly trips for those who had migrated in the meantime (Law 6/2011). However, substantial efforts have been deployed to render voter registration a transparent and credible process. Among those, the critical decision to place this registration under the aegis of the independent National Electoral Commission rather than in the hands of any governmental department, which might fuel fears of partisan manipulation, has proved to be a safe way to ensure impartiality in the process. In spite of those provisions, the whole process is not exempt from some problems, which are not particular to Timor-Leste nor seem to have distorted the main purpose of elections. For comprehensible reasons, instead of elaborating a new electoral register every time an election was scheduled, local authorities opted for a permanent update of the original record. This process revealed an increase in the number of citizens entitled to vote. Table 4.1 summarizes this growth in the number of registered voters: Table 4.1 Evolution of Registered Voters Year

No. of Electors

2004/5 2006/7 2008/9 2010 2012

448,652 535,934 589,610 599,465 645,624

Source: STAE (Secretariado Técnico dos Assuntos Eleitorais [Technical Secretariat for Electoral Affairs])

This very substantial increase is primarily due to the fact that the demography of the country is characterized by a very high proportion of young people, and thus, between 2007 and 2012, as many as 100,000 people have reached the legal age to be entitled to vote (17 years). About 15% of the registered electors had the chance to cast a vote for the first time in their lives, a circumstance that reveals the political weight of young people in the electorate of Timor-Leste. However, the implicit growth rate for registered electors is 5.3% per annum, substantially superior to the UN estimate for the growth rate of the Timorese population: 3.5%. Given that there are no suspicions of under-registration that could justify a later improvement in the process, the reasons for this problem must be found elsewhere. The

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death toll, which is bound to have diminished the number of registered electors, but is obviously harder to verify and correct, does not seem to be reflected fully in the final count that, as a consequence, suffers from specific shortcomings regarding the removal of deceased electors. This holds also true for the accurate registration of migrants. Some of the figures from the STAE suggest that deceased electors that were actually removed in the course of the updating process are only a fraction of the actual death toll in the population at large (Feijó 2012). As such, a bias has been introduced that it has not been possible to quantify and the results for official abstention are higher than in reality. An informed guess, however, would consider an inflation in the number of registered voters in relation to the sociological reality of the country in between 5 and 10% of their total (see also Leach 2009). Further aspects refer to the institutionalization of the electoral administration, and to choices pertaining to the electoral legislation. Both request that detailed attention be devoted to them. Electoral administration National elections held in 2007 and more recently in 2012 respected the constitutional schedule. These elections, however, required the elaboration of new legislation in line with constitutional provisions and the creation of national institutions to oversee and organize the electoral process as part of the sovereign function of the independent state. In this respect, Benjamin Reilly has pointed that ‘[w]hile constitutional and electoral reforms have attracted a voluminous academic literature, issues of electoral administration remain under-studied by scholars and under-rated in terms of their effect’ (Reilly 2008b: 175). The extent to which the Timorese authorities managed to assume responsibility for organizing the expression of popular sovereignty in ways that were both transparent to their citizens and in accordance with internationally established standards of freedom and fairness is a critical element in the process of legitimation of the new regime, both internally and externally. The fact that there is a necessary mediation between abstract rights and actual capacities brings to the fore a remark by one of the leading scholars who has devoted his attention to these issues, Robert Pastor, who wrote: The question is whether a country’s institutions – both governmental and non-governmental – are sturdy and impartial enough to give people confidence that the instances of fraud are the exception rather than the rule, and that they can be corrected. [...] The character, competence, and

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composition of Electoral Management Bodies can determine whether an election is a source of peaceful change or cause for serious instability [...] [given that] [t]he fair and effective administration of the rules is often as important as the rules themselves. (Pastor 1999: 5-6)

It is therefore important to analyze the choices made in Timor-Leste regarding the administration of electoral processes. As is the case with the electoral legislation, the constitutional provisions on these issues had to be converted into ordinary law, and institutions created to carry out the functions that elections require. This important task was performed rather late in the first political cycle after independence (ICG 2007: 2-3), and the most relevant legislation only appeared at the very end of 2006 (28 December). Comments were often heard in Dili that the ruling party, which commanded a comfortable majority in the National Parliament but had uneasy relations with the head of the state, believed that without proper legislation being passed and administrative organs duly established, the president’s capacity to call early elections was in fact curtailed, and deliberately delayed passing those bills to secure its own stability. In fact, it would be under the Ramos-Horta premiership, and with pressure from the president, that electoral issues were addressed in parliament (Beuman 2013a). As defined in specific legislation (the Bill on the Organs of Electoral Administration – Law 5/2006), the Timorese electoral administration is composed of two main permanent institutions, the CNE (Comissão Nacional de Eleições [National Electoral Commission]) and the STAE (Secretariado Técnico dos Assuntos Eleitorais [Technical Secretariat for Electoral Affairs]), as well as the logistic apparatus created for each electoral act (polling stations and vote-counting ‘assemblies’) in addition to the judicial system (which is called on to perform confirmation duties, settle disputes regarding contested elections and proclaim results). This has existed ever since the early days of the new polity. Timor-Leste chose a mixed system, unlike most countries that either opt for an independent body – which Reilly considers to be ‘demonstrably preferable to party-based models for established and emerging democracies alike’ (2008: 32) and which, by and large, has been the dominant model since World War II (Pastor 1999) – or that choose to place electoral matters under the government of the day. The choice of a dual system is perhaps one of the ‘Portuguese legacies’, this time conducted through the cooperation on electoral matters, as this country after the democratic revolution of 1974 adopted this form of electoral supervision and administration (Feijó 2010b).

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The STAE is a government agency under the auspices of the Ministry for Home Affairs and has existed ever since the early days of independence. It is defined as a ‘technical secretariat’, but also as an ‘executive organ in electoral administration’ (Section 12-1). In practice, it was the sole legal entity to intervene in the preparation of national elections up to the end of December 2006 and thus played a role in the drafting process of the electoral legislation published at that time. It also took the updating of the national electoral register upon itself. The key problem with this organ in a young democracy struggling to develop accountability procedures in parliament, as Shoesmith has pointed out (2008b), resides in the possibility that it will not perform its duties according to neutrality criteria, but tend to favour the governmental side instead. Criticism along these lines was heard in the period leading up to the 2007 elections, but the chairman of the STAE, Tomás do Rosário Cabral, has managed to build up a reputation for integrity and survived the political changes of 2007 to remain in his post with the new administration. Eventually, Tomás Cabral was offered a junior post in the Fifth Government, in charge of decentralization. The CNE, also a permanent body (thanks to the opposition parties’ effort to give it greater consistency than the one provisionally set up for the local elections in 2004-2005), is the institution supposed to ‘exercise jurisdiction over all the electoral processes for elected organs of sovereignty, local power and the referendum, as well as over the mandatory, official, universal and unique voter registration to be used in those elections’ (Law 5/2006: preface). Efforts were made to ensure this would be an independent body: The ‘CNE is independent from any organs of political power, central or local, and disposes of financial, administrative and organizational independence’ (Section 4-2): appointees receive a six-year mandate, extendable only once, and are not subject to dismissal (Section 6-1); the institution has its own budget and disposes over permanent personnel (Section 11); its members are nominated by a variety of institutions: the President of the Republic (3), the National Parliament (3), the government (3), judicial institutions (3), religious organizations (2) and women’s organizations (1) (Section 5); and members cannot be party leaders, stand for election or have any role in the organization of candidatures for election (Section 5-4). The law also stipulates that there is a general ‘duty of cooperation’ with the CNE extended to ‘all organs and agents of the public administration’, expressly including the STAE (Section 10), whose chairman has the right to sit in on CNE meetings, but not to vote in them (Section 9-5). This gives the CNE a prominent role and extended capacity in electoral matters.

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In the course of the years, the CNE seems to have managed to establish itself as a reliable, independent body commanding ample support under its chairman, Faustino Cardoso Gomes, a highly respected figure. A large, new ceremonial building is currently under construction in Dili which is destined to become its new permanent headquarters and mirrors the importance accorded to this institution. This bill was revised in 2011. In parliament, one member of the Opposition (Fernanda Borges, PUN) proposed that the STAE should be integrated into the CNE rather than being dependent on the government, arguing that such a solution would clarify the leading role of the independent institution and offer guarantees of non-governmentalization of sensitive issues regarding the electoral process. Her views reflected the basic stance of an International Electoral Certification Team (IECT) which made several proposals after the 2007 elections. However, this view was rejected and only adjustments were made that keep the dual-institution model (Law 6/2011). The most relevant novelty was the inclusion of a new responsibility for the CNE (‘to verify the single database of the electoral register’ [Section 8-k]), whereas the STAE was entrusted with keeping that database (Sections 12-4 and 12-5). In a way, this clarification reinforces the dual model. On the whole, the dual system is operating to general satisfaction, although some friction often occurs due in part to the strong personalities of the leaders of the electoral administration bodies and mostly to inaccurate or blurred legal specifications (as personally observed to me by Michael Maley of the IECT). Competition between the bodies does create tension, but on the whole, it also affects the accuracy of their performance positively since both feel under pressure to perform correctly. Both organs are duly staffed (the STAE has 100 people at its headquarters and a further 200 around the country) and (as of 2012) they benefit from the assistance of a sizeable (200-strong) United Nations Electoral Support Team. They are entitled to dispose over helicopters to facilitate the transportation of people and material to remote areas of the country. This has enabled the electoral administration to build up a dense grassroots network: they have gradually set up 850 polling stations in 442 villages (i.e., one station for every 735 electors), with a combined force of 9,130 paid and uniformed electoral officers. Multi-level training has been administered, including a novel post-graduate course on electoral administration and management at the National University for middle- and top-ranking officers from the STAE and CNE. Regardless of disputes about the optimum solution for electoral administration, the choice made by the Timorese authorities has been satisfactorily

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discharging the functions for which the CNE and STAE were created, with visible professionalism, and instilling confidence in the neutrality of these bodies’ performance. As such, the electoral administration is to be praised for ensuring that the processes under their authority have been conducted in a fair manner. Virtually all stakeholders, including international observers, have acknowledged the fact that this system has performed well, and no substantial claim of electoral irregularities has been made so far, supporting the idea that democratic virtues have been upheld. Electoral legislation The task facing Timorese lawmakers confronted with the need to create electoral bills in line with broad constitutional provisions was considerably greater in the case of legislative elections than for presidential ones. They were comforted by international technical assistance, in the wake of an UN needs assessment mission conducted by Judge Johann Kriegler from South Africa (whose recommendations were not all followed). The Timorese constitution spells out the main features of presidential elections: a two-ballot direct election fought by candidates aged over 35, proposed by a group of no less than 5,000 registered electors, with a secondary provision that all 13 districts must be represented in that tally by at least 100 electors. The two fundamental provisions – that the presidential election is genuinely popular and direct, and that it takes place on two rounds (if no candidate polls more than half the valid number of votes cast), thus securing the winner a positive absolute majority of the electorate and its consequential strong mandate – are inscribed in the fundamental law, and were duly obeyed. The Presidential Elections Bill (Law 7/2006) did not cause much debate in parliament or the rest of the country. However, an amendment put forward in early 2007 at a time when the electoral process was underway regarding a detail about the ballot that the electors were to use to cast their vote was criticized by many people and was not signed by the president before he had consulted with the Court of Appeals in its capacity as the country’s constitutional court (Law 5/2007; Court of Appeals, Constitutional Section, File 1/2007). The Timorese authorities sought to improve their legislation, starting soon after the 2007 elections, but only in the period of preparation for the 2012 elections was the main bill revised – no less than three times, in fact. First, Law 8/2011 mainly addressed technicalities regarding counting procedures and assurances given to observers. It also fine-tuned the electoral

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calendar and stipulated that presidential elections must be held no later than two months before the end of presidential mandates (Section 12-3). Two significant alterations were introduced: the enlargement of the franchise to include Timorese citizens living outside their country (Section 39-A), and the requirement that electors should only be able to cast their vote (with a few specific exceptions) in the places where they had originally registered and no longer in a polling station of their choice upon presentation of their voter’s card (Section 40). Again, the president expressed his reservations about these matters, arguing that the diplomatic network would have difficulty securing equal rights for all those who fell in the same category in the first case and emphasizing the likely increase in the level of abstention, given the augmented difficulties for voters obliged to travel to their respective polling stations – mainly urban dwellers who still count in their village of origin. The political implications of the president’s public reservations about the first issue led to a later amendment postponing the effective granting of voting rights to the Timorese diaspora until a later, unspecified date (Law 1/2012). The president commented positively on this decision in a public address (PR, press release, 13 January 2012). Once the electoral campaign had started, a new amendment was introduced through Law 7/2012, which abolished the need for the whole process to start over again and a new date to be found within 60 days in case any of the candidates died or were permanently impaired (Section 26 of Law 7/2006, revised). This change was prompted by the imminent expected death of Francisco Xavier do Amaral, who was running for the third consecutive time after independence and actually passed away during the electoral campaign. Hence, the 2012 presidential elections took place under a legal framework mostly unchanged from the one that governed the two previous elections, and great stability in the legal conditions is the main conclusion to be drawn. As far as the legislative elections are concerned, the constitution was less specific and granted parliament a wider margin for its choices (Feijó 2010a). True, a fundamental principle was established in the constitution: the need to observe a system of proportional representation in the conversion of votes into mandates (CRDTL, Section 65-4). Arend Lijphart has argued that one of the most critical constitutional provisions in young democracies, namely in divided societies, refers precisely to the adoption of measures that promote power-sharing and limit the concentration of power (Lijphart 2004). Proportional representation, as opposed to ‘first past the post’, or ‘winner takes it all’ electoral systems fall neatly in this category of instruments, and is widely considered to provide

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the best framework for democratic development. However, Ben Reilly has remarked that ‘electoral system choices to promote power-sharing are highly context-specific’ (Reilly 2008b: 171), and as such no universal rule is to be considered. Allowing for this reminder, the adoption of proportional representation is consistent with the overall goal of promoting powersharing and limiting the excesses of majority rule, and as such was a positive decision of the constituent deputies. In the subsequent process of elaborating on constitutional provisions and build comprehensive electoral legislation, the Timorese parliamentarians faced five main issues: 1 The number of MPs, which the constitution framed as between 55 and 65 (CRDTL, Section 93.2). Parliament unanimously chose the upper limit of 65 MPs (Electoral Bill [EB], Section 10). 2 The definition of constituencies, which could either be a single national unit or one constituency for each of the 13 districts (CRDTL, Section 93.3). Parliament chose a single national constituency (EB, Section 9), as had been the case when 75 members of the Constituent Assembly had needed to be elected, 13 others having been elected on a ‘first past the post’ basis in each district (UNTAET Regulations 2001/2, 2001/3 and 2001/11). This was a consensual issue. 3 The choice of a specific method of proportional representation (CRDTL Section 65.4). Disregarding the Hare quota method used in the ‘founding elections’ held in 2001 (King 2003) and favoured by all opposition parties, parliament chose to adopt the D’Hondt method (EB, Section 13-1) which is supposed to have an inbuilt bias towards favouring the larger parties. 4 The decision to impose a threshold of 3% in order to secure access to parliament, which was also absent in the 2001 elections (EB, Section 132), a compromise between FRETILIN’s proposal (5%) and the opposition parties that wanted none. 5 The application of quotas. Parliament chose to impose a 25% quota for women (EB, Section 12-3), a victory of the opposition parties against FRETILIN’s proposal that contemplated no gender quota. As one might expect, the Parliamentary Elections Bill (Law 6/2006) caused a heated debate, but was ultimately approved by a FRETILIN majority in parliament without the help of opposition parties, who raised objections about several aspects of its provisions, and actually imposed several alternatives to the initial model. It is assumed that President Xanana Gusmão also exerted his influence on Prime Minister Ramos-Horta, who

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was at the helm when the final proposals were brought to the floor of the House in December 2006, to accommodate some of his considerations on the issue (Beuman 2013a). The new provisions marked a shift away from important rules governing the previous election. However, in the preparation for the 2012 elections, the new majority (formed by many of those who had criticized the bill severely back in 2006) saw no reason to alter the provisions of this bill substantially, except in those cases already mentioned in relation to the presidential elections (technicalities regarding vote counting and enlargement of the franchise to include the diaspora, and the obligation to vote in the area where electors had first registered). It did, however, increase the gender quota to one woman in every three candidates. A strong line of continuity thus sustains the legal framework under which the 2007 and the 2012 legislative elections were both fought (which contrasts with the shifts that marked the transition from 2001 to 2007). Globally considered, the legal framework under which elections are fought, and the institutions that have been established to manage the process, have remained mostly stable, especially after the introduction of the first Electoral Bills in 2006, and fall neatly in line with international criteria for electoral freedom and fairness (Cabral 2010). They also reveal consistency with the purpose of stimulating power sharing and offering the electoral exercise the transparency it requires to produce strong legitimacy to its own results. In brief, before the first vote was cast, critical decisions had already been made that rendered the articulation of elections with democracy more efficient.

A survey of three electoral cycles Each one of the three electoral cycles that have occurred in Timor-Leste (2001-2002, 2007, 2012) has been amply debated, and their main features consistently discussed. The purpose of this section is not to summarize all that has been produced, but rather to present a global approach encompassing all the electoral instances in an attempt to gauge their overall impact on the process of democratic consolidation and to ascertain the measure to which they have been a vehicle for popular control over the trajectory of political actors and institutions. In brief, it will be argued that, using Bjornlund classif ication (2004: 35-36), Timorese elections over the recent past started as ‘post-conflict elections’, taking place with extensive concourse of the international community in the organization

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and in a close supervision of the polls (see also Reilly 2006), and have established themselves as ‘consolidating elections’, being an integral part of the country’s quest for the consolidation of its own democratic institutions, mostly organized under the auspices of national authorities. As such, Timorese elections are in the process of becoming ‘regular elections’, that is to say, as in stable democracies, elections are not discontinuous or exceptional events, but rather regular forms of the exercise of popular sovereignty. Participation If elections are to be instances through which popular voice is expressed, not only must the institutional and legal framework provide ample room for the materialization of wide franchise (as we have see to be the case in Timor-Leste), but the level of citizens’ participation should reflect their desire to be part of the political body of the nation. A critical element of electoral processes that is closely correlated with franchise is the level of the electors’ actual participation in the polls, that is, a condensed expression of the popular use of the faculty to cast a vote to which they are entitled. Table 4.2 summarizes the percentage of registered electors that actually used their voting rights in all the elections since 1999. Table 4.2 Electoral Participation Year

Election

1999 2001 2002 2007 2007 2007 2012 2012 2012

Referendum Constituent Assembly Presidential Presidential (1st round) Presidential (2nd round) Legislative Presidential (1st round) Presidential (2nd round) Legislative

Electoral Participation 98.93 91.30 86.18 81.69 81.00 80.50 78.20 73.12 74.78

Two main conclusions emerge from this table. First and foremost, Timorese electors have showed a consistent high level of democratic participation and have taken pride in casting their vote ever since they were given that facility under free and fair conditions. Although democratic elections are conspicuously absent from the Timorese history, the

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newly empowered citizens responded en masse to their fresh condition as free electors and showed up to vote in great numbers. If the record level obtained in the Referendum of 30  August under extraordinary circumstances was never replicated, the level of political participation remains higher than in most advanced and stable democracies that are not under compulsory voting. A steady decline in this high level of participation is also to be noticed. Official figures show an increase of abstention that appears to reach the 25% mark in the 2012 round of elections. However, special caution must be used in the analysis of these figures on three different counts. First, the electoral register suffers from the inflation in the number of potential voters (as we have seen previously) estimated at between 5 and 10%, which should be discounted to the official figures for abstention. If corrected, figures for actual participation should be in the mid-80% range. To account for this level, one must also consider that the original registration was drawn before the severe crisis of 1999, which forced hundreds of thousands to flee the country. Many of those still remain in Indonesia (Damaledo 2015). The steep increase in abstention between 1999 and 2001 finds here a major explanation. Finally, recent alterations to the electoral laws (Law 8/2011, Section 40) replaced the right to vote in any polling station upon the presentation of a voter’s card by the obligation to vote in the station corresponding to the original place of registration, thus forcing many who had migrated to travel long and expensive journeys back to their home village or town – an issue that was publicly criticized by President Ramos-Horta. All things considered, the record of voters’ participation in all rounds of Timorese election is excellent, adding support to the idea that common citizens regard this instrument as a powerful means to make their voices heard. A less intuitive index of political participation can be found in the preparation for elections, both presidential and parliamentary. The 2012 elections will serve as example of this form of participation. First, the presidential election. The Court of Appeal accepted 13 of the 14 candidatures that were presented, validating them on the grounds that all had obeyed the law when it prescribes that each candidate must be supported by a minimum of 5,000 proponents, each district contributing with no less than 100 electors (Law 7/2006, Section 15-1). According to the Centru Jornalista Investigativu Timor-Leste, the ensemble of the candidates presented more than 120,000 subscribers, a figure that corresponds roughly to 20% of those registered to vote. To support actively one candidate requires an involvement that goes beyond the exercise of voting rights, and signifies

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a higher degree of political mobilization that reinforces the image obtained from the persistence of low levels of abstention. As for the legislative election, one must consider that there were 21 parties or coalitions running in 2012, each of them having to submit full slates comprising 65 candidates plus 25 extra names. The total number of candidates for the 65 parliamentary seats was thus 1,890 – or roughly one candidate for each 330 registered voters, a magnificent proof of the enthusiasm that elections generate in Timor-Leste. The results of each individual election must therefore be read against this background of intense mobilization that stresses the active involvement of citizens with this political mechanism and thus reinforces the legitimacy of the solutions it produces. Indications are that elections were actively appropriated by citizens at large as a relevant means of expressing their voice. The consecration of ‘independent’ presidents A cursory glimpse at the results of the three presidential elections summarized in Table 4.3 reveals a most obvious conclusion: the Timorese electors used those polls to consecrate a clear profile for their President of the Republic. They always chose to vote for candidates that presented themselves as ‘independent’ personalities, defeating by large margins individuals who chose to run under the banner of a given political party. Table 4.3 Presidential Elections Final Results Election

Candidate

Affiliation

Score

2002 2002 2007 2007 2012 2012

Xanana Gusmão Francisco Xavier Amaral José Ramos-Horta Francisco Guterres Lu Olo Taur Matan Ruak Francisco Guterres Lu Olo

Independent ASDT Independent FRETILIN Independent FRETILIN

82.69 17.31 69.18 30.82 61.23 38.77

In the so-called ‘friendly election’ of 2002 (Smith 2004a: 154-156), Xanana Gusmão received the open support of the vast majority of existing political parties, with two notable exceptions: ASDT presented his own leader in order to uphold the principles of democracy by providing the electorate with a choice that had assumedly no chance of winning, and both men remained very cordial to each other, sometimes appearing together at

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electoral rallies. FRETILIN decided not to present nor to endorse in any formal way either candidate, although the leadership manoeuvred to try and limit the margin of Xanana’s victory. Xanana, however, refused to allow any party symbol to appear against his name in the ballot paper, making sure his direct link to the electorate was not tainted in any way (King 2003: 747). The high significance of this symbolic gesture has been recognized by McWilliam and Bexley (2008). His landslide victory not only represents the acknowledgement of his outstanding and charismatic persona, but initiated what was to become a lasting trait in presidential choices. The legitimacy of political parties to field candidates was in no way tarnished, but the signal was strong that there are other forms of possible participation in the political life of the country besides their realm. The election of an independent candidate was then seen as a form of guarantee that no single political party would dominate all positions in the new administration, and this was perhaps the critical element explaining the endurance of ‘independent presidents’ in the imagination of Timorese electors. In 2007, the field of candidates was enlarged to accommodate 8 runners, all but one – José Ramos-Horta – presented under the banner of their respective political parties. Having secured second place in the first round, benefitting from his own prestige as a bridge-builder in the aftermath of the 2006 crisis as well as from the public endorsement of the incumbent president, Ramos-Horta fought the second one supported by all candidates that had been eliminated, and managed to secure the corresponding transfer of votes. Again, being an independent was understood as a guarantee that the concentration of powers would not occur and smaller parties would be protected against excessive use of an eventual majority position. The third election held in 2012 was even more lively, as no less than 13 candidates were admitted to participate. Among these, two main contenders – the incumbent José Ramos-Horta and the former chief of staff of the armed forces and previously guerrilla leader in the 1990s, Taur Matan Ruak – assumed theirs to be ‘independent’ candidacies. A substantial number of the other contenders fought these elections under their own party banner, but a few also claimed to have ‘independent’ status. In the event, Ramos-Horta was defeated in the first round (coming in third place), and Taur Matan Ruak, with the public support of Xanana’s CNRT since the first round, to which he added that of the vast majority of the defeated runners, easily beat FRETILIN’s Lu Olo.

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Constitutional provisions regarding the political role of political parties were upheld, and they were granted freedom to participate actively in these campaigns. However, presidential elections were systematically chosen by the Timorese electors to reveal their understanding according to which civic life is not exhausted within the sphere of political parties. In a country where the formalization of political parties was hastened by external pressures, contributing to leave prominent leaders outside their realm, Timorese used their capacity to choose freely between party representatives and personalities that offered them a direct link not mediated through party mechanisms to entrust the presidency to ‘independent’ personalities. More than the simple choice of presidents, this consistent pattern of voting had significant impact on the government system and the particular form of semi-presidentialism that has been constructed in Timor-Leste – an issue to which we shall return in Chapter Five, where the argument will be developed that this particular attitude of the Timorese citizens was relevant to the goal of consolidating the democratic institutions as a common house of all the people. Legislative elections and the evolving party system A major function of legislative elections is to ascertain the relative strength of the competing political organizations in order to determine which one(s) will be in a position to govern, and which will be ascribed a role in the opposition. The choice of a majority is thus a critical outcome of any parliamentary election, and the Timorese experience is rich in this respect, as summarized in Table 4.4. An important issue in this respect is the calendar for the first election, as there are ample reasons to be aware that early elections may pose severe threats to post-conflict societies – an issue that has already been addressed in Chapter Three and will not be pursued here. Suffice it to recall Reilly’s assertion that ‘many Western policy makers adopt a facile and naïve interpretation of democratic elections as being a natural and unproblematic form of conflict resolution’ (2006), and the World Bank suggestion that in war-torn societies, elections should be deferred up to a decade to allow for the process of state-building to occur and adequately frame their results (World Bank 2005), a path that Timor-Leste resolved not to follow, opting for a more standardized model made popular by the UN that requires elections to assert the basis for independence (Newman and Rich 2004). The temporal aspect of democracy-building efforts remains a critical issue.

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Table 4.4 Electoral results – Constituent Assembly and National Parliament* Party/coalition FRETILIN PD PSD ASDT (PSD/ASDT) UDT PDC KOTA PPT (KOTA/PPT) PNT PST PL UDC CNRT UNDERTIM PUN Frenti-Mudança Number of parties winning seats

2001

2007

2012

57.4 8.7 8.2 7.8 – 2.4 2.0 2.1 2.0 – 2.2 1.8 1.1 0.7 – – – – 12

29.0 11.3 – – 15.7 – – – – 3.2 – – – – 24.1 3.2 4.6 – 9

29.9 10.3 – – – – – – – – – – – – 36.7 – – 3.1 4

* Share of the vote for parties and coalition winning seats only.

Table 4.4 shows a dramatic change in the number of parliamentary parties from 12 to 4, in part due to the adoption in 2007 of a threshold of 3%. In fact, 8 of the 12 parties present in the Constituent Assembly, and subsequently in the first legislature that resulted from the transformation of that assembly into a regular parliament without fresh elections, had scored less than 3%, letting it be a consistent guess that the imposition of such threshold would reduce the number of parliamentary parties in spite of the electoral competition being open to many more. In 2007, 6 competing parties failed to secure the minimum percentage to get access to a seat, and this figure rose to 17 in 2012, when the number of parties in parliament was reduced to a mere 4. Of the original 12 parties in the Constituent Assembly, only 2 remain in the 2012 parliament – the other 2 having made their debut in 2007 and 2012. Moreover, the table suggests that the party system has been subject to intense volatility, that is, a tendency for electors to change significantly their choices over time (Pedersen 1979). This was more accentuated in 2007 when the major changes took place, but remained important in 2012. These results imply a marked evolution of the party system, profound alterations

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in the composition of government, and serious implication on the outlook for democratic consolidation. All three aspects will be considered next. The party system emerging from the foundational elections of 2001 (King 2003) was characterized not only by quite diffuse popular support for the new organizations that had mostly been pressed by external elements (UNTAET’s decision to proceed with formal elections coupled with a short deadline for their formal accreditation), but also by a major fault line separating FRETILIN from the rest of the field. Although this historical party performed under what were their expectations (and those of much of the independent observers) that placed a result in the region of 80% and a supermajority within reach, the score of 57.4% that was actually obtained – in part due to the confusion in the electorate about the very nature of these elections and the role of Xanana still regarded in many quarters as a FRETILIN supporter (Molnar 2011) – must be confronted with the fact that the second party (PD) could do no better than 8.7% (Smith 2004a). In the face of this result, the emerging system should be considered as a variant of multipartism with a clear predominant party (Ware 1996: 154-168), a situation that is not unusual in postcolonial situations that have adopted a democratic form of regime. In 2007, two important changes were introduced – the creation of a novel political party (Xanana’s CNRT) that in its maiden election managed to secure almost one-quarter of the vote, mostly at the expense of a dramatic decline in the proportion of FRETILIN vote (down to less than 30%) – and the reduction of the number of parliamentary parties from 12 down to 9. The shape of the system was thus altered, and the predominant party model gave rise to a form of polarized multipartism (Reilly 2006), combining a significant party fragmentation (9 parties retained seats in parliament) with a high degree of ideological distance. Indeed, even if the dominant narrative stressing adherence to the values of the struggle for independence was a major factor reducing distance between parties, the high level of personalities’ rivalry and the fact that a major fault line separating FRETILIN from the others would have significant impact on the formation of the new government suggest that this is the category that better suits the Timorese case. In 2012, the same tendency was noticed that accentuated a polarization of the political landscape between two major contenders in a framework where a mid-sized (PD) and a small party (Frenti-Mudança) retained some influence, gaining seats and a place in government. The need for a formal parliamentary coalition to support the new government is testimony to this proposed classification, in line with Ware’s proposal of a system with two large parties and several smaller ones. In these systems, in general, the two

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largest parties are much larger than any of the others but neither of them can hope to obtain parliamentary majorities for themselves and therefore require post-electoral coalitions involving one or more of the smaller parties (Ware 1996: 166). This marked evolution took place in a legal framework in which continuity was the leading feature (even if one must acknowledge the impact of the introduction of a threshold for the conversion of votes into seats), and is mainly due to changes in the electors’ choices, proving that elections have been a suitable mechanism to bring about peaceful change, assuring the ultimate control over the evolution of political life remains in the hands of citizens. The succession of electoral results impacted the formation and composition of government, as would be expected in elections that are consequential to the political life of any given country. In the case of Timor-Leste, another consequence was felt in the form of allowing for an increased role of the president in the formation of government. The formation of the First Constitutional Government witnessed the manifestation of diverging opinions. The President of the Republic expressed the view that the country would require the engagement of all political forces in the composition of a government of ‘national unity’. Mari Alkatiri, the undisputed leader of FRETILIN, refused the presidential call, and decided to form a single-party government (with the inclusion of two ‘independent’ ministers, Ramos-Horta as foreign minister, and Rui Maria de Araujo in the health portfolio) based on FRETILIN’s absolute majority in the House. In 2007, however, no single party obtained a majority, and the new president was called to make a fundamental decision after his inclination for a government of ‘national inclusion’ failed to get traction (Leach 2007): would he appoint the leader of the largest party, who had not succeeded in forming a post-electoral coalition in parliament, allowing him to try his chance? Or would he be sensitive to the fact that the leader of the second-largest party had indeed been able to negotiate a coalition that secured him the majority in the House? In the event, Ramos-Horta decided to offer Xanana the chance of governing, and created a precedent that reveals the importance of the President of the Republic in the governmentformation process. In 2012, a new coalition was required, but this time the role of the president was not so critical as Xanana managed to obtain the plurality of the vote and secure a post-electoral agreement involving two smaller parties, again defying the presidential inclination for an all-inclusive government. The results of legislative elections have thus direct relevance both in the process of government formation and the balance of powers between the

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President of the Republic and the prime minister within the constitutional realm of their respective competences. The third aspect deserving a comment is the impact of these elections results on the prospects for democratic performance and consolidation. The absolute majority obtained by FRETILIN in 2001, and the fact that this party chose to ‘march alone’ and form a monochromatic government gave rise to fears that a kind of a single-party regime might be lurking ahead (Smith 2004b; Kingsbury and Leach 2007). On the one hand, the political institutions of the young republic were underdeveloped, most notably the National Parliament, whose effective capacity to audit or supervise the much better structured executive branch has been questioned (Shoesmith 2008b). Other formal institutions, such as the judiciary, as well as the strength of civil society, were severely curtailed, and their capacity was minute to be active part in the mechanism of checks and balances and to exert horizontal accountability, which was mostly concentrated in the hands of the President of the Republic. In this context, various observers feared the government’s ‘authoritarian temptation’ (Simonsen 2006) or the possibility that it would travel down the ‘path to authoritarianism’ (Siapno 2006). I have proposed to interpret the crisis of 2006 as a sort of ‘democratic upheaval’ (Feijó 2007) whose main consequences were later confirmed in the 2007 elections. A critical consequence of the collapse of FRETILIN’s vote and the emergence of a different party system was the rise of the National Parliament’s role within the political landscape to a much more central position, which has been since maintained. The reinforcement of the centrality of parliament is a positive consequence to the process of democratic consolidation that was achieved again not by virtue of institutional manipulation but through the expression of popular preferences at the polls. A balanced perspective of the legislative elections must also consider some problematic developments in the process. A major cause for concern refers to the growing political (rather than legal) disenfranchising of electors. The legislation on political parties (Law 3/2004) facilitates the registration of this kind of organization requiring no more than 1,500 subscribers for its formalization (Section 13-1). This has enabled a considerable number of political formations to run in parliamentary elections (and benef it from generous state subventions for the effect – US$30,000 for each party, US$45,000 for coalitions). In 2007 there were 14, in 2012 the figure rose to 21 and the ballot paper with the respective names and symbols grew to be almost a metre long. However, the leniency of the party’s legislation is somehow counterbalanced by the electoral law, namely since it introduced

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a threshold of 3% aiming at ‘avoiding the excessive partisan pulverization and strengthening the representation of those political forces that are truly rooted in the Timorese society’ (Preamble to Law 6/2006) – a prescription that was not present in the legal framework for the Constituent Assembly election, when 8 of the 12 parties that obtained seats polled less than that percentage of the vote (see Table 4.4). The introduction of this threshold, not unknown in mature democracies (in Germany it stands at 5%), produced the desired outcome of eliminating smaller formations, but it also generated some perverse results, as shown in Table 4.5: it increased substantially the percentage of voters that were dispossessed of parliamentary representation. Table 4.5 Votes without Parliamentary Representation Year

Election

2001 2007 2012

Constituent Assembly Parliament Parliament

Number of Parties 9 7 17

Votes without Seats (%) 3.57 8.92 20.00

The extreme fragmentation of the ‘official’ party system was thus curtailed through the threshold mechanism The price to pay, however, was the very significant increase in the number of electors that were actually disenfranchised inasmuch as they voted for parties that failed to secure the minimum percentage to be allocated any seat. If this number was little more than residual in the Constituent Assembly (3.57%), it more than doubled when the 3% threshold was introduced (2007), and more than doubled again between 2007 and 2012, reaching the very considerable figure of 20% – a critical element that must be combined with the reduction to four in the number of parties with parliamentary seats referred to above. The ‘party of those who have no parliamentary representation’ is actually the third force and represents a whole one-fifth of the electorate that awaits the evolution of the larger parties. During the Ramos-Horta presidency this issue was considered sufficiently relevant for the president to invite a well-known figure from one of the parties left out of the National Parliament to be their voice in the State Council. Without a voice inside the institutions, this large share of the citizenry would struggle to make themselves heard and constitute one of the issues that require particular attention in the development of the democratic regime, as the tendency may develop for these individuals and groups who see themselves consigned to a permanent status external to the political system to become agitated and in opposition to the whole architecture of the democratic regime. It is interesting to

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note that this is seldom a result to be expected from an electoral system based on proportional representation, namely when it is combined with a single, national constituency that tends to reduce distortions and be more inclusive.

Elections as mirrors Beyond their stated purpose of determining the relative strength of the involved contenders, elections can be viewed as mirrors of the society in which they take place, as they also reveal several important social and political features. Two relevant aspects of the Timorese political landscape will be considered in this section: the regional distribution of votes, and the degree to which personalities retain important relations with the electorate that justify impressive electoral scores even in circumstances in which political parties are the formal contenders. Regional patterns of voting The crisis that erupted in 2006 was crystallized around a division of Timorese between ‘lorosaes’ (those from the rising sun, i.e., the easterners) and ‘loromonus’ (those from the setting sun, i.e., the westerners). Regardless of the intensity and enduring capacity of such a division (McWilliam and Bexley 2008), the 2007 round of elections, coming very soon after the main events that had pitted FRETILIN (accused of favouring its main supporters, the lorosaes, in the army) against all other parties with an implicit assumption regarding regional differences in political allegiances, was an opportunity to gauge the foundations of such claims. Strong regional variation in the strength of candidates has been noticed ever since the Constituent Assembly elections. Dwight Y. King (2003: 753) suggested that the historical differentiation between ‘firaku’ (easterners) and ‘kaladi’ (westerners) would ‘have implications for the future alignment of political forces’ grounded on the relative levels of electoral performance of the major contenders. Anthony L. Smith, for his part, saw this divide as potentially relevant if factionalism entered the sphere of the Timorese elite (2004a: 158). The very generous margin of victory, both in the elections for the Constituent Assembly won by FRETILIN, and the presidential polls of 2002 taken by Xanana, somehow dilute the perception of those differences, which would resurface in a much more visible way in 2007, and also in more subtle configurations.

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In the 2007 contests, FRETILIN was credited with very comfortable victories in the three easternmost districts and quite meagre results in the others. In the presidential race, Lu Olo secured 66.52% in Baucau, 50.99% in Lautem, and 67.79% in Viqueque, three districts where the party also easily won the legislative election later in the year with more than 50% of the vote. Conversely, in the western parts of the country their results were normally below the 20% mark, and in some extreme cases, even below 10%. In contrast with this unbalanced performance, Xanana’s CNRT appeared as the party with the more consistent regional distribution of support, and yet it still fluctuates between a top 45% (in the influential district of Dili) and a little over 10%. This reveals that even the least regionally unbalanced force still presents a significant variation throughout the country. However, the picture emerging from these elections is not one of a country divided in two, but one where regional variation is complex (as we shall see in the next section about the influence of personalities; see also Leach 2009). Most observers that noticed this phenomenon agree that the image of regional diversity is a persistent feature of the political landscape, although the 2012 elections revealed a softer tone in its perception and saw ‘regionalized voting patterns from 2007 normalize to some degree’ (Leach 2012). In these elections, FRETILIN won as usual in the three easternmost districts and performed poorly in the western side, but managing to get around 20% in most of these districts. CNRT took all the other nine districts. If one considers the standard deviation of the district results for the three main parties, FRETILIN comes first with 14.51 for 29.87%, whereas PD shows 5.20 for a score of 10.30% and CNRT presents the lowest with 11.03 for 36.66% – all revealing the regional variation in popular support to be a structural feature of Timorese politics. The question that arises at this moment is not ‘what is the national weight of this party?’ but rather ‘to what extent has one given community – local, regional, eventually ethnic – managed to make itself heard at national level?’ One might expect that the need for coalitions that have marked the legislatures since 2007 might somehow reduce the impact of these regional differences on the formation of government and the development of comprehensive public policies. However, the fact that FRETILIN concentrates its own vote in the eastern areas where it commands an absolute majority and yet finds no room in the nation’s cabinet presents a permanent source of potential tension and even conflict – one that the development of decentralization and the creation of a new level of regional administration with an electoral basis may contribute to alleviate.

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The influence of personalities In formal terms, legislative elections are fought by political parties that managed to fulfil all the necessary requirements of the law, which is by and large quite lenient and allows for an easy formation of parties. The electors’ perception of political parties, however, is mediated by the presence of personalities in the parties’ slates. In the words of Anthony L. Smith, ‘the role of personalities looms large’ (2004a: 152) – their role in the resistance struggle and/or their association with customary forms of political legitimacy being the root of this phenomenon. The International Crisis Group issued a briefing in 2007 claiming that ‘personalities rather than party platforms are likely to determine the outcome of the contest’ (ICG 2007); five years later it would reiterate that ‘the real contest is between a handful of familiar players’ as ‘Timorese politics remains far more personality driven than ideologically driven’ (ICG 2012). Let’s pause and look at what may be behind such statements. In the 2007 elections, Manuel Tilman ran both in the presidential and the legislative ones, in the latter case as leader of the historical KOTA. He polled a poor 4.09% in the presidential first round, but managed to come a close second in his home district of Ainaro. In the legislative polls, KOTA secured only 3.20% nationally, but in Ainaro it reached 18.67%. Clearly, Manuel Tilman possessed at the time a power base that does not fit in the frame of a modern-day constituency-type policies, but reveals the existence of ancient and quite strong links of this particular individual to traditional forms of political legitimation. In the same year, Fernanda Borges’ PUN scored 4.55% nationwide, but peaked at 19.67% in Ermera (and falling to a residual 0.54% in Lautém). Again, the personal appeal of the leader and the special relation he or she may entertain with local power structures contribute to explain the level of their results. Perhaps the most striking case of personality relevance – apart from that of the charismatic Xanana – is that of Francisco Xavier do Amaral. He lost the presidential election of 2002 to Xanana by a large margin, but he managed to carry the vote in Aileu. In 2007, although he did not receive enough votes nationally to fight the second round, he secured victory in the districts of Aileu, Ainaro and Manufahi, and the coalition ASDT/PSD that he led, also claimed victory there. However, in 2012, after he passed away in the early stages of the presidential race, those who claimed to be his political heirs were unable to secure the kind of voting level he normally did, and what was left of his old party was for the first time removed from parliament, failing to reach the 3% threshold.

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These examples suggest the persistence, in Timor-Leste, of important levels of appeal retained by individuals, that tend to be superimposed on their own parties in the public perception of politics. In a substantial number of cases, this appeal is especially felt at the local or regional level, and seems to derive from those individuals’ historical ties to popular forms of political customary legitimacy. In this sense, there is a kind of a dialogue between the requisites of the modern state model, and the resilience of historically rooted forms of political legitimation that should not be disregarded as they constitute important elements in the articulation of democratic mechanisms in view of gaining popular support. On the other hand, the examples above also suggest that the formation of political parties has been possible without a precise ideological or political platform, but rather as expressions of the need felt by some influential individuals to meet the legal requirements that allowed them to fight for positions in the emerging landscape of the modern state. As such, the consistency of many political parties is obviously fragile, as the evolution of the electoral results has indicated. The political system adopted in Timor-Leste, comprising two direct national elections for parliament and the presidency, offers in the case of the later instance a vehicle for the promotion of individual platforms. In fact, whoever manages to be supported by 5,000 citizens can run in the presidential election – and this opportunity has been taken up seriously by a significant number of people. Even if some derogatory comments link this fact to the existence of public funds supporting presidential candidates (US$10,000 for the first round, the same amount for the second according to Government Resolution 7/2012), it is true that the 2007 elections saw 8 candidates enter the race, a number that was increased to 13 in 2012. In 2007, except for José Ramos-Horta, who presented himself as an ‘independent’, all others were leading members of their respective parties. In 2012, there were two ‘independent’ candidates (Ramos-Horta and Taur Matan Ruak), whereas all the other candidates had important party links – but some were running in an ‘independent’ capacity in competition with their own parties’ designated candidate. The importance of the popular appeal of some personalities can best be exemplified by the case of the late Fernando Lasama de Araujo (1963-2015), who was the historical leader of PD (after having played a critical role in the nascent Timorese students movement in the late 1980s and early 1990s, before being imprisoned in Cipinang). In 2007, Lasama obtained 19.18% of the votes in the presidential elections, carrying the vote in Bobonaro, Covalima, Ermera and Oe-Cusse, a score he emulated in 2012 with 17.30%.

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However, his own party (PD) could not match those results: in the first year it polled 11.30%, whereas in 2012 it lost some support and obtained just 10.3%. This is a clear example of a strong political personality that, even in command of a political party, had a personal popular appeal and following (to large extent concentrated in a specific area of the country) that goes far beyond the influence of his party. The dual nature of the political system offers practical ways for the expression of both individual appeal and party agendas, but so far the former seems to carry more weight in the electorate than the formal institutions deemed to represent collective alternatives. In the light of what has been analyzed in this section, the suggestion emerges that the role of personalities is very acutely felt by the electorate, and this fact poses a challenge to political parties: will they be able to transcend, or even to match, the appeal of prominent leaders and construct a solid political organization?

Elections and democratic consolidation Elections are opportunities for the political system to show its resilience and/or to undergo controlled changes. If disputed under free and fair conditions – as has clearly been the case in Timor-Leste since 1999 – elections contribute to refreshing political legitimacy or to replacing those in power, allowing popular sovereignty to determine the relative position of the main actors and their policies, and to sustain the citizens’ support for democratic institutions. In this respect, the Timorese national elections, considered as a whole, have produced significant results that go beyond the immediate decision on winners and losers as they impinge on particularly relevant features of the political landscape: the consecration of ‘independent’ presidents, the evolution of the party system, and the mechanisms for regulating political confrontation. A critical feature of the political regime refers to the figure of the President of the Republic which is doubly bound: on the one hand, it is framed by the prescriptions of the constitution that allow different options to be sustained; on the other, it is tributary of the personalities chosen by the people to discharge the function, their own attributes, and the political platforms they advance. In between, there is an area of more or less institutionalized possibilities that are accepted but not imposed by the constitution that guarantee ample room for political choices. The emergence and consolidation of the notion that presidents should be ‘independent’ personalities,

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not aff iliated to any political party, and perform duties pertaining to a ‘moderating power’ rather than compete with the prime minister for executive power may be in line with constitutional provisions (for instance, with the constitutional requirement that candidates present a substantial number of citizens’ subscriptions that renders party affiliation a secondary consideration, as well as the definition of their competences). This issue will receive particular attention in the next chapter. But the actual inscription of this feature as a central characteristic of presidential figures derives from the fact that in three consecutive presidential elections ‘independent’ candidates defeated – and by large numbers – individuals presented by their own political parties. A doxa was thus created with significant implications for the organization of political competition. Acceptable for the constitution, it emerged from the ways in which the citizens entitled to vote consistently used elections to cast their preferences, which revealed traits of stability in the face of an apparent propensity to change president at every opportunity. Today, in spite of other solutions remaining a possibility in future elections, the political profile of the President of the Republic seems to be sculpted in stone with important implication for the overall political system. The major source of this definition does not derive from constitutional prescriptions, but rather from the consistent choice of ‘independent’ presidents by sizeable majorities of the electors in open competition with candidates that embodied a different solution. In this sense, elections were the fundamental means through which the status of presidents has been defined. To a large extent, the organization of elections and the definition of their main features preceded the establishment of a solid party system. Back in 2001, the decision was taken to organize the first elections for the Constituent Assembly and offer a short period for all currents of opinion to formally constitute political parties. Except for FRETILIN, which represented an important segment of the Resistance and possessed a solid organizational structure, other currents of political opinion faced important difficulties meeting the requirements of a socially structured political party beyond formal criteria in a short delay, at the end of what had been a period of severe repression that rendered the constitution of parties a daunting task. While some assumed the risk and obtained a few seats, others refrained from entering the ballot, expecting to be able to do so in a more favourable situation at the next opportunity. The initial party system was therefore biased (in favour of one party with stronger historical background) and incomplete (as important stakeholders refrained from entering the game). This picture emerges in clear contrast with the more inclusive nature of

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the Resistance umbrella organization, CNRT, where formal procedures were less important than the capacity to express differentiated currents of opinion and social actors (as we have seen in Chapter Three). The Constituent Assembly chose to extend its own mandate and avoid fresh elections for the National Parliament in 2002, effectively delaying the start of open political competition to the major institutions until 2007. The results of the 2001 election were somewhat artificially ‘frozen’ with a dominant-party model. FRETILIN won the majority of seats while the rest was divided between 11 other parties, some of which had historical claims (ASDT, UDT, KOTA) and others corresponded to recently emerged forces (PD, PSD). Unsurprisingly, the field of candidates in 2007 differed substantially from that of 2001, and the result of the election signified a major shift away from the dominant-party model. Not only a different political majority emerged in those elections, but the party system evolved into a form of polarized plurality in which two main parties – one of which (Xanana’s CNRT) was running for the first time – clearly polled more than the others. Yet, the National Parliament had members from 9 different parties. With several newcomers (of which only one – Frenti-Mudança – was successful in gaining seats) the 2012 elections reinforced the tendency for bipolarization around FRETILIN and CNRT, and wiped several parties who had gained seats in previous elections (ASDT, PSD, etc.) out of parliament. Now only four parties are represented in the National Parliament – although those who failed to gain seats polled more than 20% of the overall vote. There is ample room for evolution, but so far it is clear that the succession of elections has been associated with a marked evolution of the party system from a dominant-party model with significant fragmentation to a very polarized plurality that much reduced fragmentation – at least at the level of effective representation. Organizing regular elections has been a successful means to allow for the transformation of a young and inefficient party system into a different one that bears closer resemblance to the political traits of the Resistance, which has been described as a movement of plural nationalism. It has also provided the means for the charismatic leadership of Xanana Gusmão to embrace and sustain democracy in Timor, accepting the post of President of the Republic when competition was limited (2002), and organizing an important political party and fighting for the position of prime minister when competition was finally open to all positions (2007). Again, it was through elections that political actors were able to adapt the initial configuration of leadership and the party system to the requirements of open political competition and the historical legacy of a quarter-century of fight for independence.

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Timor-Leste is a stable democracy that underwent a turbulent process of development and still struggles to consolidate its institutions. Among the critical events that marked the first years after independence, the ‘crisis of 2006’ is the most serious one: an escalation of the confrontation between the President of the Republic and the prime minister was only stopped when Mari Alkatiri resigned in June. Maintaining the same parliamentary composition, a new government was appointed under the leadership of José Ramos-Horta, which in turn was replaced in May 2007 by Estanislau Aleixo da Silva for a brief period of three months. In all, the first legislature gave rise to three different governments, signalling a weak degree of stability. After 2007, however, and in spite of critical events, such as the shooting of President Ramos-Horta and the ambush on Prime Minister Gusmão in February 2008, there was only one government for the duration of the legislature. Two questions need to be contemplated. First: in the face of growing antagonism between the president and the prime minister, why didn’t the president dissolve the parliament and call elections to settle the dispute rather than allow the escalation of tension to build up to dramatic levels? This would have been a solution favoured in many consolidated democracies. However, in 2006, Timor did not dispose of the institutional requirements to stage elections: no updated, independently scrutinized voter registration existed, nor had the constitution, which provides for the structural traits of the electoral process, been complemented by regular legislation fixing the exact terms under which elections could be held. Dissolving the parliament would mean that no legitimate authority existed that could pass the required legislation, adding yet another problem to a complex situation. For this reason, what would have been a normal political decision under other circumstances, proved to be totally unrealistic. Elections could not be used, in the short term, to settle a most critical dispute. However, as it turned out, no final solution for the crisis could be reached without the concourse of elections. In 2007, conditions had been met to stage presidential and legislative elections. The result of those elections was a double change. Ramos-Horta was elected president, and in the parliamentary polls a new party under the leadership of Xanana Gusmão ousted FRETILIN from power. Changes were mostly peaceful, even if some violence erupted when FRETILIN was denied their ambition to form a government on the basis of the plurality of the vote they had scored, failing to beat a coalition of opposition parties. Political life in Timor seems to have been put on hold for one year – Xanana remaining president and FRETILIN controlling the majority of seats

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in parliament – only to let the decision on the antagonistic views be decided in the 2007 elections. After that, and in view of the changes introduced by the electors in the relative weight of the political actors, presumably more in line with sociological realities that could express themselves in the open for the first time, the process of stabilizing democracy gained traction. In 2012, elections were by and large peaceful, returning a new president (and denying the incumbent a second chance), reinforcing the position of the prime minister, and forcing a substantial shake-up of the party system. Taken together, these elements suggest that elections have been effective means for the political actors to play the democratic game and settle disputes, revealing the capacity to be responsive to popular demands and acting as the main tool for the recomposition of the political landscape. Had they been possible in 2006, perhaps the crisis that rocked the foundations of the regime could have been averted. Their capacity to deliver political change contributed significantly to lower the attractiveness of alternative means to induce it, normally situated outside the borders of democracy, whose impact was not negligible. These elements combine to reveal that elections in Timor-Leste are not just a routine devoid of impact in the composition of the political landscape. Rather, they have been the critical instrument in shaping the evolution of power relations, contributing decisively to the establishment of democratic mechanisms for regulating political competition. In spite of some moments of tension associated with electoral frustrations that were quickly dominated, the Timorese elite has shown a significant degree of adhesion to the notion that elections are the instrument to solve disputes and define the distribution of power. For this to be possible, some conditions had to be met. First, the adoption of a wide franchise that contributes to the involvement of all the people in the electoral disputes and makes it difficult to conceive of other ways to reach ‘the will of the people’. Secondly, the choice of proportional representation methods in parliamentary elections that guarantee the representation of majority and minorities alike, creating an inclusive common house for all currents of political opinion with minimum levels of public support. Third, the creation of an electoral administration widely accepted as neutral and capable of enforcing in transparent ways the set of rules that govern electoral exercises. Placing the registration of voters under the aegis of the independent electoral administration rather than having it depend on any government department also contributed to dispel fears of manipulation. These conditions greatly diminish the possibility that denials that the election is a reflection of the popular choice at any given moment could gain traction. In the context of the Southeast Asia and Melanesia,

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elections that have a real impact on those who hold power, defeating an incumbent president and forcing significant changes to be introduced to governmental majorities, revealing a system that is responsive to changes in public opinion and to renewed expressions of citizenship, are not the rule. They must be largely credited to the efforts of the Timorese to give root to democracy. In Timor-Leste, little doubt subsists that the source of real power resides with democratically elected officials. Elections are a real means of popular control over those officials, and in several cases they have been replaced by peaceful means. Although the history of free elections in this country is only a little older than ten years, these polls seem to fit stringent criteria for sound democratic practice, as we have seen in the introductory section in this chapter. The short history of Timorese elections suggests that all these have been met. In this light, Timorese elections seem to transcend a limited role within the frame of ‘Western style, liberal democracy’ of which they are a core element, and address the broader issue of empowering citizens to take decisions and control those upon whom delegated power is conferred. As such, and in spite of improvements that can always be considered in order to increase the quality of democracy, elections have contributed to the process of rooting and consolidating the new regime in the political culture of the Timorese people. Free, fair and regular elections contributed to the establishment of a chain of power delegation that posits that those who actually delegate retain forms of controlling those who receive the delegation, and thus that popular sovereignty is inscribed in the matrix of the political fabric. As Tanja Hohe (2002b) rightly noticed, ‘the idea of a democratic state is that it functions as an entity in which the population participates’, and elections are a critical element that enables such participation. This participation has been used by Timorese citizens to shape the fundamental evolution traits of power relations in the country, contributing decisively to the establishment of democratic mechanisms for the regulation of political competition.

5

Semi-presidentialism with ‘independent’ presidents Political inclusiveness and democratic consolidation

In the first years after the Indonesian Anschluss, Nicolau Lobato rose to the status of undisputed leader of the Timorese Resistance, replacing the controversial first President of the Republic proclaimed on 28 November 1975, Francisco Xavier do Amaral. After Nicolau was shot dead on the last day of December 1978, a few years elapsed before Xanana could rise to a similar position in the Conference of March 1981. Xanana’s leadership started inside one political party (FRETILIN) and its armed branch (FALINTIL), but slowly grew beyond those frontiers to embrace emerging sectors of the population that were increasingly turning against Indonesian domination. By the end of the 1980s, Xanana’s position had evolved: severing his ties with his political party and declaring the guerrilla force he commanded as a liberation army of the entire Resistance organized under the umbrella of CNRM (Conselho Nacional da Resistência Maubere [National Council of Maubere Resistance]), Xanana moved from a position of ‘revolutionary’ leader to one of ‘nationalist’ leader. This was to survive his imprisonment in 1992, and would be made even more explicit in 1998 when all branches of the Resistance upgraded their joint efforts to combat Indonesian occupation creating the National Council of Timorese Resistance (CNRT) whose presidency was awarded to Xanana, by then a political prisoner in Cipinang. The moral authority of the guerrilla fighter who had spent 17 years in the Timorese mountains was thus recognized by all the relevant players in the struggle for self-determination (Niner 2009; Feijó 2016a). The existence of a strong, popular and charismatic leader would suggest that the political institutions to be designed once the road to full independence was inaugurated with the Referendum of 30 August 1999 would accommodate a prominent executive function to be vested upon Xanana. Similar cases of postcolonialism, including all the former Portuguese domains in Africa, had adopted regimes in which a strong president was a critical feature. However, the Timorese situation was far more complex as the nationalist movement was plural, encompassing organizations with different historical trajectories, and diverse personalities with deep-rooted rivalries. The relationships between Xanana and the various organizations under the umbrella of CNRT were differentiated, and old animosities persisted

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between himself and many in commanding positions of FRETILIN, by and large the best structured of all the political organizations, with considerable popular support of its own. These facts are relevant to understanding why, from an initial impression that Timor-Leste might have crafted a strong presidential model based on the political structure of CNRT, discernible in a number of early declarations, the process evolved to produce a rather different outcome. As we have seen in Chapter Three, the Constituent Assembly opted for a different government model that is usually considered to be of a semi-presidential nature. The view has been sustained that both historical reasons and political considerations, rather than a thorough discussion of the merits of different alternative solutions, explain the decisions of the constituent deputies (Feijó 2013b). The choice of a government system is a major aspect of the pool of decisions that bear on the issue of democratization and the consolidation of new polities. To the effect that institutions matter, options regarding the definition of functions and the balance of power between different power-holders occupy a central place in any research agenda. The strength of implied causality may not extend beyond Karl Popper’s notion of ‘propensity’ or weighted probability (Popper 1990), and therefore refuses any form of institutional determinism, and still the articulation between institutional choices and political outcomes remains critical. This chapter looks at the relationship between the Timorese authorities’ adoption of a semi-presidential system of government and the process of democratic consolidation. The general context is that of the ongoing debate in the political literature on the contributions of semi-presidentialism to the performance of democracy, namely in countries that have recently witnessed processes of transition from authoritarianism. First, it reviews the notion of semi-presidential regime, having in view the need to dispose of a sound definitional basis in order to scrutinize the Timorese case and place it in any meaningful comparative perspective. The most recent literature will be engaged to discuss the theoretical relations between this system of government – and the various sub-types it contains – and the performance of democracy. In an attempt to go beyond what has been written on the subject to this day, an attempt will be made to explore the notion of ‘independent presidents’ and discuss its relevance to both the issues of horizontal accountability and inclusive governance, two instances that the historical process of Timor-Leste suggests to be of great relevance to a fully operational and stable democracy. Finally, in order to assess the impact of the choice of government system, a counterfactual exercise is proposed that aims to isolate the impact of institutional design and discuss the merits of

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semi-presidentialism is a comparative context. It is sometimes assumed that when a country adopts a specific government system and later on faces problems in the process of democratic consolidation, the former bears a necessary responsibility for those hurdles. This assumption stems from an over-valorization of the role of institutions and an underestimation of the effects of divided societies and their tendency to harbour conflict and competition. As such, the tendency exists to attribute to institutional design the faults that should better be assigned to political confrontation. In this chapter, the view is sustained that ‘democratic institutions are supposed to be conflict regulators’ (Shugart and Carey 1992), not conflict generators or, conversely, conflict erasers, and therefore their performance should be gauged by their capacity to frame and contain conflict within established barriers rather than to suppress it – a goal that would better be assigned to an authoritarian ethos. The concluding section returns to the specific lessons to be drawn from this case, emphasizing not so much the structural features of semi-presidentialism but rather its plasticity and capacity to address the historical and political problems of this new nation offering a practical solution for the need to foster power sharing and inclusive governance. For this purpose, the positive contribution of specific choices such as ‘independent presidents’ will be stressed.

On the notion of ‘semi-presidentialism’ and its varieties ‘Semi-presidentialism’ as a tertium genus of democratic, constitutional systems of government, ontologically individuated and distinguished both from ‘parliamentarism’ and ‘presidentialism’, is a major development of 20th-century political theory in spite of a continuing academic debate ranging from its nomenclature to the fine-tuning of its definitions (Lobo and Neto 2009: 261). This system of government extends its roots back to the Weimar Republic (1919-1933), under the influence of Max Weber, but for many decades remained a nameless child with few siblings, all of whom lived in Europe (Bahro 1996; Sartori 1997: 127). In 1970, Maurice Duverger coined the term in his attempt to single out the novelty of the French Fifth Republic, namely the regime that emerged out of the 1962 amendment to the 1958 constitution which introduced direct popular elections for the Presidency of the Republic. Duverger would expand on his proposal in his Échec au Roi at a time when Portugal had adopted a similar system of government, and summarized his views for the Anglo-Saxon academic world in a much acclaimed paper in 1980. These

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are the intellectual roots of this system of government, which have been further developed in recent decades. The onset of the ‘third wave of democratization’ constitutes a second factor explaining the explosion of interest on this system of government, both in academia and in the political arena. Whereas Spain (1976-1978) and Greece (1974) made their transitions from authoritarianism to democracy in the early years of this wave through the more conventional ‘parliamentary’ route, Portugal chose the new model – and in the course of expansion of democracy in the world since, the number of countries moving along this path has steadily increased. From an almost residual category, semi-presidentialism saw its popularity grow to the point that in 2002 it represented 22% of 114 democracies (Cheibub 2009). The most recent and comprehensive survey of semi-presidentialism carried out by Elgie reveals that in 2010 there were 52 countries with this type of constitutional arrangement – including countries that cannot be considered as democracies (Elgie 2011a: 24). 4 More important is the fact that this popularity derived from its appeal to young democracies, in Central and Eastern Europe, in Africa and in Asia (Elgie and Moestrup 2007: 9). For various scholars, this is not a mere coincidence, as they acknowledge a positive impact of semi-presidentialism on the consolidation and the maintenance of democracy (Roper 2002), even if no consensual explanation of the reasons for this trend has yet emerged. To analyze this question, it is appropriate to start with Duverger’s classic definition of ‘semi-presidentialism’: A political regime is considered as semi-presidential if the constitution which established it combines three elements: (1) the president of the republic is elected by universal suffrage; (2) he possesses quite considerable powers; (3) he has opposite him, however, a prime minister and ministers who possess executive power and governmental power and can stay in office only if the parliament does not show its opposition to them. (Duverger 1980: 165)

This definition is composed of two objective elements – (1) and (3) – and a quite subjective one: what are to be considered ‘considerable powers’ of a president? There seems to be no litmus test for this question. Attempting to solve the problem while remaining as close as possible to the original definition led subsequent writers in two alternative directions. On the 4 I will consider only those cases of semi-presidential regimes that are, simultaneously, democratic polities.

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one hand, Sartori expanded on the number of required conditions and proposed the following set of necessary characteristics: first, the head of state (president) is selected by popular vote – either directly or indirectly for a fixed term in office; second, the head of state shares the executive power with a prime minister, thus entering a dual authority structure whose three defining criteria are: (a) the president is independent from parliament, but cannot govern alone or directly and therefore his will must be conveyed and processed via his government; (b) conversely, the prime minister and the cabinet are sort of president-independent in that they are parliament-dependent: they are subject to either parliamentary confidence or no-confidence (or both), and in either case need the support of a parliamentary majority; and (c) the dual authority structure of semipresidentialism allows for shifting balances of power within the executive, under the strict condition that the ‘autonomy potential’ of both the president and prime minister does subsist (Sartori 1997: 131-132). In his attempt to provide a pragmatic solution for a great deal of cases, Novais has suggested that ‘the most decisive power a president may have in semi-presidential regimes is the power to dissolve parliament’ (Novais 2007: 155). Should one stick to Duverger’s original definition, checking for the existence of this power could be regarded as a way solve the issue of ‘considerable powers’ in a positive manner (i.e., where it exists, presidential powers can be deemed ‘considerable’). However, the absence of this power might not rule out the classification of a particular regime as ‘semi-presidential’, as it could instead be replaced by another power of similar effect, as was the case in Portugal between 1976 and 1982, when the president had the power to freely dismiss the prime minister, but not to dissolve parliament. On the other hand, Robert Elgie thought it possible to operationalize the concept of ‘semi-presidentialism’ in a simplified way that eliminates room for subjective considerations, positing that it is basically a ‘system where a popularly elected president exists alongside a prime minister and a cabinet who are responsible to the legislature’ – thus eliding the question of presidential powers altogether (Elgie 2011a: 19-23). Wider or narrower than the original formulation, each of these proposed definitions share the idea that at the core of semi-presidentialism there must be some form of duality of power. As Sartori puts it: ‘The one characteristic that any semi-presidential regime must have […] is a dual structure of authority, a two-headed configuration. Thus, any semi-presidential Constitution must establish, in some manner, a diarchy between a president who is head of the state, and a prime minister who heads the government’ (Sartori 1997: 121).

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Siaroff argues that the critical feature distinguishing semi-presidentialism from other systems of government is the combination of parliamentary accountability (the definitional feature of parliamentarism) with presidential powers, here taken in a generic sense, thus incorporating the duality criterion (Siaroff 2003: 290). For Siaroff and Elgie, then, the analysis of the extent of presidential powers is not an initial, definitional issue in terms of the basic identity of the system, but becomes essential on a finer analysis of varieties of semi-presidentialism. This approach to an understanding of this government system comprises thus two moments: first, one settles on a restricted definition that considers only the duality of power, and then uses the analysis of specific aspects of the balance of power between presidents and prime ministers to create a grid of sub-types of the overall regime. What are these varieties? Progressing with the history of the debate, Shugart and Carey (1992), although critics of the terminology in use, proposed two models of regimes with directly elected presidents which, in fact, represent sub-types of a common, semi-presidential regime. These authors, struck by the fact that in the two decades before their book was published ‘nearly all new democracies […] have had elected presidents with varying degrees of political authority’ (1992: 2), divided regimes having a directly elected president into three categories. First, they defined ‘presidentialism’ as a ‘regime type based on the ideal of a maximum separation of powers (between the executive and the legislative branches), and full and exclusive responsibility of the cabinet to the president’ – thus sustaining its classic definition. They then defined two new and distinct forms of government combining an elected president with a prime minister who owes his/her power to the confidence (or at least the acquiescence) of parliament: ‘premier-presidentialism’ as ‘a type in which the president has certain significant powers but the cabinet is responsible only to the assembly’, and ‘president-parliamentary’ whose def ining trait is ‘shared – or confused – responsibilities over cabinets between president and assembly’ (1992: 15). These two cases may be regarded as species of ‘semi-presidentialism’ since they share the basic elements pertinent to the definition of this system. Both radically differ from ‘presidentialism’, even if the fact that the president has a fixed term and cannot be removed is a point in common. In semi-presidential models, however, the assembly which supports cabinet can, as a general rule, be dissolved by the president; or, alternatively, the prime minister supported by the assembly can be likewise dismissed. As such, the principle of absolute separation between the legislative and executive that characterizes presidentialism does not hold in these two cases.

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For most practical purposes, the item in the list of presidential powers that can better be singled out to represent the distinction between these two varieties of semi-presidentialism is the power to dismiss the prime minister. When the president has such a power, the chances that their powers overlap and in some way are confused with those of the prime minister is greater than in those cases in which the president cannot remove a prime minister but can dissolve the assembly and call fresh elections. This, of course, is the central feature distinguishing semi-presidentialism from forms of parliamentarism (that does not, as a rule, accept dissolution of parliament by an external power). The fact that this power is not often exercised, as it requires exceptional circumstances to occur, does not in any form diminish its centrality in the balance of powers. Robert Elgie has recently proposed a set of criteria in a vein akin to the one he used in the proposal for the definition of semi-presidentialism, with a purpose of avoiding problems of unreliability and endogeneity and offering responses to have parameters as devoid as possible from subjective elements. Only parameters defined in such a way provide solid grounds for comparative studies. In Elgie’s view, references should be limited to the wording of the formal constitutions and the number of relevant items brought into the picture should involve as few constitutive elements as possible. In this vein, ‘president parliamentarism is a form of semi-presidentialism where the prime minister and cabinet are collectively responsible to both the legislature and the president’, whereas ‘premier presidentialism is a form of semi-presidentialism where the prime minister and cabinet are collectively responsible solely to the legislature’ (Elgie 2011a: 28). A direct consequence of this distinction which is easy to perceive is the competence attributed to presidents to dismiss governments. Lobo and Neto defend that ‘the [critical] criterion is the pattern of relation of political authority established between the president and the government’, leading to the following definition: President parliamentary regimes are those where the government depends upon the political confidence of the president and the later appoints the executive without any restriction. On the other hand, in premier presidential regimes, governments do not depend on the political confidence of the president, who does not freely appoint the government. (Lobo and Neto 2009: 271)

However, both those proposals seem to keep some element of subjective qualification of otherwise objective sets of definitional elements: the first

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one regards the ‘collective’ (as opposed to individual) nature of political responsibility, the second refers to ‘political liberty’ of presidents rather than their institutional roles. Of course, objective sets of criteria, even if limited to the wording of constitutions, hardly dispense some form of qualification, and therefore subjective interpretation. But an effort can be deployed in order to stick as much as possible to the goal of objectivity, and incorporating as little qualification as strictly necessary. In this light, I propose the following definition for the sub-types of semi-presidentialism: President-parliamentarism is a form of semi-presidentialism where the prime minister and his cabinet are responsible to both the legislature and the president, who retains the power to dismiss the government on political grounds. Premier-presidentialism is a form of semi-presidentialism where the prime minister and his cabinet are politically responsible solely before the parliament and where the president can only dismiss the government on strictly institutional grounds.

An approach based on this definition will be used henceforth in this book. Under the umbrella of semi-presidentialism, several other variations have been observed. Shugart and Carey are also to be credited with two other important developments in the understanding of the way semi-presidential regimes operate and can be analyzed. Instead of using long checklists of presidential powers like Frye’s 27 items (1996) they have sought to aggregate presidential powers into major areas, and then to divide these into ‘legislative’ and ‘non-legislative’ powers. Although in theory these are independent of the variety of semi-presidentialism, there is a clear tendency for ‘premierpresidential’ regimes to offer their presidents substantial ‘non-legislative’ powers (regarding the formation and the dismissal of cabinets, censure, dissolution of the assembly), whereas the ‘president-parliamentary’ species shifts the balance in favour of extensive ‘legislative’ powers (package veto/ override, partial veto/override, decree, exclusive introduction of legislation, budgetary power, proposal of referendums, judicial review) for the president who actually shares these powers with the prime minister (Shugart and Carey 1992: 149-154). Marina Costa Lobo and Octavio Amorim Neto have used this approach to analyze semi-presidentialism in the Lusophone world (2009), concluding that it permits the unveiling of a tendency of those countries to exhibit models with substantial non-legislative powers in the hands of their presidents.

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Shugart and Carey also introduced a 0 to 4 scale to measure each one of the presidential powers. This method has been scrutinized by Metcalf (1999), who proposed some revisions. Recent comparative works on semipresidentialism, namely the one carried by Lobo and Neto (2009) in the Lusophone world, including Timor-Leste, use the revised version of the initial scale. Another proposal of a typology based on empirical evidence of the different weight of presidents in the political balance of their respective polities was presented by Jorge Novais (2007), who suggested that three clusters be considered, ranging from one with active and powerful presidents (the example of which could be France) to another pole characterized by ceremonial and little interventive presidents (like Austria, Ireland or Iceland), having in between another case of intermediate status, exemplified by Portugal (after 1982). Suffice it to say that avenues are still open to contemplate the diversity of situations recovered by a definition of semi-presidentialism based solely on objective criteria and the existence of a dual structure of power, as advanced by Elgie and Sartori. In the course of the subsequent analysis of the Timorese case, those avenues will be explored. Before that, one needs to turn to the ongoing debate about the relationships between semi-presidentialism and democracy.

Semi-presidentialism and democracy The ‘third wave of democratization’ which has marked the last quarter of the 20th century and the first decade of the new millennium has consecrated semi-presidentialism as a popular constitutional solution for emerging, young democratic polities. The strong empirical link that has emerged between semi-presidentialism and democratic experiences in various parts of the world, however, has raised at least as many questions about its modalities and the reasons behind its success (and sometimes, failure) as it has provided data to sustain responses and control debates. Of course, relationships between specific systems of government and the wider process of democratic consolidation are multiple and complex, and certainly not determined by these constitutional choices alone. This idea seems to be echoed in Lobo and Neto’s concept of ‘suggestive associations’ (Lobo and Neto 2009: 271), a possible way to frame relationships between the choice of government system and the survival of young democracies. A first moment in the debate on the relationships between semi-presidentialism and democracy was based on a reduced number of empirical cases,

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mostly confined to Western Europe, and delved on logical extrapolations from the characteristics of a broad model, not always precisely defined. Internal variety was often downplayed, and a homogeneity generally presumed. Examining the likely impact of this broad form of semi-presidentialism upon democratic performance from a West European perspective, Pasquino has identified several advantages and disadvantages of semi-presidentialism (Pasquino 2007: 14-29). Under the disadvantage heading, he includes two possibilities: first, the risk of a turn to ‘hyper-presidentialism’ when the accumulation of executive and legislative power occurs via the coincidence of majorities in presidential and parliamentary elections. This risk seems to be greater in ‘president-parliamentary’ varieties, where the overlap between the president and the prime minister is more likely to occur. Second, the likelihood that political and institutional clashes may erupt between the president and the prime minister when the parliamentary majority differs from the basis of support of the president, leading to a paralysis of the decision-making process or even to a constitutional crisis. Again, ‘premier-presidential’ varieties seem less prone to fall in this trap as the respective roles of president and prime minister are more clearly distinguished in regard to ‘executive’ powers – those which more often potentiate the conflict. The latter proposition seems to carry a convincing argument inasmuch as the propensity to generate conflict between those of dispose of competing sources of legitimacy is widely echoed as the original sin of semi-presidentialism. On the positive side of the coin, Pasquino calls our attention to the fact that semi-presidentialism has been credited with helping democracies to contain and dismiss undemocratic challenges by significant political actors against ‘the rules of the game’ given the likelihood that some form of Lijphardt’s ‘consensus democracy’ (1984) – a combination of decisionmaking effectiveness and a fair amount of agreement among the political elites – will prevail in a system that does not live by the ‘winner takes it all’ rule, thus retrieving Sartori’s argument in favour of a flexible system (1997). His defence of the ‘relative advantage’ of semi-presidentialism is corroborated by Novais for whom ‘flexibility’ translates into a better equilibrium and division of powers, a greater capacity to integrate different political and institutional actors, and an enhanced tendency to overcome blockages (Novais 2007: 139). The second phase of this debate began when a substantial number of cases were known and accumulated empirical evidence allowed for improved methodologies and generated new approaches. Sophie Moestrup

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conducted a survey of countries involved in democratization processes in recent decades, assessing the impact of the adoption of this form of government on the breakdown of young democracies, that is, an eventual negative impact on democratic consolidation. She concluded that ‘semipresidential regimes are not more or less likely than either presidential or parliamentary regimes to suffer democratic breakdown through coups or otherwise’ (Moestrup 2007: 40). The results of Moestrup’s empirical test are important not so much for these associations or correlations, but because they stress the urgency to move beyond theoretical hypotheses and focus on the actual, historically situated political processes of particular regimes. This conclusion was further supported by Robert Elgie, for whom ‘semipresidential countries as a whole should not be expected to be systematically associated with any particular outcomes, including the performance of democracy’ (Elgie 2011a: 27). However, if semi-presidentialism is regarded as a broad umbrella covering differentiated sub-types, another conclusion may arise. If Shugart and Carey’s distinction between ‘premier-presidential’ and ‘president-parliamentary’ forms are considered, then it emerges that both the prospects for democratic survival and the quality of democratic polities under those sub-types of semi-presidentialism are clearly distinct (Elgie 2011a). Whereas ‘no premier-presidential democracy has ever been replaced by an authoritarian regime’, and countries that opted for this variety seem to have better quality democracies, ‘president-parliamentary’ regimes have often led to the collapse of democracy, which also showed signs of being of inferior quality where it survived (Samuels and Shugart 2010: 260). Besides establishing statistical correlations between the adoption of a particular sub-type of semi-presidentialism and the vulnerability to a breakdown of democracy and the quality of its performance, Elgie offers new contributions towards an explanation in the form of the differentiated incentive mechanisms at work under each one of those systems. By allowing presidents to dismiss governments, ‘presidential-parliamentary’ types contribute to create competition between the president and the prime minister, eventually leading to open confrontation; conversely, the fact that ‘premier-presidential’ types are based on prime ministers being solely responsible before their parliaments generates an incentive for presidents to cooperate with prime ministers in order to advance their own positions and defuses temptations to intervene more directly, given the inherent risks of using the power to dissolve the legislature. These differentiated incentive mechanisms would therefore explain why one of these sub-types is expected

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to generate a more stable democratic performance than the other (Elgie 2011a: 175-177). Elgie’s conclusion suggests that ‘president-parliamentary’ forms of semi-presidentialism are inherently flawed and find it difficult to generate positive incentive mechanisms capable of sustaining processes of democratic transition and consolidation. These assertions cannot be falsified by merely digging up examples of successful democratizations under ‘president-parliamentarism’. However, if directed at analyzing political incentives in a broad sense, those examples may help to illuminate what mechanisms were deployed that contravened the expected negative impacts of this specific model, and thus recast the debate on the variety of solutions that fit under the broad semi-presidential umbrella in a new light. The ensemble of these considerations permits the formulation of an hypothesis: if the chosen type of semi-presidentialism of a given country is premier-presidential, the success of democracy is in line with the norm, and can be explained by that very choice; conversely, if the country chooses a president-parliamentary model and yet is successful in its endeavour to root democracy, the cause for success must be investigated as it may not be fully explained by the model. This chapter applies this hypothesis to the case of Timor-Leste and seeks to venture into new grounds.

Scrutinizing the Timor-Leste government system In order to ascertain the specific kind of political regime adopted in TimorLeste, as a necessary step towards discussing its possible impact on the process of democratic consolidation, a previous question must be addressed: what is the most appropriate source of information to define a political system in any given country? A short answer might be: the constitution is the key source to which one must revert. However, the constitution of a given country tends to be more than the formal text that bears such name. Therefore, it is necessary to consider this issue in some detail. In 1980, Maurice Duverger stated plainly that ‘the concept of a semi-presidential form of government is defined by the content of the constitution’. But when he passed from the general level to the discussion of individual country cases, he acknowledged that the paradox of ‘similarity of rules, diversity of games’ called for four parameters to be taken into account: (1) the actual content of the constitution; (2) the combination of tradition and circumstances; (3) the composition of the parliamentary majority; and (4) the position of the president in relation to this majority.

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For political scientists, therefore, a simple examination of formal constitutionalism will not suffice to ground the classification of political regimes as semi-presidential. The ‘material constitution’ as conceived by Sartori encompasses established practices that offer a basis for actions not considered in the formal constitution, but more often it operates in the opposite direction, erasing in practice some formal powers granted to the president. Examples here include a range of countries with presidents who in practice play largely ceremonial roles, in spite of the letter of the constitution granting them wider powers, such as Austria. In brief we might state that formal ‘constitutional engineering’ or ‘constitutional design’ matters greatly in the way it shapes the politicians pursuit of their interests and therefore is critical to the process of classifying particular political systems (Shugart and Carey 1992: 13; Metcalf 1999: 663). But this view cannot be separated from an historical analysis that identifies the ‘material constitution’, or the entrenched political praxis, which combines both the formal and informal elements to provide a full picture of the environment in which politicians and citizens actually live, and the rules by which they abide. Most readings of the constitution of the Democratic Republic of TimorLeste recognize in its articles the basic tenets of a ‘semi-presidential’ form of government (Shoesmith 2003, 2007; Smith 2004b; Feijó 2006, 2013a, 2014a; Elgie and Moestrup 2007, Elgie 2011a, 2011b; Vasconcelos and Cunha 2009; Lobo and Neto 2009; Beuman 2013a, 2013b). The view is not unanimous, as Damien Kingsbury (2014a) persists in his proposal to classify this regime as a ‘parliamentary republic’, arguing along lines similar to those used by Arend Lijphart who has recently (2012 expanded edition of 1999 book) suggested that the formal classification of Portugal’s regime – widely regarded as the matrix of the Timorese one (Gouveia 2005; Vasconcelos 2011) – as semi-presidential should not override the recognition of its own dynamics which he tends to describe as ‘parliamentary’. The basic facts are these: in Timor-Leste, the President of the Republic is elected by universal, direct popular suffrage for a mandate of five years. Parliament is equally elected by popular vote for a maximum term of five years, and the majority of members of parliament – be they members of one party or a number of parties in a pre- or post-electoral coalition – have the right to indicate the prime minister, and can directly bring down the government. These two fundamental principles institute a dual structure of authority as a central element in the system of government, which allow for its classification as ‘semi-presidential’, according to the combination of Elgie and Sartori’s proposal discussed above.

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The question of which sub-type of semi-presidentialism has been adopted in Timor-Leste is more complex, and particular attention is necessary to fully grasp what is at stake. The determination of the government system prevailing in any one country is first and foremost a question of constitutional hermeneutics. Hence, the analysis produced by constitutionalist Pedro Bacelar de Vasconcelos requires detailed consideration. Contrary to most of the literature on the case of Timor-Leste referred to above (which could also be extended to the Portuguese constitutional matrix), this scholar suggests that Timor has adopted a president-parliamentary form of semipresidentialism because of the combination of two constitutional provisions. On the one hand, Section 107 of CRDTL stipulates that ‘[t]he Government shall be accountable to the President of the Republic and to the National Parliament for conducting and executing the domestic and foreign policy in accordance with the Constitution and the law’, thus allowing for presidential competences to oversee and control the legislative action of the government through various means. Those means include the promulgation or veto of legislative bills, the submission of diplomas to the constitutional court for appreciation, the capacity to call a referendum, the control of foreign relations initiatives, or the capacity to address messages both to the people and to the National Parliament, thus rendering positive a power of ‘agenda setting’. To this he adds ‘other means not reducible to a constitutional typified predicament’ (Vasconcelos 2011: 293, 353-354). In a way, this statement reintroduces the problem discussed by other constitutionalists of the distinction between ‘explicit’ and ‘implicit’ presidential prerogatives, which is a point to bear in mind when the ‘wording’ of a constitution is to be analyzed (see, among others, Canotilho and Moreira 1991; Pinto and Freire 2005). This consideration per se does seem to respond in a full and positive manner to the criterion of double responsibility of governments to both the legislature and the president, given the obvious political nature of the president’s intervention competences. Vasconcelos, however, dismisses the strength of the argument when he argues that the double responsibility of the government works under precise and uneven terms: the government is institutionally responsible before the president and politically before the parliament. Were one to fully subscribe to this view, the implications would be obvious and the classification of the regime would tend in the direction of a premier-presidential one as many sustain. However, this conclusion seems at odds with the ample scope of political competences entrusted to the president in the view of this very same author. Among the facts that sustain a broader interpretation, one might refer the presidential prerogatives in

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appointing both the prime minister and his cabinet (in a collective sense), and individual ministers. Ramos-Horta was confronted with a choice for the prime ministerial position between Alkatiri (who led the party with the plurality of the vote but failed to secure parliamentary support) and Xanana (who managed to build a post-electoral coalition commanding a majority in the House), and his decision was based on purely political grounds (albeit supported by constitutional provisions that were open to interpretation). Also, Ramos-Horta privately objected – but let that be known in public – to the nomination of individual ministers, taking one step further the position held in the previous mandate by Xanana himself who had criticized appointments but accepted their presence in government. More recently, the new president, Taur Matan Ruak, publicly opposed the first choice of Xanana for the role of Minister of Defense. All these examples reveal the extent to which presidents feel it their competence to participate actively in the political (rather than merely institutional) choice of government and ministerial nominees. However, the issue of the government’s double responsibility is not the sole argument sustaining his proposed classification, as Section 112-2 of CRDTL reads: ‘[t]he President of the Republic shall only dismiss the Prime Minister in accordance with the cases provided for in the previous item and when it is deemed necessary to ensure the regular functioning of the democratic institutions, after consultation with the Council of State’. The right to dismiss the prime minister derives directly from the double nature of the confidence the government must enjoy, and can be regarded as a positive manifestation of such arrangement. According to Vasconcelos, the judgement as to the need to intervene and insure the regular functioning of the democratic institutions ‘is autonomous and belongs to the free appreciation of the President of the Republic’ who is only limited by the duty to consult with the Council of State (2011: 353). It is thus a political and not merely institutional decision. That is to say: this interpretation overrides the limitations imposed to the president’s competences under ‘normal’ circumstances and considers that in cases that are exceptional but nevertheless exist, the president has the political power to dismiss the prime minister. If the political power of dismissal of the prime minister is not contemplated in the sections that deals specifically with ‘normal’ presidential powers, where one finds references to the dissolution of parliament (CRDTL, Section 86-f; see also Section 100), it is nevertheless explicitly present in the letter of the constitution as a political initiative that presidents can take. Dennis Shoesmith has argued that the conditions set in Section 112-1 of CRDTL do not contemplate ‘the power to dismiss a prime minister who

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retains the support of parliament’, although he admitted that ‘a cryptic statement’ follows in the second paragraph (Shoesmith 2007: 226) – and that is precisely what opens up the door for an enlarged interpretation of Timorese presidential powers. The case for classifying Timor-Leste as ‘presidential-parliamentary’ rests thus on sound constitutional hermeneutics, as the political power of the president to dismiss the prime minister and his government is part of his constitutional toolbox and derives from a double responsibility of the government before the legislature and the president. The understanding of this constitutional competence has been acknowledged by President Ramos-Horta in an interview (later published as Ramos-Horta 2014) with this author back in 2011 when he was asked to rate each of his powers on a scale ranging from 0 to 10. Referring to the power to dismiss the government, he promptly replied an emphatic ‘20’ – the only instance in which he felt it necessary to go emphatically beyond the scale. And he added: ‘This is very important. I have never done it and I do not intend to’. He also spelled out his view on this broad issue as follows: The Constitution is explicit: government is accountable both before the National Parliament and the President of the Republic. It is written on Section 107 on the responsibility of the government: ‘The Government shall be accountable to the President of the Republic and to the National Parliament for conducting and executing the domestic and foreign policy in accordance with the Constitution and the law’. Therefore, the President of the Republic, as guarantor of independence, sovereignty, peace, national unity, has the responsibility and the privilege to call on government to be accountable before him because the absence of good governance, or indeed bad governance could lead to situations of great social tension or even conflicts that would jeopardize peace. (Ramos-Horta 2014: 71-72)

The conclusion emerges that, in terms of what is contained in the word of the CRDTL, the Timorese government is bound by a dual responsibility to the National Parliament and the President of the Republic, thus sustaining a classification of the specific regime as president-parliamentary. This conclusion must now be completed with other ingredients. First, one needs to go beyond the critical elements considered above, and address the full array of presidential powers. For that purpose we revert to analysis of presidential powers according to Shugart and Carey’s model as revised by Metcalf, carried by the Portuguese constitutionalists Bacelar de Vasconcelos and Sousa da Cunha: they rate the ‘legislative powers’ of the

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Timorese president at 4.5 (in a maximum of 28), and the ‘non-legislative’ at 4 (in a maximum of 24), making the Timorese president the one with the most limited powers in the Lusophone world (2009: 250-252). The existence of limited ‘legislative’ powers is part of the Lusophone model (Lobo and Neto 2009: 267). This sort of analysis renders evident that the real status of presidents is not a function of the extension of his powers (which can be fairly limited) but hinges on the definition of key aspects that need not be associated with the normal course of events and be reserved for very special circumstances. Second, as has already been noted, analysis solely based on the constitutional word do not provide for the whole picture. The ‘material constitution’ should also be considered in order to draw a full picture. A major factor requiring attention – mainly when dealing with the term in office of President Xanana Gusmão (2002-2007) – is the difference between the letter of the constitution and the actual implementation of its provisions. Consider two examples: the president is supposed to make certain decisions in consultation with two bodies – the Council of State (CoS) and the Superior Council for Defence and Security (SCDS) – whose views are not binding, but whose consultation is mandatory for the exercise of some of his powers, such as the dissolution of the assembly (CoS), the declaration of the state of emergency or state of siege (both councils), or to institutionalize the president’s role as Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces (SCDS). The existence of those councils depended on the passing of ordinary legislation in parliament, which was supposed to expand the constitutional principles into operational organizations and establish their respective rules. The process took three full years, and the inauguration of both councils was only complete on 20 May 2005 (Beuman 2013a). In the meantime, the constitutional powers of the president were somewhat limited by the non-existence as of these constitutionally mandated institutions. More important is electoral legislation. While the president has the power to determine the date of elections – both presidential and legislative, including an early election following a dissolution of parliament – they can only do so provided there is an electoral law. Thus, when the ‘crisis’ erupted in April 2006, the president was actually empowered to dissolve parliament, but paradoxically not to call fresh elections – a dual solution most established democracies would have attempted – because there was no electoral legislation to authorize the ballots. A highly problematic situation could arise out of a dissolved parliament without electoral legislation, as the constitution grants full powers to design and pass such legislation to parliament. In the actual case, electoral bills were passed by parliament

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when Ramos-Horta was prime minister at the end of 2006, just in time for the president to call elections that would guarantee that the terms in office would not extended beyond their five-year constitutional limit. These two examples reveal the extent to which there was a wide gap between the Constitution’s abstract provisions, and the actual pace of implementation of the instruments necessary for principles to be operationalized and transformed into actual institutions and deeds. The presidency was slow in acquiring these instruments – from legal provisions to human resources or financial means – to put the president in a position to make effective use of the powers bestowed by the constitution. In this sense, the ‘material constitution’ deviated from the formal one by limiting the actual exercise of formal presidential powers. In one respect it continues to do so, as the legal framework for the use of referendums, for example, is yet to be produced. However, even if these instances reveal severe limitations on what should have been the actual powers of presidents, they do not constitute arguments against or impediments to the dual nature of government responsibility. ‘Material constitutions’ have two faces: one limiting written provisions, the other increasing powers. On the latter side of the equation, both Xanana Gusmão and Ramos-Horta have been able to engage into areas of activity which lacked sufficient support in the constitutional letter, but were carried out in broad daylight. Take, for example, the first president’s creation of a team to work on the issue of ‘veterans’ – a sensitive issue in a country that owes much of its independence to a network of active resistance fighters, whom the guerrilla leader Xanana Gusmão led and knew personally in great numbers. Though this issue was taken up by Prime Minister Alkatiri in his government reshuffle of June 2005 by creating a special department to lead the process, the moral capital of Xanana loomed higher and gave the president ample room to determine the final shape of this particular policy. Another example of practical initiatives of the president was Xanana’s involvement in the creation of the Museum and Archive of the Resistance – an initiative of high symbolic content, arguably an expression of his duties in the realm of consolidating national unity and identity, but easily bordering on rivalry with government competences in cultural policies. Ramos-Horta considered his duty to offer a sort of ‘emergency aid’ to cases of particular hardship that were brought to his attention. He created a ‘task force’ that provided responses to such appeals within one month and set plans that cannot last longer than six months, with more serious and lengthy cases channelled to the government for normal procedures. Both instances reveal a systemic tolerance for some executive duties to be

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carried out by the president, regardless of the restrictions that the letter of the constitution imposes on his powers in this domain – an extension of powers justified in various ways. Ramos-Horta stated in an interview that No Constitution, no Law can restrain or forbid a President to have opinions and to set up projects in favour of the poor. […] In African or Asian countries, where poverty is still enormous, and where the President or the King are regarded as the ‘Father of the Nation’ in a very patriarchal society, and where the Government has no capacity to be everywhere in this struggle against poverty and in the process of healing the wounds of society, and respond quickly to the most blatant needs of the people, the President of the Republic must intervene and give some help, complementing the action of the government and diffusing the political and social tension that may grow against the government. (Ramos-Horta 2014)

In this sense, the other face of the ‘material constitution’ is one that includes those powers of the president that enhance his image as a paternal figure, and thus tend to grant him legitimacy to intervene beyond the scope of the constitutional text. Both the factors that enhance and those that limit the powers of the president in practice do not subvert the essential matrix of the government system: the existence of a duality of powers between president and prime minister. One can now confidently conclude that Timor-Leste possesses a semi-presidential system of government, and that the type of regime in place corresponds to the president-parliamentary model.

Critical readings of the government system’s performance The debate over Timor-Leste’s choice of a system of government predates the 2002 constitution. In the first place, it directs our attention to the resistance movement, in particular after the creation of the CNRT in 1998 with a new political unity platform, and developments both before and after the Referendum of 1999. Secondly, it bears on the evolution of thinking on this issue among the leadership of FRETILIN as the most structured political force, in the period between 1999 and the moment when the Constituent Assembly – amply dominated by this party – was called to cast its vote. Mari Alkatiri has expressed without any ambiguity the evolution of FRETILIN’s position on the government model better suited to Timor-Leste (Alkatiri 2014).

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Historical studies are scarce that illustrate the ways in which the Timorese elite addressed this issue. An alternative way can be pursued by looking at what has been written by political commentators and analysts. Back in 2001, Mackie suggested that the adoption of a semi-presidential system of government ‘may well be more suited to East Timor’s needs than a purely presidential or parliamentary system’, arguing that ‘if it can be combined with the sort of consensual type of legislature advocated by Lijphardt it could conceivably deliver better governance than any of the other Southeast Asian political systems’ (Mackie 2001: 205). This line of argument had been sustained by various other authors right up to the present, a recent example being Bacelar de Vasconcelos and Sousa da Cunha, who argue that semi-presidentialism contains inherent virtues ‘in the equilibrium of the system of government and in the control of executive power [which are] decisive in the full implementation of the principle of the separation of powers’ (Vasconcelos and Cunha 2009: 237). Armando Marques Guedes also concurs on a positive valuation of the contribution of semi-presidentialism to democratic performance of Timor-Leste, stating that ‘tensions that had accumulated were dissipated naturally by means of the operation of the semi-presidential system, contributing to lessen the destructive tendencies that existed’ (Guedes 2014). I have also argued along similar lines and consider the option for semi-presidentialism to be a positive factor in democratic consolidation (Feijó 2013a, 2014a). The extended roll of Portuguese scholars writing on this issue and assuming positive valuations is of course inseparable from the fact that Portugal was among the first countries in the last quarter of the 20th century to adopt semi-presidentialism, giving them ample opportunity to participate in early debates (see Duverger 1986); and from the widespread belief that Portugal may have played a critical role in the expansion of this model in the Lusophone world. In fact, Portuguese scholars, mainly from the Law School of the University of Lisbon, were active players in the constitutional reforms of the late 1980s and early 1990s in Lusophone Africa (Gouveia 2005). Timor was a different case, the leading constitutional expert who served in the UN administration (Pedro Bacelar de Vasconcelos) having raised objections to the overall process and resigned. The Portuguese legacy was nevertheless felt in an indirect way through the Mozambican experience that was familiar to most of the leaders of FRETILIN, and inspired their proposal for a new constitution. But consensus about the merits of semi-presidentialism in young democracies was not to be the key note. Soon after independence critical voices were making themselves heard. Shoesmith is probably the most consistent

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advocate of this stance, arguing that ‘the semi-presidential system in the new state has institutionalized a political struggle between the president, Xanana Gusmão, and the prime minister, Mari Alkatiri’, which ‘has polarized political alliances and threatens the viability of the new state’. He added: ‘The fault line established by a semi-presidential system complicates the already formidable task of establishing an effective and at the same time democratic system of government’ (Shoesmith 2003: 231, 252). This negative view of the impact of this form of government upon the consolidation of democracy has continued to surface regularly, as Timor-Leste emerges as a country hampered by recurrent problems attributed ‘in part, to the semi-presidential constitutional structures’ (Reilly 2008a). More recently, Lydia Beuman produced a doctoral dissertation and other pieces of work on this issue following similar lines of argument, having reached the conclusion that the Timorese experience ‘confirms the expectations of Juan Linz about young semi-presidential democracies being prone to political instability’ (Beuman 2013a) that mostly derive from the Achilles heel of these regimes: defence policy (Beuman 2013b: 20). True, Shoesmith seems to have moved away from his early stance when arguing the case to ‘remake the state’ in Timor, although he still maintains that ‘the experience of the six years of independence strongly suggests that the current constitutional model is flawed and that there is a case for constitutional reform’ (Shoesmith 2008a). In the short term his proposals are intended to clarify and strengthen the role of parliament. It seems that his concerns now impinge more on the relation between parliament and executive government than on the balance between this prime ministerial and presidential powers. In this sense, Shoesmith’s proposal for a greater parliamentary role in political life does not seriously question the fundaments of the semi-presidential system. Also, he seems to have shifted the burden of responsibility for the problems of democracy in Timor from ‘the political struggle at the centre of power’ to the view that ‘the defining variable for both semi-presidentialism and political democracy is the relative incapacity of the state to adequately perform basic state functions’ (Shoesmith 2007: 234) – which is a supportable view, if one essentially independent of the system of government. Moreover, the conclusion that ‘semi-presidentialism’ has generated or institutionalized political confrontation at the core of the state sustained in the earlier texts by Shoesmith – a line of argument that is common to most critics of the Timorese case – can be revised in light of the chronology and also as to the valuation of those concepts. By 1998, most of the movements and personalities involved in the resistance against Indonesia’s

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occupation had come together under the umbrella of CNRT. But the history of Timor after 1974 is one of bitter rivalries (culminating in a brief civil war in August 1975) that permeated the core of the Resistance. Mattoso offers a moving history of the harsh years, and a background for the split between Xanana and FRETILIN, in the mid 1980s, on strategic grounds (Mattoso 2005). This acrimony also comes out very clearly in Sara Niner’s biography of Xanana (Niner 2009). Shoesmith himself provides an account of the ‘historical legacy’ and the depth and scope of divisions that existed prior to the Referendum (Shoesmith 2003). Political divisions (and as important as this factor, conflicts between personalities who were to survive the struggle for independence and translate these rifts in the formation of political parties and other socially relevant organizations, often with blurred ideological definitions) therefore predate the adoption of the government system – they were not generated by it. While Shoesmith acknowledges that the leadership was divided prior to independence, the view that these tensions were ‘institutionalized’ can also be challenged. An alternative view would acknowledge that these institutions were set up in such a way as to bring pre-existing, deep political rivalries and in-fighting inside the boundaries of constitutionally defined settings – rather than ignoring their existence or attempting to repress their manifestations. These arrangements facilitated contact between alternative power bases, and imposed – to a certain degree – restraints upon the political actors, and were therefore a positive element in the process. Representative systems need to deal with political rivalry within their walls, not by systematic exclusion. The claim that semi-presidentialism contributed to institutionalizing political conflict within the system, rather than allowing it to survive and challenge the regime from the outside, should in fact be read as a compliment rather than as a criticism. The years of Xanana’s presidency illustrate this point. If one analyzes the modus operandi of Xanana’s presidency – including the institutional relations with the prime minister and his government (measured by vetoes, public criticism or other indices); the mediator role he was called to perform and the ad hoc committees he sponsored (all of which included representatives of government), or the ways in which he reached out to wider sectors of society both in his formal institutional capacity (appointments to the Council of State) or informally – one would certainly agree with Simonsen who has noted that ‘it is first and foremost President Xanana Gusmão who has gone to great lengths in efforts to pacify political relations’ (Simonsen 2006: 580-581). Much the same could be said about Ramos-Horta’s presidency, a period during which institutional tensions decreased significantly (Beuman

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2013b: 19). Even if we stick to the most contentious period of the last decade – arguably the time of the First Constitutional Government led by Mari Alkatiri (2002-2006) – the objective indicators prior to the crisis of MarchJune 2006 bear comparison to other semi-presidential regimes normally described as stable, like Portugal (see, for instance, the very limited number of instances of presidential veto of legislation). Important as it is, the major crisis of 2006 – the single event that more often is quoted as a testimony of the failure of semi-presidentialism in Timor-Leste – derives in large part from government decisions that ignored the power-sharing arrangements inscribed at the heart of semi-presidentialism, openly defying presidential powers in matters pertaining to security and national unity, two of the core competences that define his duties. Although one cannot deny the existence of rivalry and friction, these tensions were mostly contained within the boundaries of the constitution. Up until 2006, President Xanana had offered active support to the government, including at the time of the riots of 2002; he had vetoed no law other than with the backing of the constitutional court (he later ‘pocket vetoed’ the Penal Code, which would only be passed by President Ramos Horta in 2010 after important revision of the most contentious provisions carried by Xanana’s own government); he mediated the conflict associated with the demonstrations led by sectors of the Catholic Church in 2005 without expressing any intention to give in to pressures of that kind; he may have publicly criticized certain ministers (such as Rogério Lobato) but did not raise obstacles to their continuation in government even at a time of reshuffle, and so on. Lydia Beuman, however, sustains that the terms under which the relations between president and prime minister evolved in that period are similar to those described in the political literature as ‘cohabitation’, implying an open confrontation between two competing majorities: the presidential and the legislative (Beuman 2013a). To move beyond an argument centred on a glass being half empty or half full, that is, to evaluate the meaning of the bare facts, one would certainly require a systematic comparison of the instances of disagreement that characterized Timor-Leste governance with other cases of a similar nature. Of course, the events of 2006 brought in a new conjuncture. But then Xanana’s legal duty to ‘guarantee the regular functioning of the institutions’ – shattered by the collapse of the security and armed forces, both under the direct responsibility of the government – called for new forms of action in a situation in which hundreds of thousands of Timorese were living in a most precarious situation. The resignation of the prime minister – not associated with a dissolution of the FRETILIN-dominated National Parliament

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– was obtained through political rather than institutional means: Alkatiri preferred to offer his resignation when confronted with the likelihood of Xanana’s resignation, as the president had lost confidence in the prime minister but was not keen to use his dismissal power, which in that situation would offer no doubts given the collapse of the security apparatus and thus the verification of ‘irregular functioning of the democratic institutions’. Taking a global view over the last decade, one cannot fail to acknowledge that the democratic process faced severe difficulties both external (large public demonstrations in 2002 and 2005, the crisis of 2006, the failed attempts on the lives of the president and the prime minister in 2008) and internal (slow pace of construction of democratic institutions, limited capacities to exert accountability, weakness of civil society). However, the main structural traits of a democratic polity were never shaken: the constitution remained in force throughout this period and all major political issues, even if they verged on the limits of legality, received responses that were clearly framed by the statutory law. After a turbulent start, political life in Timor-Leste found the road to stability, which was given visibility in the 2012 round of elections. There never was a breakdown of the democratic regime – and this is the most relevant statement that can be made. How do we account for the combination of serious problems with a fundamental success? Elgie’s hypothesis that we have considered suggests that semi-presidential regimes are more prone to succeed if they opt for the premier-presidential model, and tend to face greater challenges when they adopt the presidentparliamentary version. The fact that Timor-Leste suffered very high political tension seems to lend support to the correlation between president-parliamentarism and democratic instability. But it does not fully vindicate such claims. One the one hand, without introducing any constitutional changes, either in a formal way or through the manipulation of the ‘material constitution’, the regime was able to survive and mostly overcome the seeds of instability. On the other hand, although I have argued that the formal classification of the Timorese-specific model of semi-presidentialism is president-parliamentarism, even in the peak of tension in the crisis of 2006 the president refused to use his power to dismiss the prime minister, and all actors behaved as if such power was not in the presidential toolbox. In this light, it seems fair to suggest that the real perception of the system was in tune with a premier-presidentialist model. Perhaps one ought to move beyond the initial hypothesis and look for a clue to interpret the performance of the regime. The most obvious candidate to illuminate our quest is the figure of ‘independent presidents’ that were consecrated by three successive elections. Before that, however, let us pause for a while and consider the likely effects of other institutional choices.

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What if? A counterfactual exercise Hidden behind many of the criticisms levelled at ‘semi-presidentialism’, both theoretical and empirical, lie implicit alternative theses: that either ‘presidentialism’ or ‘parliamentarism’ would be better suited to respond to the needs of Timor-Leste. A third, radical hypothesis could also be contemplated, which had already been discarded by the time the Constituent Assembly discussed the system of government. This one consisted of an agreement amongst the Timorese elite with the necessary backing from the ‘international community’ for an extended ‘transitional period’ maybe under the aegis of CNRT – who had anticipated a ten-year long ‘transitional period’ in their 1998 platform – prior to the launching of a constitutional experience, stressing the need for consensual and inclusive policies (Vasconcelos 2006). However, this hypothesis does not revolve around competitive government systems and will not be considered here. The main argument seems to be that, even if the chosen government system cannot be held responsible for promoting instability (a radical stance), at least it did not prevent institutional and social unrest (a soft approach) as others would have done. A brief counterfactual exercise may illuminate the merits or otherwise of these alternatives.5 The choice of a government system was made by the Constituent Assembly in 2002. If we momentarily move back in time to those days, what were the key characteristics of the Timorese political landscape that would inform the decision to be taken? I would sum these up in five points: first, Timor-Leste had never experienced genuine democratic government, with late Portuguese colonial rule (unlike British, the French or the Dutch) coinciding with one of the most durable authoritarian regimes in Europe, and the forced integration in the Indonesian Republic also representing an experience in authoritarianism. Second, the country lacked important ingredients identified in the literature as marking the basis for an endogenous drive towards democracy, which was to a substantial degree brought in from the ‘outside’: partly by the returned elite who had lived in the diaspora, and partly by the imposition of conditions for continuing aid by the ‘international community’. Third, Xanana as the leader of the guerrillas for two decades enjoyed vast popularity which would grant him election for office should he decide to run, regardless of the electoral framework, and who was highly regarded by the international community as a most valuable 5 The theoretical and methodological bases for this exercise can be found in Tetlock and Belkin (1996), Tetlock, Lebow and Parker (2008), Martins (2009) and Ferguson (2011).

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political asset, but was not politically organized as a party. Fourth, provisions for the election of the constituent assembly allowed it to evolve into a national parliament without fresh elections, freezing the power balance for six years and allowing FRETILIN, having emerged as a majority party far above a group of smaller, divided, thinly structured political parties (Smith 2004b) to maintain control of parliament in the first legislature. And fifth, relations between Xanana and FRETILIN were far from harmonious, reflecting high tensions among the leading politicians inherited from the Resistance period. This had been fuelled by the political manoeuvring that eventually led to the dissolution of CNRT and the emergence of open political competition under the aegis and approving eye of the UN. Given the array of political forces in 2002, the following scenarios might have been possible. First, had a ‘presidentialist’ system been chosen, the president would be popularly elected and exercise sole executive responsibility, without being responsible to the legislature. Both the terms of office for the president and the parliament would be fixed and unchangeable (other than by the resignation of the president or an impeachment procedure). The election of Xanana as president and main responsible for the executive branch would confront him with a parliament dominated by FRETILIN for the entire span of his term. Given that those two legitimacies and several key elements of public policies were not convergent, the risks of stalemate and rising political confrontation would have been higher than the tension that characterized the actual relations between Xanana as president and Alkatiri as prime minister under Timorese ‘semi-presidentialism’, at least before the start of the 2006 crisis. The risk also existed that a popular president in a country with weak institutions (backed by an unstructured mass of voters and an undeveloped party system), would be tempted to apply his charismatic appeal to sidestep parliament’s likely obstruction, and to step to the far margins of his constitutional competence. A systematic polarization of both camps would make it more difficult for the image of a ‘common house’ to emerge, let alone to gain roots. It is hard to envisage how, in this context, the alleged ‘effectiveness’ associated with presidentialism could overcome the increased danger of persistent confrontation or stalemate. Sartori has acutely remarked that most of those who praise presidentialism based on the US experience fail to understand that ‘the American system works in spite of its constitution, hardly thanks to its constitution’, and it requires three conditions to keep delivering good results: absence of ideological principles, weak political parties, and locally oriented public policies (1997: 89). All three elements are clearly absent in Timor-Leste,

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where FRETILIN is a strong and ideologically marked political party (all others being both weaker – if not for other reasons, simply due to their shorter history – and less ideologically marked), and the national level overshadows all local considerations except for the fact that locally based politicians, with more or less visible links to traditional forms of sociocultural organization, aspire to intervene in the national arena through parties with extremely unbalanced results. In this light, it is hard to sustain the view that the alternative adoption of a presidentialist system of government, in the circumstances of Timor-Leste, might have performed any better than the actual choice of the constituent deputies. If anything, the incentives for a clearer opposition between the president and the parliamentary majority would have certainly been more present than they actually were in a situation in which the president aimed most at influencing governmental policies without openly challenging them. Alternatively, the adoption by the Constituent Assembly of a model based on the clear prevalence of parliament alone, giving the president no more than a ceremonial role (deprived of direct, popular election), that is, a solution grounded on the principle that ‘the winner takes all’ and would be judged by the people in the next election, would likely have led to the reinforcement of the tendency shown by FRETILIN to ‘go it alone’, reducing incentives to any form of ‘consensus policies’, and, in the end, excluding from all but formal political game important sectors of the opposition – in and out of parliament. The ‘path to authoritarianism’ in various shades sensed by Simonsen (2006), Siapno (2006), or Bacelar de Vasconcelos and Sousa da Cunha (2009), which could easily have led to the non-democratic outcome of a permanent domination of parliament by the winning party (Cheibub, Alavrez, Limongi and Przeworski 1996) along the lines of Mozambique’s experience of FRELIMO’s permanent domination after the country adopted a multiparty system, would have been open. Bearing in mind the weakness of the judicial system, there would be little confidence in the theoretical model of checks and balances under parliamentary regimes. On the other hand, deprived of popular legitimation, the president would have found it more difficult to play a role in the process of horizontal accountability, namely in the appreciation of the government’s performance. One can only wonder how the 2006 crisis would have ended without the intervention of a directly elected president, and what the consequences might have been for the process of rooting democracy in the social fabric of the country. In this case, a ‘mostly ceremonial’ definition of the role of the president would have increased the likelihood that Xanana would have declined to

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run for office, thus keeping his prestige, popularity – and his many followers – outside the political institutions with devastating power to criticize from the outside, and to erode the institutional capacity to respond to popular demands. Another possibility is that he might have accepted such a solution and rapidly felt himself to be a ‘prisoner in the palace’. This could open up the door to the a temptation to engage in a populist drive, either by sidestepping the legal definition of his mandate or calling into question, rather than consolidating, the choices of the Constituent Assembly. In sum, the goal of ‘reducing the intensity of the expression of political conflict and restricting it to peaceful institutionalized channels’, a goal and measure of democratic consolidation according to Gunther, Diamandouros and Puhle (1995: 9), would certainly not have been facilitated by the choice of parliamentarism. The confusion between a simple critique of government and a critique of ‘the system’ would be much easier to pass on to the masses of Timorese citizens. Moreover, Timor-Leste’s weak party system is a key factor. As Sartori (1997: 94) notes in an apparent tautology that hides deeper issues, ‘parliamentarism’ requires for its good performance political parties adapted to parliamentary life, that is, parties who have been socialized (though failure, long experience, and adequate incentive) to be cohesive and disciplined organisms. The evolution of the Timorese political landscape, and the recognition that civic life and representation cannot be exhausted in the formation of political parties, at least in the first phase of democratic consolidation, calls into question the fundaments of the option in favour of parliamentarism. The real question seems to be: which political attitude better suited the goals of consolidating democracy in 2002 – to marginalize, outlaw, suppress or even repress historically rooted dissent in the name of a majority of votes in a single election? or to try and incorporate differences of political opinion in a ‘common house’? And which political system better suited the accomplishment of the preferable attitude? These two scenarios suggest that the capacity to integrate different sectors of the political elite, with independent views, conflicting interests and diverse forms of legitimacy (Silva 2009a) into commonly accepted institutional arrangements, with checks on the power of each player and power-sharing – even with its attached danger of institutionalized confrontation – should be favoured over the alleged ‘efficiency’ of majority rule. ‘Semi-presidentialism’ has at its core a dual structure of authority, unbound to fixed terms (as parliament may be dissolved early), and a capacity for flexible combinations and power arrangements between the holders of the

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two main political seats. These features allow this system of government to be more open and inclusive and to attract to the institutional circle wider sectors of political society than any of its rivals.

Assessing the role of ‘independent presidents’ Accepting that constitutional provisions are a critical element for a correct assessment of any political system, the approach favoured in this chapter is not limited to their analysis. Rather, it considers the subjective elements that interact with them and contribute to a fuller comprehension of a given government system. In this light, Robert Elgie’s suggestion that one topic deserving further attention in the study of semi-presidentialism is the figure of ‘independent’ presidents (Elgie 2011a: 185-186) is taken as a starting point for a discussion that combines this issue with the broader question of political incentives for democratic performance. The literature on Timor-Leste suffers from cursory analyses of this issue, as some authors overlook the specificity of this instance. Ben Reilly considers the period 2002-2006 when Xanana was president and Alkatiri was prime minister as an instance of ‘divided executive’ (Reilly 2011); Dennis Shoesmith uses the expression ‘conflictual cohabitation’ to describe the same situation (Shoesmith 2007); and Lydia Beuman also favours the concept of cohabitation to render the political reality of Timor-Leste under Xanana’s presidency (Beuman 2013b). ‘Cohabitation’ as a precise concept in the frame of semi-presidential regimes refers to instances when the president and the government are supported by rival political factions. In the succinct wording advanced by Elgie, ‘cohabitation’ is ‘the situation where the president and the prime minister are from opposing parties and where the president’s party is not represented in the cabinet’ (Elgie 2011a: 12). I propose to stick to this precise definition, which is hard to justify in the case of Timor-Leste in the period under scrutiny. In fact, not all polities follow a model in which political parties constitute the sole expression of political representation, and where the ‘natural’ aspiration of party leaders is to become President of the Republic. Duverger claimed that ‘in France […] the whole party system and the majoritarian system have been organized around the election of a president by universal suffrage’, and thus the coincidence of party leadership with the presidency is the rule (Duverger 1996: 510). But there are different cases, of which Portugal can be regarded as an example. Carlos Jalali states that in this country the government, and therefore the position of prime minister, ‘has been the

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central locus of political leadership throughout the democratic period and remains the key political prize for parties’ (Jalali 2011: 160). It is therefore necessary to admit that political parties have no claim to the monopoly of political representation, and that democratic regimes accommodate other forms of expression of their citizens’ preferences. ‘Independent presidents’ may be one such formula. But what are we talking about when we mention the existence of an ‘independent president’? Two different dimensions converge on the notion of ‘independent president’: one relates to the circumstances of the person who is elected to the post, the other refers to the constitutional provisions for his function. Both need to be scrutinized in order to clarify the actual meaning of the expression, and to reduce the level of fluctuation in the use of the term. In the first sense of the term, a strict reading of the expression would require that an ‘independent’ president be defined by not being a member of any political party. This would apply, among others, in the case of presidents issued from the military forces (General Eanes in Portugal, 1976-1986), or who are prominent intellectuals (Václav Havel in Prague after the Velvet Revolution), academics like Mary Robinson in Ireland (1990-1997) or indeed figures issued from the diplomatic or judicial worlds such as Rudolf Kirchschlager of Austria (1974-1986) or Christos Sartzetakis of Greece (1985-1990). This is certainly the case of all three presidents of Timor-Leste since 2002. However, a more generous reading can encompass in this notion politicians who do not hold the leadership of the parties to which they are formally affiliated. It is the case of senior figures, sometimes former prime ministers or party leaders, who are widely regarded as having reached a ‘senatorial’ status that elevates them above strict party competition and favour their aspiration to hold a post in line with such requirements. The personal circumstances of the individuals concerned is but one aspect of our problem, the other being the actual definition of the presidential function and the relationship it entertains with the former aspect. Again we turn to Maurice Duverger, who distinguishes three scenarios: the president as leader of the majority, as leader of the opposition to the parliamentary majority, and a ‘president without majority’ (Duverger 1996: 516-517). Both of the first two scenarios fit with a situation in which the role of the president is active in governmental matters; the last one calls for an understanding of the presidential role in line with the possibility of an ‘independent’ president not in the sense of individual features but as an institutional model. It is precisely this idea that the president has no majority of his own, be it in favour or opposed to that of the prime minister, and retains his independence in relation to the prime minister and his

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government, and is so perceived by the electorate, that can provide us with grounds to identify ‘independent presidents’. Several metaphors have been suggested to render the type of function expected from this sort of presidents; amongst those, the images of the ‘tip of the scale’ and the ‘lubricating oil’ capture the holistic nature of the functions ascribed to presidents who have to look not only after matters of the government strictu sensu but of the whole institutional architecture. They are called to perform a critical role in the system of checks and balances, being a key element in the process of horizontal accountability, and the notion of a ‘moderating power’ is often advanced as a way of categorizing this model. No doubt exists that one ‘independent’ president (in the narrow, individual sense) may be elected and perform his duties in close articulation with a given faction of parliament; and that a member of a political party can posit his candidature even when the institutional ‘independence’ of presidents is a constitutional provision. The most frequent cases, including the case we are discussing, is that of a convergence of both notions in one historical instance. For the sake of this argument, an ‘independent’ president is a political figure who does not hold the current leadership of any political party (even if he is identified with a given political party of which he may retain formal membership, or with a ‘political family’ in broad terms) and whose role is defined in such a way as to make clear that his position is not of either rivalry or active support to any prime minister. This approach combines the personal features of presidents with the institutional definition of their mandate, places greater emphasis on the latter rather than on the former, and aims to avoid the pitfalls of situations in which a president may be individually ‘independent’ but have followers in parliament who behave in a coordinated manner with him either in support or in opposition to the current government (Elgie 2011a: 185-186). Constitutional provisions for the first term of this understanding is given by the requirement that all candidates submit individually their bid with the support of a number of registered electors. In Timor-Leste, this is further supplemented by the need to present a minimum of proponents from all districts of the country to demonstrate his or her broad individual appeal. The official backing of a registered political party, if and when it occurs, does not replace the need to submit the candidacy with evidence of personal, individual support, which in turn reduces the perceived dependence of candidates on political parties. As for the second part of the problem, it could be argued that the ascribed model functions of ‘independent’ presidents matches better the

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‘premier-presidential’ type of semi-presidentialism than the ‘president-parliamentary’ precisely because that one is the formula under which a political competition between the two holders is avoided. ‘President-parliamentary’ sub-types, with the consequent possibility of ‘cohabitation’, seem to go better with partisan presidents rather than independent ones, given that presidents are then caught in the dichotomy of being either in favour or against the prime minister. However, if one retains a strict definition such as the one proposed by Elgie, then one will find instances of ‘president-parliamentary’ types with ‘independent’ presidents. Timor-Leste is one case. The existence of ‘independent presidents’ is perhaps more important in cases of young democracies and in processes of transition, on two counts: the inclusiveness it may offer, and the establishment of actual and publicly perceived mechanisms of checks and balances and horizontal accountability at a time when constitutional institutions are making their first steps and may lack in several aspects the full weight of their constitutional status. It is known that transition and consolidation periods call for inclusive forms of governance. For instance, the adoption of proportional representation in electoral legislation has been positively associated with the success of transitions precisely because of its inclusive nature (Tansey 2009: 57-58; Lijphart 2004). The parliamentary game by virtue of the majority versus minority mode of decision-making (which is certainly not the only mechanism at play in transition periods when the commonality of the political architecture is under construction) often produces the temporary exclusion for periods of time that may seem too long to the parties concerned, and induces extremist forms of political behaviour (Frison-Roche 2005). Some assumptions regarding the supposedly widespread adoption of best practices in parliament, such as ascribing a prominent role to opposition leaders, which sustain the arguments of Juan Linz, are not always observed (Linz 1994: 15). In Timor-Leste, for instance, Prime Minister Alkatiri did not appear even once during question time in parliament – an example that provides evidence to the fact that parliamentary rules before being a juridical matter are, in the words of Michel Lesage, ‘a cultural model of political tolerance’ that takes its own time to grow (2005). They have been compared to a lush English lawn which is so pristinely green because it was sown before it rained over it for 400 years. The suggestion is that the passing of time is irreplaceable in the process of adopting new attitudes. In the meantime, as the same author expressed, ‘[a]ll the actors in the transition process […] wish to promote democracy and desire to offer themselves the juridical means to avoid being excluded from the ensuing political game’ (Lesage 2005: ix).

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A political and institutional figure that is not compromised with a single actor in the process – both in his personal capacity as a citizen and in his function as president – but appeals to a wide, diversified constituency as ‘independent presidents’ notionally do, may be said to represent to all stakeholders a form of guarantee against exclusion from the central political arena. The critical question is thus: what are the mechanisms that provide political incentives towards cooperation and foster consensus? The existence of ‘independent’ presidents weighs on the issue of incentive mechanisms. It can be argued that where executive power is reserved for political competition between parties, the realm of activity of a president does not overlap with that of the prime minister, and therefore reduces the scope for attrition. An ‘independent’ president may wish to influence the overall policy of a government, and can certainly determine some limits to the government’s action (for instance, thought the exercise of veto powers, by calling a referendum or directing a message to parliament); but he or she may seldom, if at all, actively propose a course of action, as their initiative powers are limited. The president may, however, retain powers of intervention in extreme situations, like the capacity to dissolve the assembly, or even to dismiss the prime minister. Therefore, both the prime minister and the president are induced to negotiate. The three presidents Timor-Leste has elected since 2002 have all been ‘independent’ candidates who defeated adversaries nominated directly by political parties. They all won their victory by substantial margins of votes which gave them a direct and strong popular mandate. This fact is certainly made easier by virtue of the choice of a two-round type of presidential elections, which ensures that the elected candidate must have polled more than half the votes cast, not a mere plurality, and thus contributes to the existence of a personal element in the final victory that differentiates their status from strict party support. All three winners presented themselves as distanced from the realm of party political competition in an attempt to define a role for the President of the Republic as distinct from the one ascribed to a prime minister. In 2007 Ramos-Horta moved from the first ballot in which parties fought for their own electorate and secured the majority of the vote, albeit distributed by various candidates, into a second ballot where distance from parties seems to have been a condition of success as it inspired in the parties’ electorate enough confidence they were being protected by not electing a member of a rival organization. The second round of the 2007 election permitted that Ramos-Horta be regarded as a figure capable of creating some form of unity above party lines. Both in the case of Xanana and Ramos-Horta it is fair to say that the elected presidents

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did not have an inclination to form a government that replicated their own views. Neither was a party leader. On the other hand, parties that fielded candidates did not always chose their own leader to stand for election (for example, this was the case with Lucia Lobato from PSD in 2007, and most notably with Lu Olo who is FRETILIN’s chairperson but not its executive leader). As a matter of fact, unlike some countries with other varieties of semi-presidentialism – of which France may be an example – political parties did not form mostly around presidential candidates but rather around candidates for the post of prime minister, president being regarded as somehow above party political competition (Duverger 1996: 510). The combination of these remarks points to one conclusion: the role of the president is not regarded as the top job in the executive branch, and the supreme ambition of a party leader is rather to fight for the head of government than to clinch the presidency. This provides the motivations for Xanana not to seek re-election but rather to seek the post of prime minister in 2007. The Portuguese example, rather than the French, is perhaps the best parallel. Timorese presidents have thus shaped their role mostly outside the competitive game for executive power and concentrated on creating conditions in a young and little developed democracy to complement the confrontational character of parliamentary politics, in which the logic of majority versus minority is determinant, with measures destined at increasing the scope of inclusiveness of different streams of opinion. Those who were engaged in promoting democracy in the country feared above all the combination of majority rule and alternation law would mean that many would be excluded from the actual political game in the critical phase of democratic consolidation. Xanana’s branching for wide sectors of the political spectrum has been acknowledged (Simonsen 2006), while Ramos-Horta term of office has received scant attention so far, but can be regarded in the same light. A few examples illustrate this point. One case that can be equally attributed to both presidents is the criteria used in the appointments that fell under their jurisdiction. The Council of State is one possible instance, given that presidents are required to appoint five members to that consultative body. Ramos-Horta appointed one woman from Oe-Cusse (to be sensitive to gender and regional criteria); a former leader of the Youth National Council, himself regarded as a balanced and independent personality; the chancellor of the public university, who was also a member of that council under Xanana; a former colleague in the two governments in which he had served, unaffiliated to any party at the time; and a politician from one of the parties that had not reached the

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threshold for parliamentary representation but nonetheless, considered as a whole, had polled 20% of the popular vote. This reveals openness from the president who did not seek to be surrounded by loyalists, but rather to include differentiated strata of Timorese society who had reasons to feel pulled by the president into the arena where politics in the wider sense were being discussed. In spite of having fought the second ballot against a FRETILIN-sponsored candidate, Ramos-Horta made several openings to that party after this party was not included in Xanana’s government. He appointed two former ministers, Roque Rodrigues and Alcino Baris, to serve in the Superior Council for Defense and Security, the former being also nominated to serve in his office as senior advisor. He also appointed a former FRETILIN senior minister to serve as attorney general. These attitudes reveal the extent to which a president can be carried to place his actions outside the realm of majority versus minorities positions. As such, the Timorese presidents seem to fit Duverger’s third case: presidents without majority. Of course, there are also examples of some form of rivalry and potential problems arising when presidents sought to take direct action. Lydia Beuman insists forcefully on this note (Beuman 2013b). The veterans’ issue is a case in point of Xanana’s term of office. He felt it was his duty to give consistent form to his constitutional mandate to reinforce the role of the Resistance in the creation of national identity (CRDTL, Section 11). Pursuant on that idea, he sponsored – with the support of Alkatiri’s government – the creation of the Museum and Archive of the Resistance, which treats with credible historical accuracy the different sectors of the movement. He also set up a team in the presidential office to launch the basis for the study and inventory of the Resistance networks. Alkatiri responded by creating a junior position in his government to deal with the same issue, and agreement on practical matters could not be reached. In fact, they were a major cause of dispute between the two. The Resistance network was important in Xanana’s later moves to establish his own party, and the veterans issue had been given ample attention both by the president and the prime minister since 2007 (Virgilio Smith, interview; ICG 2011). These examples suggest that there is a margin of indeterminacy regarding what exactly a president is entitled to do on his own initiative, and that more than a question of constitutional exegesis, the politics of the matter, that is, the nature of the relations between the President of the Republic and the prime minister is the real issue at stake. Hence, it might be considered that ‘presidential powers are de jure and de facto of a variable geometry nature’ (Conac 1992: 816). This flexibility seems to adapt well to a situation in which

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institutions are not yet consolidated, as well as to a profile of the president removed from executive power – an ‘independent’ president. The data presented above suggest that actions undertaken by presidents, in a more or less consensual manner, have generally resulted in positively opening up the realm of power beyond the executive to sectors not necessarily identified with the parliamentary majority, and thus enlarged and intensified the inclusive nature of democratic political institutions, without incurring in the perils of actively supporting the opposition. The capacity to conduct policies of this nature has been strengthened by the fact that while they were serving their mandates, neither president was a direct participant in the competitive struggle for executive power staged by political parties which took place mostly in parliament. Dennis Shoesmith has shown how weak this critical institution was (Shoesmith 2008b). Similar conclusions might be derived from an analysis of the deployment of the judicial sector. Without stepping directly into the shoes of other constitutional bodies that were ‘underdeveloped’, the first two Timorese presidents paid considerable attention to the need to exert an extended role in the control of government action. In so doing, they revealed the importance of other mechanisms to produce both checks on government and balance majority rule with inclusiveness, giving real content to the notion of horizontal accountability. For this goal, the fact that both presidents fit in the category of ‘independent’ in the narrow sense is analyzed by Ramos-Horta in these terms: In our country, in our situation, the ideal profile for a president, among other characteristics, resides in his not being affiliated to any political party. It is extremely difficult for someone who is a party leader to be elected President of the Republic. But if he were to succeed, the dialogue with other actors would be difficult. It would be very difficult for him to build bridges, and he would waste most of his time trying to prove he really is the president of all Timorese. [...] The vocation of large political parties is to hold the reins of government. Thus, what really matters for such parties are legislative elections, not presidential ones. (Ramos-Horta 2014)

The implicit distinction attributed to Augustin Thierry (1795-1856) between ‘governing’ and ‘ruling’ (a function reserved for monarchs or, in our case, to presidents) is thus critical in the perspective of ‘independent’ presidents who can be regarded in parallel to the role that constitutional monarchs exert in our time, albeit with reinforced mandates. The President of the Republic appears in this light as a figure with a pivotal role in the process of rooting democracy as the common house of

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the widest range of civic organizations. This process was characterized by the fact that the different branches of power (executive, legislative, judiciary) were unevenly developed, with a great emphasis placed on the executive – a situation described by Anthony L. Smith as ‘[s]trong government, weak state’ (Smith 2004b). Trying to avoid falling in the trap of being either friend or foe of the executive, presidents endeavoured to uphold and project their role as moderators of the public debate which ranged beyond the reaches of formal political institutions that were encouraged to express and defend the pluralism of democratic disputes. In a word, presidents facilitated inclusiveness of the new regime and contributed to install a form of power-sharing that Arend Lijphart places at the heart of the requirements for a successful institutional design (Lijphart 2004). This need for inclusive governance has also been noticed by Larry Diamond who stated that ‘[i]f any generalization about institutional design is sustainable […] it is that majoritarian systems are ill-advised for countries with deep […] emotional and polarizing divisions’ (quoted in Lijphart 2004: 100). To fulfil this role, the fact that presidents were elected for a non-executive position on a non-partisan platform, and that neither was a party leader at the time, was a major positive factor. Incentives to foster inclusiveness at a time when this factor was critical in the process of rooting democracy came from the fact that the presidents and the prime ministers defined their respective roles as pertaining to different levels of performance, not to competition or superimposition between them. When this rule was not obeyed, conflicts emerged but were confined within the realm of constitutional provisions. The power of the president to dismiss the prime minister was real, although restricted to very extreme situations; but it was never exercised (and maybe not even perceived to be a practical tool for a good deal of the time under consideration), not even in times of severe confrontation. The fact that presidents did not issue from party machines, either as leaders or prominent party figures, but rather cultivated their status as independent moderators, was a major facilitator of the system that deserves to be underlined for the results it has so far produced, and which seems to be in line with Duverger’s view on this system of government as an embodiment of the ‘moderating power’ that Benjamin Constant wished some constitutional monarchies might provide (Duverger 1996: 903). Returning to our initial question, the mechanism that was instituted in Timor-Leste to foster cooperation and defuse tension between two political figures with their own popular, direct mandates as the President of the Republic and the prime minister, is greatly tributary to the definition of the president as an ‘independent’ figure. This form of definition of the presidential role as that of a moderator, even if it

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was coupled with the possibility of dismissing the prime minister – the single instance that is identified in the literature as militating against that goal and favouring the emergence of rivalry and competition between the two leading figures of the State – has been critical in the establishment of a wide and inclusive political platform able to counteract the negative aspects of majority rule (and exclusion of minorities) and set the table for a banquet in which all stakeholders of the political process could find a place. It is therefore important to pursue the study of ‘independent presidents’ and the role they can play in rooting young, fragile democracies.

Conclusion Rather than reflect on the merits of a specific type of government system in the abstract, this chapter has sought to examine the Timor-Leste’s choice of a system of government in the specific historical context of its quest for democratic consolidation. It has argued that the overwhelming requirement of a system of government in this particular historical case would rest on its capacity to be inclusive. Apart from its capacity to deliver ‘effective goods’ and foster ‘behavioural’ and ‘attitudinal’ democracy, the system should be judged by its contribution to implement ‘constitutional’ democracy, that is, a situation in which ‘governmental and nongovernmental forces alike, throughout the territory of the state, become subjected to, and habituated to, the resolution of conflict within the specific laws, procedures and institutions sanctioned by the new democratic process’ (Linz and Stepan 1996: 6). The role of democratic institutions is not to avoid a vast array of possible problems – as sometimes seems to be assumed by those who replace analysis by long lists of difficulties and shortcomings – or to suppress conflict and competition but to confine the responses to them within commonly defined and accepted boundaries. As Simonsen has pointed out, ‘exclusionary politics and win/lose outcomes in political disputes would seem to be counterproductive in relation to the goal of (re)building national unity among East Timorese’ (Simonsen 2006: 595). Both Sartori and Pasquino stress that ‘semi-presidentialism’ is a flexible system which brings to the core of political life the expression of the notion of checks and balances – a consideration that Presidents Xanana and Ramos-Horta are keen to emphasize as the main virtue of a system they both believe is well suited to the actual needs of their country, and should not be questioned in its basic tenets for at least another two presidential terms (Feijó 2014d). Semi-presidentialism is a system responsive to different

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configurations of political alignment and parliamentary and presidential bases of power without ever losing its individuality among government systems. A key element in the debate ought to be the role and status of political parties, and the nature of political life that happens beyond their borders. A country that witnessed the first experience of a multiparty system rapidly descend into a civil war (as Timor-Leste did in 1974-1975) and whose charismatic leader chose at first not to organize his own support basis through a political party, ought to reserve considerable room for civic and political intervention through means that deny parties the monopoly of citizens’ representation – and these circumstances must thus be carefully considered by all analysts. It seems inconceivable that ‘presidentialism’ or ‘parliamentarism’ could operate democratically without the hegemony of political parties over political life. Yet Timor-Leste does not fit this picture – nor, indeed, do several other young democracies, in which figures with great moral authority are politically active and use their prestige and capacity to influence public policies in ways that are not necessarily mediated by political parties. The most obvious example is the Catholic Church of Timor-Leste, whose leaders and a great deal of its members publicly comment on and influence political debate, but who refuse to take part in state organisms, even those of a consultative nature such as the Council of State, other than in ad hoc committees. Their importance and willingness to play in the political ground can be grasped from the important public demonstration they organized in the spring of 2005, openly challenging governmental decisions on religious education. Another critical example can be found in the realm of the armed forces, to a large extent the most direct heirs of the guerrilla movement that constituted a critical element in the struggle for self-determination, and who have shown increasing signs of disposition to enter the political arena outside the boundaries of political parties. The election of former commander-in-chief Taur Matan Ruak to the Presidency of the Republic in 2012 is a case in point, proving that it is possible for the military to intervene in the political arena without necessarily compromising the principle of civilian supremacy. Political parties are not the sole vehicles for citizen’s representation in Timor-Leste – and the government system cannot be fully understood without duly considering the implications of this basic fact. The powers and prerogatives of presidents vary greatly, as do public perceptions of their role, even within the ‘semi-presidential’ group of countries alone. In the case of Timor-Leste, one key attribute of the designed system – which may be regarded as a practical expression of its inherent

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flexibility – is its capacity to be inclusive, that is, to create ways through which a vast array of sectors can find a place in public life. Take, for instance, the diverse range of presidential appointments to the Council of State mentioned above. Add to this the appointment by President Ramos-Horta of Ana Pessoa, for many the second-in-command in Mari Alkatiri’s government, for the important post of attorney general at a time when her party was in the opposition. These are clear illustrations that the construction of trust, and the distribution of roles across party lines – so critical to building democracy as a ‘common house’ – has been facilitated by the choice of this specific system of government. In turn, the citizens’ preference for ‘independent presidents’ who can carve for themselves a status that encompasses a symbolic element of national unity above the competition that animates parliament, allowing them greater freedom and room to cut across party lines, adds another positive contribution towards this goal. In the historical circumstances of Timor-Leste, ‘independent presidents’ who do not assume either their permanent support or opposition to the governmental majority but discharge their duties in syntony with the idea of a ‘moderating power’, were able to play a prominent role in horizontal accountability and fostered inclusive governance when they moved beyond the government/opposition divide that is pertinent in parliament, but does not exhaust the task of building equally important political consensus on critical issues of the new regime. Dual authority may lead, at one point or another, to some form of confrontation, and Timor-Leste was not exempt from this evil; but the fact that this system can delineate hierarchical order and specific powers to both president and prime minister, and, more importantly, can oscillate in giving the one or the other a more prominent role when required, while remaining sensitive to power shifts expressed in elections, can truly be considered, as Sartori did, to possess virtues of ‘institutional witchcraft’ helping to create a common house for political actors of different or diverging persuasions. That is what the consolidation of democracy primarily requires.

6

Grassroots democracy Building a decentralized state where worlds meet The national government has a roof, but no roots. – Timorese district administrator (interviewed by Tanja Hohe [2004a: 101])

Decentralization and democracy On 20 May 2002, Timor-Leste emerged into independent statehood armed with the basic instruments of its administration grounded in the long historical process of creation of a unified and centralized polity, as well as a constitution that embodied the principles of decentralization and called for a sweeping reform (Farram 2010: 1-2). The central administration was unevenly developed and the spread of the public administration away from the capital into the rest of the country, where more than 80% of the population lived, was thinly structured. The effort necessary to build an actual national state administration inspired by the model enshrined in its constitution represented an agenda for a generation. The situation was aptly captured by the Timorese officer quoted in the epigraph to this chapter that considers the process of decentralized state-building in its intimate relations with the issue of the development of a democratic polity. The constitutional mandate The CRDTL devotes several sections to the nature of public administration, inscribing the process of decentralization into the main architecture of the state and allocating the prescribed organs of local governance a relevant role in the equilibrium of powers and the system of checks and balances. Right at the beginning, CRDTL stipulates in the ‘fundamental principles’ that inform the political organization of the country that (Section 5.1) ‘[o]n matters of territorial organization, the State shall respect the principle of decentralization of public administration’. Further down, in the chapter dedicated to the ‘organization of political power’, Section 72.1 on local power reads: ‘Local government is constituted by corporate bodies vested with the objective of organizing the participation by citizens in solving the problems of their own community and promoting local development, without prejudice to the participation by the State’. Section 71.1 establishes that ‘[t]he central government should be represented at the different administrative

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levels of the country’. And Section 63.1 on political participation considers that ‘[d]irect and active participation by women and men in political life is a requirement of, and a fundamental instrument for consolidating the democratic State’. These four sections embody the fundamental constitutional approach to decentralization (Amaral 2013): a process that corresponds to the need to enhance democracy by creating adequate state institutions at various levels between the local community and the central state in which both the national government and the directly affected citizens share the burden of decisions. Three further sections of CRDTL should be recalled, for they contain principles that apply to the decentralized administration. Section 69 states that ‘the organs of sovereignty, in their reciprocal relationships, and exercise of their functions, shall observe the principle of separation and interdependence of powers established in the Constitution’. If the principle of separation of powers is a standard provision, the reference to the ‘interdependence’ is particularly relevant in this instance. The constitutional building is conceived as being formed by several pillars entertaining ‘interdependent’ relations in such a way that its overall stability rests on the converging contribution of each of them – and the constitutional court has recognized that the organs of local power are an integral part of the ensemble of political organs of the nation subordinated to this principle (Relatório 2/ Const/2009/TR). Should any of the pillars default and its functions cease to be performed, the equilibrium of powers would be in risk and the system of checks and balances prevented from full operation. In this sense, the CRDTL inscribes decentralization and the creation of local organs of power in the core of democratic development. Section 137.2 prescribes the following: ‘The Public Administration shall be structured to prevent excessive bureaucracy, provide more accessible services to the people and ensure the contribution of individuals interested in its efficient management’. More important perhaps is Section 2.4 for it stipulates thus: ‘The State shall recognize and value the norms and customs of East Timor that are not contrary to the constitution and to any legislation dealing specifically with customary law’. This very broad recognition of ‘customary law’ is a central tenet of the constitutional mandate. These principles need consideration in the decentralization reform if citizens are to be offered comprehensible instruments to exercise political power. In parallel with the above-mentioned assumption of fundamental principles to guide a decentralization reform which needs to be present in the architecture of the new system, CRDTL refrains from actually imposing

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any specific model, and refers to ordinary legislation to be enacted by the National Parliament the design of the novel institutions (Sections 5.2, 71.4, 72.2). This gives the legislative assembly ample room to adapt those general principles to the perceived realities of Timor-Leste and enact the corresponding reform. Indeed, the very nature of the principles must be scrutinized as the polysemic nature of the concept of decentralization recovers a wide range of distinct solutions, as the next section will discuss. The constitutional mandate entails a vision that goes beyond a mere administrative construction. Rather, it conveys the need to establish and develop a social contract between society at large and its institutions of governance, underlying and supporting institution-building, without which one might end up building a hollow state whose governing institutions may be endowed with material resources but are also devoid of social legitimacy (Lemay-Hébert 2012: 476). This is fundamentally a bottom-up process, and more so in the case of decentralized governance. However, there are competing models for this task, not all of them capable of overcoming the dilemma that sometimes is perceived between the dual objectives of institution-building and the empowerment of local actors. To be sure, a fundamental step in the right direction is the rejection of a profoundly rooted attitude that was visible in the transitional period, and which did not disappear with the passing of time. This mental image extrapolates from the state of material and institutional destruction in the wake of the Popular Consultation of 1999 and sees the country figuratively as a black hole, a tabula rasa, a terra nullius, a ground zero, or an empty shell (Lemay-Hébert 2011). This approach is antithetical to any form of local ownership which is based on the acknowledgement of the persistence of local forms of legitimacy. Roots of the constitutional mandate It is important to survey the roots of the constitutional mandate, as their capacity to penetrate the soil of Timorese society constitutes a condition for its success. In the first place, ‘[a]ll around the world in matters of governance, decentralization is rage’ (Bardhan n.d.: 3), and the World Bank has described it as a ‘global and regional phenomenon’. After the heyday of the centralist creed in the aftermath of World War II and up to the first ‘oil shock’ of the early 1970s, when big government and central planning were considered appropriate to foster development and had a very significant impact on the first postcolonial experiences, the tide began to turn. It is supposed to have started in high-income economies (United States and

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European Union) and step by step the ‘last two decades of the 20th century witnessed a significant rise in the scope of local democracy throughout the developing world with increasing devolution of political, economic and administrative authority to local government’ (Bardhan and Mookherjee 2006: 1). Decentralization became part of governance orthodoxy (Farram 2010: 4) and a default assumption of the standard template of democracy promoters. Much of Southeast Asia stood in contrast to the global trend (Bunte 2011: 131), but in the early years of the new millennium the authors of a major study for the UN on the whole of East Asia could claim that although ‘decentralization has come later than in some other parts of the world, it is here to stay. Countries of varying size, income levels and political systems are moving government down this path’ (White and Smoke 2005: 1). The regional context stepped in tune with the global trend. Indonesia, whose importance for Timor-Leste is without question, witnessed a ‘big bang’ decentralization reform in 2001 as part of the democratizing process (Bardhan and Mookherjee 2006: 18), and facilitated the merger of both agendas. This reform assumed a high prof ile and was considered ‘the most radical to have been undertaken in the Asia Pacific region’ (Kingsbury 2010a: 33), with a signif icant impact on neighbouring countries. Representing a particular instance of a general attitude, the actual adoption of the Portuguese constitution as the model for the Timorese fundamental law also contributed to the migration of decentralizing principles. Although the CRDTL does not copy the Portuguese model and opts for a simplified version of the attributes of local and regional forms of political organization (Farram 2010: 4-5), there is a striking similarity in the way both prescribe the intertwining of democracy and decentralization. Decentralization assumed, at the turn of the millennium, the form of zeitgeist whose fundamental principles or adaptability were not seriously questioned. In this sense, the principal roots of decentralization in Timor-Leste originate in the import of new political models to shape the nation’s own novel structures. Special attention should therefore be devoted to the process of internalizing those prescriptions and designing an endogenous reform that is responsive to local conditions. Before moving in that direction, however, the need exists to further discuss the meaning of ‘decentralization’.

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What’s in a name? So far, we have been using the term ‘decentralization’ in the broad sense of a policy designed to assign different responsibilities (administrative, fiscal, political) away from a central instance to lower levels of government. However, under this broad umbrella, it is possible to discern more precise forms that embody its main principles in different ways. It is useful to recall the main varieties of decentralization in order to clarify the pertinent articulations between this process and the main thrust of our inquiry: democratization. In political terms, there are three main varieties of decentralization: deconcentration, delegation and devolution. Some suggest that a fourth variety be included, privatization, although this tends to be more pertinent in the realm of the economy (Rondinelli 1986). For the sake of argument, I shall be using the definitions provided by Litvak, Ahmad and Bird (1998: 4-6). ‘Deconcentration’ occurs when the central government disperses responsibilities for certain services to its regional branches which does not involve any transfer of authority to the lower levels. ‘Delegation’ refers to a situation in which the central authority transfers responsibilities for decision-making and administration of public functions to local governments or semi-autonomous organizations that are not wholly controlled by that instance, but remain ultimately accountable to it. Finally, ‘devolution’ refers to a situation in which the central government transfers authority to lower-level units that normally dispose of clear geographical boundaries over which they exercise authority and within which they perform public functions, and whose members are accountable to their citizens. A continuum can be discerned running from a pole of low autonomy to one of high autonomy as one moves from ‘deconcentration’ to ‘devolution’. The critical element for our purposes is the conception of accountability – the ‘cornerstone of public governance and management’ (Aucoin and Heintzeman 2000) – because it constitutes the principle whereby those who hold and exercise public authority are scrutinized and held responsible before their fellow citizens (Kingsbury 2010a: 36). Both ‘deconcentration’ and ‘delegation’ operate under the assumption that the ultimate bond of accountability of those who are entrusted with the process of decision-making runs upward to the centre that has given away their limited authority. ‘Devolution’, on the other hand, is firmly bound to a downward form of accountability: the authority received from the centre will be primarily evaluated by the group of citizens that constitute the community entrusted with those powers. In this sense, devolution can be equated with selfgovernment, and is therefore the key element to consider when pondering the relationships between decentralization and democratic consolidation.

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Why decentralize? Proponents of decentralization and analysts of the phenomenon offer an extensive catalogue enumerating reasons that sustain the claim that this reform brings positive results to the polis (see, for instance, Rondinelli 1986). Rather than trying to emulate them, this section will consider that the proposed justifications for decentralization fall within two major categories pertaining to the effectiveness and the legitimacy of political systems (Bunte 2011: 131). Under the heading of effectiveness, two arguments can be distinguished. First, it is believed that decentralization may enhance the efficacy of the political system, that is, its capacity to produce a desired objective. On the one hand, establishing administrative branches closer to the daily activities of citizens facilitates the administration’s ability to absorb inputs under the form of popular preferences that are more transparent and legible in their own environments than after translation to a national centralized level. On the other, better input digestion reinforces the public administration’s capacity to deliver goods and services in closer accordance with the citizens’ expectations and thus reinforce its own authority. A second line of argument posits that gains in efficacy can be translated in increased efficiency, that is, the measure of the relationship between the effort or cost of any given measure and the benefit obtained from its implementation. This is typically an economic argument portraying a positive correlation between decentralization and better management of scarce resources, although it depends on finding an optimal balance between the different levels of the administration to guarantee maximization of results. These generic arguments can be declined in a variety of actual benefices supposed to characterize decentralization, including the alleviation of bottlenecks in decision-making caused by central planning, reducing red tape and expediting decisions, expanding administrative capacity and offsetting the adverse influences of local elites, facilitate innovative approaches to common problems, or providing focal points for coordinating the local activities of central institutions. The arguments condensed under the effectiveness heading do not bear a direct relationship to the issue of democracy. In fact, any kind of political regime may venture into decentralizing reforms, as the example of East Asia in general, where countries with regimes so dissimilar as China or Indonesia followed similar paths, clearly illustrates. Increased effectiveness and inflated capacity to address the people’s needs may sustain the social bases of any sort of regime without positing a democratic challenge.

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The second group of arguments focuses on issues pertaining to the legitimacy of the political regimes, and constitute a strong vindication of the virtues of democracy. First, decentralization may impinge on the issue of accountability. As we have seen above, devolution implies that the arrow of accountability be switched from upward to downward, and that the source of legitimacy for each unit of the administrative apparatus be, at least in part, obtained from the expression of popular sentiment. Even when upward or horizontal accountability is exercised, and superior levels exert control functions over lower bodies, most if not all units involved will be part of a chain bound to forms of accountability that involve the direct participation of citizens. Intimately related to this is the issue of empowerment. Again, devolution implies that the ultimate source of legitimacy for the units of the public administration be located in citizens’ consent. Formal instruments for expressing regularly their perception of the performance of those who happen to be in charge and the consignation of actual means to influence the direction of public affairs represent empowerment allowing citizens to transcend the status of mere observers of events to become active members of the political community. Empowerment is closely associated with the prevalence of the principle of ‘subsidiarity’ developed in the early 20th century by Catholic social theorists, and namely by the German theologian Oswald von Nell-Breuning (18571939), and today amply diffused. This principle posits that matters of societal organization and administration are conceived in a bottom-up manner, and ought to be handled at the lowest level of authority that is capable of solving the problem in an efficient manner. Authorities situated above the lower level should regard their function as subsidiary to the one of the inferior unit. As such, superior authorities should only perform those tasks that cannot be discharged effectively by the ones below. This principle has been regarded as the theoretical foundation for decentralization (Wallis 2013: 428). By positing that citizens are not merely the object of public policies but the subject of active involvement in the decision-making process and ultimately the source of political legitimacy whose active contribution cannot be dispensed with and is actually enhanced by the growing proximity between the people and the administration, these arguments place the rationale for decentralization firmly in the camp of democracy promotion. It also means that some form of compatibility must be established between the architecture of the state and structural elements of the autochthonous forms of political legitimacy that frame the citizens’ involvement in public life. In this sense,

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[t]he logic behind decentralization is not just weakening the central authority, nor about preferring local elites to central authority, but it is fundamentally about making governance at the local level more responsive to the felt needs of the large majority of the population. This means that decentralization to be really effective has to be accompanied by serious attempts to change existing structures of power within communities and to improve the opportunities for participation and voice, and engaging the hitherto disadvantaged or disenfranchised in the political process. (Bardhan n.d.: 30)

This observation puts in evidence the revolutionary and intrinsically democratic nature of decentralization when it involves actual devolution. The critical link resides in the guarantee of enlarged franchise as the bedrock for popular voice. Because democracy is usually only treated as a process taking place at the macro level, involving central, national institutions rather than grassroots forms of governance, the relationships between its agenda and that of decentralization have not received a great deal of attention. Much of it combines ‘strong preconceived beliefs with little empirical evidence’ (Litvak, Ahmad and Bird 1998: 3) which prevents the establishment of solid, widely accepted theoretical knowledge about this relation (Bunte 2011: 132). This section has argued the close articulation between the process of political decentralization and the democratizing agenda whereby the latter can be positively strengthened by a vigorous compliance with the constitutional mandate to create and deploy organs of local and regional administration. The lineage of decentralized democracy is illustrious and goes back to the middle of the 19th century. Two political theorists in particular have been associated with these ideas: Alexis de Tocqueville with his Democracy in America (1835), and John Stuart Mill with the Considerations on Representative Government (1861). The former claimed that ‘[d]ecentralization has not only an administrative value, but also a civic dimension since it increases the opportunities for citizens to take interest in public affair; it makes them accustomed to using freedom’ (quoted in Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations n.d.) whereas the latter considered that ‘[t]here is a limit to the extent of country that can advantageously be governed, or even whose government can be conveniently superintended, from a single centre’ (2015: 386). This lineage does not prevent decentralization in the real historical contexts from being associated with less benign phenomena. In spite of

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the merits of the prevailing narrative, ‘the relationship between decentralization and democratization is problematic at best in most democratic Southeast Asia’ (Bunte 2011: 131-132) – Timor-Leste’s regional context. In fact, episodes of elite capture, growing corruption, limited political participation and violent contestation have been noticed, all generating serious barriers to democracy. These remarks only render more urgent the necessity to pay due consideration to specific historical processes and combine the analysis of virtues and pitfalls of actual reforms. In the case of Timor-Leste, decentralization is mandatory in view of fulfilling the constitutional prescriptions to build a balanced state. The interdependence of the organs of power that generates horizontal accountability and makes practical use of the mechanisms of checks and balances cannot be fully operationalized in the absence of critical elements of the state administration. How have the post-independence Timorese authorities regarded this fundamental task? The answer will be discussed in the next section.

The adventurous tribulations of local governance after independence Ever since independence was proclaimed, all Timorese governments have committed themselves to the decentralization reform, even if the political option regarding the best model has suffered an evolution (Shoesmith 2010b: 2). In fact, this reform was already contemplated in the National Development Plan adopted by the East Timorese Transition Authority and offered to the First Constitutional Government (Ximenes 2010: 9), as it was widely acknowledged that a contrast existed between the UNTAET practical legacy – ‘a highly centralized administration hierarchy filled with East Timorese’ that ‘resembled an occupation regime, though its purpose was different’ (Matsuno 2008: 54) – and the constitutional mandate for a comprehensive decentralization reform. This plan contemplated the study and subsequent introduction of ‘an optimal sub-national configuration’ and the delineation of the levels of the administrative hierarchy down to the community level ‘that will facilitate cost effective and efficient service delivery and enhance community initiative and participation’, as well as the ‘options for effective decentralization that clearly define the role of central, regional, local and community, and civil society organizations and entities’ in view of empowering communities and strengthening transparency and grassroots democracy (Project Document n.d.: 2).

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Mari Alkatiri’s government initiated the reform process with the creation of an Inter-ministerial Technical Working Group in 2003, under the coordination of the Ministry of State Administration and Territorial Management (MSATM) (Kuehn 2011: 1). This working group produced the Local Governance Options Study (LGOS) in June 2003. The study analyzed from a technical standpoint a number of possible solutions for the design of this reform, presenting for each of them the positive and negative aspects that could be anticipated. One decade after its publication, LGOS remains as the focal point for the debate on decentralization. The first contribution of this document was the clear identification of the objectives of the reform. They were summarized in three major goals: to promote the institutions of a strong, legitimate and stable state across the territory; to promote opportunities for local democratic participation by citizens; and to promote more effective, efficient and equitable public service delivery for the social and economic development in the country (LGOS 2003: 111-123; see also POG 2008: 4). By appealing to a comprehensive effort to make (macro) democracy both more representative – through the enlargement of the scope of institutions that are guided by democratic principles of popular accountability – and more participative – accruing the opportunities offered to citizens to engage actively in the issues of the res publica – the stated goals of this reform are clearly framed by a democratizing agenda. This technical study also identified six possible models for the reform. The first one consisted of introducing no change and leave the existing structure as it was. This option was clearly at odds with the constitutional mandate, but it could be chosen should the government believe the level of available resources were too scarce to implement in the short term a veritable reform of the administration (LGOS 2003: 86). It should be recalled that ‘during the UNTAET period the main focus was on building up the core functions of the central administration [and t]he configuration of subnational governments remain[ed] that inherited from the pre-1999 period and reflects the legacy of interactions between the traditional system and those imposed by the Portuguese and Indonesian colonial administrations’, with no elected bodies in the 13 districts and 65 sub-districts in which the country was divided. Thus this structure was essentially a deconcentrated rather than devolved system (Project Document n.d.: 2-3). The second option consisted of the creation of four or five ‘provinces’, removing the existing 13 districts, and turning the sub-districts into the main units under each province. Sukus would maintain their contacts with the sub-districts as the lowest level of state administration (LGOS

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2003: 86-88). The third one would imply removing the districts and turning the sub-districts into ‘municipalities’, which could be distinguished in several categories based on their differentiated capacities. The sub-district would therefore become the critical unit for the state administration and a devolved local government body, responsible for managing its own budget, its own staff and providing the basic services under its control (LGOS 2003: 91-93). Option four combined the previous two, and would institute the sub-districts as municipalities, but under a superior tier of ‘provinces’ or ‘regions’, whose distinction bears on the existence or not of political functions at this level, which could be conceived merely as a technical deconcentrated unit of the central administration (LGOS 2003: 94-97). The fifth model would promote the district as the main level of service delivery, maintaining the sub-districts under their jurisdiction. It was subdivided in two distinct options: one enhancing the existing structure which would be complemented by a consultation mechanism (and therefore would resemble a deconcentrated unit); the other would conceive the district as a municipality, that is, a devolved local government (LGOS 2003: 98-100). The sixth and final model contemplated promoting the suku to the main instance for the organization of basic service delivery, coupled with the existence of a superior tier – either provinces, districts or sub-districts – in a supportive role with special intervention in the management of financial funds. They would be local government bodies subject to regulation but not under hierarchical control, with policy- and law-making powers in a defined sphere of community affairs and a series of mandated functions in service provision (LGOS 2003: 105-109). In all six models, the only administrative unit that would be common to them is the suku. In options 2 to 5, the suku is maintained as a primary territorial unit. However, in these cases, ‘it is itself not a part of the state or a unit of sub-national government’, but merely ‘the main interface or link between citizens and government at sub-district or higher levels’ (LGOS 2003: 103). Only option 6 would recognize the suku as integral part of the state administration. This distinction will produce significant consequences, as we shall see below. An implicit contrast opposes the ‘perennial suco’ regarded as ‘the only institution that has remained more or less intact during the history of the territory’, and whose persistence is established far beyond the reach of the new legislator, who is invited to contemplate the need to find a suitable position in the political system for this customary body, and on the other hand all the other units of the public administration deemed to be so historically thin and devoid of strong articulation with the popular

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forms of legitimacy as to be expendable and freely manipulated. This is the reason why the study considers that it will be possible and not too difficult to abolish, amalgamate, replace or create administrative units between the central government and the village-level authorities. In none of the options put forward by the study group mention is made of the embeddedness of these administrative units in the popular culture of Timor-Leste, and their effective historical significance. I argue that this constitutes a critically flawed approach to the problem of political organization in this country, as it makes it difficult to the citizens to combine the requirements of the modern state with the precepts of traditional legitimacy. Be it as it may, as from 2003 ‘decentralization’ has been mostly equated with the creation of the middle level of governance, assuming that villagelevel authority would remain outside the formal state machinery. In the following sections, I will consider in turn the efforts to set up ‘municipal’ authorities, followed by a more detailed analysis of the political process surrounding the persistence of sukus in the political landscape. Municipalities in Neverland In the idiom of Timorese decentralization, municipios (municipalities) are conceived as the most important new units of territorial administration discharging state functions at local level. They tend to overlap with historical units (the districts or the sub-districts); and their powers and competences arise out of a global process of deconcentration, delegation and devolution, varying in scope and intensity according to the successive projects that have emerged in the course of the last decade. The First Constitutional Government headed by Mari Alkatiri (20022006) set the process in motion, as stated above. Valentim Ximenes who sat in the technical working group on behalf of the Ministry of Education in his capacity as dean of the faculty of Political Science at the National University, provided a detailed description of the way the process unfolded, which constitutes the basis for the present summary (Ximenes 2010). In 2006, the Council of Ministers decided to select the option that combined the transformation of sub-districts (which were to be aggregated and reduced from 65 to a figure in between 30 and 35) into municipalities under newly created administrative regions (whose number was not fixed). This system seems to combine the recognition of a special status of sub-districts as territorial units possessing entanglements with grassroots forms of political legitimacy with the will to redraw the map according to rational-bureaucratic set of criteria. In fact, the choice of

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this model would entail a large reorganization of the territorial division, with signif icant implications for the chances of success of this social engineering exercise. Above the new municipalities, there would be the regions, but these were not decentralized local government units but rather ‘a mechanism that co-ordinates municipalities to perform their functions and responsibilities in accordance with national policy guidelines’. This solution was deemed to ‘allow for better public service delivery, enhance opportunities for the government to get closer to the people, and enhance the people’s participation in the local development process’ (Ximenes 2010: 11). With the severe crisis of 2006 which led to the resignation of the prime minister and the constitution of a new government, the reform was put on hold, only technical work pertaining to the study of the new administrative map being actually carried out. Both the Second Constitutional Government of José Ramos-Horta (2006-2007) and the brief third one under Estanislau Aleixo da Silva (May-August 2007) failed to take any significant action on this front. The Fourth Constitutional Government presided over by Xanana Gusmão (2007-2012) and based on a new coalition reversed the option adopted by Alkatiri. Without changing any substantial objective as they had been summarized in the LGOS, the new ‘Decentralization Strategic Framework’ (DSF) and above all the ‘Policy Orientation Guidelines for Decentralization and Local Government in Timor-Leste’ (POG), both of March 2008, sustain that ‘given the present situation of low level of human resources and experience at the local level the District option is preferred for the short- and medium-term’ (POG 2008: 2). This is an option for a ‘single tier of municipal government’, and the intentions were to offer conditions for the municipalities to operate ‘in accordance with robust downward, horizontal and upward accountability’ (POG 2008: 1 and 3). The issue of human and financial resources and the need to design a model which could prove its viability in difficult circumstances was also contemplated (DSF 2008: 3). The proposal assumed that the current boundaries of the districts were to be kept as a point of departure for the new administrative units (thus giving up the idea of a thorough reorganization of the administrative map). However, limited changes could occur in order to assure ‘ethno-linguistic homogeneity and local cultural identity’, a balance between development potential and resources, the existence of a sizeable administrative centre with reasonable access from all points of the area, and a minimum level of population (POG 2008: 3).

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Each new municipality would be composed of two branches: a representative municipal assembly and an executive branch. The assembly consists of directly and indirectly elected deputies. In the case of the indirectly chosen deputies, a rather ambiguous formula was adopted: ‘representation from the Suco Councils shall be taken in consideration’ (POG 2008: 3). These assemblies are conceived as the legislative organ of the new territorial organ of power, and they are supposed to elect a mayor, who need not be municipal deputy, as well as their own speaker among its own members. The executive branch is composed of the municipal administration headed by a civil servant accountable to the mayor, comprising a staff responsible for the management of essential and basic municipal functions, and the ‘sector departments’ originating in the present-day deconcentrated administration (POG 2008: 3-5). It should be noticed that these documents conveyed an ambiguous position on the implementation of the novel policy. The ‘Policy Orientation Guidelines’ reads: ‘It is intended that the Administrative and Territorial reform will be introduced in all Districts at once, while the Local Government reform process (functions and financing) will be introduced on a phased implementation schedule’ (POG 2008: 2). The door was open for future developments regarding the creation of ‘pilot-experiments’. In March 2009 the Council of Ministers approved four draft laws on decentralization along the newly defined options. In the view of local observers, [t]he draft laws called for a strong central government with nominal powers for the local government and gave the central government control over everything the local government does, including the legislative assembly. And the central government proposes to retain the power to review all the legislative assembly’s decisions. Perhaps worse, the draft laws have no provision for Suco representation in the local government. (Ragragio and Everett 2009)

However, the legislative bills approved by the government needed parliamentary confirmation. In the assembly, these proposals generated a heated debate, and consensus could not be reached. In the words of Fernanda Borges, chairperson of Parliamentary Committee A (on constitutional affairs, rights, liberties and guarantees), ‘the process has stalled as parliament tries to grapple with the very difficult questions relating to the old institutionalism established over the last ten years and with the new institutions and rules we are required to establish for local governance to

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be successful’ (Borges 2010: vi). Eventually, some bills were passed in the National Parliament, but then the President of the Republic used his veto powers and returned them back to the legislature (Amaral 2013). The main tenets of the Fourth Constitutional Government’s approach to decentralization reform have been critically reviewed and this option was considered to present significant disadvantages in terms of bureaucratic ineffectiveness (a point that contends with Section 137 of CRDTL, as seen above) as well as the disengagement of authorities and residents due to the distances between the place of residence of the majority and the seat of the new units. Further criticism relates to the underlying notion of ‘big government’ and an ambiguous structure in terms of democratic accountability (Ximenes 2010: 16-18). The model adopted by the Fourth Constitutional Government seems to have chosen the territorial unit that is least sedimented in the history and culture of the Timorese people, to have designed the broad outline of its powers and functions in a conservative way that limits the autonomy of the novel organs, and to have established the faintest of links between them and the most persistent levels of autochthonous political organization. As Pamela Dave and David Butterworth have noted, ‘[i]f the municipal assemblies and local-level development planners are not anchored by a strong downward accountability requirements, it is possible for community voices to go unheard’ (2010: 16). In its broad outline, the reform proposed by the Fourth Constitutional Government and subsequently reaffirmed by the Fifth and Sixth (whose mandate runs till 2017), conforms with the ‘reinvention’ of institutions in the categorization proposed by Chopra and Hohe (2004) for the articulation of ‘modern’ and ‘traditional’ power structures – the one that embodies a most blatant divorce between the results of a social engineering process and the socially dominant models of political legitimacy deemed incompatible with the new state functions. In this light, the official proposal places a great emphasis on the selection of intellectually capable people that often lack legitimacy in the eyes of their countrymen, as ‘[t]he “modern” concept of a purely technical appointment in the administration is new to people’ (Hohe 2004b: 314). Grafting elections to choose the leaders of a heavy techno-bureaucratic apparatus at district level without strong articulations with lower-level forms of authority presents obvious risks for the construction of solid institutions. As Anne Brown has noted, ‘election is not in itself a pathway to authority […] and being elected into office does not in itself always ensure authority’ (Brown 2013: 28). Authority has to be sought in more complex ways of rendering different conception of legitimacy compatible with one another.

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At first, elections for the new municipal organs were anticipated to take place in 2009. The schedule pointed to the ballots taking place in mid- then late 2009, subsequently delayed to early 2010, and finally to mid-2010. In April 2010 a bold decision was taken: to postpone the whole process to 2013 or 2014, after the legislative elections of 2012 (Kuehn 2011: 3). We now know that the first municipal elections on an anticipated pilot project scheme involving only a few political units are scheduled to take place at some point before the next general elections in 2017, but full implementation of the reform will take certainly more time – and maybe some new twists. Maybe Peter Pan will be a good candidate when elections are held in Neverland. Politics in the village When Mari Alkatiri became prime minister of the First Constitutional Government, the situation in Timor-Leste’s most enduring and resilient territorial unit, the sukus (of which there are more than 400 countrywide, their average sizes ranging between 2,000 to 3,000 inhabitants [Maia, Cullen, Everett and Chang 2012: 9]) was extremely confusing. There were some local leaders claiming legitimacy to hold their position given that they had been selected with the participation of their countrymen in Indonesian times. UNTAET had agreed to the ‘democratic’ selection of local councils to help with the implementation of a major investment plan under the coordination of the World Bank, the Community Empowerment and Local Governance Project (CEP), hoping that those new units would represent an embryo for future developments. Before that and immediately after the proclamation of the results of the Popular Consultation in September 1999, CNRT had established a countrywide network of local representatives who were selected according to a number of criteria that included their participation in the Resistance and, critically, the endorsement of their communities. In the early stages of the transitional period, an internal agreement within CNRT established that the parties that composed this umbrella organization would abstain from exerting direct influence and develop organizational platforms below the district level in order to maximize the impact of the newly created structures. However, as from October 2000, FRETILIN started holding local-level elections for party representatives from the village up to the national level, creating a structure that paralleled the one the CNRT had just established, and competing with it (Hohe 2004b: 307-308). When CNRT conveyed the Second Congress and Xanana announced the organization would be disbanded to give way to political parties to compete in the upcoming Constituent Assembly elections, many of those who represented

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CNRT at the grassroots level and had the confidence of their communities were left in a state of confusion as to their role. It comes as no surprise to see that FRETILIN’s government would try and capitalize on its organizational superiority in order to enhance its own grip on power. The clear majority that this party had in the National Parliament could be complemented by a new round of elections that would ‘bring the party apparatus to the village level’ (Engel 2007: 9). In February 2004, the government approved Law 2/2004 on the election of xefes suku and konsellus suku assuming that ‘[t]he purpose of local structures is to organize the citizen’s democratic participation in solving specific problems of his or her community, thereby contributing in a decisive manner to the sustainable and smooth development of the country’ (Preamble). Two important principles sustain this law: on the one hand, ‘[l]ocal elections held by secret, free, equal and direct ballot of community members will ensure that community leaders are granted the required legitimacy in accordance with the provisions of the Constitution’. On the other hand, ‘taking into consideration the importance of participation by women, young people and senior citizens in a society that should be fully participatory, this law establishes suco councils that will have seats not only for suco chiefs and village chiefs, but also for personalities from specific groups in representation of sucos as a whole’ (Preamble). In view of this principle, the council was composed of the xefe suku, all xefe aldeia, two representatives of the women and two other of the youths (one male, one female), and a local elder from the village lia nains (Section 3.1). Elections should be carried out in separate for each function (Section 19). The most curious feature of this law is that it defines who the xefe suku is and who sits in his council, all elected by the widest franchise – but it contains no word as to the attributes and functions of these elected officials. Only the preamble seems to offer a clue, as it states that ‘[t]he election of suco chiefs and suco councils is of paramount importance to legitimize community authority and develop the basic structures of such authority’. The conclusion must be drawn that suku leaders received no mandate to perform tasks outside what were their customary duties, nor did they receive any transfer of resources or authority to collect tributes. In a word: suku authorities were chosen through a novel mechanism imposed by the government, but no real state function was allocated these authorities. Another important aspect contemplated in this law is the possibility granted to political parties to present candidates in local elections (Section 12.1) – an issue that would prove to be contentious. However, this offered FRETILIN the opportunity to declare it had won the elections, which were

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not organized to occur simultaneously but over a few months in 20042005. In the national tabulation of results, second place was obtained by ‘independent’ candidates who had run without the endorsement of any political party. An overall view on the effects of this piece of legislation might consider that the law ‘gave minimal guidance on the conduct of suku activities following election. As a result, konsellu suku members have largely been left to govern according to their own views of rights, obligations, law and order, which in turn raised issues of political consent and the maintenance of legitimacy in the community’ (Magno and Coa 2012: 172). Deborah Cummins summarized this process in the following words: The konsellu suku was created through these laws to recognize the important authority structures that already existed within local communities; as such, the intention in creating konsellu suku was not to establish a new layer of governance but rather to legitimize and to some extent to co-opt existing local authority structures. (Cummins 2010b: 902)

Viewed in another dimension, the f irst legislation of suku authorities allowed for the important transformation of the nature of the relation between leaders and their constituencies, from a model of authority over the community to a representative role of their fellow citizens (Pereira and Koten 2012: 223). However, no revolution ensued, as the opportunity was taken up by villagers to re-establish customary governance practices that had been prohibited during the occupation times, and in this sense ‘both electoral choice and the resurgence of custom have been enabled’ simultaneously (Brown 2012a: 63). The Fourth Constitutional Government revised this legislation and introduced significant changes through Law 3/2009 in time for the next round of elections, which were held on 9 October 2009 for a term of six years (Section 9.1). Some key features of the previous legislation were maintained, such as the composition of the konsellu suku. However, the method of election was altered. First, political parties were prevented from presenting candidates (Section 21.3) – even if their members are free to stand on their own merits. Second, a new pakote (package) system was introduced whereby candidates for office are not voted on directly but are supposed to integrate into a ticket for the whole leadership team. For some observers, this new method had important consequences. For one, it reduced the array of choice before the electors, who are compelled to choose a solid bloc; it may have diminished

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the level of individual accountability of the xefe suku since that is now dissolved in the responsibility of the konsellu; and some forms of nepotism in the constitution of the tickets are said to have surfaced – a phenomenon that may also be regarded as the curtain behind which political parties sought to compose their way round the prohibition to present formal candidatures. On the other hand, this system aims at avoiding problems of non-cooperation and internal dissention that to an extent marred the performance of previous konsellu suku (Brown 2013: 31-32). The main thrust of this law consists of a precision of the terms under which the ‘community leaders’ exert their mandate. Section 10 defines the broad areas in which xefe suku and his council are supposed to operate, and which mostly pertain to the realm of customary governance. The xefe suku himself has special responsibilities (Section 11) to guarantee the peaceful development of his constituency, and to play a role in the articulation of his suku with higher levels of the administration. For instance, he is mandated to ‘[c]ooperate with the Municipal Administration and the Government representatives on the procedures to be adopted in carrying out the Suco’s activities’ (Section 11.2.b) and to ‘[r]equest the intervention of the security forces in the event of disputes which cannot be settled at local level, and whenever crimes are committed or disturbances occur’ (Section 9.2.f). Another area in which significant alterations were introduced refers to the resources made available to the sukus, a point that was altogether missing in earlier legislation. As from now, ‘[t]he Government or the Municipality shall provide the Sucos with material and financial resources with a view to ensuring their proper functioning and development. The amount to the granted to the Sucos shall be proposed by the Ministry of State Administration and Territorial Planning or the Municipal Assembly, taking into consideration the proposal submitted by the Suco Council’ (Sections 16.1 and 16.2). Still a long way from granting the sukus capacity to raise their own revenues or from establishing clear and transparent rules for the transfers of resources mentioned in the law, this section indicates a willingness to accommodate the view that these units ought to have the capacity to manage some modest funds. If the areas of intervention and the functions of the office holders are spelled out in this new piece of legislation, a critical element of the previous law remains in force: ‘The community leaders are not included in the Public Administration and their decisions are not binding upon the State’ (Section 2.3). The constitutional court was called by President Ramos-Horta to analyze the proposed bill before he agreed to sign it. The members of the court were divided on whether the bill actually complied with the fundamental law

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or was in breach of some of its provisions – and the majority considered it to be compatible with the CRDTL. The main argument advanced by the court judges considers that sukus are ‘traditional organizational structures, which the ordinary law decided to recognize and integrate in its ordinance, but which cannot be understood as organs of local power’ in the sense prescribed by the CRDTL (Relatório 2/Const/2009/TR: 9). This interpretation implies that the recognition of the political structures at suku level does not constitute an act of devolution but, at best, a form of delegation: the community leadership may discharge some functions and use some resources closely monitored and controlled by higher levels of the public administration. Apart from that, two other avenues are open for xefe suku: to lobby authorities in the sub-district, the district or even the national capital in order to secure responses to the needs of his constituents (that will be eventually delivered without granting him autonomy for decisionmaking); and to discharge functions that are important to the community but do not pertain to the realm of state functions. In this sense, the process of incorporating the community leadership in the legal ordinance should not be equated with state-building: these remain institutions of the civil society. Reverting to Chopra and Hohe’s model (2004), this approach seems to fit the idea of a transformation, that is, a gradual process of transformation of existing structures, in this case prior to their integration into the local administration. The alterations in the legal framework did not produce dramatic changes in the 2009 elections nor the subsequent term in office of the elected suku authorities. In the district of Lautém where I conducted research, a clear majority of the xefes suku was re-elected in 2009 even though they had to present themselves without party support. Only a few incumbents lost their bid for a new term. In some cases, all the candidates were competing for a post that the previous leader had relinquished. The body of academic research on the relationship between the modern process of selection of community leaders and the customary forms of legitimate power is considerable, and it includes the participation of relevant Timorese colleagues. Most of this research covers the period of the first term (2004/2005-2009), but those findings seem to hold in the cases where observations could be made after the 2009 elections. Deborah Cummins and Michael Leach (2013) have suggested that three main courses of action have been possible in Timorese sukus after the introduction of formal elections in 2004/2005, labelling two of them as forms of ‘co-incumbency’, and the third one a model of ‘authorization’. The first one is a strict co-inheritance model in which the traditional liurai,

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that is, the holder of customary legitimacy to exert power, is required by his community to stand for election and succeeds in this venture. This quite rare model represents the confirmation by ‘democratic’ means of the arrangements in force in the village prior to the start of the process. The second one is designated by the expression ‘traditional house candidate’. In this case, which is rather frequent, the liurai’s house (or extended family) provides one of its members to be elected as xefe suku, keeping the position in the ‘right’ hands. Opportunities are created for a wider choice, eventually having more than one member of the house in competition, and is open to incorporate an element of meritocracy and to balance traditional requirements with those of a more complex situation in which the community has to deal with external forces. The third one has been called ‘authorization’ and occurs when an individual who does not possess traditional authority nor belongs to the ‘right’ family tree manages to secure the election and obtains symbolic support from the old liurai and other prominent members of the community. This may happen either before the election of soon after it in special ceremonies performed according to ancient rituals that serve to reinforce the ritual superiority of traditional leaders over those who happen to be vested with political and administrative tasks. In these cases, it is possible that the elected xefe suku will not be able to perform the whole range of duties pertaining to the realm of lisan that others with different backgrounds would easily discharge (Cummins and Leach 2013). Of course, there are cases that fall altogether outside this framework, and where individuals manage to secure the majority of the votes of their fellow countrymen without visible links to the customary authorities. These cases are often associated with extreme difficulties felt by xefe suku to carry out their work as community leaders, and episodes of conflict over recognition of authority are known to happen (Cummins 2013: 113; Pereira and Koten 2012: 226). In brief, the rich array of possibilities enumerated above signify that ‘[p]eople are negotiating the two systems in ways intended to confer legitimacy through both worldviews’ (Cummins and Leach 2013: 178). The result of the negotiation depends on agency and the interplay of several variables. On the one hand, the sukus reveal a degree of variation (‘open’ vs ‘closed’, urban vs rural, etc. [see LGOS 2003: 78]) and the strength of the combining elements may fluctuate. For this reason, Mateus Tilman suggested that the position of the liurai in different sukus could be summarized in four categories: First, the liurai and his uma lisan remain strong. Second: the liurai no longer has any real personal power, but his uma lisan continues to command respect. Third: in new sukus formed in the last quarter century, mostly under

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Indonesian determination, no liurai or ruling house are present. Fourth: for a variety of reasons, including processes of urbanization or the behaviour of the liurai in relation to the Indonesian occupiers, the influence of the traditional leader and his uma lisan have died out (Tilman 2012: 199-204). For this Timorese observer, ‘[t]he varying results across different suku clearly demonstrate the diversity of approaches that communities are taking in negotiating the continuing importance of lisan, uma lisan, and the liurai, while also adapting to the requirements of liberal democracy’ (Tilman 2012: 204). On the other hand, elections offer important opportunities to reshape community leadership and to incorporate differentiated incentives and motivations, creating a political culture responsive to the dynamics of historical developments (Brown 2012b: 162). In this light, it is important to scrutinize what scholars have come across as factors intervening in the choice of xefe suku apart from the articulation of candidates with customary authorities. First and foremost, a criterion for choice seems to have been the fact that the person in question had a position of leadership before the election. In fact, a significant number of those who were elected as xefe suku in 2004-2005 already held similar position prior to the polls, some of them having been appointed to the job under Indonesian administration. In addition, Timorese seem to pay tribute to those who held positions of responsibility in the resistance struggle. ‘Not only have such people demonstrated leadership skills under very testing conditions and thus were seen as being committed to the community, but they also related symbolically to people’s suffering throughout the period of occupation’ (Gusmão 2012: 184). Similarly, a close association with a resistance party, and in particular with FRETILIN – mainly where there was no open party competition – could be a positive factor operating in the village arena (Brown 2013: 31). This factor should be taken with a grain of salt, as ‘customary leaders who stood for election in 2005 and associated with a particular party in communities with a range of different party loyalties were sometimes discredited through association with the interests of one section of the community rather than with the village as a whole’ (Brown 2013: 31; also Gusmão 2012: 183) – a sentiment that is coherent with the paradoxical espousal of democratic principles and deep-seated distrust for party competition. On the other hand, this form of behaviour might be interpreted as a way of increasing the chances of obtaining resources that were under the control of external powers, to which the party might constitute an important key (Cummins and Leach 2012). The example of suku Bucoli reveals that the elected xefe suku – one of the handful of cases in over 400 elections of an elected woman – was a member

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of FRETILIN, had been a prominent activist in the resistance network, and belonged to the liurai family (Gusmão 2012: 185). This combination of different attributes is testimony to the complex nature of community life that cannot be reduced to an oversimplified vision of endogenous tradition versus exogenous modernity. As José da Costa Magno and António Coa have argued based on their research in several villages across Timor-Leste in recent years, ‘[t]he respect shown to the uma lisan of the liurai together with the clear statement that the monarchical power of the liurai must end, demonstrates the complexity of people’s connections to their culture and their past’ (Magno and Coa 2012: 168). In spite of the resilience of customary forms of political legitimacy, the introduction of an electoral system for the popular choice of xefe suku and other local civilian authorities has touched upon previously established forms of equilibrium, and in particular on the role of liurais, formerly considered sacred and unchangeable. Concurrent with limiting the authority of the liurai, the new system has opened up positions of local authority to sectors of the community who were previously unable to take the post. While we are just beginning to see the results of the change of system, it has given birth to the formation of new local elite groups that now include educated people, rather than preserving local leadership only for liurai landlords and the wealthy. (Santos and Silva 2012: 209)

All is not positive, however, as the same authors recognize that ‘[w]hile it is commonly presumed that the introduction of liberal democratic institutions […] would work against the power of the liurai and promote equality of citizenship, the power that is posed by access to wealth can create new forms of patronage and dependency and serve to promote new elites under new guises’ (Santos and Silva 2012: 212). A paradox of democratic development No doubt exists that Timor-Leste is undergoing a period of intense and rapid transition in which different paradigms of governance, authority and legitimacy are in play (Brown 2013: 6; Trindade 2008: 165). Among the ideas that thrive to find accommodation in the multi-layered political system of the new nation, namely in the process of creating decentralized state institutions, is the concept of democracy. As we have argued in Chapter One, more than a procedural definition of this concept, our goal is to grasp the

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meaning of democracy as a mechanism or system that empowers citizens and communities and renders power-holders accountable and ultimately responsible before constituencies composed of wide popular franchise. This entails that two distinct considerations be taken into account: on the one hand, democratic mechanisms must comply with definitional principles that institute the concept; on the other, they must be understood and articulated with local concepts of legitimacy without which popular participation lacks its fundamental meaning. This problem does not have a simple solution. The original paradox of grassroots democracy is that there seems to be a conflict between socio-political legitimacy in terms of the established patterns of authority and democratic legitimacy in a substantive sense. As Joanne Wallis has noted, ‘[w]hile they are not necessarily democratic, local institutions can be highly legitimate’ (Wallis 2013: 425). For this reason, there can be a ‘significant disjunction between the model and conceptual framework of national government and the values and systems of governance and authority that are socially widespread’ (Brown 2013: 25). These, in turn, entertain a curious relationship with some key elements of modernity, as expressed by an educated businessman from the city of Same, in southern Timor-Leste: We need to maintain traditional practices – indeed, we have to maintain them. Otherwise, what is independence? What were we defending, and what now are we standing on? In our struggle, we defended our land, our culture, our forests; if we don’t now defend our culture, our independence has no roots, no foundations. (Quoted in Brown and Gusmão 2009: 63)

On the other hand, the idea of elections as a tool for choosing leaders seems to be well established as a ‘strongly held symbol of rejection of the oppression of the Indonesian era and an assertion of independence and hope’, a ‘flagbearer of democracy, irrespective of how democracy should be understood’, and their introduction in local political life contributes to offer important opportunities to reshape leadership and create a new political culture responsive to the expressed wishes of community members (Brown 2013: 22; 2012b: 157, 162). It is therefore not a question of opposing endogenous to exogenous factors, as both embryonic notions of democracy and deep-rooted concepts of legitimacy are present within Timorese society. However, the existence of a gulf between structural tenets of Timorese traditional societies and the requirements of modern democratic principles based on the claims of

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citizens to a status of equality is widely acknowledged. The need exists to sustain a de-romanticized idea of traditional society, as if the past would contain a pristine world whose resurrection could fill all the needs for a modern democratic polity. Empowering local communities cannot be equated with simply accepting customary practices, as this would entail ‘feudal’ democracy at best (Hohe 2004b). As Bunte as argued, devolving powers to communities ‘does not automatically serve as a tool to deepen democracy at the sub-national level, and needs to be embedded in institutions that provide working checks and balances against local government misuse of discretionary authority’ (Bunte 2011: 147). A closer look at the articulations between the formal power of the state and the persistence of custom is thus required. Any approach that would result in the restoration of traditional authority without any constraints would likely lead to the reshuffling of an old deck of cards without promoting any substantial alteration of the discriminatory assumptions on which it is based. At best, it would constitute a form of wrapping up the old in new clothes. However, the fact that the most widespread idiom of political legitimacy is tributary to ancient forms of expression cannot be overlooked, and dispensing with it might account to disenfranchisement on a large scale (Brown and Gusmão 2009: 68). As Andrew McWilliam judiciously remarked: It may be one thing to reject or deny a formal role for ‘traditional leaders’ in local systems of governance, a view that probably has significant support in the new political climate of independence and reform, particularly in modernist urban contexts. It is quite another to dismiss the customary relationships and beliefs that have underpinned this system and reproduce it in many rural contexts. (McWilliam 2008: 140)

This approach signifies that there is no necessary inconsistency or contradiction in the act of bestowing an enlarged franchise with the power to use discretion in electoral competition and permit the ascent to power of individuals who may simultaneously hold traditionally inherited rights of leadership, either in a direct way or through community-based negotiations. What really matters in this critical process is that the institutional provisions put in place give an adequate response to the dilemma: either to reinforce the status quo and build upon it so that those who are already strong are further empowered, or to challenge altogether the existing unequal social structures with a new administrative order, as if a bulldozer were deployed to flatten and destroy culturally rich environments. Eventually, there can be

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a middle road in order to enfranchise the vast majority of the population and provide space for their voice to be expressed in the institutions (Chopra and Hohe 2004: 1-2). This means upholding one of the options suggested by Alex Gusmão, the one that posits the necessity to ‘hold elections but integrate elements of customary legitimacy more openly in the process’ (Gusmão 2012: 189), that is, giving time for an indigenous paradigm to subsist and gradually evolve in articulation with the establishment of modern institutions. Notice should be made that local features are to be taken at their own value rather than as a subsidiary to the Western civil society imaginary (Richmond 2011: 117). As Michael Leach and his colleagues have argued in the case of the construction of national identity, the emerging solution that overcomes the visible distinctions prevailing in the Timorese society does not necessarily need to foster homogeneity, but must produce ‘a sustained consensus on shared civil goals and tolerance of heterogeneity’ (Leach et al. 2013b: 3). The principle of pluralism rather than homogeneity is central to the idea of democratic decentralization (Kingsbury 2010a: 39). Reverting to Max Weber’s famous classification of legitimacy, a modern democratic polity in Timor-Leste, although it postulates the primacy of legal-rational mechanisms, cannot avoid forms of legitimacy based on the community’s cultural life nor personal legitimacy derived from the individuals’ own capacities, reputation and life history (Pereira and Koten 2012: 225). To an extent, this has been pursued in Timor-Leste in the process of establishing village leadership. At this level, what remains to be done is the transformation of community institutions into local branches of the state administration, provided with clear mandates and well-defined areas of intervention, with adequate and transparent resourcing of those competences. So far, xefes suku ‘find themselves organizing road maintenance, planning for water and irrigation, enforcing local rules on use of common land, including forests, and settling local disputes that depend on their good will’, and yet their activities ‘are not planned nor resourced through the state budget’, and their capacity to take decisive action in matters that pertain to the state administration is null. Only available to them is the capacity to ‘appeal to ministry officials in the country’s capital for their sucos resources’ (Ragragio and Everett 2009). The poor definition of the konsellu suku competences has undermined the quality of local decisionmaking and impaired the development at village level (Wallis 2013: 434). This leaves ample room for improvement and reform that could enhance the ownership of the political process in the hands of local citizens. The process of creation of intermediate, regional-level institutions is running behind schedule, and it will have to confront, although in a

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different manner, the dilemma of satisfying installed elites and applying nationally adopted criteria that disregard traditional authority, or to face the need to promote an articulation between modern forms of the state and customary ideas of political legitimacy. The choice may be hidden in technical jargon of decentralization, but the issue far surpasses the mere administrative sphere and invades the core of the process of democratic consolidation in Timor-Leste (Shoesmith 2010a: 21). As noted by Anne Brown, ‘recognizing the operation of local customary governance processes and value, […] and building avenues for constructive interaction between them and state structures is part of seeing local societies and people as not merely recipients of a state-building project, but as central to political community and co-enactors of the state’ (Brown 2010: 44). Some considerations on the implications of this choice are thus appropriate if one is to move beyond the impact of watching pleasant shells and getting close to the substantive contents they hold.

Finale: Looking back and forth Democratic nation-building is a political process of social struggle. – Selver B. Sahin (2012: 224)

Despite the fact that it possesses a strong and comfortable constitutional mandate to sustain its inception and development, a feature that some successful contemporary cases could not mobilize (Smoke 2005: 29), the process of decentralization and creation of a democratic multi-layered state in Timor-Leste has progressed little in the first ten years after independence. One might rescue the words of Fernanda Borges, a much respected MP (2007-2012) who presided over the Parliamentary Committee A in charge of political and institutional affairs, according to whom so much ‘has been achieved in reaching a consensus that we need time to understand [this] issue better’ while asserting the continuation in the house of ‘political goodwill to decentralize and establish local government’ (Borges 2010: vi-vii). Xanana Gusmão presenting the program of the Fifth Constitutional Government before the National Parliament in 2012 reiterated his intention to pursue this reform. Only this time, perhaps reflecting a more realistic approach that draws lessons from previous optimistic views, he could not promise more than this: ‘My government will introduce a new level of municipal government, with the objective of establishing between three

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and five municipalities before the end of the current legislature’ (República Democrática de Timor-Leste – Presidencia do Conselho de Ministros 2012: 14; see also point 4.4.9 of the same document). In fact, after a decade of discussions, no positive step has been made in the process of actually establishing new state units to perform midlevel functions between the central state and the local communities, or to integrate in the state administration the governance units operating at village level, even if the government has kept producing a vast array of draft bills and other projects (Amaral 2013). As Vicente Maia and his colleagues have argued, in Timor-Leste one can observe the persistence of ‘a multi tier hierarchy with large accountability gaps between community and state authorities’ (2012: 10), as the fundamental building blocks of the administration are directly inherited from previous historical experiences – all characterized by centralist principles. As for the newly created institutions at village level, the konsellu suku, they ‘lack the legal authority to generate revenue from taxes or other sources, pass local ordinances, procure goods or services, or establish formal cooperation mechanisms with other suco councils’ (Maia et al. 2012: 10). In brief, the reform of the public administration according to decentralizing principles mandated by the constitution, and the process of democratic state-building at sub-national level has not taken off the ground. Hypothesis on an aborted reform No comprehensive attempt has been made – to the best of my knowledge – at reflecting on the underlying causes that may explain the aborted take off of the decentralization reform. Even if one agrees with White and Smoke that ‘decentralization is a process, not an event’ (2005: 4) which can take several forms ranging from a ‘big bang’ operation to a gradual or incremental form (Bardhan and Mookherjee 2006: 32; White and Smoke 2005: 6), the contrast between the constitutional mandate and the absence of palpable results one decade after independence calls for an explanation (Wallis 2013: 433). In fact, ‘local government reform has been considered by the government, development partners and the public as one of the most radical reforms of the public administration that Timor-Leste has ever had’ (Ximenes 2010: 9), and the meagre results are a significant disappointment for promoters of democratic policies. Several hypotheses have been suggested that deserve a critical appraisal. First and foremost, there is the question of the capacity to develop a new form of state (Amaral 2013), which is articulated with the perceived

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lack of resources, financial and human. Shoesmith acknowledged that the postponement of the process decided in 2010 was due to the fact that ‘the government […] came to the view that human and physical resources for operating municipalities were not ready’ (Shoesmith 2010a: 24). The underlying assumption of this thesis is that a centralized state is less expensive to run both in terms of human capacity and financial resources. This is an unproved assertion. Decentralization does not necessarily imply the establishment of newly added governance units, which might be a real burden, but rather that the intergovernmental system reverses the arrow of accountability from the established upward model prevailing under centralist principles to a downward format compatible with the involvement of citizens in the control of the decision-making process. A decentralized state can be built upon already existing governance units (Wallis 2013: 425) and be neutral in terms of personnel costs and financial means available to discharge its functions. It is also true that as far as financial resources are concerned, the country witnessed a very favourable evolution in the first decade after independence that undermines the original alleged rationale for centralization, that is, the presumptive greater efficiency of central planning in a scenario of severe shortages. The Timorese government has acknowledged the new reality and promoted three large programs of economic decentralization – the Pakote Referendum (2009), the Pakote Dezenvolvimentu Dezentralizasaun (2010) and the Programa Dezenvolvimentu Dezentralizadu (2011) – signalling the importance of public investment being spread over the entire country (Wallis 2013: 434). However, direct management of these programs was firmly kept in the hands of the deconcentrated units of what remained a centralized administration, allowing only for consultative roles for the local governance bodies (Akmeemana 2013). In this sense, the Timorese practice seems to contradict an established assumption according to which ‘[t]he decision to pursue decentralization is largely political, with the underlying economic rationale secondary, if not marginal’ (Campos and Hellman 2005: 237). Finally, a cost-benef it analysis which would assist in determining whether the reform could produce efficient results, would always have to take in due consideration the intangible benefits that may be offered by decentralization, including enhanced democratization and political participation, as well as the growing ownership of the development process obtained by the population at large (Wallis 2013: 439). The crude arguments presented so far indicate that this has not been the case. A second argument intending to explain the failure of the decentralization reform pertains to the political will of the elite that is deemed necessary

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for the success of this venture. Dennis Shoesmith has voiced this hypothesis and concluded that ‘the political will to implement a successful democratic program of reform involving a real transfer of powers’ is just not there (Shoesmith 2010a: 20). In these circumstances, failure should be expected from ‘attempts to correct the preoccupation with the centre and to recognize the critical need to include the “periphery” in state-building’ (Shoesmith 2010b: 2). The central issue of the political will is also underlined by Saturnino Amaral (2013), a Timorese who has had responsibilities in the whole process. This line of argument evokes a paradox, inasmuch as the decision to include decentralization as a constitutional precept in the first instance and to place this reform on every single government program has been conducted by the very same political elite that is now deemed to lack the will to honour its own creature. No external pressure was exerted on the constitutional process, as discussed above (Chapter Three), and a fair degree of discretion was available to the Timorese politicians. It is hard to argue that there has been any significant form of discontinuity over time, even though it is conceivable that not a great deal of attention was dedicated to this issue in the context of a vast debate on the main structures of the country that were decided upon in view of a very extended deadline for their implementation. In fact, ‘the articles in the draft constitution that referred to decentralization and local government do not appear to have drawn any objections’ (Farram 2010: 4) – and they still avoid being openly challenged. The idea that for a decentralization reform to succeed, a clear coalition of will is necessary in order to conceive it and to guide its implementation (Bunte 2011: 146) stresses precisely the importance of continuity, which does not seem to default in Timor-Leste. In this sense, this argument fails to do complete justice to the nature of the problem. My own suggestion is centred on the role of the bureaucratic class that forms the backbone of the public administration. In the wake of the Referendum in 1999, the public administration set in place by the Indonesians suffered a severe shock when more than 7,000 civil servants left the country. About one-fourth of all civil servants were of Indonesian origin, but they represented almost 60% of the top levels of the administration. For instance, only 2 out of 13 bupatis (district leaders) were Timorese, and 58% of ‘grade 4’ (i.e., top ranking) officials came from across the border (United Nations 2000: 93). The decapitation of this apparatus was followed by UNTAET intervention that streamlined services, before they were allowed to grow again after independence. Two factors are to be considered: first, the departure of a large contingent of Indonesian public servants opened up opportunities for the Timorese to find employment, as new jobs

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became available mainly for those who had risen in the educational ladder, and promotions could be offered to those who had practical experience in a country so poor in human resources; secondly, the culture of a centralist administration did not depart with those who abandoned their posts. Rather, the main aspects of a rigidly hierarchical and in some respects authoritarian culture, bred in Indonesian times over layers of colonial rule not far from espousing similar principles, remained the dominant model. The UNTAET administration, during which ‘[t]he country was like a “social laboratory” and the lives of almost a million people were the objects of experiments, […] forced to swallow different modern ideas and concepts without giving them appropriate time to digest them properly’ (Trindade 2008: 163) could not f ind a magical solution to circumvent this legacy. All those who found ways to secure a job or to upgrade their labour conditions in the public administration were committed to a set of values and prejudices that shape a deep-seated conception of the correct and legitimate behaviour – even if in some cases what is perceived to be righteous falls within internationally accepted definitions of corruption, a relevant feature of the Indonesian system. In this sense, it can be argued that in the wake of an earthquake that shook the foundation of the administrative building, this was rebuilt according to the very same structural plan. The new holders of positions in the public sector had little or no incentive to embark in a reform that ultimately could threaten the roots of their acquired power. New literate and urbanized groups that in general have risen above the social situation of their parents are not the main candidates to contemplate a reform that devolves power away from their equals to the hands of citizens as a whole. The literature has often portrayed similar instances as a win/win situation in which increased devolution enhances both the communities and those in a position of power that come to control larger resources. However, this can also be perceived as a zero-sum game in which the increased power of citizens is matched by a diminished power of the administration. As Marco Bunte has remarked, successful decentralization reforms involve actively each country’s bureaucracies and only when these happen to be mobilized in favour of the reforms can their chances of success be positive (Bunte 2011: 131-132). In this light, we can return to Dennis Shoesmith and concur that ‘[e]ffective decentralization will require a change in the prevalent political culture’ (2010b: 5) not only among the ruling elite but more broadly in significant sectors of the public administration. The next section discusses some of the fundamental choices that are now before the Timorese reformers.

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Anticipating future developments If the process of democratic state-building at sub-national level is to be understood as more than a technical exercise of grafting modern forms of political legitimacy to hitherto existing units of the deconcentrated central administration dispersed at different levels through the country, but rather implying a process of empowerment of citizens, some hard choices have to be made in the near future. Democratization of a centralized and mostly unaccountable apparatus ‘far from being an objective and neutral procedural undertaking, is inherently a power-driven process by which state power is renegotiated amongst a variety of competing social interests struggling to have a say in the distribution and uses of the sources of wealth’ (Sahin 2011: 224). Democracy can only be sustained if guarantees are given for the inclusion, participation and contestation of citizens of all conditions in the political process so that the established system may respond to their preferences. The principle of inclusion is not merely formal, and it entails a combat against de facto instances of exclusion, even if rooted in customary practices. On the other hand, procedural mechanisms of democracy must be in tune with the cultural perceptions of legitimate participation. These objectives are not socially neutral, and imply negotiations. For democracy to thrive, consensus must be reached on critical aspects. On the one hand, one needs a definition of the character of the political community, be it the central state or its local or intermediate branches. This is mostly achieved through the means of institutional design, and can often appear under the guise of a technical exercise. However, institutions cannot dispense roots in the society in which they are supposed to operate. On the other hand, the socio-cultural units that compose each country must be understood and cared for. It is significantly different to acknowledge the self-organization of a given population than to impose upon its members an artificial division of the territory even if based on rational and abstract sets of criteria. For citizenship to flourish, no doubt should subsist about a simple question: which community (or communities) does each citizen belong to? Of course, the answer needs not be just one, as several layers of identity can coexist. Michael Leach and his colleagues have provided a valuable contribution to our perception of the concurring levels of identity from an analysis of tertiary students’ attitudes – a group that could be regarded as biased towards more urban and modern values than the whole of the Timorese population. Their results suggest that the most significant level of identity is provided by the nation, followed by the option on the other

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extreme – the village of origin. Intermediate levels of territorial division received significantly less weight, with the sub-districts clearly ahead of the districts, which was the least mentioned of all territorial units (Leach et al. 2013b: 10). These results strongly suggest that a participatory process of democratic state-building at sub-national level should consider moving upward from the village to the sub-district to the district and establish firm models of downward accountability. In fact, a convergence must be obtained between what we have just termed the political community and the socio-cultural community. No serious reform can avoid equating the contributions and requirements that both of them may present. Adequate instruments should be developed to operate at territorial levels that have multiple layers of signification for their citizens in view of integrating modern political life in the diverse socio-cultural landscape of the nation. Failure to articulate these competing requirements may lead to a situation in which the country experiences a combination of local administrative mechanisms capable of operating independently from the state in accordance with principles of traditional authority and the presence of an externally imposed modern state technically structured and bureaucratically managed but mostly divorced from the sectors of the population which it is supposed to serve and facing severe difficulties in engaging citizenship (Leach et al. 2013b: 3). In broad terms, this is a picture of current-day Timor-Leste. Senhor Barreto, a xefe suku who came all the way from his distant village to Dili to take part in the public debate about decentralization reform, expressed the nature of this dilemma by saying: ‘It is a matter of whether the people will rule the state or the state will rule the people’ (quoted in Ragragio and Everett 2009). Also, it should be noticed that acknowledging cultural pluralism, including the persistence of territorially centred autochthonous institutions, without proper political representation can lead directly to a dysfunctional situation in which their voice is deviated from the common endeavour of nation-building (Leach et al. 2013b: 20-21). A second condition for the emergence and consolidation of democratic polity refers to the nature of the basic social units. A proposal has been made by Selver B. Sahin to distinguish between two archetypal forms of community – ‘ethnic’ and ‘civic’. What distinguishes ‘civic’ communities from ‘ethnic’ ones is the degree to which they allow individuals to participate and be integrated in the common public sphere regardless of race, colour, religion, gender or other culturally defined means of exclusion. In brief, ‘ethnic’ communities are based on exclusionary principles, whereas ‘civic’ communities are rooted in inclusiveness (Sahin 2011: 228).

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In the real world, these two sorts of communities are often mixed. Democracy as a form of empowerment of citizens deemed to be equal before the law requires a maximum of ‘civic’ community spirit to develop, and that ‘ethnic’ features be significantly restrained. This approach is not incompatible with the recognition of Timorese cultural forms of territorial organization – nor is it compatible with romanticizing the nature of customary forms of governance and surrendering efforts to reform them. This is the great challenge now before the people of Timor-Leste if their democratic regime is to reign in all corners of the country.

Epilogue After 2012: New challenges to the consolidation of Democracy On 1 January 2013, Timor-Leste initiated a march on its own feet alone. The United Nations Integrated Mission in Timor-Leste (UNMIT), the last of the special missions which started in 1999, as well as the International Stabilization Force (ISF) convened in the wake of the 2006 crisis, departed then, heralding a new phase in this new nation’s political life. The country has responded positively to this relevant change and maintains a stable political situation. The fact that in 2012 Timor-Leste organized presidential and legislative elections considered free and fair and to comply with international standards, symbolizing the regular functioning of democratic institutions, reinforced the country’s legitimacy to fully dispose of political autonomy. As Damien Kingsbury has noted, meaningful elections capable of producing alterations in the orientation of the country seem to have been incorporated in the popular culture and became equated with ‘lulik’ (sacred) rituals (Kingsbury 2014b). Democratic practices are thus incorporated in traditional political values, a dimension that is often overlooked by the proponents of the ‘clash of paradigms’ theory. A clear symbol of this evolution can be grasped in the vivid images of citizens emerging from the polling booths and proudly exhibiting their ink-marked fingers as proof of their participation in the electoral process, discharging a community service. However, the apparent stability of the country in the recent past cannot be equated with the consolidation of democracy or the absence of serious challenges to the way the political regime responds to popular demands and delivers tangible outcomes. As Robert Elgie put it, Timor-Leste enjoys a stable but not yet consolidated democratic regime (Elgie 2011b). At this point, we should return to the four items discussed in the last section of Chapter Two, and briefly review their importance. The first one was the need to allow the country enough time to develop a sequence of policies destined to foster democracy. Ten years is a reasonable frame, and the obvious conclusion is that a long road has been travelled – but the end is not yet in sight. Both Rustow (1970), who suggested a time frame of one generation, and Schmitter and Santiso (1998), who posited at least three legislatures, assert the need to be patient and allow for a longer period than the one Timor has had so far.

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Our second point was ownership of the process. In part, ownership was entrusted to the Timorese in 2002 – but not in all fields. As we shall see later in this section, the judicial system is a case in point, as it remained mostly in the hands of foreign cooperants. But in political terms the presence of the UN was also a constant, albeit in a supportive role, until 31 December 2012. In the realm of internal security the crisis of 2006 made it necessary to invite a new force to the country which had a significant presence up to the end of 2012. Full ownership of the process is still pending, and its completion will be a hallmark of success when it finally becomes established. In the meantime, this is one of the factors preventing democracy from obtaining full consolidation. The third item in the agenda was inclusiveness. I maintain that TimorLeste performed well in this respect. On the one hand, the country adopted proportional representation, which enables minorities to hold positions in the political world, thus contributing to establish an inclusive polity. On the other, the performance of the first two Presidents of the Republic, aiming not to be prisoners of the majority/minority divide in the legislature, also contributed to fostering a sense of a ‘common house’ for Timorese democracy and enhanced the prospects for its consolidation. In should be stressed that the third President of the Republic, Taur Matan Ruak, has so far placed the first half of his mandate in line with the legacy of his predecessors. The last issue to be discussed is control, that is, the extent to which citizens are given actual means to influence the decision-making process. The start was slow, as the electoral legislation took a long time before being enacted in parliament (in late 2006), preventing an eventual dissolution of the legislature at the time of the crisis. From the elections of 2007, it is clear that Timorese citizens disposed of actual institutional means to influence the government – and they have used these means since, bringing in substantial changes in a peaceful way. It is now established both among the political elite and the people as a whole that major decisions pertain to the citizenry by means of elections, and all major stakeholders abide by this precept, which is critical to the consolidation of democracy. Apart from the considerations above, Timor-Leste faces several challenges to its young democracy. Among the myriad of pertinent challenges to democratic consolidation and the improvement of its performance, I shall refer to four aspects in the purely political arena: the generational turnover, the relationship between prosperity and democracy, the mandatory constitutional reform supposed to produce a decentralized state administration, and the necessity to enhance very seriously the judicial capacity in order to secure the rule of law.

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Generational turnover The last presidential elections offered a glimpse into the ongoing generational turnover. The incumbent president, Ramos-Horta, a leading member of the ‘Generation of 1975’ (those who came of age in the last phase of Portuguese colonialism, which includes names such as Xanana Gusmão, Mari Alkatiri, Mário Carrascalão) was barred from the second round by two candidates who were teenagers at that point. This highlights the onset of a process of generational turnover, as the most relevant political positions have consistently remained in the hands of the elder generation. In early 2015, Xanana gave a significant boost to this process when he resigned his premiership mid-term, signalling that the time was ripe for the new generation to take over at the highest level. His successor, Rui Maria de Araújo (born 1964), is indeed a member of the ‘Gerasaun Foun’ (New Generation) who commands the explicit approval of the old guard or ‘Gerasaun Tuan’ (Feijó, 2015). Timor-Leste is a complex and paradoxical case. The typical case of generation turnover associated with transitions from authoritarianism considers that when the generation that negotiated the political change gives way to a new one, the latter emerges fully socialized in democratic politics and formatted to operate within the system – not to challenge or discuss its merits once again. This generally means that democracy has been consolidated and in most cases has become ‘the only game in town’. In Timor-Leste, a country in which different notions of political legitimacy – in the classical sense of Max Weber (1947) – concur to create a complex landscape, a critical element in the rooting of democracy was the espousal of democratic principles by a strong charismatic leader. Charismatic and legal-rational legitimacy merged to produce a democratic polity. When the charismatic leader steps aside, what will become of his legacy? The question is further amplified by the fact that the members of the generation of which Xanana is a leading and persuasive member, and which broadly accommodated to his vision, are rapidly coming to the end of their politically active lives (Ramos-Horta has been performing international duties for the UN, Mário Carrascalão no longer leads his PSD, the replacement of Alkatiri as leader of FRETILIN is expected to take place in the next congress before the general elections). In parallel with those who espouse the current democratic system, worrying signs are discernible in Dili. First, several ‘siren songs’ can be heard – ones along the path of ‘Asian values’, others putting specific emphasis on ‘Timorese values’, both supposed to diverge from the standard democratic ethos viewed by many as a ‘foreign imposition’. The defeat of

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Ramos-Horta in the first round of the 2012 presidential election has been read as a signal of the Timorese fatigue with an internationally driven agenda, and the two candidates that made it to the final round converged in praising ‘Timorese values’ and the need to bring them to a more prominent place in the political arena. The fact that both of them had long experience in the home fronts of the Resistance suggests that this factor remains a major element in the recruitment of new political actors and offers a basis for some form of continuity. But the emphasis on genuine ‘national’ values can be read to imply a critique of the ‘imported’ institutions associated with international cooperation. The odds are that democratic institutions prove to be sufficiently plastic to accommodate emerging trends, although they may need to be reconfigured. In this light, the possibility of revising the constitution – a possibility contemplated in its provisions – may be contemplated, if not during the current legislature, most likely after the next round of elections in which competing actors may formally present some ideas that have been floating around for some time. Second, the role of the military in political life is open to question. It should be recalled here that the military claim a strong line of continuity from the clandestine guerrilla struggle, which was critical in keeping the flame of the Resistance alive and creating the conditions that eventually led to the proclamation of independence, and the military (and political) foundations of the new nation. In a sense, the military are vested with ‘revolutionary legitimacy’ derived from their important role in the liberation struggle, in which they kept a united front which combined with the emergence of different (and rival) political forces. All leading figures in the armed forces root their hold on power in their time as guerrilla commanders. The overwhelming value of national unity, which the military claim to interpret better than anyone else, is a critical element in this scenario. For this reason, the discourse of national unity that often goes hand in hand with the recrimination of politicians for artificially dividing the people and pursuing particular interests can easily be amplified when a towering figure of the size of Xanana steps aside. So far, the will of the military to intervene in the political arena has been confined within the limits of the constitutional order, as the 2012 election of Brigadier General Taur Matan Ruak as president shows. But some signs suggest that among the military there are aspirations to a more prominent role. On the one hand, with the rise in prosperity derived from the exploration of natural resources, the military has been eager to claim a larger share of the budget, including a substantial increase that would result from the introduction of general military conscription for all youth,

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as advocated by President Taur Matan Ruak, and from ‘modernizing’ the equipment at their disposal. On the other, they have been rapid to respond to what is perceived as a lack of capacity of the civilian authorities to deal with security issues. For instance, in the wake of street disturbances that marked the aftermath of the legislative elections in 2012, the military commander did not hesitate to appear on national television and set the terms for the restoration of peace, threatening the intervention of the armed forces. This move was widely regarded as a high-profile intervention on the brink of conflict with the government. Will the military’s appetite for an increased role in the political arena be circumscribed by the constitutional provisions? Or will it lay claim to a new role that has marred some other developing countries, as we witnessed in Africa or in Latin America in the 1970s and 1980s?

Prosperity and democracy Timor-Leste, while remaining among the poorest countries in Southeast Asia, according to the World Bank, is endowed with natural resources that have been translated in the very rapid growth of its Petroleum Fund. However, the consequent rise of nominal GDP per capita is not a panacea, and the relationships between prosperity and democracy are far from universally positive. The literature on economic development is rich on the issue of what has been labelled the ‘resources curse’, which is an expression of the paradox of plenty: countries and regions with an abundance of natural resources – especially non-renewable resources – tend to have worse outcomes in development than countries with more balanced resource structures. It is often the case that an internal conflict grows in which different groups compete for their share of revenues, increasing social pressure on governments to function effectively, as well as generating new opportunities for the level of corruption to grow and a tendency for a capture of the state administration by private interests to surface (Schiener). The relationship of this problem with the adoption of a democratic regime is evident from available indices. If some assumptions of the modernization theory imply that an increase in the level of economic development increases the likelihood of the establishment of democratic polities, examples abound of less positive alternative paths. Using the listings of the wealthiest countries of the world measured by their GDP per capita (in Purchasing Power Parities), both the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund show in the top places countries that are long-established democracies (Luxemburg,

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Norway, United States) alongside countries that derive a great deal of their wealth from non-renewable natural resources and have authoritarian regimes, like Qatar or Brunei. A glimpse at the political regimes of the OPEC countries also reveals that many oil producing nations tend to have worse ratings in the Freedom House index than Timor-Leste. This country is highly dependent on oil and gas revenues, ‘strongly exhibits the characteristics of a rentier state, in which the state is the prime intermediary between the oil and gas sector and the rest of the economy’, which in turn ‘has fostered a small, urbanized, potentially fragile commercial middle class highly dependent on government infrasteucture and construction development contracts’ (Barbara et al 2015: 14) A major challenge for the new nation is thus to manage its wealth in line with democratic precepts. Two key aspects of this endeavour are the fight against poverty and the construction of a welfare state – which has been pursued by the generous funding of the ministries of education and health, as well as by the creation of the ministry for solidarity and the expansion of pension schemes – and the development of an ‘economic civil society’. Both processes will impact the regime’s capacity to strengthen its own basis and solidify democracy. In order to implement this programme, two polar conceptions may be adopted. Timor-Leste may chose clearly defined procedures, institutionally framed and validated through the rule of law. This would promote equity and equal opportunities, and the state would be regarded as a moral figure. An opposite choice could be made to rely on ad hoc policies, individual negotiation between the state and private agents, privileging personal ties over institutional norms. Such an approach would create confusion as to the role of the state, generate dependency on social and economic actors vis-à-vis those in power, and foster clienteles more than satisfy social needs. Neopatrimonialism and corruption would be the inevitable conclusion of this path. One example that comes to mind is that of the ‘Veterans’ and the generous pension scheme that the government has implemented. In the state budget for 2013, no less than US$96 million were allocated to this purpose, which is the fastest-growing item in public spending, outperforming both health and education – two areas in which the country needs to make serious investments if it is to overcome the dire needs revealed by the UNDP Human Development Index – and therefore having a major impact on the relationship between the state and its citizens, since it touches tens of thousands of families (La’o Hamutuk 2013). A few problems are raised by this scheme, one of which is the transparency in the determination of those

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entitled to benefit from its provisions. The actual process of ascertaining those who participated in the long struggle of a quarter century, and the acknowledgement of the degree of their involvement, which is the basis for their entitlement, is rumoured to be prone to abuses and manipulations. This is easy to understand when political rivalries are vividly present and pertain to the very history of the Resistance movement, lacking the existence of a clearly defined set of upheld procedures that may exist only in the letter of the law. Another example of generous use of financial resources is the ambitious programme of decentralized investments, which has been implemented in recent years. One of those schemes was the Pakote Referendum (Referendum Package) (2009) – replicated in subsequent years in much the same vein – which absorbed US$70 million destined to provide investment in infrastructures mostly in the country’s rural districts. Instead of basing contracts on a widely publicized public tender scheme, the government opted for an ad hoc management of those contracts, arguing with the need to address the needs of national companies which might face difficulties in an open competition as well as favouring the ‘veterans’, and the result has been considered ‘a glaring example of wasteful, uncontrolled, impetus spending’ (La’o Hamutuk 2009). Political patronage seems to have been the main force behind the distribution of contracts. Similar schemes are said to have been in operation in the case of the construction of the ‘Garden of Heroes’ in Metinaro, and in the district-based smaller-scale replicas of this national cemetery destined to honour those who fell for their country. At present, Timor-Leste seems to be at the crossroads. In a greatly unfavourable regional and historical context, the perception of corruption is increasingly worse. The 2014 Corruption Perception Index, a major international index in this field, rates Timor-Leste at 28 points, down from 33 in 2012 (Transparency International 2014). This figure is in line with Indonesia, rated at 32 points (in this index, 0 represents the most corrupt, 100 the less so), and compares with other countries in a region where corruption is rampant. If it is undeniable that the Anti-Corruption Commission is operating in Timor-Leste, and the judicial system passes condemnations (including the high-profile former Minister of Justice, Lúcia Lobato), the frequency of cases brought before the public suggests an unacceptably high level of endemic corruption. The casuistic dependency of society in relation to those who happen to be in power, rather that the deployment of sound rules, is venom for a healthy civil society that democracy requires to thrive. The recent upgrade of the Court of Auditors with the ensuing increased capacity to uphold clearly defined and institutionalized procedures is a

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step in the right direction. However, it still must compete with a political culture that is permeable to ways of performing public duties that conflict with the rule of law. It is not uncommon to hear voices saying ‘We have won the elections and this is the time for us to do things our way, and to pay our supporters. When others win the general elections, it will be their time’ (interview with a businessman supporter of the current majority, May 2013). Comments such as these suggest a candid justification of patronage as the basic language in the relations between government and civil society.

Grassroots democracy: Building a decentralized state The third challenge to the consolidation of democracy in Timor-Leste is the process of building a decentralized state. The relevance of this endeavour has recently been recognized by Xanana Gusmão, who spoke of it as ‘the second Maubere miracle’, one that will be spread over a long period of time that may go beyond one generation (Pereira 2014). Two independent reasons concur to render the decentralization reform critical to the fate of Timorese democracy. On the one hand, there is a clear constitutional mandate to build a decentralized administration including institutions of local power. As such, the constitutional architecture is conceived as being formed by several pillars entertaining ‘interdependent’ relations in such a way that its the overall stability of the institutions rests upon the converging contribution of each one of them – including the organs of local power. In other words, the full scope of horizontal accountability will only be completed when the organs of local power are fully established and operational. The constitutional mandate entails a vision that goes beyond a mere administrative construction, and conveys the need to establish and develop a social contract between society at large and the institutions of governance. Without this, one might end up building a hollow or phantom state whose governing institutions might be endowed with material resources but lack the necessary social legitimation (Lemay-Hébert 2012). On the other hand, ever since the First Constitutional Government of Mari Alkatiri produced the first official documents stating the goals of this reform that three goals have emerged in prominent position: to promote the institutions of a strong, legitimate and stable state across the territory; to promote opportunities for local democratic participation by citizens; and to promote more effective, efficient and equitable public service delivery (Local Government Options Study [LGOS]). This makes

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it clear that a close relation exists between the proposed administrative reform and the consolidation of democracy, both by enlarging the scope of political institutions that are governed by democratic principles and by offering increased opportunities for citizens to participate in the decisionmaking process, namely in matters pertaining to their local communities. In brief, this reform is supposed to contribute to make democracy both more representative and more participative. The decentralization reform has been on the Timorese political agenda since independence, but so far only the most timid of steps have been taken. Two points of clarification should be inserted at this stage. First, decentralization reforms have been defended on different grounds, namely on the basis of an alleged greater effectiveness of public administration, and on account of the increased political legitimacy that it is supposed to generate. Only the second sort of reasons will be considered here. Secondly, the concept of decentralization recovers a vast array of practical situations that can be summarized in three models: deconcentration, delegation and finally devolution, which refers to those situations in which the central authorities transfer authority to lower-level units that normally dispose of clear geographical boundaries over which they exercise authority and within which they perform public functions, and whose members are accountable to their citizens. In terms of the impact of a decentralization process upon democratic performance, devolution is by far the most heavily charged of all those variants – and thus it is the one we might expect to see emerging in Timor-Leste. The emergence of a strong local administration based on the principle of subsidiarity would be congruent with the social dimensions of the Catholic Church in the territory given the importance of Catholic social theorists such a Oswald von Nell-Breuning in formulating such views. In the course of the years since independence, different solutions have been adopted regarding sukus and the other sub-national units. From 2004, elections have been staged for what has been labelled ‘lideranças comunitárias’ (community leadership) (2004-2005, 2009). Rules have been designed and revised to frame the electoral process, and a substantial step in the direction of allocating xefes suku and konsellus suku specific functions has been taken by the 2009 bill. However, the most salient feature of village politics is that these institutions remain outside the realm of the state, being merely recognized as organs of self-rule destined to accomplish customary functions. In this light, it is not surprising that no allocation of state funds has been made on a regular basis, only grants decided at higher levels being at the disposal of local leaders for small investments.

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As for the mid-level institutions, from 2003 Alkatiri’s government opted for a model that would transform sub-districts into the main units, under the aegis of a few ‘provinces’. The number of municipalities would be reduced, implying a substantial alteration of the composition of the new units. The Fourth Constitutional Government of Xanana Gusmão revised this option and became inclined to transform the existing 13 districts into the novel municipalities, eliminating the sub-district level. Curiously, the district level is the one that fewer Timorese regard as a significant unit of identification, and has little more than administrative significance devoid of any articulation with autochthonous systems of legitimacy (that to a certain extent are still visible in the sub-districts which are the heirs of historical reinos) (Leach et al. 2013b). This option was coupled with the idea of holding elections in 2009, later moved to 2010, before being postponed for sometime after the legislative polls of 2012. The program of the Fifth Constitutional Government only went as far as to promise that a pilot experience be developed in three to five municipalities before the end of the legislature in 2017 – and it was replaced by the Sixth Constitutional Government in early 2015 without any sound step in that direction. More important seems to be the intention of the government to proceed with what it calls the ‘pre-deconcentration’ program. The formulation of this program is recent, and was thoroughly exposed by the former prime minister early in 2014. The main suggestion arising out of this new approach is that the decentralization reform that has been in the making for so long will be conceived in conservative terms emphasizing deconcentration over any other meaning, namely devolution, and that the time frame for its deployment has increased ‘up to one hundred years’ (Pereira 2014). A critical new figure is the ‘district manager’ who represents central government at district level, is empowered with substantial competences, is recruited as a public servant in view of his curriculum vitae, and forfeits any relation to locally held notions of political legitimacy. If this vision becomes the blueprint for the reform, a very modest process of decentralization will surface. Little or no devolution will be implied in the process, and thus its impact on democratic performance cannot be expected to be high. In the meantime, a widespread, grassroots foundation of the modern state will wait to be developed.

The judicial system When independence was proclaimed on 20 May 2002, the Timorese were able to install a newly elected President of the Republic, to turn the elected Constituent Assembly (totally composed of nationals of this country) into

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the National Parliament, and to see an all-Timorese government under the leadership of Mari Alkatiri be sworn in. An important number of positions in the organs of national sovereignty were thus entrusted to Timorese citizens, as one would have expected in an independent country. However, in the realm of the judicial system, the continuous presence of foreign citizens occupying prominent places, namely as judges in all levels of courts, signified the persistence of some form of dependency on external cooperation. Ten years after independence, this form of dependency has not shown significant signs of subsiding, in spite of all efforts devoted to the formation of national judges. To a large extent, a critical sovereign function remains in the hands of foreign cooperants to the dismay of many Timorese. The confusion of a legal system which combines legislation inherited from the colonial era, the Indonesian occupation, and modern initiatives is complicated by the fact that the court system operates in what is for many a foreign language (as many judges are not competent in Tetum or any other native language), thus underlying a significant gulf between the judicial realm and the world of common citizens. In this context, many Timorese fail to understand the formal legal system and tend to deny it the necessary legitimacy to be effective. The Fifth Constitutional Government has placed high on its agenda the aim to replace foreign magistrates by local citizens, and assume ownership of the judicial system as a whole. The process, however, has proved to be difficult to implement, not least because the conditions so far offered to foreign judges are very competitive and they fear the loss of what was regarded as a secure job, resisting the necessary changes. In late 2014, the government, with the backing of National Parliament, took hostile measures destined to remove some foreign judges, which met with criticism of independent observers and the staunch opposition of the group involved and their supporters. These include the official higher body regulating the appointment of judges. However, the sacked judges could not muster the support of public opinion, which on the whole did not mobilize in their favour. The official reason for the move referred to their inability to deal with important court cases in which the position of the Timorese authorities was not upheld, and some oil companies were not found in breach of tax payments, an expectation fuelled by foreign legal experts consulted by the government. Rumour had it that those judges were related to the investigation of corruption cases involving senior politicians due to appear in court in the weeks after their dismissal. Both sets of reasons point to one critical fact: a country cannot uphold its sovereignty if it is not capable of sustaining a judicial system mostly based on its own citizens which can

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command their allegiance. For this reason, the ownership of the judicial system became a critical element in the consolidation of the constitutional provisions regarding the courts of law. It will certainly evolve over the next few years, as the conditions to fully entrust the system to Timorese citizens meet an obstacle: the relatively low level of professional skills available for the position. On this issue, however, there is no way to turn back, and significant efforts need to be deployed in order to guarantee that full Timorese sovereignty is exercised in the courts of law – a condition for a true rule of law in the land.

Conclusion Challenges to democratic consolidation and the improvement of its performance in Timor-Leste come from many different sources, including the ongoing process of state-building (decentralization) that requires commitment of the ruling elite to a major reform, and the need to adopt an adequate choice of policies in a context where democratic norms suffer the competition of alternative narratives which may subvert the main tenets of the constitutional ethos. Stability, which has marked Timor-Leste’s development in recent years, cannot therefore be totally equated with the consolidation of democracy. The performance of the regime also needs to improve in order to secure a firm rooting of democratic governance in the political landscape at all levels. Particular attention should be devoted to the plasticity of the democratic institutions, and their capacity to adapt to the emerging social forces in the country. If democracy is equated with empowering citizens to take the fundamental decisions regarding the development of their communities and to possess the ultimate control over those who momentarily hold power, it must combine in balanced proportions the adherence to international standards and recognized procedures with greater responsiveness to local values and forms of political legitimation. A host of ‘competitive authoritarian’ regimes have developed in the recent past paying lip service to some of the external features of democracy – like some form of elections – and assuming a public discourse based on the virtues of competition (albeit severely limited) but falling short of upholding the ethos of a genuine democratic system that is grounded on popular sovereignty and effective citizenship. The challenge of the Timorese people is to avoid those siren songs under different guises, and to maintain their struggle for a regime that can effectively be termed ‘of the people, by the people, for the people’.



List of acronyms

ASDT

ASEAN AusAID CAVR

Associação Social Democrática Timorense / Timorese Social Democratic Association Associação Popular Democrática Timorense / Timorese Popular Democratic Association Association of Southeast Asian Nations Australian Agency for International Development Comissão de Acolhimento, Verdade e Reconciliação / Commission for

CEP CNE CNRM

Reception, Truth and Reconciliation Community Empowerment Programme Comissão Nacional de Eleições / National Electoral Commission Conselho Nacional da Resistencia Maubere / National Council of the

CNRT

Maubere Resistance (1988-1998) Conselho Nacional da Resistencia Timorense / National Council of the

CNRT

Timorese Resistance (1998-2001) Congresso Nacional para a Reconstrução de Timor-Leste / National Congress

CRDTL

for the Reconstruction of Timor-Leste (political party after 2007) Constituição da República Democrática de Timor-Leste / Constitution of the

CoS CRRN

Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste Council of State Conselho Revolucionário da Resistencia Nacional / Revolutionary Council of

APODETI

the National Resistance (1976-1988) East Timor Transitional Authority ETTA European Union EU FALINTIL Forças Armadas de Libertação Nacional de Timor-Leste / Armed Forces for the National Liberation of Timor-Leste Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia / Foundation for Sciente and FCT Technology (Portugal) FRELIMO Frente Revolucionária de Libertação de Moçambique / Revolutionary Front for the Liberation of Mozambique FRETILIN Frente Revolucionária de Timor-Leste Independente / Revolutionary Front for the Independence of Timor-Leste International Electoral Certification Team IECT International Labour Organization ILO International Stabilization Force ISF Japan International Cooperation Agency JICA Klibur Oan Timor Asswain / Association of Timorese Heroes KOTA Local Government Options Study LGOS

292  MSATM NC NCC NZAP OECD OPEC PAC PARENTIL PD PDC PL PNT POG PPT PSD PST PUN SCDS STAE

Dynamics of Democr ac y in Timor‑Leste

Ministry for State Administration and Territorial Management National Council National Consultative Council New Zealand Aid Programme Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries Political Affairs Committee of National Council Partai Republik Nasional Timor-Leste / Timorese National Republican Party Partido Democrático / Democratic Party Partido Democrata Cristão / Christian Democratic Party Partido Liberal / Liberal Party Partido Nacionalista Timorense / Timorese Nationalist Party Policy Orientations Guideline for Decentralization and Local Government in Timor-Leste Partido Popular Timorense / Timorese Popular Party Partido Social Democrata / Social Democratic Party Partido Socialista Timorense / Timorese Socialist Party Partido de Unidade Nacional / National Unity Party Superior Council for Defence and Security Secretariado Técnico dos Assuntos Eleitorais / Technical Secretariat for

Electoral Affairs Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats SWOT União Democrática Timorense / Timorese Democratic Union UDT Organization of the United Nations UN UNAMET UN Mission in East Timor (1999) UNDERTIM União Nacional Democrática de Resistência Timorense / National Democratic Union of the Timorese Resistance UN Development Programme UNDP UN Department of Political Affairs UNDPA UNDPKO UN Department of Peace Keeping Operations UNESCO UN Educational Scientific and Cultural Organization UN Children’s Fund UNICEF UNMISET UN Mission of Support in East Timor (2002-2005) UN Integrated Mission in Timor-Leste (2006-2012) UNMIT UN Office in Timor-Leste (2005-2006) UNOTIL UN Security Council UNSC UNTAET UN Transitional Authority in East Timor (1999-2002) United States Agency for International Development USAID World Health Organization WHO

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Index Abstention 177, 182, 186-7 Acemoglu, Daron 97 Accountability 67, 162, 179, 193, 210, 228, 232, 249, 251, 254, 259, 263, 272 Horizontal 13, 47, 73, 75, 97, 108, 121, 131, 162, 206, 235-6, 240, 244, 251, 253 Vertical, 13, 47, 67, 75, 131, 170, 249, 251, 257, 259, 273, 277 Adcock, Robert 33 ‘Administering power of non-autonomous territory’ 77 Administration central 25, 110, 246, 253-4, 273-6 electoral administration 15, 24, 116, 177-81, 203 justice 73, 138 public/state 20-1, 24, 37, 66, 74, 78, 96-7, 118, 139-40, 179, 246, 250-1, 253-5, 264, 270, 272, 274-5, 280, 283, 287 territorial 24, 196, 249, 252, 256, 258, 264, 286-7 Afghanistan 141 Afonso II, King of Portugal 45 Africa(n) 27, 89, 95, 97-8, 115, 120, 135, 152, 208, 223, 283 Lusophone Africa 224 North Africa 113 Portuguese domains in Africa 205 Republic of South Africa 13, 48, 181 Sub-Saharan Africa 94 ‘Agenda setting powers’ 218 Agreement (5 May 1999) 78, 116, 144, 152 Ahmad, Junaid 249 Aileu 197 Ainaro 197 Ake, Claude 90 Alatas, Ali 77 Aldeia 24, 171 fn2 xefe aldeia 261 Alfonso IX, King of Léon 45 Alkatiri, Mari 27, 142, 152, 161, 192, 202, 219, 222-3, 225, 227-8, 230, 233, 236, 239, 244, 254, 257, 260, 281, 286, 288-9 Alvarez, Michael M. 13, 68 Amaral, Francisco Xavier 172, 182, 187, 197, 206 Anarchy 36 Ancién regime 53 Anderson, Benedict 84 Annan, Kofi 147, 171 Anti-Corruption Commission 285 Apartheid 48 APODETI 86 Araújo, Fernando ‘Lasama’ de 198 Araújo, Rui Maria de 192, 281

Arblaster, Anthony 59 ‘Arch of instability’ 122 Argenson, René Louis de Voyer de Paulmy, Marquis d’ 47 Aristocracy 36, 39, 41, 49, 53 Aristotles 38, 42 Armed Forces 88, 103, 173, 188, 221, 227, 243, 282-3 ASEAN 24, 115, 119 Asia 84, 95, 120, 122, 208, 223 Asia-Pacific 248 East Asia 119, 248, 250 Southeast Asia 22, 94, 115, 119, 133, 203, 224, 248, 253, 283 Asia Foundation 156 Asian Development Bank 116 ‘Asian values’ 23, 115, 120, 281 ASDT 86, 106, 151, 159, 187, 190, 197, 201 Athens 13, 36-43, 45, 47 Attorney General 239, 244 Aucoin Louis, 142, 161, 169 Australia(n) 16, 28, 48, 89, 92, 97, 119, 122-3, 156 AusAID 116 Invasion of Timor Português 101 Austria 213, 217, 234 Authoritarian(ism) 20-1, 27, 42, 60, 78, 83, 91, 93-5, 98-9, 100, 105, 113, 115, 119-22, 164, 173, 193, 206-8, 215, 229, 231, 275, 281, 284, 290 ‘authoritarian temptation’ 193 ‘competitive authoritarianism’ 121 ‘developmental authoritarianism’ 119-20 ‘electoral authoritarianism’ 173 ‘path to authoritarianism’ 193, 231 ‘soft authoritarianism’ 120 ‘authorization’ model 264-5 Balkans 96, 148 Baris, Alcino 239 Belo, Dom Carlos Filipe Ximenes 19, 77, 85, 145 Benevolent ‘benevolent autocracy’ 139 ‘benevolent despotism’ 139 ‘benevolent dictatorship’ 139 Benign ‘benign colonialism’ 123, 139 ‘benign protectorate’ 71 Berlin Conference of 98 Berlin Wall 113, 133 Bermeo, Nancy 28, 100 Bernhard, Michael 98 Beuman, Lydia 29, 225, 227, 233, 239 Bexley, Angie 188 ‘Big Government’ 247, 259

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Bird, Richard 249 Bjornlund, Eric 184 Blount, Justin 137, 149, 166 Boavida, João Frederico 85 Bobbio, Norberto 51, 55, 59 Bollen, Kenneth 54 Bonaparte, Napoléon 102 ‘Bounded whole’ 34 Borges, Fernanda 180, 197, 258, 271 Bosnia 115 Boston 53 Brandt, Michele 142, 161, 169 Brinks, Daniel 119 Brown, Anne 259, 271 Brunei 95, 119, 284 Budget (State) 93, 112, 154, 270, 282 Bunte, Marco 133, 275 Bupati 274 Burke, Edmund 57 Butterworth, David 259 Byblos 40

Christian world 45 Churchill, Sir Winston 58 Cipinang 87, 198, 205 Citizenship 290 City-state 43 Greece 37, 39, 41, 44 Italy 42 Civil Rights Movement 52 Civil society 63, 83, 98, 108-9, 145, 157, 160, 163, 193, 228, 253, 264, 270, 284-6 ‘Clash of paradigms’ 279 Clausewitz, Carl von 100 Cleisthenes 37 Clinton, Bill 122 CNE 178-181 CNRM 205 CNRT (Congresso Nacional para a Reconstrução de Timor-Leste) 188, 190-1, 196, 201 CNRT (Conselho Nacional da Resistência Timorense) 11, 20, 87, 89, 107, 140, 142-4, 146, 148-50, 152, 201, 205-6, 223, 226, 229-30 ‘Cohabitation’ 227, 233, 236 Coimbra 29, 45 ‘Co-incumbency’ model 264 Collier, David 33 Colonial(ism) 27, 71, 84, 88, 96, 98, 101, 108, 110, 137, 229, 254, 275, 281, 289 anti-colonialism 27 ‘benign colonialism’ 123, 139 colonial legacies 83, 88, 97-8 colonial wars 100 neo-colonialism 71, 110, 124 postcolonialism 27, 87, 108, 191, 205, 247 precolonial 88 Commoners 53 Communism (and anticommunism) 87, 115, 120 Community 34, 37, 48, 65-7, 74, 84, 96, 99, 111, 125, 146, 157-9, 196, 245-6, 249, 251, 253, 255, 259, 261-2, 264-72, 276-7, 279 ‘civic community’ 16, 277-8 community leaders(hip)/lideranças comunitárias 261, 263-6, 261, 287 ‘ethnic community’ 197, 277-8 ‘International community’ 72, 101, 117, 123, 125, 127, 140, 184, 229 Competition (political) 21, 61, 89, 151, 164, 170, 200-4, 230, 236-8 ‘Conditionalities’ 23, 92, 117 Consent (citizen’s/popular) 52-3, 60, 74, 251, 262 Constant, Benjamin, 241 Constituent Assembly 23, 91, 106, 116, 124, 130, 136, 142, 144-8, 149-51, 152-4, 156-60, 162-3, 165, 168-9, 171-2, 183, 185, 190, 194-5, 200-1, 206, 223, 229-32, 260, 288 Constitution 14-6, 20-1, 23-4, 36, 38, 73-4, 80, 88, 91, 126-7, 133-8, 140-2, 144-52, 154, 156-61, 163-7, 169-70, 199, 208-9, 212, 216-7, 219, 221-4, 227-8, 245, 282 CRDTL (1975) 135

Cabinet of the Transitional Government 140, 142, 147 Cabral, Tomás do Rosário 179 Cambodia 119, 141 Cape Verde 152 Capoccia, Giovanni 21 Carey, John 161, 166, 210, 212-3, 215, 220 Carrascalão, João 142 Carrascalão, Mário 281 Carter Center 158, 160 Catholic Catholic bishops 19, 78, 85, 145, 164 Catholic Church (Timor) 84, 109, 145, 150, 227, 243 against independence in 1975 85, 87 as pillar of national identity 99 and Tetum 109 Catholic faith 88 Catholic missions 84 Catholic social theory 251, 287 Indonesian Catholics 85 CAVR 11 Centru Jornalista Investugativu 186 CEP 260 ‘Chain of democratic choice’ 174 Charisma(tic leadership) 16, 83, 104-5, 150, 164, 170, 188, 197, 201, 205, 230, 243, 281 Charles I, King of England 46 Charlesworth, Hilary 156 ‘Checks and balances’ 21, 24, 67, 75, 131, 133, 139, 153, 162, 164, 193, 231, 235-6, 242, 245-6, 253, 269 Cheibub, José António 13, 68 Chesterman, Simon 160 Chile 91 China, Popular Republic 113, 119-20, 250 Chopra, Jarat 259, 264

Index

CRDTL (2002) 110, 134, 153-6, 161-2, 164, 167, 202, 220, 223, 246, 248, 264, 272 Section 2 246 section 5 245, 247 section 11 88, 239 section 63 246 section 65 182-3 section 69 246 section 71 245 section 72 245 section 85 155 section 86 219 section 87 155 section 88 155 section 93 183 section 100 219 section 107 218, 220 section 112 155-6, 219 section 137 246, 259 section 154 161 constitution-making, constitution-drafting 13-4, 83, 91-2, 133, 134-8, 147, 154, 161-70 French Constitution (1962) 207 ‘material constitution’ 137, 217, 221-3, 228 para-constitutional provisions 137-8, 163-4, 168, 170 Portuguese Constitution (1976) 154, 218, 248 United States Constitution 230 Constitutional Commission for Systematization and Harmonization 159 Constitutional Commissions 148, 157 Constitutional Convention 142-5 Constitutional Court 72, 168, 181, 218, 227, 246, 263 ‘Constitutional design’ 137, 217 ‘Constitutional liberalism’ 121 Constitutional monarch 139, 240-1 Governments First 192, 227, 253, 256, 286 Second 163, 202, 257 Third 163, 202, 257 Fourth 172, 257, 259, 262, 288 Fifth 271, 288-89 Sixth 288 Republic 169 Constitutionalism 15, 49, 133, 134, 217 ‘new constitutionalism’ 134, 136, 144-5, 147-9, 157-61, 169 ‘old constitutionalism’ 134, 149-51 ‘Contagion effect’ 114, 116 Contestation (political) 48-9, 61-2, 86, 133, 138, 169, 174, 253, 276 Control 13-4, 24, 38, 47, 57-8, 60, 62, 67, 70, 72-5, 90, 95-7, 117, 127, 131-2, 143, 150, 162, 168, 171, 184, 192, 204, 218, 224, 230, 240, 249, 251, 255, 258, 264, 266, 273, 275, 280, 290 Coppedge, Michael 119

327 Corruption 73, 95, 118, 253, 275, 283-4, 289 Corruption Perception Index 286 Cortes 45 ‘Council of Elders’ 170 Council of State 156, 219, 221, 226, 238, 243-4 Counterfactual 206, 229-33 Coup d’état (August 1975) 86, 171 Court of Auditors 285 Covalima 198 ‘Crisis of 2006’ 103, 169, 188, 193, 202, 221, 227-8, 230-1, 257, 279-80 Croissant, Aurel 135 Cromwell, Oliver, Lord Protector of England 46 Crouch, Colin 63 Cuba 116 Culturalism 120, 129 Cummins, Deborah 262, 264 Cunha, Ricardo Sousa da 24, 220, 224, 231 Custom(ary) 16, 74, 197-8, 255, 261-7, 269-71, 276, 278, 287 customary governance 262-3, 271 customary law 246 Dahl, Robert 42, 61-3, 70, 72, 89, 90 Darwin 152 Dave, Pamela 259 Decentralization 13, 16, 20, 28, 111, 132, 179, 196, 245-3, 254, 256-9, 270-1, 273-7, 286-8, 290 ‘big bang decentralization’ 248, 272 Decentralization Strategic Framework 257 Deconcentration 256, 287-8 definition of 249 Delegation 131, 147, 204, 256, 264, 287 definition of 249 Democracy breakdown of 39, 95, 215, 228 as ‘common house’ 130-1, 157, 189, 203, 230, 232, 240, 244, 280 configurations 49-64 consolidation of 11, 21, 23-4, 88, 91, 107, 112, 128-9, 170, 173-4, 184, 191, 193, 199-204, 205-7, 213, 215-6, 224-5, 232, 238, 242, 244, 249, 271, 279-90 definitional options 33 democracy-building 11, 19-20, 78, 83, 100, 115, 130, 189 democracy indices 68 democratic institutions 11-3, 15, 51, 78, 95, 97, 120-1, 137-8, 143, 156, 185, 189, 199, 207, 219, 228, 242, 267-8, 279, 282, 290 democratic (and popular) participation 16, 39, 48-9, 61-62, 74, 145, 147-48, 167, 172-74, 185, 254, 261, 286 ‘democratic upheaval’ 193 descriptive elements 33, 64 development of democracy 48, 51, 79 as foreign value 124 installation of 21, 78 international standards 164

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Dynamics of Democr ac y in Timor‑Leste

lineages 31, 35-36, 47-9, 68 normative elements 13, 17, 33, 55, 58, 64-5 promotion 20, 83, 115-16, 122, 251 and prosperity 93, 119, 280, 283-6 transition to democracy 83, 94, 100, 105, 119-20, 125, 128, 216 Democracy with adjectives ‘attitudinal’ 242 ‘behavioural’ 242 ‘bourgeois (censitarian) democracy’ 94 ‘consensual democracy’ 107, 145 ‘constitutional democracy’ 242 ‘delegative democracy’ 121 ‘feudal democracy’ 269 ‘grassroots democracy’ 245, 253, 268, 286-8 ‘illiberal democracy’ 121 ‘liberal democracy’ 204, 266 ‘low intensity democracy’ 35 ‘participatory democracy’ 43, 49, 136, 160, 165-7, 261, 277 ‘procedural democracy’ 21-2, 56, 58-60, 61, 66, 70, 147, 167, 267, 276 ‘representative democracy’ 47, 90 Western style democracy 120, 121, 189, 204 ‘Democradura’ 121 Democratic Democratic façade regimes 83, 121-2 Democratic ‘linkages’ 63, 83, 114-5 Democratic recession 83, 118 ‘Democratization of democracy’ 64-5 Demokratia 36-45 Dependency 267, 284-5, 289 Development democratic development 79, 89, 119, 133, 183, 246, 267-71 economic development 93-4, 98, 119, 254, 283 human development 31, 57, 284 Devolution 248, 251-2, 256, 264, 275, 287-8 definition of 249 Diamandouros, Nikiforos 232 Diaspora 86, 114, 182-4, 229 ‘Dictablanda’ 121 Dictatorship 11, 17, 48, 139 Dili 11, 27-9, 78, 85-6, 88, 108-9, 120, 127, 141, 150, 178, 180, 196, 277, 281 Dismissal of Prime-Minister/Government 15, 154, 212, 219 Displaced/dislocated population 11, 83, 111-2, 172 Dissolution of Parliament 154, 211, 219, 221 Districts 24, 101, 148, 157, 159-60, 172, 181, 183, 196-7, 235, 254-8, 277, 285, 288 District Manager 288 ‘Divided executive’ 17, 233 Dual/duality of power 209-10, 213, 217-20, 222-3, 232, 24 Durability 14-5, 136, 161-2 Duverger, Maurice 207-9, 216, 233-4, 239, 241 Dressel, Bjoern 133

Eanes, General António Ramalho 234 East Timor Transitional Authority 14, 125, 138 Eco, Umberto 129 Economic growth 63, 96, 120 Economist Intelligence Unit’s Index of Democracy 68 Efficacy 51, 63, 250 Efficiency 63, 118, 232, 246, 250-1, 253-4, 273, 286 Elections ‘consolidating elections’ 185 electoral administration 15, 24, 116, 177-81, 203 Organs of Electoral Administration Bill (0riginally Law 5/2006) 178-9 electoral authoritarianism 163 electoral constituencies 130, 149, 183, 195 ‘electoral fallacy’ 60 electoral legislation 177-9, 181-4, 221, 236, 280 electoral participation 185-7, 204, 279 electoral registration 15, 24, 146, 175-7, 179, 186, 202-3 electoral systems 182 D’Hondt method 183 ‘first past the post’ 130, 182-3 Hare quota 183 proportional representation 15, 130, 149, 182-3, 195, 203, 236, 280 electoral threshold 183, 190, 192, 194, 197, 239 electoral volatility 175, 190 ‘Founding election’ 183 ‘Friendly election’ 187 International Electoral Certification Team 180 International Foundation for Electoral Systems 117 Local elections 171, 179, 261 Municipal elections 16, 260, 288 National elections 2001 11, 14, 23, 106, 116, 130, 147-51, 152, 171, 183-6, 190-1, 194, 200-1 2002 23, 116, 171, 185, 187, 195, 197 2007 15, 23, 74, 161, 163, 168, 172, 176-7, 179, 180-1, 184-5, 187-8, 190, 192-8, 201-3, 237-8, 280 2012 11, 15, 22-3, 69-70, 74, 124, 161, 172-3, 175-7, 181-2, 184-8, 190-4, 196-9, 201, 203, 228, 243, 260, 271, 279, 282-3, 288 ‘post-conflict elections’ 185 ‘regular elections’ 185 UN Electoral Support Team 180 Elgie, Robert 15, 208-11, 213, 215-7, 228, 233, 236, 279 Elite 13-7, 21, 48, 54, 59-60, 62-3, 73, 89-90, 97-8, 101-3, 107-8, 120, 131, 134, 136, 144, 147, 150, 157, 161-2, 165-9, 203, 214, 224, 229, 232, 251-3, 267, 271, 273-5, 280 ‘closed elite’ 53 elite networks 114

329

Index

nonelites 54 ‘open elite’ 53-4 Elkins, Zachary 137, 149, 161, 166 Elster, Jon 91, 135 Embryonic State 83, 96-8, 83, 131 Empowerment 66, 121, 174, 247, 251, 276, 278 ‘End of history’ 49, 57, 113 England/English 43, 45-6, 52, 236 English language 124 Ermera 107, 198 ‘Essentially contested concepts’ 31-2 Estado Novo 50 Ethnocentrism 108, 129 Ethno-linguistic diversity 83, 85, 109-11 groups 88, 111 homogeneity 257 Ethos 72 authoritarian 207 constitutional 290 democratic 16, 22, 58, 64-7, 68, 281, 290 Europe(an) 40-5, 48, 52-3, 62, 85, 207, 229 Central Europe 208 Civilization 37 Eastern Europe 62, 92, 208 European Union 51, 92, 115, 248 Western Europe 41, 214 Exit strategy 14, 147 Expat community 28, 124-5 ‘Explanatory ladder’ 34 ‘Failed’/‘Rogue’ States 123 FALINTIL 205 ‘Father of the Nation’ 223 February 11, 2008 (events of) 19, 163, 202 Fiji 123, 126 Firaku 110, 195 Flag (national) 158-9, 172 Fonseca, Joaquim 145 ‘Foundation party’ 107 Foweraker, Joe 68 France 43, 102, 213, 233, 238 French Fifth Republic 207 Franchise 175-7 censitarian 94 electoral franchise 47 enfranchisement/disenfranchisement 52, 194, 252, 269-70 inclusive/enlarged franchise 15, 44, 48, 55, 149, 164, 172, 203, 252, 261-2, 269 limited franchise 41, 44, 48, 52 universal franchise 52, 65, 70, 130, 175, 182, 184-5 Freedom House 11, 22, 68, 95, 284 FRELIMO 231 Frenti-Mudança 190-1, 201 FRETILIN 11, 14, 77, 86-7, 106, 135, 146-7, 149, 151-6, 159-60, 164, 168, 171-3, 183, 187-8, 190-3,

195-6, 200-2, 205-6, 223-4, 226-7, 230-1, 238-9, 260-1, 266-7, 281 Fukuyama, Francis 113 Galbraith, Peter 142, 146-7, 165 Gallie, W.B. 31 Garrison, Randall 136 GDP 94, 118, 283 Geddes, Barbara 107 Gender quota 183-4 Generations 43, 89 generation of 75, 281 generational turnover 281-3 Gerasaun Foun 281 Gerasaun Tuan 281 German(y) 50, 194, 251 III Reich 50 Weimar Republic 207 Gettysburg Address 13, 50-2 Ginsburg, Tom 137, 149, 161, 166 Globalization 51, 118, 120 Goa, Damão and Diu 86 God 35, 50, 99, 160 Gomes, Faustino Cardoso 180 ‘Good governance’ 34, 220 Goody, Jack 108 Government pro tempore 55 Government system 23-4, 29, 60, 75, 132, 137, 151-7, 189, 206-8, 210, 213, 216-23, 223-8, 229, 231, 233, 241-4 Goya y Lucientes, Francisco de 126 Grassroots democracy 245, 253, 268, 286-8 governance 24, 180, 252, 256 leaders 104 Greece/Greek 36-7, 39-42, 44, 47, 62, 208, 234 Guedes, Armando Marques 224 Guerrilla fighters 83, 87, 102-3, 205 force 103-4, 205, 243, 282 leaders 188, 205, 22, 229 war 86, 282 Gunther, Richard 232 Gusmão, Alex 270 Gusmão, Xanana/José Alexandre/Kay Rala general references 14, 19, 27, 161, 164-5, 197, 201, 281-2 as leader of the Resistance 87, 89, 104, 106, 144, 150, 152, 168, 191, 205, 222, 226, 229-30, 260 as party leader 188, 191, 196, 201-2, 239 as President of the National Council 142-3, 148, 150 as President of the Republic 157, 164, 169, 171, 183, 187-8, 195, 197, 202, 219, 221-2, 225-8, 230-1, 233, 237, 238-9, 242 as Prime-Minister 170, 172, 192, 219, 227, 239, 257, 271, 281, 286, 288 Guterres, Aniceto 143, 158

330 

Dynamics of Democr ac y in Timor‑Leste

Habibie, B.J. 78 Hadenius, Axel 99 Havel, Václav 234 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 166 Held, David 40 Hellenic world 39 Hirschman, Albert O. 79, 82 Hobbes, Thomas 126 Hohe, Tanja 204, 259, 264 Holland 229 Dutch colonialism 84 Horta, José Ramos, see Ramos-Horta, José House of Commons 46 Howard, John 122 Hughes, Caroline 56 Human Rights abuses of 78, 88, 116, 122 defence of 27, 88, 90, 113, 120, 124, 133, 158, 164, 167 Huntington, Samuel P. 49, 59, 133 Hybrid regimes 49, 121, 173 ‘Hyper-presidentialism’ 214

administration of Timor-Leste 11, 96, 101, 139, 149, 248, 250, 254, 260, 266, 268, 274 authoritarian regime 78, 99 annexation/anschluss/occupation/integration/invasion of Timor-Leste 11, 20, 77, 85-8, 92, 102, 110, 113, 116 , 122 , 134, 171, 205, 225-6, 229, 289 Bahasa Indonesia 110, 124 corruption 275, 285 national flag 141 neo-colonialism 71, 86, 254, 275 paramilitary integrationist militias 11, 19, 111, 125 students movements 89 withdrawal from Timor-Leste 20, 77, 86, 109, 127-8 Interdependency (of institutions) 35, 246, 253, 286 International aid 83, 108-9, 116-7, 123, 129, 172 International community 72, 101, 117, 123, 125, 127, 139, 184, 229 International Monetary Fund 283 International standards 23, 117, 127, 141, 147, 159, 164, 173, 279, 290 Iran, 52 Ireland, Republic of 90, 213, 234 ‘Irregular functioning of democratic institutions’ 228 Isegoria 39 ISF 279 Islam 41 Isonomia 38-9 Italy 41-2

Iceland 13, 42, 213 Identity 276 cultural 257 national 83-5, 88, 99, 110-11, 222, 239, 270 ILO 116 Incentive mechanisms 215-6, 237 Inclusive(ness) 13-7, 20-1, 24, 34, 53-5, 111, 60-1, 127, 130-1, 135, 142, 145, 151, 161-2, 165-8, 173, 192, 195, 200, 203, 205-7, 229, 233, 236, 238, 240-2, 244, 277, 280 inclusive governance 162, 192, 206-7, 241, 244 Independence 11, 14, 20, 23, 72, 77-8, 85-7, 92, 96, 100, 102-3, 108, 111, 114, 123, 125, 127, 134, 138, 140-1, 149, 159, 162, 165, 171-2, 178-9, 182, 189, 192, 201-2, 205, 220, 222, 224-6, 246, 253, 268-9, 271-4, 282, 286-7, 289 Indonesian independence 99 judicial independence 73 pro-independence movements 89 proclamation of (1975) 77, 86, 102, 135, 158, 171 fn 3, proclamation of (2002) 19, 21, 69, 92, 107, 123, 127, 143, 161, 282, 288 roadmap to independence 135, 141-9 Independent candidates Constituent Assembly 151 Local elections 262 Presidential elections 172-3, 187-9, 198, 200, 237 ‘Independent Presidents’ 15, 24, 174, 187-9, 199-200, 206-7, 228, 233-42, 244 India 40, 86, 97 Indochina 96, 148 Indonesia(n) 19, 22, 77-8, 84, 91-2, 99, 106, 102, 119, 122, 125, 141, 144, 186

Jacob, Father Filomeno 142 Jalali, Carlos 233 Jakarta 125 Japan(ese) 116 Japanese invasion of Timor Português 98, 101, 122 JICA 116 John, King of England 45 John Paul II, Pope 77, 85 Judges 264, 289 Judicial system 25, 73, 167, 178, 231, 280, 285, 288-90 Julius II, Pope 35 Justice administration of 73, 138 Minister of Justice 73-4, 285 ‘punitive justice’ 124 ‘restorative justice’ 125 Kaladi 110, 195 Karl, Terry Lynn 13, 60, 63, 68, 70, 72 Kaviraj, Sudipta 108 Keane, John 39-42 Kenny, Michael 108 King, Dwight Y. 195

Index

Kingsbury, Damien 24, 28, 123, 139, 217, 279 Kirchschlager, Rudolf 234 Kosovo 92, 115 KOTA 153, 190, 197, 201 Kriegler, Judge Johann 181 Krznaric, Roman 68 Kubrick, Stanley 53 Kuwait 95 Laos 119 Latin America 17, 93, 115, 283 Lautém 196-7, 264 Leach, Michael 28, 110, 264, 270, 276 Leader(ship) charismatic 83, 104-5, 150, 164, 201, 205, 243, 281 nationalist 205 revolutionary 205 Legitimacy 16, 20, 24, 188, 214, 232, 250-1, 256, 262, 265, 267-8, 270, 288-9 charismatic 150, 164 constitutional 135-6, 138, 161, 169, 172, 223, 261 ‘downstream’ 135, 169 electoral 136, 160, 164, 174-5, 184, 187, 199, 251 formal 167 legal-rational 270, 281 political 16, 20, 24, 51-3, 66-7, 93, 96, 131, 138-9, 141, 167, 197-9, 251, 256, 259, 267, 269, 271, 276, 279, 281, 287-8 personal 270 ‘process’ 135, 169 revolutionary 282 social 247, 268 traditional 198, 247, 256, 260, 265, 268, 270 ‘upstream’ 135, 169 Lenin, Vladimir (Ilyich Ulianov) 94 Léon, Kingdom of 45 Lesage, Michel 236 Levellers 43 Leviathan 83, 125-6 Levitsky, Steven 121 LGOS 254-5, 286 Liberalism 45, 48, 121 Liberation struggle 89, 282 Lijphart, Arend 137, 182, 214, 217, 224, 241 Limongi, Fernando 13, 68 Lincoln, Abraham 53-9, 61 Lingua franca 84, 97, 109-10 Linz, Juan J. 31, 51, 56, 133, 225, 236 Lipset, Seymour Martin 59, 79, 93 Lisan 265-6 Lisbon 27, 29, 85-6, 224 Litvak, Jennie 249 Liurai 264-7 Lobato, Lucia 73, 238, 285 Lobato, Nicolau 205 Lobato, Rogério 227 Lobo, Marina Costa 154, 211-3

331 Local power/governance 13, 179, 197, 245-6, 248-9, 253-6, 257-8, 260, 264, 269, 271-2, 286 Lombardy 42 Lopes, Msrg Martinho da Costa 85 Loromonus 111, 195 Lorosaes 111, 195 Lu Olo, Francisco Guterres 172-3, 187-8, 196, 238 Lulik 279 Lusophone world 154, 212-3, 221, 224 Lutz, Nancy 160 Luxemburg 283 Macedonia 37 Mackie, J.A.C. 224 Madison, James 162 Magna Carta English original 45 CNRT document 89, 113, 148 Mahatir, Mohamad 120 Maley, Michael 180 Manufahi 101, 197 Martins, Herminio 29, 34 Marx, Karl 48, 58, 94, 108 Mattoso, José 226 McWilliam, Andrew 269 Melanesia 203 Melbourne 142 Mello, Sérgio Vieira de 139-43, 149, 157-8, 165 Melton, James 161 Mesopotamia 40 Metcalf, Lee Kendall 213, 220 Middle East 113 Military (political role of) 282-3 Mill, John Stuart 252 Miller, Michael 48, 136 Ministry of Defence 219 Ministry of Education 256 Ministry of State Administration and Territorial Management 254 Miranda, Jorge 153-4 Modernization theory 93, 283 Moestrup Sophia 214-5 Monarch(y) 36, 39, 45-6, 49, 52, 57, 62, 139, 240-1, 267 Montesquieu, Charles Louis de Secondat, Baron La Bréde et 38, 45-6, 131, 162 Municipalities 255, 256-60, 272-3, 288 mayor 258 Municipal Administration 258, 263 Municipal Assembly 258, 263 Multipartism 99, 191, 231, 243 multipartism with dominant party 99, 191, 201 polarized multipartism 191, 201 Munck, Geraldo L. 69 Muslim 42, 45, 99 Mussolini, Benito 50 Myanmar 119, 122 Myrttinen, Henri 89, 100, 106

332 

Dynamics of Democr ac y in Timor‑Leste

Narratives alternative narratives 83, 119-20, 122, 290 identitarian narratives 88 Nation-building 23, 271, 277 National Consultative Council 140, 142 National Council 96, 140, 142-4, 147-50 Political Affairs Committee of National Council 143-7 National Development Plan 253 National Parliament 69, 73-4, 107, 151, 153, 163-4, 172, 178-9, 190, 193-4, 201, 218, 220, 227, 230, 247, 259, 261, 271, 289 Parliamentary Committee A 258, 271 National Steering Committee on Civil Education 146 National resources 83, 91-3, 95, 122, 282-4 National unity 83-5, 88, 99, 110-1, 170, 220, 222, 227, 242, 244, 282 Government of National Unity/National Inclusion 192 Pact of National Unity 148, 165 National University 19, 180, 256 Nationalism 20, 84, 88, 90 nationalist narrative 83, 87-8 ‘plural nationalism’ 83, 85-7, 102, 165, 201 Nazi-fascism 58 Nell-Breunning, Oswald von 251, 287 ‘Neighbour emulation’ 119 Neopatrimonialism 284 ‘Neo-subsistance State’ 94 Nepotism 263 Neto, Octávio Amorim 154, 211-3 New York 78, 141 New Zealand 48, 89, 97, 116, 119 NZAP 116 NGO 108, 145, 157-8 Niner, Sara 226 Nixon, Rod 94 Nobel Peace Prize 19, 77, 85, 144-5, 167 Nordstrom, Timothy 98 Norway 42, 77, 95, 283 Novais, Jorge Reis 209, 213-4 Nunes, João Arriscado 35

Papua 84, 123 Para-constitutional 137-8, 163-4, 168, 170 PARENTIL 148 Paris 43 Parliament Election Bill (originally Law 6/2006) 183, 194 Parliamentarism 207, 210-1, 229, 232, 243 ‘Parliamentary Republic’ 217 Participation citizen/popular 37, 39, 43, 45, 48-9, 53, 55, 57, 61-2, 67, 74, 89, 108, 135, 145-8, 160, 167, 172-4, 185, 204, 246, 251-2, 254, 257, 261, 268, 276, 279, 286 electoral 185-7, 204, 279 political 117, 136, 186, 188, 246, 253, 273 Party (political) fragmentation 107, 191, 194, 201 party system(s) 99, 106-7, 164, 175, 189-95, 199-201, 203, 230, 243 political party(ies) 14-5, 57, 69, 71, 74, 83, 87, 89, 101-2, 105-7, 121, 136, 144, 145-7, 149-50, 191, 193, 195, 197-201, 203, 226, 230-5, 237-8, 240, 243, 246, 260-3 Pasquino, Gianfranco 214, 242 Pastor, Robert 177 Patronage 106, 267, 285-6 PD 106, 157, 190-1, 196, 198-9, 201 PDC 190 ‘Pebble in the shoe’ 77 Peloponnese 36, 40 Peniche 144 Pereira, Agio 143 Pericles 36-8 Permissiveness of non-democracies 83, 122-3 Personalities (influence of) 150, 175, 189, 191, 195, 197-9 Pessoa, Ana 142, 244 Petroleum Fund 92, 283 Philippines 22, 119 Phoenicia 40 Pires, Milena 143 Pitkin, Hanna Fenichel 46 PL 190 Plato 38, 44 PNT 148, 190 ‘Pocket veto’ 227 POG 257-8 Poland 91 Political polarization 83, 101-2, 118, 191, 230 ‘Politically correct’ 109, 124 Polity IV 68 Polyarchy 61-4, 65-6, 89, 133 Popper, Sir Karl 59, 206 Portugal/Portuguese 16, 20, 29, 45, 77-8, 86, 89, 91, 134, 144, 153-4, 207-9, 213, 217, 218, 224, 233-4, 238, 248 Carnations Revolution (25 April 1974) 101-2, 113, 134

O’Donnell, Guillermo 78, 98 Obama, Barak 53 Ockham, William of 34-5 Oe-Cusse 198, 238 ‘Oil curse’/‘Resources curse’ 83, 94-6, 283 Oligarchy 36 OPEC 95, 284 Oslo 77-8, 144 Ownership 15, 92, 112, 117, 127, 128-30, 143, 150, 160, 165-7, 247, 270, 273, 280, 289-90 ‘Pacification campaigns’ 101 Pakote (system of local election) 262 Pancasila 99 ‘Pan-democratic ideology’ 31

Index

Colonies and colonialism 11, 27, 71, 84, 86, 88-9, 98, 101, 110, 152, 171 fn3, 205, 229, 254, 281 Constitution and constitutionalism 153-4, 218, 220, 248 Cooperação Portuguesa 116-7 Language 84-5, 88, 110, 124, Legacy 97-8, 117, 152, 178, 224, 254 Timor Português 77, 85, 98, 134 Poverty 38, 83, 93-4, 118, 223, 284 Power ‘fourth power’ 54 ‘moderating power’ 200, 235, 241, 244 power-sharing 20, 130, 137, 149, 182-4, 207, 227, 232, 241 power vacuum/void 96, 101, 139, 141 Powers ‘implicit’/‘explicit’ powers of Presidents 218 ‘legislative’/‘non-legislative’ powers (in semi-presidential regimes) 212, 220-1 Separation of powers 121, 133, 164, 210, 224, 246 Tripartite division of powers 62, 66, 162, 256 PPT 153, 190 Prague 234 ‘Pre-constitutional monarch’ 139 ‘Pre-deconcentration’ 288 President/Presidency of the Republic 15, 23-4, 27, 69-70, 72-4, 79, 97, 151-7, 159, 162-4, 168-9, 172-4, 178-9, 182, 187-9, 192-4, 198-204, 205-7, 217-23, 226-8, 230-1, 233-42, 243-4, 259, 280-2, 288 ‘President without majority’ 234 Presidential competences 153-4, 156, 218 Presidential Election Bill (originally Law 7/2006) 181-2, 186 veto 155, 212, 218, 226-7, 237, 259 Presidentialism 152, 169, 207, 210, 229-31, 243 definition of 210 Principal/agent theory 46, 66 Propensity 93, 98, 175, 200, 206, 214 Provinces 254-5, 288 Przeworski, Adam 13, 68, 174 PSD 106, 153-7, 190, 197, 201, 238, 281 PST 190 Puhle, Hans-Jurgen 232 PUN 180, 190, 197 Putnam, Robert 108 Qatar 95, 284 Ramos-Horta, José general references 14, 19 as Foreign Minister 142, 192 as President of the Republic 19, 155, 161, 172, 186-8, 192, 194, 198, 202, 219-20, 222-3, 226, 237-40, 242, 244, 263, 281-2 as Prime-Minister 163, 178, 183, 202, 222, 257

333 as senior Resistance activist 77, 87, 96, 106, 144-5, 150, 158, 164-5, 167, 168 Raphael, italian painter 35 Reenock, Christopher 98 Referendum/Popular Consultation (30 August 1999) 11, 19-20, 23, 78, 84, 87, 92, 99-100, 102-3, 108, 111-2, 116, 123, 125, 130, 134-5, 141, 143, 148-9, 153, 165, 167, 170, 171, 175, 185-6, 205, 223, 226, 247, 260, 274 Region (administrative) 66, 255-7 Regional context 83, 119 patterns of vote 175, 195-9 Reilly, Benjamin 24, 177-8, 183, 189, 233 Reinos 88 Relativism 32-3 Renaissance 41, 44 Renan, Ernest 84 Representation parliamentary representation 194-6, 239 political representation 44-7, 49, 53, 56, 91, 96, 105, 130, 137, 194, 201, 203, 232-4, 277 proportional representation 15, 130, 149, 182-3, 195, 203, 236 representation of sukus 258, 261 Representative democracy 47, 90 government 43-4, 46-7, 49, 252 institutions 47 Republican(ism) 43, 48 Res Publica 41, 245 Reske-Nielsen, Finn 146 Responsiveness 56, 60-1, 64, 130, 174, 203, 268, 290 Resistance 11, 77, 78, 87, 89, 102-4, 106-7, 110, 113, 139, 141, 144, 151-2, 167, 171-2, 197, 200-1, 205, 222-3, 225-6, 230, 239, 260, 266-7, 282, 285 Armed Front 88, 103 Clandestine Front 88 Diplomatic Front 86, 88, 150 Museum and Archive of the Resistance 88, 222, 239 Reversibility/irreversibility 52, 121, 174 Revolution American 44, 46, 52-53 English Glorious 46, 52 French 43-6, 48, 50, 52, 102 Portuguese 101-2, 113, 134 Velvet (Czechoslovakia) 234 Ringen, Stein 49 Roadmap to Independence 96, 135, 141-9 Robespierre, Maximilien 44 Robinson, Mary 234 Rodan, Garry 56 Rodrigues, Roque 239 Romanticism 37 Rome 41, 42, 45 Roman Empire 41 Roman Republic 41-2, 45

334 

Dynamics of Democr ac y in Timor‑Leste

Rosanvallon, Pierre 39, 47 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 35, 166 Ruak, Taur Matan (José Maria de Vasconcelos) 187-8, 198, 219, 243, 280, 282-3 Rule of law, 16, 19, 25, 49, 72, 78, 97,112, 118, 121, 133, 136, 164, 280, 284, 286, 290 Ruschemeier, Dietrich 94 Russia/USSR 58, 62, 113 Rustow, Dankwart 79, 83, 94, 100, 127, 279

Slovik, Milan 99 Smith, Anthony L. 162, 195, 197, 241 Smoke, Paul 272 Soares, Adérito 145 Social contract 91-2, 108, 134, 161, 247, 286 Socialism (real) 58 Socrates 38 Solon 37 South Sudan 19 Sovereignty 39, 43-4, 47, 49, 51-2, 55, 60, 65, 67, 72-3, 85, 128-9, 173, 175, 177, 179, 185, 199, 204, 220, 246, 289-90 Spain/Spanish 45, 91, 126, 208 Stability (political) 91, 112, 138, 144, 157, 161, 163-4, 178, 182, 200, 202, 225, 228-9, 246, 279, 286, 290 STAE 177-81 Stahl, Max 19, 78, 114 State-building 11, 19, 73, 96-7, 115, 139, 141, 160, 189, 245, 264, 271-2, 274, 276-7, 290 Stepan, Alfred 51 Sub-districts 157, 254-6, 277, 288 Sub-national governance 74, 253, 255, 269, 272, 276 Subjectivism 33 Subsidiarity (principle of) 251, 287 Subventions (to political activity) 193, 198 ‘Suggestive associations’ 213 Suharto, General Hadji Mohamed 11, 78, 99 Sukus (sucos) 24, 171 fn 2, 254-6, 261-7 konsellu suku 258, 261-3, 270, 272 xefe suku 261, 263-7, 277 Superior Council for Defence and Security 221 Switzerland 42, 61 SWOT 22-3, 79-84

Sahin, Selver B. 111, 277 Salazar, António de Oliveira 50 Salemba 144, 152 Same 268 Samuels, Kristi 135, 168 Santa Cruz Massacre 19, 78, 114 Santiso, Javier 128, 279 Santos, Boaventura de Sousa 29, 32, 35, 64 Sartori, Giovanni 33-4, 56, 58, 64, 137, 209, 213-4, 217, 230, 232, 242, 244 Sartzetakis, Christos 234 Scandinavia 42 Schedler, Andreas 174 Schmitter, Phillippe 13, 63, 68, 70, 72, 117, 128, 279 Schumpeter, Joseph Alois 58-60, 61, 174 ‘Second Maubere Miracle’ 286 Self-determination 134, 205, 243 Semi-presidentialism 13, 15, 24, 152, 156, 189, 205, 207-8, 224-5, 227-8, 230, 232-3, 236, 238, 242 classical definition of 208 debate on definition 208-10 semi-presidentialism and democracy 213-6 varieties/sub-types of semi-presidentialism 207-13, 215, 236, 238 classical definition of varieties 210 discussion of definitions 211-2 own definition 212 ‘premier-presidential’ 210, 212, 214-6, 218, 228, 236 ‘president-parliamentary’ 210, 212, 214-6, 218, 220, 223, 228, 236 Timor case 218-23 Sen, Amartya 31, 40 ‘Serious Crimes’ 124 Shoesmith, Dennis 24, 179, 219, 224-6, 233, 240, 273-5 Shugart, Matthew Soberg 210, 212-3, 215, 220 Siapno, Jacqueline 231 Siaroff, Alan 154, 210 Sieyès, Abbé Emmanuel Joseph 44 Sidon 40 Silva, Governor Celestino da 101 Silva, Estanislau Aleixo da 163, 202, 257 Simonsen, Sven Gunnar 231 Singapore 22, 93, 119-20 Single party regime 87, 89, 106, 120, 193 Size of the country 83, 90-1

Taiwan 84 Talleyrand, Charles Maurice de TalleyrandPérigord 102 Temperance 136, 162-3 Teorell, Jan 99 Tetum 84, 109-10, 124, 129 Thailand 22, 119 Thatcher, Margaret 55 Thierry, Augustin 240 ‘Third Wave of Democratization’ 22, 24, 49, 52, 59, 65, 94, 113, 118, 208, 213 Third World 108 Tibar 142, 146 Tilman, Manuel 153, 197 Tilman, Mateus 265 Time 21, 127-8, 279 Timor Português 77, 85, 98, 134 Timor Sea 92, 146 ‘Timorese values’ 281-2 ‘Timorization’ 14, 85, 140 Tings 42 Tocqueville, Alexis de 33, 108, 252 Tonga 122

335

Index

Transitional Administrator 139-40, 142-3, 146 Translation (political) 21, 56, 128-9, 173, 250 Tufte, Edward 90 Tuscany 42 Tyranny 36, 43 Uma lisan 265-7 United Arab Emirates 95 UN 16, 77, 115, 125, 138, 158, 167, 180 UNAMET 116, 123, 141-2 UNDP 57, 116, 146, 284 UNDP Human Development Index, 57, 284 UNDPA 141 UNDPKO 23, 141 UN Electoral Support Team 180 UNESCO 116 UN General Assembly 77 UNICEF 116 UNMISET 123 UNMIT 279 UNSC 11, 78, 116, 126, 138-9, 141-2, 147 UN Secretary General 77, 139 UNTAET 23, 103, 106, 109, 117, 138, 140-3, 147-50, 152, 157, 160, 162, 166-7, 171, 183, 191, 253-4, 260, 274-5 UNTAET Electoral Affairs Division 147 UNDERTIM 190 United States of America 48, 53, 95, 97, 113, 115, 116, 122, 230, 247-8, 284 USAID 116 University of Lisbon Law School 224 Vasconcelos, Pedro Bacelar de 24, 67, 141, 156, 218-20, 224, 231 Venezuela 94 Verkuilen, Jay 69 Veterans 103, 222, 239, 284-5 Vietnam 119 Vikings 42 Viqueque 159, 196 Rebellion of Viqueque (1959) 86

Wallis, Joanne 268 War 45, 100 African colonial wars 19, 100 Cold War 35, 58, 62, 77-8, 102, 113-5, 119, 122 Guerrilla war 86 Peloponnesian War 36 Timorese civil war (1975) 86-7, 102, 135, 226, 243 ‘Timor War for Independence’ 100 War of Manufahi 101 War of the Pacific 101, 122 World War II 33, 58, 98, 100, 178, 247 Ware, Alan 105, 191 Warren, Mark 31, 55 Washington 35 Way, Lucan 121 Weber, Max 104, 108, 207, 270, 281 Welfare state 284 West(ern) The West 40, 115, 270 Western colonialism 98 Western Europe 41, 214 Western style democracy 120, 121, 189, 204 Western values 40 Western world 48, 58-9, 108, 113, 122 Westphalia 51 White, Roland 272 Whitehead, Laurence 28, 32-3, 105, 114-5, 125 WHO 116 Wolin, Sheldon 54 World Bank 95, 116, 189, 247, 260, 283 Xanana, see Gusmão, Xanana/José Alexandre/ Kay Rala Ximenes, Salvador 143 Yew, Lee Kwan 120 Youth National Council 238 Zakaria, Fareed 48, 121, 136-7 Zeitgeist 31, 113-4, 248 Ziblatt, Daniel 21