Groups, representation and democracy: Between promise and practice 9781847793027

Table of contents :
Front matter
Dedication
Contents
List of tables
Preface
Acknowledgements
List of abbreviations
Groups as agents of democracy?
Interest group aliases: towards definitional commensurability?
Democratic expectations: the representation account
Between representation and solidarity: (re)calibrating democratic expectations
Democratic promises and practices: some empirical evidence
The orthodox case: the drift from representation towards solidarity
Making Olson work: rejuvenating ‘supply-side’ explanations
Are ‘protest businesses’ contemporary phenomena?
Democratic transformation: fulfilling the promise of representation
Between promise and practice
References
Index

Citation preview

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PERSPECTIVES ON DEMOCRATIC PRACTICE series editors: SHIRIN M. RAI and WYN GRANT With the ebbing away of the “third wave” of democratisation, democratic practice is unfolding and consolidating in different ways. While state based representative democracy remains central to our understanding of the concept, we are also conscious of the importance of social movements, non-governmental organisations and governance institutions. New mechanisms of accountability are being developed, together with new political vocabularies to address these elements in democratic practice. The books published in this series focus on three aspects of democratic practice: analytical and normative democratic theory, including processes by which democratic practice can be explained and achieved; new social and protest movements, especially work with a comparative and international focus; and institution-building and practice, including transformations in democratic institutions in response to social and democratic forces. Their importance arises from the fact that they are concerned with key questions about how power can be more fairly distributed and how people can be empowered to have a greater influence on decisions that affect their lives. This series takes forward the intellectual project of the earlier MUP series, Perspectives on Democratization. Already published John Anderson Christianity and democratisation: from pious subjects to critical participants Susan Buckingham and Geraldine Lievesley (eds) In the hands of women: paradigms of citizenship Bart Cammaerts Internet mediated policy processes beyond the nation state Francesco Cavatorta The international dimension of the failed Algerian transition: democracy betrayed? Katherine Fierlbeck Globalizing democracy: power, legitimacy and the interpretation of democratic ideas (2nd edn) Stella Gaon (ed.) Democracy in crisis: violence, alterity, community Carina Gunnarson Cultural warfare and trust: fighting the Mafia in Palermo Jennifer S. Holmes Terrorism and democratic stability revisited (2nd edn) Anca Pusca Revolution, democratic transition and disillusionment: the case of Romania Paul Routledge and Andrew Cumbers Global justice networks: geographies of transnational solidarity

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Groups, representation and democracy Between promise and practice DARREN HALPIN

Manchester University Press Manchester

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Copyright © Darren Halpin 2010 The right of Darren Halpin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Published by Manchester University Press Altrincham Street, Manchester M1 7JA, UK www.manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data applied for

ISBN

978 0 7190 7652 7 hardback

First published 2010 The publisher has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for any external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Typeset by Action Publishing Technology Ltd, Gloucester

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Contents

List of tables Preface Acknowledgements List of abbreviations

page ix xi xiii xv

1 Groups as agents of democracy? 2 Interest group aliases: towards definitional commensurability? 3 Democratic expectations: the representation account 4 Between representation and solidarity: (re)calibrating democratic expectations 5 Democratic promises and practices: some empirical evidence 6 The orthodox case: the drift from representation towards solidarity 7 Making Olson work: rejuvenating ‘supply-side’ explanations 8 Are ‘protest businesses’ contemporary phenomena? 9 Democratic transformation: fulfilling the promise of representation 10 Between promise and practice References Index

1 30 57 84 112 138 169 202 239 267 290 306

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List of tables

2.1 The commensurability of ‘group’ labels page 52 4.1 Assumptions guiding interactions between the representative and their constituency 91 4.2 What generalized type of advocacy is promised/possible? 102 4.3 Summary of expectations for group democratic practices 102 4.4 Summary of group labels, characteristics and categorization tests 105 5.1 Member influence by constituency type 127 5.2 Ideal type legitimacy strategies 132 6.1 Membership participation in AGM and Elections for FSB 161 6.2 FSB income and expenditure related to member expansion, 1990–2001 162 7.1 NSWFA membership since establishment 181 7.2 ‘Why are you a member of the NSW Farmers’ Association?’ 186 7.3 ‘What would entice you to become a member of the NSWFA?’ 186 8.1 Membership of groups by year 213 8.2 RSPB Membership Numbers, selected years 226–7 8.3 The National Trust, AGM attendance and voting (2004–7) 230 8.4 RNIB Fundraising account data, selected years 233 9.1 RNIB Executive Council composition, as at 1949 250 9.2 Composition of Executive Council of RNIB 1966–2001, selected years 252 9.3 Executive Council/Assembly composition, post-2001 257

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Preface

Much has been written about interest groups. And much of this has, in one way or another, concerned the issue of groups and democracy. This conjunction does seem to raise passions. This book arose out of the sense that much group scholarship tended to repeat the same basic analysis that groups lacked internal democracies, and thus were not the democratic contributors some may have thought. To my mind, the empirical finding was not wholly inaccurate, but the interpretation set far too high (and uniform) a bar for groups to leap. By this measure, few if any groups would be likely to meet expectations. The book set out to re-set expectations around democratic practice; and to argue why this was both empirically and theoretically justifiable. Perhaps the most controversial proposal in this book is to remove the element of moral panic that besets scholars when they discover the absence of enfranchised and voluntary members within groups. The argument put here is that there is no clear normative argument for groups pursuing the interests of the unborn or nature to practise internal democratic processes – even if they have members. This offends the orthodoxy of democratic, voluntary and membership-based which underpins our working assumptions of group life. In setting out the above argument, the intention was to cast a wide net, particularly with respect to the growth areas of group scholarship: the social movement, global civil society and NGO applications. The aim of this book has been to work towards a meeting of minds among related – although as yet separate – scholars. There is a muchlamented tendency for scholars to reinforce disciplinary

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PREFACE

boundaries, as sociologists, political scientists or some other professional identity, without due concern for where labels obscure common interests. In the study of interest groups I think the evidence is we have just such a scenario. A fair chunk of the first section of this book sets out the various guises in which democracy and groups arise, and the labels that are deployed for essentially the same phenomenon. This review of the literature is somewhat lengthy, but it is essential to demonstrate, not just state or claim, that there is indeed a growing ‘group’ scholarship that is bigger than the old-school interest group scholarly community. The balance of the book picks out what I see as key questions that impede gaining traction over the question of the democratic nature of groups. In turn, I address scholarly conventions over terminology, normative criteria, analytical frameworks (like that of Olson’s free-riding) and a range of taken-for-granted arguments about the way groups just ‘are’. Each chapter is written to be largely self-contained arguments which could be read separately; although Chapters 3, 4 and 5 logically work together. However, I do draw connections throughout. Several chapters in this book either borrow in part or embellish upon work published as journal articles. Chapters 3 and 4 develop on a paper I published as Halpin, D. (2006) ‘The Participatory and Democratic Potential and Practice of Interest Groups: Between Solidarity and Representation’, Public Administration, 84 (4): 919–40. The material in Chapter 6 draws material from a co-authored paper published as Jordan, G. and Halpin, D., 2004, ‘Olson Triumphant? Explaining the Growth of a Small Business Organisation’s Political Studies, 52 (3): 431–49. This book is a modest, but hopefully a productive, contribution to moving the scholarly research agenda around groups, representation and democracy forward.

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Acknowledgements

This book has had a long gestation. The last 18 months have been assisted by being awarded a Leverhulme Trust Research Fellowship, which afforded me teaching replacement and thus the time to spend on activities such as writing. I am grateful for the Trust’s support and generosity. I have incurred a series of important debts to friends and colleagues. Wyn Grant, as series editor, has been very supportive of this project. He provided detailed and critical commentary on the final manuscript, and mentored me through the process of delivering a sole-authored monograph. I am grateful for his ever-present advice. I worked together with Grant Jordan on the Federation of Small Businesses (FSB) study, from which I have drawn much of the material for Chapter 6. We have published two articles from that research, and I borrow liberally from those here in this book; he is not responsible for the ways in which I deploy that work here. I was fortunate to be invited by William Maloney to participate in a series of seminars funded by his ESRC grant under the banner of Groups, Governance and Democracy. These were useful in helping to set the context for this book. I would also like to acknowledge the helpful discussions with colleagues at the Robert Gordon University, particularly Peter McLaverty, with respect to ideas discussed in this book. Thanks also to Anthony Mason, Commissioning Editor at MUP, for his support and patience in getting this manuscript finished. I was ably assisted in compiling the case studies in Chapter 8 by Danielle Arthur, a graduate student at RGU. I also wish to thank the librarians and staff at Oxfam, RSPB, RNIB and National Trust for assisting me with access to

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

internal records (sometimes photocopying and shipping records off to me at very short notice). The group survey data reported in Chapter 5 was a product of a UK Economic and Social Research Council Award (‘The mobilisation of organised interests in policy making: Access activity and bias in the “group system”’, ESRC RES-000–22–1932). Last, but not least, thanks to my wife Jenny for supporting me through the journey. And thanks to Matilda, our friendly poodle, for regularly interrupting my writing (but only when I was getting off track).

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List of abbreviations

ACF AI BFBA CPRE CSO FSB GSM IGO INGO NFF NFSE NFUS NGO NIB NPO NSWFA NT RNIB RSPB SFO SMO VSO WTO WWF

Australian Conservation Foundation Amnesty International British and Foreign Blind Association Campaign for the Protection of Rural England Civil society organization Federation of Small Businesses (UK) Global social movement International governmental organization International non-governmental organization National Farmers’ Federation (Australia) National Federation of the Self-Employed (UK) National Farmers’ Union Scotland Non-governmental organization National Institute for the Blind Non-profit organizations New South Wales Farmers’ Association National Trust Royal National Institute of Blind People Royal Society for the Protection of Birds State farm organization (Australia) Social Movement Organization Voluntary sector organization World Trade Organization World Wide Fund for Nature

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1 Groups as agents of democracy?

Introduction The role of interest groups in political life, and public policy making in particular, is well established. Yet research on groups has been, for a long time, a low status form of scholarship in contrast to electoral studies and the study of political parties. While there has been talk of post-parliamentary democracies for several decades (see Jordan and Richardson 1987) – the implication being that groups and not parties or parliaments are the key actors – there has been little discernable sea-change in scholarship (Baumgartner and Leech 1998; Richardson 1999). In their preface to Organized Interest and American Democracy, Schlozman and Tierney (1986, ix) note the preponderance of studies of ‘the electoral process as linkage’ and lament the absence of a group focus. Thus, with good reason, it is usual for interest group scholars to bemoan the lack of interest in their field. Against the other major institutional fields of study – parties, parliaments and elections – the volume of scholarship has clearly been less intense. By contrast, the past decade has borne witness to something of a resurgence in group scholarship (see Beyers et al. 2008). This has provided both opportunities to rejuvenate the field by incorporating new insights, and also challenges in terms of assessing whether longstanding orthodoxies and frameworks are up to tackling contemporary research questions. There are numerous reasons to account for this renewed interest. Perhaps the most obvious is the discussion over governance. The terrain over which policy making and political activity occurs is said to have become ‘de-centered’; the dominant

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frame for policy analysis is shifting from ‘the state’ or ‘government’ to a broader and more encompassing notion of ‘governance’ and ‘governing capacity’ (see Rhodes 1997; Painter and Pierre 2005). From such a perspective groups are incorporated as actors in networks of authority and coordination. This has renewed interest in the study of groups. For a time, groups were viewed as impeding policy making in the public interest. Terms like ‘iron triangle’, ‘sub-government’, ‘private interest government’ and ‘closed policy community’ all conjured up the impression of hidden practice, with groups seizing control of governmental policy for their own narrow self interest.1 Mancur Olson argued that group ‘rent-seeking’ activity curtailed economic competitiveness (1982), and groups were bracketed with terms like ‘ungovernability’ and ‘overload’ (see discussion in Wilson 1990, 29). Groups were said to be dominating and undermining ‘representative’ institutions and the legitimacy of the state. However, the tide is turning somewhat on this pejorative usage of groups. Aided by governance narratives, groups now facilitate or enable policy (see Bell and Hindmoor 2009). Increasingly a valuable contemporary role is found for groups in assisting nation states to address global challenges like international competitiveness (see e.g. Marsh 1995; Weiss 1998). There is even the talk of a revitalization of neocorporatism (even macro-corporatism) in the European context (e.g. Schmitter and Grote 1997; Rhodes 2001). The multi-level nature of governance also means ‘groups’ are studied in (linked) national, supranational and global spheres. This approach fosters new challenges in analysing group activity beyond domestic national conditions. Governance frameworks also give renewed attention to ‘groups’ in a role of delivering and managing public services: often by engaging in partnerships or collaborations (Rhodes 1997; Paxton et al. 2005; for a review of literature see Durose and Rummery 2006). Thus, there has been a recent flush of scholarship and debate over the role of groups in contemporary governance, at various scales. But the reason why groups are gaining most renewed interest is their ‘democratizing’ qualities. Does their incorporation into governance structures help democratize those structures? Views vary widely on this question and it is the

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subject of a vigorous scholarly discussion. This book examines interest group organizations against the backdrop of this ongoing debate. Yet to say that this book engages in an examination of the democratic contribution of groups is not, on its own, very helpful. The ‘project’ of democracy has enrolled groups in various guises. As such it is prudent to delimit the task for this book. According to Warren (2001) groups are important for democracy in three broad ways: they produce ‘developmental effects on individuals’; they produce ‘public sphere effects’; and they generate ‘institutional effects’. There is a vast literature that focuses upon the developmental role of groups as ‘schools of democracy’. Participation in group activity, it is argued, develops a strong sense of political efficacy, ‘other regarding’ dispositions, skills important to engage in political life more broadly, and perhaps even stronger horizontal linkages of trust with other citizens. In short, group life is considered central to fostering a political literacy that is often viewed as an important underpinning for healthy democracies. The ‘developmental effects’ of groups is not a theme pursued here (several recent volumes on associations and social capital pursue this type of approach: see Van Deth 1997; Maloney and Rossteutscher 2007). Critical theorists, in particular the latter members of the Frankfurt School, such as Jürgen Habermas (1992), focused considerable effort on outlining the importance of a fully functioning public sphere. The public sphere is an arena where debate can be carried out ‘free’ from the ‘steering’ forces of power and money to which the spheres of state and market, respectively, are imbued. Groups, it is argued, populate the public sphere. And, as such, groups are well placed to raise the alarm when problems or issues emerge which require the attention of the state. They solidify concerns, amplify those concerns, focus political attention, and even develop solutions (Warren 2001, 78). In essence, they contribute to a public debate and conversation in which issues are freely communicated and deliberated over by citizens. Moreover, the public sphere can compensate for uneven power in other spheres: groups can voice concerns of the economically or politically marginalized thus making the public sphere (unlike market or state) more inclusive. Groups also act as a focal point for commonality in areas not

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reflected in markets or the state: similar diseases, hobbies etc. In sum, groups are important vehicles for injecting ‘voice’ into the public sphere and keeping the ‘conversation’ going. But it is the institutional effects of groups on democratic life that are the core focus of this volume. If developmental effects have to do with the contribution of groups to ‘individuals’ democratic capacities and dispositions’ and public sphere effects are about the role of groups in ‘developing public opinion and forming collective judgements’, the institutional effects are about the role of groups ‘in the institutions of governance that translate the capacities of individuals and judgements of public into collective decisions and actions’ (Warren 2001, 82–3). In this regard, groups are important with respect to their provision of positive advocacy to formal political institutions: they can provide collective resistance to oppression; they can actually ‘govern’ as delegates of the state or provide alternatives to market or state ‘solutions’ to problems; and they can add democratic legitimacy to governing institutions. In the latter case, to the extent that the group ‘system’ offers all an equal chance to influence outcomes, groups may act to legitimate decisions (attract acceptance) where individuals do not actually get what they want. Groups may be particularly important in moderating extreme demands and/or fostering an approach whereby citizens are happy to get what they want most of the time: that is, they can foster a sense of restraint and demand limitation. This book addresses the way in which scholars make claims about the democratic potential of groups (and assess those claims). In particular, it scrutinizes the assumption that groups must be democratic practitioners themselves before they can democratize governing processes. As will become evident, much of the disagreement over whether groups are agents of democracy can be traced back to differing starting points. Where public sphere accounts see group voice as democratic agency, others, perhaps adopting an institutional account, ask ‘Who do they represent?’. Amidst a confusion of imprecise claims and expectations about groups and democracy, this volume aims to disentangle what claims seem relevant to what groups. What metrics are appropriate to measure group democratic practices in a normative sense?

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And, in practice, how do groups go about setting and thereafter developing democratic practices? But beforehand, it is important to get a flavour of the claims made for the ‘institutional’ effects of groups on democratic life. Why are they invoked as democratic agents?

Renewed debate: asserting a democratic role for groups There has been a recent resurgence of scholarship and debate over the role of interest groups in enhancing the democratic nature of contemporary governance, at various scales. Significantly, it has come mostly from outside of the political science-based interest group literature. It is possible to identify several separate threads in the literature which have converged to focus scholarly attention upon groups. The decline of parties . . . and the rise of groups? One area where groups are garnering renewed attention is, of all places, in the party literature. As Clive Thomas (2001) explains, ‘political parties and interest groups are among the most important institutions that define the character of the political system and serve as the principal links between citizens and their government’. It is perhaps, then, no surprise that the apparent ‘failure’ of parties to maintain linkage has increased the attention paid to interest groups. The ‘decline of party’ argument has, in some quarters, catalysed the ‘rise of group’ argument. Early pluralists argued that groups were as important as, if not more important than, parliament, government and parties. The general argument that class-based cleavages and hence class conflict had given way to group-based politics, as the American pluralists were arguing, had resonance in the work of Samuel Beer. In Modern British Politics (1965, 318), he quoted R.T. McKenzie’s thesis that pressure groups had become a far more important channel for communication than parties. He linked the decline of class cleavage with the decline of the social base of political parties (and hence their integrative capacities). Therefore, he looked to groups as the new avenue for political linkage. This general approach has been the subject of intense discussion and empirical research. The emerging consensus is that the major institu-

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tion of political linkage, the political party, is losing its dominance and relevance. There is a decline of parties. Understanding the ‘decline of party’ thesis is important for appreciating what democratic characteristics such authors then go on to invest in groups. According to Lawson and Merkl, parties fail when they ‘do not perform the functions they are expected to perform’ (1988, 5). Adopting a ‘linkage perspective’, Lawson argues that parties are failing to provide a linkage between citizens and the larger political system (allowing citizens some influence) and between governments and the ‘energies and loyalties of its citizens’ (1988, 16).2 But why is this so? A major explanatory factor is that the social base of parties is eroding from under them. In the face of substantial social change – for instance the rise of ‘post-materialism’ (Inglehart 1990) or the ‘end of class’ (Pakulski and Waters 1996) – parties have been unable (or unwilling) to maintain their ties to reliable and reproducible social bases of support. They appear as relics of past social, economic and political conditions. Theories of ‘class-dealignment’ (see Pakulski and Waters 1996) or ‘partisan de-alignment’ (see Dalton 2000) seek to capture the dynamic. As Dalton (2000, 22) reliably summarizes, the dealignment thesis suggests that ‘party ties were generally eroding as a consequence of social and political modernization’. And, as Pakulski and Waters note, ‘class organizations, progressively weakened by dealignment, are increasingly unable to support and reproduce their class referent in civil society’ (1996, 134). Of course, this analysis may reasonably be expected to equally apply to groups; a point which is returned to later. In the place of class-based referents, Pakulski and Waters (1996, 155) argue that parties confront a post-class society understood as stratified according to status.3 The limited number of social cleavages or bases supposed by ‘cleavage politics’ are replaced by ‘a virtually infinite overlap of associations and identifications that are shifting and unstable’ (1996, 155). The lines of the emerging stratification are very hard to predict as there ‘is no central cleavage or single dimension along which preferences can be ordered’, which in turn means that ‘The stratification process is constantly fluid’ (1996, 155). Clearly, this implies a different way of working for political parties.

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While party failure as a consequence of social change presents parties as passive victims of changing circumstances, others argue they are to some extent authors of their own fate. For some, the decline in party linkage is partly about strategic choice. Rose and Mackie argue that for parties ‘adaptation is a necessary condition of survival’ and, as such, party ‘careers’ are stories of cycles of adaptation: precisely ‘how a party persists’ is as important a question as ‘whether it persists’ at all (1988, 534, 542).4 The organizational response from parties is most often said to undermine a linkage role: understood in terms of functions such as interest articulation and aggregation, and in relation to fostering participation (Lawson 1988). The claim is not that party failure means parties cease to exist as political actors, but that they have reorganized in such a manner as to alter their linkage value. The suggestion implicit here is that the major party organizations put the imperative of survival (as measured by electoral success) ahead of sustaining a primary linkage function. The study of party development has generated a number of narratives of organizational evolution that seek to capture the ‘hollowing out’ of parties. They grant party organizations a degree of agency in assessing changes in their operating conditions and adapting accordingly. A recent contribution from Blyth and Katz (2005) examines how the political party in western democracies has evolved by adapting to environmental shifts; exogenous and endogenous, internal and external. They chart the development of parties from ‘elite’, ‘mass’, ‘catch-all’, and contemporary ‘cartel’ organizational forms. They conclude that each advance in party form was instigated by various ‘external, internal and networking dilemmas’ (2005, 38). Parties are treated as a general label for a type of political organizational form, whereby variations in that form emerge in order to better fit with changeable environmental conditions. They say, ‘changes allowed for the development, persistence and success of specific party forms that were more advantageous under changed conditions, while these changes also required that the existing parties adapt, if they were not to be “selected out” by the new circumstances’ (2005, 38).5 Their point is that parties have adapted in a manner that undermines their linkage value. In a similar vein, Dalton and Wattenberg (2000, 284)

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explain that parties are partly to blame for ‘exacerbating’ the problems of falling commitment to democratic participation. In particular, they single out the emergence of ‘cartel parties’, the decline in attempts to ‘mobilize citizens’, the trend to ‘centralize and professionalize in lieu of citizens active as party members’, the tendency to ‘develop public funding sources in order to insulate themselves from the ebbs and flows of public support’, and the use of ‘marketing principles’ to run elections and to guide policy development, as organizational trends among parties that undermine their link with those they represent and, ultimately, ‘undermine the democratic process in the long term’ (2000, 284). They are not optimistic that dealignment can be reversed, and suggest that we may be witnessing an ‘enduring change in the relationship between citizens and political parties in contemporary democracies’ (2000, 266). It would not be forcing the point to say that there is a remarkable degree of convergence around the enhanced role of groups in ameliorating the deficit left by party failure. For Lawson and Merkl (1988, 3), party failure can be viewed against the backdrop of the emergence of ‘alternative organizations’, which include ‘issue groups, ad hoc coalitions, “flash” parties, neighbourhood committees, and religious movements’ (1988, 3). Indeed, Lawson (1988, 30–1) concludes that ‘alternative organizations emerge when major parties fail to provide acceptable forms of linkage’. Merkl (1988, 587) explains that the rise of the current crop of protest and single-issue movements in the advanced democratic countries must be seen also against the changing roles of political parties. Parties and the representative process no longer play quite the dominant role in democratic systems that they once did. They have increasingly abandoned important policymaking areas to interest groups, bureaucratic planners, or neocorporatist interest intermediation – or failed to claim them when they came into focus.

Likewise, Dalton and Wattenberg (2000, 283) see an enhanced role for groups as articulators of interests in the face of the decline of parties as linkage; arguing that the ‘potential loss of representation [as a result of party reorganization] is largely counterbalanced by increased roles for other agents of interest articulation’. Groups offer individuals a channel to pursue interests in the political arena quite

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separate from political parties; a ‘Myriad of special-interest groups and single issue lobbies have assumed many of the parties’ interest articulation functions’ (Dalton 2000, 22, 29). As a function of social change and modernization, Dalton and Wattenberg explain, ‘The explosion of an interest group society is surely likely to continue’ (2000, 283). Indeed, in terms of agenda setting, Ian Marsh (1995) argues that social movements and interest groups, not parties or parliaments, have been the key initiators of the major shifts in Australian public policy since the 1970s. Some explore a middle ground between parliamentary democracy and group engagement. Proposals in Australia have emerged for better use of group evidence at parliamentary committees as a way to encourage strategic policy making and generate legitimacy for the ‘long-view’ (Marsh 1986, 1995) But, naturally, there is ready scepticism about an enhanced role for groups, with UK scholars raising a concern that groups should not usurp the powers of elected governments (see Jordan and Stevenson 2000; Bonney 2003). And, in the Scottish context, where a new parliament does include more powers for committees and a promise of a stronger role for public engagement and group evidence taking, the signs are that such institutional design is making a minimal impact (see Cairney 2006). As will become evident later in this volume, the conditions said to explain party decline – and the conceptualization of party careers and organizational forms – are perhaps equally applicable to groups. The hollowing out of parties, therefore, is also suggestive of the hollowing out of groups. Democratic deficit and the tyranny of majoritarian government The problem of ‘democratic deficit’ is diagnosed in most western democracies; typically on the back of declining voter turnout, falling party memberships and indicators that citizens have lost trust in politicians (Dalton 2004; Pattie et al. 2004). Not only are parties hollowed out, but electoral systems point to citizen disillusionment and disengagement (see Dalton and Wattenberg 2000; Scarrow 2002). The argument is that citizens in modern western democratic states are disillusioned with the traditional democratic institutions

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of party, parliament and welfare state. Given such disillusionment, political institutions suffer deficits of both democratic authority and legitimacy. In the face of this evidence, there is increasing acceptance (or at least debate) by governments of all persuasions that party organizations and electoral/parliamentary politics alone are insufficient mechanisms for the transmission of citizens’ preferences and their participation in the political system. Important constituencies lack presence and/or voice in party and parliamentary forums, which make them less than satisfactory as mechanisms for formulating inclusive public policy programmes. To address these deficits, governments have emphasized the need for concrete engagement between the machinery of government and what they call ‘civil society’. This engagement, they argue, would assist in achieving the ‘democratization’ of major political institutions. In operationalizing this ‘engagement’ democratic states seek to access public opinion and mobilize consent through direct forms of citizen consultation. Yet a significant role has been cast for groups. It is noteworthy that authors (and government actors) in this tradition often refer to groups as nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), voluntary organizations, not-for-profit organizations, third sector groups, and civil society organizations (CSOs). But why involve groups? The answer is that groups are often regarded as constituting or populating ‘civil society’. It flows from this starting point that demands of citizens for greater participation, voice and presence in previously closed public policy making arenas can be satisfied through the increased participation of groups. An intended consequence of group engagement is to increase the legitimacy of public policy decisions. Further, the substantive outcomes of public policy should be better given that the groups provide expertise and information to policy makers, in addition to ultimately enhancing the quality of policy implementation. For the same reason that advocates of majoritarian government are concerned over the rise of faction and hyper-pluralism, critics of parliamentary systems see groups as necessary to give vulnerable minorities voice. For some, groups are offered as a means to supplement majoritarian institutions of representative democracy by acting as conduits for minorities or those ‘stigmatised or marginalised

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in the policy process’ (Sawer and Zappala 2001, 13). For others, extant parliamentary systems lack the ability to mobilize societal consent necessary for (long-term) strategic policy making capacity; they propose an enhanced role for groups but in ways that do not undermine parliamentary sovereignty (see Marsh 1995). Perhaps the most ambitious reworking of the potential for groups in addressing democratic deficit has been that of the associative democrats (see Cohen and Rogers 1992, 1995; Hirst 1994, 1996). Rather than tinker with existing majoritarian systems, they assert the need for a new form of democratic governance. In addressing this eventuation, Cohen and Rogers argue, ‘A need for new structures of citizen involvement in decision making, for more flexible means of adjusting to rapid change, and for institutions capable of extending public capacities for regulation into the interstices of the economy and social life are all implied’ (1992, 434). They reserve a special place for ‘associations’ in their vision for a new democratic governance: Associations, we believe are a large part of the answer. Their capacities for information gathering and dissemination, the construction and enforcement of standards, and, more generally, the enlistment of private actors as supplementary supports for public regulatory efforts are at this point especially valuable. (1992, 434)

Given that parliamentary or territorial representation is incapable of achieving the desired ends, they argue that associations could be useful in making up the democratic shortfall. Democratizing global governance The discussion about the democratic deficit being experienced by nation states is mirrored, and perhaps even amplified, in the international relations and global politics literature. Arguably, the problem of democratic legitimacy is more pronounced in supranational and global forms of governance. The difficulty that nation states have in governing ‘de-territorialized’ economic flows and social and cultural relations, the absence of ‘nation state-like’ mechanisms to legitimate emerging forms of global governance (an absence of a global government and parliament or global citizenship), and the dominance of large nation states in many internation-

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al governmental organizations (IGOs), are all cited as reasons for ‘democratic deficits’ in global governance. There is some acceptance that the legitimacy afforded IGOs by the mere fact that most are composed of member states – most of which are democratically elected governments – is stretched as the scope of decisions made by such institutions, and their impact, grows (Anderson and Rieff 2005, 34). This is all the more critical as evidence suggests that IGOs act with increasing, albeit modest, levels of autonomy from member states (Scholte et al. 1999, 108). While criticism of IGOs, such as the UN, has most often been levelled on performance grounds, it is now shifting to concerns over democratic legitimacy (Falk 2006). That is, concerns over ‘output legitimacy’ have drifted into concerns with ‘input legitimacy’. The mood is well summed up by Scholte when he observes that ‘contemporary globalization has provoked a crisis of democracy’ (2002, 289). Consequently, one of the central questions confronting scholars of international relations and global politics is how to democratically legitimate global governance; how to construct conditions for accountability, representation and popular participation beyond the nation state. With a desire to address the democratic deficit in global governance, some (e.g. Held 1995) have advocated strengthening IGOs and/or working towards establishing a form of global government. But many scholars have also advocated an engagement with (organized) global civil society – or International NGOs (INGOs) – as a way to move forward (see for example Keck and Sikkink 1998; Scholte 2000, 2002; Van Rooy 2004; Falk 2006). Some, such as Risse (2006, 195), argue that ‘transnational governance arrangements ought to include “external stakeholders” as a way of improving both their participatory quality and their effectiveness’. Again, groups emerge as democratic agents. This imagined role is often assisted by what might be considered normatively loaded definitions. For instance, key scholars produce definitions such as Sikkink’s observation that ‘International NGOs claim to speak on behalf of affected communities and thus bring into international institutions perspectives from people affected by international policies and projects, but normally excluded from global or national policy making’ (2002, 312).6 As is discussed in Chapter 2, definitions which include an approved political agenda as a definitional condi-

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tion are not at all helpful in gaining traction on questions of the democratic potential of groups. The growth of INGOs and the increasing level of intensity and frequency of engagement with IGOs (see Gordenker and Weiss 1996, 44; Scholte et al. 1999, 109; Glasius et al. 2005, 408), it is argued, provides a base from which to build new forms of democratic accountability and legitimacy (see for example Keck and Sikkink 1998; Scholte 2002; Van Rooy 2004). Such authors no doubt approve of findings that INGOs are increasingly close to actual ‘decision making’ (see Martens 2002). The core claims made with respect to the democratic contribution of INGOs is summed up well by Collingwood and Logister (2005, 184): INGOs can play a critical role in democratising the global order and achieving greater distributive justice. INGOs can act as agents for change in the reform or radicalisation of current political and economic structures, offering an attractive alternative to the centuries-old rivalry between states. They can hold other state and non-state actors to account; act as democratising agents, giving under-represented peoples a ‘voice’ at the global level; and put social and moral issues onto the global agenda.

The notion that global civil society, or (I)NGOs, can contribute to plugging the democratic deficit associated with global governance is echoed by many IGOs. Most of these institutions, such as the United Nations, have had longstanding arrangements in place to consult with groups of various types (Gordenker and Weiss 1996). What is unique about the current period is that these relations with groups are being viewed through a different lens; burdened, some might say, with expectations of groups as agents for democracy – as ‘global civil society’. The European Commission has made its expectations of such an engagement clear. It claims that civil society ‘offers a real potential to broaden the debate on Europe’s role. It is a chance to get citizens more actively involved in achieving the Union’s objectives and to offer them a structured channel for feedback, criticism and protest’ (European Commission 2001, 15).7 The United Nations has also reflected on how best to engage with civil society, forming a Panel of Eminent Persons on United Nations–Civil Society Relations which reported in 2004. The Panel’s report argues that the engagement with NGOs ‘could

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help the United Nations do a better job, further its global goals, become more attuned and responsive to citizens’ (UN 2004, 8). Even the World Trade Organization (WTO) has become more engaged in consultations and dialogue with NGOs (Mason 2004). Others: social capital As Warren (2001) noted, a great deal of interest in groups reflects a concern with social capital. The loss of trust in political institutions and declining rates of participation more generally in civic life has sparked renewed interest in the role of associations in offering participatory opportunities that can re-engage people with politics in ways that parties fail to do (see Putnam 1993 for the US; Hall 1999 for the UK). But ‘participation’, or participatory opportunities, need not be political in nature in order to generate social capital. Bridge clubs, local garden societies, childcare groups and sporting clubs are no doubt very important for bringing people face to face and fostering civic ties. And, therefore, any decline in the vibrancy of such associations is something worth investigating in the context of social capital arguments. However, these groups are not by definition organizations with the explicit aim of influencing public policy, or providing political linkage. They may drift sporadically in and out of public policy life, but it is not their core (or often even a major) purpose for being. Therefore social capital issues, and these types groups, are not a major concern to this book.

Some second thoughts? As the above review demonstrates, for the most part groups seem to be parachuted into theoretical discussions where a vehicle – or an agent – needs to be introduced to serve a democratic linkage function. Groups are sketched in as ‘agents for democracy’; often ably assisted by theoretical schemas which attribute a democratic role to, for instance, the ‘third sector ’, ‘social movements’ or ‘civil society’. But, this renewed attention to groups has been accompanied by increased scrutiny of their democratic credentials. As will become evident, the initial rush to endorse groups as demo-

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cratic agents has been followed by caution, and in some cases outright scepticism. Even those who are up-beat about the democratic impact of groups often recognize that this may require changes in group practice or that there are ambiguous grey areas – unresolved questions – that limit group democratic potential. For one, the endorsement of groups as the successor to parties in constituting key forms of political linkage raises concerns. For instance, Dalton and Wattenberg remain unconvinced that groups are able to take on the interest aggregation role traditionally undertaken by parties (2000, 283). They highlight the qualitative difference in the linkage provided by groups and parties and the impact that this may have on democracy; indicating concerns over a democratic system driven by groups rather than parties. It is their view that ‘we should be concerned that political change may give rise to a pattern of hyper-democracy: we may become more effective in expressing our special interests, while at the same time failing to bring interests together for the common good’ (2000, 283–4). Groups may be effective linkage, but in being so emphasise narrow interests at the expense of constructing broader visions of the public interest. Just this type of debate has occurred in the UK. Wyn Grant (2007) reminds us that it was Samuel Beer (1969) who saw in British party government an ability to discipline and manage the tendency for groups to pursue narrow interests. Thus, Beer ’s work established that American pluralism could be made to work in a British context while avoiding the fragmentation and particularism about which many were concerned. But, in his later work, Beer saw a weakening of party government, and, the likelihood of a drift into ‘pluralistic stagnation’ (1982). Grant (2007) surmises that, were Beer able to ‘update’ his analysis for modern Britain, he would be concerned to find a dominance of narrow groups pursuing narrow ‘inner-directed’ interests that undermine attempts to govern in the broader public good. So while there is no doubt that more views are aired – perhaps one indicator of a healthy democracy – the capacity for aggregation and the development of a broadly shared governing consensus is made more difficult. The group solution may not be adequate. A more general concern in entrusting political linkage functions to the group system is its inherent bias. Contra to

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the early group theorists who suggested that where there was an interest a group would emerge, the consensus is that many interests are either unorganized or poorly organized. A longstanding thread in the group literature identifies a heavy ‘bias’ towards business and economic interests; even if there is some disagreement on why this is so. Schattschneider ’s (1960) statement about the ‘upper class accent’ of the US group system remains the consistent finding (see Schlozman and Tierney 1986).8 More recently, Lowery and Gray (2004) have explored the ‘sources’ of bias. They argue that changes in group environments, such as levels of governmental attention and public opinion shape the formation of groups. They suggest that some interests are represented by actors other than groups (for example civil servants or experts) – what they refer to as invisible or ‘ghost’ groups. They also point to the effect of group population dynamics on the formation and mortality of groups, which in turn shapes the contours of the group system. In essence, they point out that determining what an unbiased group system would look like is rather difficult. Nevertheless, there are real concerns about the absence of some voices in policy discussion. Speaking on the UK context, Grant expresses concern about the constitution of the group population. The interest group system itself is biased towards those that are presently well represented by ‘well resourced and politically sophisticated organisations’ (Grant 2001, 346). Grant nominates as examples ‘business, especially big business; farmers; the established professions; white collar workers in the public sector; local government; animal protection and welfare; conservation of townscapes and country landscape’ (2001, 346). This contrasts with ‘sections of society or causes that are less well represented’, such as the ‘the elderly; tenants of social housing; the mentally ill; the homeless; lone parents, prisoners; refugees and asylum seekers’ (2001, 346). It may be hard to define precisely who ought to be organized, but is not, yet it is clear that the group system is incomplete. From a participatory point of view, there is also ‘bias’ with respect to who joins groups. In a ‘market place’ for representation, the better off – those with discretionary income for, among other things, group memberships – are more able to afford to have their interests voiced. Evidence from the UK

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finds that the rapid growth of environmental and conservation groups, such as Friends of the Earth UK, the National Trust or the RSPB, is explained by the better targeting of the ‘predisposed’ and middle-class because they can afford membership (Jordan and Maloney 1997). In the US, Jeffrey Berry accepts that national citizen groups ‘require no active involvement on the part of their members’, but defends the democratic value of mass-membership citizen groups (1999, 389). He argues that they ‘are an instrumental part of modern American democracy, and they engage their members in the political process in a meaningful way. They are not the hallmark of “thin democracy” but a reflection of people’s abiding concern for the health of their society’ (1999, 389). As will become evident, this volume has a deal of sympathy with the thrust of Berry’s defence of group practice. But he also acknowledges the ‘middle-class and upper-middle-class’ nature of their membership. Thus he concludes, ‘The problem with national citizen groups is . . . that they empower only part of the population’ (1999, 391). Overall, the concern is that the contours of the group system itself will lead to policy outcomes that disenfranchise the marginalized. A far more commonly expressed concern is in respect of the democratic practices of the groups themselves. It seems that just as groups are being invested with a role as agents to restore democratic legitimacy to governing institutions and policy processes, doubts are cast over their democratic credentials. In national and transnational contexts, scholars and governmental organizations are expressing caution about the qualifications of groups – and the group system – to deliver on promises of political linkage. Core concerns are around representativeness and authenticity, scope for participation by affiliated individuals, accountability, and authorisation. If groups are to be agents of democracy it is argued that they should be democratic practitioners themselves. This constitutes the primary focus for this volume. A strong argument has emerged which asserts that the democratic dividends from engaging with groups relies on these same groups being voluntary, internally democratic, accountable to members and providing arenas for member deliberation (see discussion by Perczynski 2000). Studies of groups at global (Scholte 2000), European (Warleigh 2000,

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2001) and domestic levels (Lyons 2001; Grant 2003) have consistently observed poorly functioning internal democratic practices among groups. Empirical analyses find members largely disengaged from group life and separate from professionalized secretariats. An additional concern is with the authenticity of groups. Do they engage with those they seek to represent or to advocate for? Evidence shows that many groups speaking for the marginalized and weak tend not to routinely involve them in their internal decision making (Grant 2003). This raises doubts over democratic legitimacy. This book engages directly with these concerns over the capacity of groups as democratic agents.

Groups as democratic agents: a scholarly impasse? It is no exaggeration to say that groups are increasingly celebrated by scholars and governments as agents of democracy. Several threads in the broader political science, international relations and sociological literature(s) converge on an enhanced role for interest groups in democracy; or at least in terms of democratizing various forms of governance. Students of political parties argue that their ‘failure’ to link with citizens in modern democracies necessitates a role for ‘alternative political organizations’. More generally, scholars point to failures in modern majoritarian democracies, including poor electoral turnout and lack of trust in politicians and parties; increasingly they look to ‘groups’ as part of any remedy. Social change – the emergence of the so-called ‘movement society’ (Rucht and Neidhardt 2002) – means that, for some, groups are the rightful expression of an increasingly fluid ‘soup’ of political interests and identities. The development of supranational forms of governance, European and global in particular, poses particular problems for democratic legitimation. In the face of such challenges some look to groups, or the group system, to provide a link between the governed and those doing the governing. Whether in regard to the failure of parties as ‘linkage’, legitimation crises among nation states or democratic deficits in regimes of European or global governance, theories (and theorists) look to groups as potential agents of democracy. This is no doubt helped along by the fact that the

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language used to discuss groups has changed. Many political organizations conducting activities which conform broadly to established definitions of interest groups are attributed labels that are more amenable to positive evaluation. Labels such as civil society, social movements, non-governmental organizations or non-state actors, serve to neutralize the often pejorative ‘interest group’ (or worse still ‘pressure group’) with its connotations of self-interest and special pleading. It is particularly salient that the resurgence in the study of groups around the thematic concern with democracy has largely emerged outside of the confines of interest group specialists. This is both for better and for worse; and at a minimum invites interest group specialists to re-engage with the fresh insights offered by the ‘interlopers’. Pulling down the disciplinary shutters and invoking scholarly balkanization is unhelpful. To most interest group specialists, the reinvigoration of this area of scholarship is welcome. Yet the democratic role prefigured for groups in many theories appears at best hopeful. There is somewhat of a scholarly impasse. Talk of groups as agents of democracy is mostly dismissed as naive optimism or normative speculation. Put simply, the consensus among group scholars is that modern interest groups are most often devoid of just the type of democratic qualities and capacities for which they are now being fêted. Empirical analyses find members largely disengaged from group life and separate from professionalized secretariats. Accounts of groups as ‘campaign businesses’ (Jordan and Maloney 1997) encourage a view of groups as largely elite enterprises. Others note that those groups pursuing the interests of the under-represented are often not themselves democratic practitioners (Grant 2001). Many groups advocate for constituencies but do not then engage actively with those constituencies in developing positions – there is a lack of ‘authenticity’ (Grant 2003). Groups claim to act in the public good – or for morally approved causes – but it is unclear who authorizes their work and to whom they are accountable. Participation in politics generally, and groups particularly, is said to amount to the sub-contracting of representation (Richardson 2000). This initial disjuncture between group scholarship and other literatures is perhaps to be expected. Scholars have

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pencilled in democratic roles for groups because of failures or inadequacies in other institutions (e.g. parties, parliaments, nation states or global regimes of governance). Social scientists generally have become interested in groups because of developments (particularly failures) in other parts of the democratic infrastructure. The attraction towards groups as democratic agents is more of a ‘push’ away from ‘flaws’ elsewhere, as opposed to a ‘pull’ towards groups based on convincing empirics or persuasive accounts of democratic potential. But, where given a chance, interest group scholars are able to point out that the agents invested with democratizing roles may not be up to the task. As may be anticipated, initial theorizing and hopeful optimism has given way to empirical scrutiny and thus the broader political science and social scientific research community is increasingly (re)discovering some of what the interest group specialists said they ‘knew all along’. In the domestic US context, scholars now talk of the ‘hollowing out’ of group internal democracies, arguing that ‘traditional’ group life – generous in participative opportunities and democratic engagement – is giving way to ‘mail order ’ styles of group life (Skocpol 1999; Putnam 2000). In the European Union context, where the Commission has been proactive in fostering a ‘legitimising discourse’ around its engagement with ‘civil society’ (Smismans 2006, 116), talk is of a need to compensate for a set of institutions without strong democratic legitimacy (see Benz 2006), while empirical analysis finds that Euro groups lack internal democracies (Warleigh 2001). International relations and global governance scholars similarly report that ‘global civil society’ or International NGOs lack internal accountability or are internally undemocratic (see Colás 2002; Scholte 2002). It is evident that the ‘other ’ literatures are catching up. And claims of naivety about group life are less apt. Few, if any, scholars would disagree with the empirical observation that many groups lack robust internal democracies, lack authenticity and manifest uncertain accountability structures. The far more controversial issue is how to interpret this finding. Does it throw into doubt the claims about groups as democratic agents? Are these doubts generalizable to all types of groups? Should all groups have internal democracies? If not, which ones should construct such internal

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democratic practices? In what other ways can group advocacy be legitimated? And what impact do observations about group practices make to democratizing governance? These types of questions are at the core of contemporary debate about groups and democracy. And they are the focal point for the chapters that follow. On the one hand, there is a strong inference that the democratic legitimacy of groups is lost (or at least severely diminished) with the absence of internal democratic procedures (Warleigh 2001; Grant 2003). Thus, groups become important only in so far as they offer a plurality of voices, and contribute expertise and resources to policy making activities. For some within the global civil society literature, the admission that ‘representation’ is not always a model appropriate to legitimating NGO advocacy is sufficient reason to retract the entire ‘global civil society’ project (see Colás 2002; Anderson and Rieff 2005, 29). Some observe that groups themselves do not claim to be democratic or representative, suggesting that they have been unwittingly enrolled into the normative projects of scholars and governments (Jordan and Maloney 1997; McLaverty 2002). But it remains unclear which groups exactly are excused from democratic practices, and why. Others are not so sure. In the global civil society literature some argue that groups operate in a market place of ideas, and thus group advocacy raises democratic participation and deliberation (Wolf 2006). Others suggest that groups are legitimated by ‘external’ forms of accountability; poor decisions by groups are monitored by supporters through the media and punished by voice or exit (Florini 2000; Risse 2006). Still others take a different approach, pointing to a plurality of legitimacies which can substitute or supplement internal democratic representation (see Van Rooy 2004). More generally, it is argued that adjudicating on the need for internal democracies is hampered by the fact that what a democratic group would look like is as yet unclear (Rossteutscher 2000). This throws doubt on whether scholars actually have the analytical tools to engage in a proper debate about the democratic qualities of groups. Mostly, however, there is a degree of unease evident in the literature. Optimists are now cautious, if not sceptical, about the democratizing function of groups. For instance Sikkink

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observes that ‘international NGOs and transnational networks, coalitions, and movements enhance deliberation and representation in international institutions by providing voices and ideas that were previously absent. At the same time, NGOs and networks need to address their own asymmetries and questions of accountability and transparency, so they can enhance their internal democracy while helping to democratize international institutions’ (2002, 301). This type of ‘hesitant endorsement’ is perhaps most indicative of the state of the literature at present. But is it possible to do better than this type of ‘each way bet’? And, is it possible to be more precise and specific about which groups need to legitimate advocacy by internal democratic practices? The core concern, irrespective of labelling or the spatial level of governance under consideration, is with the democratic legitimacy of groups themselves. How ‘representative’ are they of those they advocate for? What mechanisms of accountability and authorization exist to connect them with those constituencies they claim to advocate for? The challenge taken up by this book is to reanimate this area of discussion: to gain traction on discerning ‘group’ democratic potential and appraising practice. An engagement between group scholars and the broader discipline is timely. Indeed, as will become evident, this engagement may even serve to catalyse innovation in group theory and analysis. A core aim of this book is to tease out a more nuanced take on groups and their role in enhancing democracy. How much contemporary group activity can be retrieved as genuinely contributing to democratic life? Under which circumstances is scepticism warranted? The mood of dispassionate scepticism risks painting with too broad an analytical brush. But, unbridled optimism of an ‘associative elixir ’9 for democratic deficits appears somewhat naive and simplistic. The book aims to tread a careful, yet provocative, path through these debates.

Moving forward? How might progress be made on such questions? In contributing to this debate, the book pursues three broad areas.

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The first casualty in the search for a ‘breakthrough’ must be the level of generalization at which we seek answers. A core contention here is that the question as to whether ‘groups’ in general are (or are not) capable democratizing agents is in itself unhelpful. Group specialists are already struggling with terminology (see Jordan, Halpin and Maloney 2004), and so the addition of social movement organization (SMO), non-governmental organization (NGO), civil society organization (CSO), and a succession of other labels, adds to the muddle. When we conclude that ‘groups’ are (or are not) democratic practitioners on the basis of examining a selected clutch of groups, how do we know we are talking about the same thing? Can findings about SMOs be generalized to NGOs or CSOs? A degree of consistency is necessary in order to refine claims and to have these tested. The book pursues an organizational definition of ‘interest group’, one which can be used relatively easily to identify those political organizations which are under discussion. It is inclusive and is likely to encompass much of what is discussed under the various ‘new’ labels for ‘groups’. A second consideration concerns what metrics should be used to adjudicate over the democratic potential and practice of groups, in relation to internal decision making and relations with affiliates. The implicit orthodox test applied to groups is a representation test: accountability and authorization between group leaders and affiliates. Evidence is usually of an organizational nature; specifically, whether active internal democracies exist. The absence of such organizational practices is interpreted as a democratic deficiency. But is this approach relevant to all groups, and, if not, to which groups should it apply? Moreover, what other forms of legitimacy are relevant? What are we to do in the case that groups are unable (rather than unwilling) to operationalize forms of accountability and authorization that are demanded under the representation test? These questions do not often emerge when examining the ‘orthodox’ fodder of traditional group studies – trade associations, unions and employer groups were the types of groups that the architects of group theory had in mind. However, the salience of such questions becomes apparent when one dips into the literature on advocating for global citizens, the environment, or even the disabled, mentally ill or homeless. The group literature could

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do with ingesting the insights of literatures that are at the periphery of its usual empirical sphere of concern.10 This book seeks to provide one alternative way to assess democratic promise and practice among groups. The third and final consideration is to try and transcend ahistorical answers to the question of democratic legitimacy in favour of a more contingent and nuanced approach. There is a tendency to discuss democratic contribution as though it were a question that could be resolved in the negative or affirmative in a once-and-for-all fashion. Yet, if asked, few would seriously argue that groups are (or are not) ‘naturally’ or ‘innately’ democratic practitioners. And most would admit to the likelihood that groups may become more (but probably less) internally democratic over time. Such conclusions raise one obvious question: what makes some groups develop democratic practices and others not? Skocpol (1999) and Putnam (2000), amongst others, suggest there may be a historical trend or ‘period effect’ at work. Others, influenced by the arguments about oligarchy and bureaucracy by Michels and Weber, point to an ‘age effect’ (see Rawcliffe 1998). These temporal impacts are worth trying to spot in relation to groups and democratic practice. In other words, consideration of the potential for democratic contribution needs to be sensitive to changeable group practice (both in aggregate and at the individual group level). Thus, we should attempt to offer explanations as to why particular groups (or populations of groups) become more or less valuable as agents of democracy. The book explores group organizational development and democratic practices through case study histories. Cases have been chosen on the basis that they illustrate theoretical or conceptual points and are readily identifiable to most readers (or data about them is readily accessible). They are selected to demonstrate important variations, and are not designed to ‘test’ theory as such or constitute a generalizable sample of groups. This type of scholarly endeavour is no doubt needed, but is perhaps a logical follow up to the work reported here.

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About this book As is evident, there is somewhat of a resurgence in interest groups as institutions of study. The focal point is around their contribution to democratic governance. There is an understandable degree of caution regarding their fitness to fulfil the democratizing role. It is this debate with which the book seeks to engage. There is a degree of debate over the capacity of groups to deliver as democratic agents. For some it is a performance deficit: it is self-evident what groups need to look like but they simply refuse to conform; thus they should be brought to heel. For others, we need to recalibrate our conceptions of legitimacy and authorization, loosening our emphasis on internal democracies and representative modes of accountability. The resulting impasse sees formulations that endorse groups as agents of democratization, but with caveats around democratic legitimacy. This is evident across social scientific literatures and with reference to national, supranational and global levels. This book sets out to gain some traction over this impasse. The book has been written as a series of connected, but largely stand-alone essays. Each problematizes an empirical or conceptual element of the above debate and proceeds to explore it. In general terms, the first four chapters examine theoretical and conceptual issues, while the latter four chapters focus more on actual empirical group practices. But there is some necessary and worthwhile interchange. Chapter 2 tackles the question of group definitions and labels. One core difficulty in gaining traction over the scholarly impasse set out in Chapter 1 is the issue of definitions of ‘group’. On the one hand new arrivals import elastic labels, and on the other group scholars steadfastly defend interest group conventions (themselves heavily contested). In both cases, scholarly progress is the casualty. The chapter starts out by reviewing the labels in use and examining the way(s) in which they are deployed in the literature. The evident plurality may be defensible, but if one wishes to generate a robust and informed debate about democratic potential, some definitional commensurability – and parsimony – is probably necessary. Snowballing definitions, with lurking normative tones, have made assessing empirical research

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difficult. Looking across disciplinary literatures, the chapter argues that one can find a core definitional base. And further, it argues that interest group scholars should be more ready to engage with their new intellectual neighbours operating in allied social movement, voluntary sector, global politics and civil society literatures. The chapter settles on a ‘group’ definition, and then addresses areas of difference with other key terms used by social scientific scholars. Chapter 3 scrutinizes the dominant lens through which the democratic expectations of groups are viewed. It is argued that group scholars have implicitly, but sometimes explicitly, viewed groups as though they were all engaged in democratic representation. In turn, this has informed expectations that groups should be democratically accountable to their affiliates. Where group practices have not conformed to this picture this is read as a group deficiency. Similarly, frameworks such as that pursued by Michels-Weber, support an assumption that groups inevitably, over time, as they get older, or just intrinsically, fail to produce internal democratic practices. In sum, the orthodox frameworks and lenses used to appraise groups have supported a rather pessimistic view of the potential for groups to be agents of democracy, because they do not practise it themselves. Against this theoretically inspired expectation of representation (and the difficulty in achieving it in practice), the chapter reviews a range of arguments that seek to weaken or outright challenge this representation account. The chapter concludes that group theory is poorly served by an insistence on a relatively constrained account of representation. It must address the flaws identified by critiques of group representation in order to defend its orthodox scepticism of the democratic potential of groups. It serves as a prelude to an alternative approach to conceptualizing group representation and democracy pursued in Chapter 4. Chapter 4 proposes a supplementary metric to that of representation. It is argued that whether a group should enfranchise those that affiliate to it – as a representation account suggests – depends on whether they also happen to be the constituency the group advocates for. Groups that advocate for non-human constituencies (nature and future generations) cannot enfranchise their constituency, so enfranchising the affiliates of such groups is not necessary for

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democratic legitimacy (but it may be useful for other organizational reasons). The chapter identifies a framework for identifying those interest groups that are, in principle, capable of representation, and those of solidarity. It also demonstrates why the solidarity/representation distinction is not simply repeating other binary distinctions already in the literature (e.g. cause versus sectional groups). This serves as a prelude to a fine-grained analysis of varied group democratic practice in the following chapters. Chapter 5 establishes how the solidarity versus representation distinction can be applied to empirical cases. Moreover, it illustrates that while the conceptual categories have some currency in practice, there is not always direct conformance between the democratic promise of groups and their practices. These are scholarly categories that help us calibrate our expectations better, and with more clarity. But this is not the same as suggesting groups will or do in fact meet these expectations. Chapter 6 examines the ‘orthodox’ case of representative groups that under-perform. The chapter makes the point that a major source of pessimism about groups as democratic agents is not the lack of democratic practices constitutionally within representation groups, but with the lack of this constitutional promise being implemented. While the cases illustrate the outcomes predicted by the age and period models reviewed in Chapter 3, it is argued that this is not simply for the reasons these models suggest. The hollowing out of the UK Federation of Small Businesses and the NSW Farmers’ Association, in Australia, was a choice made by groups who needed to balance the active engagement of members with a desire to grow the group such that it had the resources for a research-based policy advocacy. They chose a pathway to group growth that necessitated a substantial increase in resources. Small businesses or farmers would and did join for policy related reasons, but just not in big enough numbers to build the resources desired by leaders to engage in resource-intensive research-based advocacy. Chapter 7 builds on the previous chapter by scrutinizing the argument of Mancur Olson regarding collective action. His thesis has been instrumental in fostering pessimism about the democratic potential of groups. This chapter argues that while his predictions are right, for representation

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groups, his reliance on a dominant and wide-spread selfinterested rationality is a weakness to his framework. Instead, it is argued that the reason they work is not to do with the rationality of joiners, but the way the group constructs and legitimizes a passive form of group affiliation. Thus, Olson works as much because of a supply-side, as a demand-side, phenomenon. It is argued that this work opens up a renewed focus on supply-side issues in explaining group maintenance and democratic practice; in particular, the discursive frames offered by leaders who are in a privileged position to shape expectations. Chapter 8 challenges the period-based arguments, reviewed in Chapter 3, which suggest obliquely that democratically inferior ‘mass-membership’ groups are a modern phenomenon – and that they may also be the result of hollowing out processes among formerly more democratic groups. In the UK, the ‘protest business’ thesis pursued by Jordan and Maloney (1997) has served as a touchstone for this broader thesis. However, based on historical case studies of three such ‘protest businesses’, the chapter argues that these groups hardly constitute internally hollowed out groups. They have, since very early in their group careers, pursued a passive mass-supportership base to fund ‘good works’. This work has broader implications for the study of group change. For instance, it emphasizes the crucial role of the worldviews and constructs of leaders in shaping group attempts at group adaptation and evolution. Chapter 9 examines a case where a group capable of representation, but not practising democratic enfranchisement of its constituency, transformed its practice. In so doing, it establishes that this process is possible, but is complicated and lengthy. It challenges scholars to take a historical perspective on group practices, looking to how potential may come to be fulfilled. In so doing it challenges the teleological element in much group scholarship – both interest group and social movement strands. Groups, via political processes within and without, are agents in the co-evolution of their democratic (and other) practices. The concluding chapter asks whether there is cause for pessimism or optimism regarding groups as democratic agents. It rehearses the main findings from the book and suggests areas where further work may be carried out. It also

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ponders how we might explain and then deal with the finding that most groups do not wholly fulfil representative potential. It is argued that the paradox of representation – claiming to speak for what is absent – means that all groups confront a ‘gap’ in terms of demonstrating democratic accountability and authorization. The key question is how this gap is assessed. It is argued that modes of representation are institutions, and, as such, the appropriateness of a form of representation will change over time and be contested. Assessing what is proper in any circumstance thus rests with the (changeable) adjudication of key audiences – policy makers, the constituency and supporters.

Notes 1 In the US, studies include those of Lowi (1979, ch 4), McConnell (1966, ch 7) and Olson (1965), while in the UK Self and Storing (1962) is the classic example. 2 According to Key (1964, 11), a range of ‘institutions of democracy’ can act in a linkage role between represented and representatives – political parties, representative bodies (consultative councils etc.), electoral procedures, non-party associations and groups, and other less formal linkages. 3 These statuses can be ascribed statuses that now have values attached (e.g. ethnicity, race, gender), consumption statuses (e.g. yuppie, punk, etc.) or value-commitment statuses (e.g. feminism, environmentalism, etc.). 4 See also the edited volume by Lawson (1994), in particular the preface by Lawson and chapters by Wilson and Deschouwer. 5 Blyth and Katz (2005, 45) identify several approaches that shore up the new ‘cartel party’ form. 6 See also Keck and Sikkink (1998) and Van Rooy (2004) . 7 See Greenwood and Halpin (2007) for a review of EU measures in this regard. 8 Although see Jeffrey Berry’s study of the power of citizen groups in the US (Berry 1999). 9 This is borrowed from Rossteutscher (2000). 10 Some have started, for instance Baggott et al. (2005) with respect to UK patient groups.

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2 Interest group aliases: towards definitional commensurability?

Introduction The contention that ‘groups’ can contribute to addressing ‘democratic deficits’ in liberal democratic political systems has some considerable currency. Quite rightly, however, claims about the democratic capacity of ‘groups’ attracts critical scrutiny. A necessary precursor to any sensible examination of the democratic potential and practice of ‘groups’ is to settle upon a suitable definition. That is, when we say ‘group’, to what type of political organization do we refer? In this volume, so far, the term ‘group’ has been deployed as a catch-all category in order to draw in the varied threads of the debate over the democratic potential and practices of particular types of political organizations.1 It has proven a necessary device to admit into this book the work of scholars in other disciplines: particularly sociology, social work and international relations. As Chapter 1 amply illustrates, the resurgence in debate over groups and democracy is in large part a product of work in these ‘other ’ disciplines and literatures. Any serious contribution, therefore, must surely capture and engage in these debates. Given that one of the core aims of this book is to promote the notion that there is a broad community of ‘group’ scholars (beyond political science), it is crucial to address scholarship in an inclusive manner. Yet to do so effectively requires attention to definitional issues. To properly assess claims of democratic potential and practice, it is essential that some clarity emerges around the properties that a political organization needs to have to be referred to as a ‘group’.

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This chapter catalogues the various terms that refer to ‘group-like’ organizations, and finds no ready consensus. Therefore, it advocates settling on a definition of an ‘interest group’ offered by Jordan, Halpin and Maloney (2004), as a ‘test’ for group-ness. The definition is simple and relatively unambiguous. Importantly, for the purposes of this book, the definition makes having affiliates or members a necessary condition for group-ness. Clearly, groups need to have affiliates to have any prospect for representative democratic potential. As will become evident, this definitional approach finds resonance with the definitions and usage of authoritative scholars engaged in the research of NGO, civil society and social movement organizations. There may be no existing consensus, but there is the basis for manufacturing one. This chapter is intended as one step towards arguing for just such a broader social-scientific consensus. Beyond the immediate needs of assessing the democratic potential of groups, there is another, broader, reason for attending to definitional clarity. It should promote crossfertilisation of work among allied, but largely distinct, scholars. It is argued that hitching ‘other ’ labels to the interest group literature via a single ‘interest group’ definition has benefits for scholars in abutting areas of research. The interest group literature provides analytical tools that will assist in empirical analysis. In return for engaging with the ‘interest group’ area, scholars from other disciplines can draw the attention of interest group scholars to additional spheres of political activity, and away from a largely domestic and economic focus. Other disciplines offer theoretical approaches which can embellish threads in the interest group literature. As has been claimed elsewhere, the potential for synergy is immense given dual core concerns with the mobilization and public policy influence (see Leech 2001). Unlike the approach of interest group scholars in political science in the past, it is recognized here that simply asserting that ‘others’ ought to adopt an ‘interest group’ definition is unlikely to win the argument and attract support. Thus, a credible definition of ‘interest group’ needs to be accompanied by a broader examination of its commensurability with other existing ‘group’ labels. There is a need to demonstrate that the label suggested is already, to some extent, being deployed by other scholars. This chapter looks at the ‘group’

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definitional debates across a range of literatures and seeks to assess commensurability with the ‘interest group’ definition adopted in this volume.

What is an interest group? The starting point for this discussion of ‘group’ definitions is the political science literature. Perhaps the core term used to make sense of the ‘group’ territory is ‘interest group’. It has broad currency in political science, although arguably the term ‘pressure group’ has more currency in the UK (but the terms are used interchangeably). A text book definition is relatively unproblematic to produce. An interest group is a political organization that is more than a latent group: it must have a formal organization (although various levels of formality are allowed). In addition, it must seek to influence public policy; but unlike a political party not seek to attain political office itself. This approach generates definitions such as, ‘A pressure group is an organization which seeks as one of its functions to influence the formulation and implementation of public policy . . .’ (Grant 2000, 14). However, in the research literature a wide range of labelling conventions are evident. Labels such as associations, interest organizations, voluntary associations, interest groups, pressure groups and citizen groups, among many more, co-exist. Specialist scholars have long debated what constitutes an interest group. Case study analysis of groups has permitted idiosyncratic labelling. Although it is no doubt true that scholars should be wary of any over-zealousness with respect to ‘legislating’ and policing definitions (see Salisbury 1984), the desire for both system-wide and crossnational comparative collection of data on groups has necessitated more attention to definitional issues. The tradition of larger-scale empirical data collection on interest groups is much better developed in North America. Here, ‘domain studies’ have necessitated counting a group’s presence in a particular policy space (see Schlozman and Tierney 1986; Laumann and Knoke 1987; Heinz et al. 1993). But even in the US literature disagreement exists with respect to what is to be counted. Definitions of interest groups regularly include individual businesses, professional

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lobbyists, and sub-units of government (see Lindblom 1980; Wilson 1990). Empirical studies thus examine and report on ‘interest groups’ while including companies, governmental agencies or boards, and lobbyists (see for example Lowery and Gray 1995). The difficulty is not that this misrepresents the policy making map: far from it; ‘institutions’ are continually shown to be perhaps the most numerous and active of political actors (Salisbury 1984). But reporting studies of these actors as research and findings on ‘interest groups’ makes assessments of the democratic impact of ‘groups’ difficult. In democratic terms, these latter actors are without the potential to affiliate individual citizens into an organization with the aim of involving them in defining their collective interests and representing them. They are politically important, but uninteresting in terms of the potential for linking citizens with the policy process.2 An interest group definition needs to move beyond a ‘group by function’ emphasis – groups are defined simply by policy activity – to a ‘group as a collective phenomenon’ – they are denoted by potential for mobilizing individuals as part of their political activity (Jordan, Halpin and Maloney 2004). In the United Kingdom, group specialists have been largely intent on detailed case studies.3 The empirical focus on wellknown groups that are without doubt ‘traditional’ membership interest groups has curtailed a broader debate on terminology, although it has not promoted parsimony. In fact, Kimber and Richardson (1973) reported over twenty different labels for the broad interest group territory several decades ago. In the US, it has been noted that ‘scholars tend to focus on a small subset of advocacy organizations carrying biases of overemphasizing the distinctiveness of interest groups, social movements, organizations and nonprofits’ (Andrews and Edwards 2004, 500). Among group scholars, there is a broad acceptance that pressure group and interest group cover the same territory. But an ambition for larger (and comparative) data sets – and the internationalization of the research field – has catalysed attempts to arrive at agreeable definitions. The recent contribution of Jordan, Halpin and Maloney (2004) has provided some important clarification. Following their approach, all organizations that seek to influence public policy are labelled as ‘pressure participants’. These are all the

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organizations that show up in the policy studies literature as having input into public policy making. Within this universe a distinction is made between organizations that are ‘policy participants’ and ‘interest groups’. Interest groups are, like policy participants, focused on achieving policy change, but, unlike policy participants, do so on behalf of collectivities of individual citizens.4 The central prerequisite for ‘interest group-ness’ is that a group organizes or affiliates individuals, and, as such, has to contend with collective action problems. As they note, interest groups are managed with the likelihood that they need to accommodate and be mindful of affiliates exercising ‘exit’ and ‘voice’ (Jordan et al. 2004). This definition has clear implications for an examination of democratic potential. It is clear that only interest groups have affiliates. Thus, only they have the potential to engage individuals directly in the democratic life of the group. Policy participants do not have affiliates and, therefore, do not have this type of potential. Whether interest groups, so defined, match such potential in practice (and to what extent) is a matter for empirical analyses. But what such labelling achieves in relation to debating democratic impact is, as Salisbury (1984) predicted, to (dramatically) narrow our attention onto those political organizations with democratic representative potential. It avoids confusion in relation to reporting research findings; when we talk interest groups we preclude lobbyists, government departments or companies by attributing to them the label ‘policy participants’. This definition and labelling convention may suffice were it not that much of the debate about groups and democracy emerges from scholars considering ‘interest group-like’ organizations but adopting different labels. As is apparent from Chapter 1, a complicating factor in assessing the democratic contribution of ‘groups’ is the plethora of aliases which are deployed to identify ‘interest group-like’ organizations. These labels cannot be ignored, as the renewed debate and attention given to the question of ‘groups and democracy’ comes from outside the confines of interest group specialists. Therefore, even if interest group specialists could agree on a definition, such as the Jordan et al. (2004) proposal, this may not register among the broader scholarly community. Thus, a credible definition of ‘interest group’ needs to be accompanied by a broader examination of commensurability with ‘aliases’.

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Other ‘group’ labels and the issue of commensurability This book, following Jordan, Halpin and Maloney (2004), adopts an organizational definition of interest group; not least because it identifies those politically active organizations that have ‘democratic potential’. But as Chapter 1 made apparent, the renewed debate and attention given to the question of ‘groups and democracy’ comes mostly from outside the confines of interest group specialists. There is a need to look at the commensurability of this definition of interest groups with ‘interest group-like’ terms in use more broadly. A brief search for the term ‘interest group’ in the major political science journals would turn up a small group of specialist articles. Yet, if one used social movement organization (SMO) or non-governmental organization (NGO) a much larger literature is revealed. A range of scholars use other words for what appear outwardly as organizations with similar properties. To SMO and NGO, add civil society organizations (CSOs), voluntary sector organizations (VSOs)5 and third sector organizations.6 The literature on ‘civil society’ includes the above and various more obscure labels such as private voluntary organizations (PVAs) and principles issue networks (PINs) (Scholte 2000, 174). There is a literature examining global social movements (GSMs) (Cohen and Rai 2000). What are we to make of this diversity? A key question is whether these are interest groups by another name. Clearly, sorting out claim and counter claim regarding democratic potential and practice is difficult where there is no certainty that the ‘groups’ being generalized about are indeed one and the same. Definitional clarity provides a better basis for generalization. Confronted with the vast array of bespoke labels for ‘groups’, one common reaction from interest group scholars is to dismiss them as normative re-labelling. Put simply, scholars claim that these are interest groups by another – more normatively approving – name. As Wyn Grant notes, ‘In politics, the way in which things are labelled is not an insignificant matter ’ (2001, 337–8). Labels carry with them normative messages, and this is particularly evident in the group field. He explains, ‘If one disapproves of an organisation, one calls it a vested interest. The term pressure group

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still carries negative connotations, while that of “interest group” is more neutral, although it might seem to apply only to sectional groups. The term NGO is now widely used, although mostly applied to environmental and other campaigning groups’ (2001, 338). He rejects this normative approach, arguing that ‘traditional trade associations are just as much NGOs. The shift in terminology reflects, in part, a very favourable public perception of the new generation of NGOs’ (2001, 338). Willetts (2005) says as much when he notes that diplomats prefer the ‘bland title’ of NGOs because to do so sits well with their ‘claim that they are pursuing “the national interest” of a united society’. To admit to relations with interest groups or pressure groups would be to imply the influence of some specific ‘section’. In a similar vein, Jordan and Maloney (1997) argue that social movements are interest groups in disguise. These types of assertions are no doubt prompted by the fact that the political actors studied under these ‘other ’ labels are often – but not always – those actors that would be studied elsewhere as interest groups. For instance, in the UK, Elliot et al. (1982) examine the National Federation of the Self-Employed (NFSE) as a social movement, a topic that has been analysed in a business interest group framework (Jordan and Halpin 2003). Similarly, the World Wide Fund for Nature (WWF) is studied as a movement organization (Rootes 2003) and as an interest group (Jordan and Maloney 1997). So there is some cause to sympathize with the view that the use of other terms to discuss what are often studied as interest groups renders them redundant. Terminology also emerges from the practices of political institutions. The term non-governmental organization (NGO) was first pressed into use by the United Nations and was, for a time, the limited preserve of UN accredited bodies (Martens 2002, 271; Willetts 2005). The European Commission has deployed the term ‘civil society’ to refer to ‘groups’ with which it seeks to engage (European Commission, 2001, 15). Its system for ‘de facto’ accreditation of groups (CONNECS) asks groups about their coverage of EU nations, their membership and their funding sources (Greenwood and Halpin 2007). In relation to a definition of ‘civil society organizations’ it says that, ‘There is no legal definition of the term “civil society organisations”’, and by

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way of elaboration refers to a definition from the Economic and Social Committee which includes a wide variety of groups.7 The WTO has adopted the NGO and civil society lexicon.8 Legal and tax status is also a relevant driver for overlapping terminologies. In many countries, for example the UK, Australia and Canada, charitable status is granted to certain groups, which, in turn, lowers taxation rates.9 Thus, studies will adopt legal and/or taxation status – such as charitable status or non-profit status – as a proxy for defining populations of ‘groups’ or the ‘voluntary sector ’(see Kendall and Knapp 1996; Lyons and Hocking 2001).10 In the US, data on ‘groups’ is often derived from institutionally collected records for tax, political donation or lobbying regulation purposes (see Baumgartner and Leech 2001).11 As a consequence, legal and tax status comes to define parameters for empirical studies of ‘groups’. While the criticisms of group scholars are reasonable, caution is required when complaining that these new labels are mere academic ‘fashion’, and pertain to plain old interest groups. Many labels are applied not on the basis of organizational attributes but on the basis of their purported ‘ends’ or ‘aims’. There is, or at least can be, a reason for different labels. This book agrees with the position that we should stick to definitions that focus on organizational attributes when conducting empirical analysis. However in so doing, it is important to acknowledge that other usages may be guided by different considerations.

The commensurability of democratic ‘goods’ As is apparent in Chapter 1, claims for democratic capacity are often made for ‘groups’. Labels alone are taken as proof positive that ‘groups’ are democratic agents. Being part of civil society ipso facto means an organization is an agent capable of repairing the democratic deficits of democratic institutions. Such an approach hinders attempts at separating out democratic potential from practice. Thus the first stumbling block in sorting out language is to settle upon what democratic impact or role groups are supposed to be making or fulfilling. Perhaps the single biggest, and legitimate, reason for label

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proliferation is that each tries to tap into the way groups produce different democratic ‘goods’. There are a broad range of claims made for groups in terms of enhancing democracy. For instance, Rossteutscher (2005, 5) identified the following varied assertions as to what democratic ‘goods’ groups are said to provide, and the contingent relationship with theoretical position: identity, cohesion and a sense of belonging (communitarianism); trust and sociability (social capital); mediation and social embeddedness (civil society); efficiency and effectiveness of governance (associative governance) . . .

It is unlikely that all ‘groups’ would be able to deliver all of the above: but attempts at specifying which expectations sit with which types of groups are often made, yet left unresolved. No commensurability will be possible – and like labels will simply obscure underlying differences – unless the intellectual ‘frame’ adopted by researchers is made explicit. The purpose to which groups can be put is a matter for disciplinary framing. Speaking with respect to NGOs operating in the social services sector in Australia, Lyons (2001) observes that they tend to be viewed from at least one of two perspectives: an ‘economic’ or a ‘civil society’ perspective. From an ‘economic’ perspective NGOs are valued in so far as they are efficient providers of social services to disadvantaged groups in the community. As such, this perspective places NGOs in direct competition with other service providers, including government, business and other charitable organizations. NGOs are viewed as not-for-profit variants of a service delivery organization. From a ‘civil society’ perspective NGOs are valued in so far as they, in addition to providing services, engage with their ‘clients’ in ways that contribute to a range of outcomes including increased levels of participation, political engagement, collective action and political presence or voice. From this perspective, NGOs are able, by virtue of their mode of operation and engagement with those whom they serve, to enhance and strengthen democracy and contribute to the development of sustainable communities. Perspectives play an important part in the capacities attributed to groups. While they are implicit in empirical work, for the purposes of investigating democratic potential and practice, it is necessary to choose a frame and define accordingly.

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If by democratic contribution one refers solely to generating trust in a community or fostering social skills (political socialization broadly conceived), then any group that facilitates face-to-face contact between individuals is likely to be of relevance. If however, as is the task in this book, we are concerned more specifically with the capacity for groups to ‘link’ citizens with public policy and formal political processes – by providing political advocacy – then groups ought to have some explicit political focus (or proclivity for such). This volume pursues democratic contribution in an explicitly formal political manner. That ‘groups’ simply involve individual citizens in some form of collective action – even if it is to serve meals to the elderly or run classes for those who collect stamps – is insufficient for our purposes. This may generate a sense of belonging (as desired by communitarians), create trust between people (as social capital scholars desire), or foster social embeddedness (as sought by civil society theorists). However, groups fulfilling only this criterion may not also engage in formal politics. Where they do, they are of interest to this study. The democratic deficit we focus upon is the direct matter of political linkage: do groups assist in repairing deficits in formal political institutions such as to constitute political linkage? Do they provide advocacy in formal political life for a given constituency?

The commensurability of empirical definitions Establishing the type of democratic contribution we are interested in ‘groups’ generating assists in narrowing the field somewhat. In this volume, groups must have some linkage potential; they need affiliates and at least a modest political focus. It is accepted that many groups will have important, perhaps even dominant, service functions: this is an expectation set by the claim of Olson, and subsequent group theorists, that groups sustain themselves first and foremost as clubs with the politics as a ‘by-product’ (see Salisbury 1969; Moe 1980). Moreover, groups may start as social or recreational clubs but drift into political life as events change, at which point they become an interest group (such groups are examined in Chapter 8).12 To be an interest group, they need to have some clear level of (contemporary) policy

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ambition and activity. This reflects the definition of interest group adopted above and provides a workable definition for empirical analysis. There is, however, a need to come to grips with whether the plethora of ‘group’ labels used to describe empirical activity can be in any way commensurable with (a) one another, and (b) the usage of interest group defined here. While it is undoubtedly the case that the very same ‘groups’ studied as ‘interest groups’ are also studied as social movements or NGOs, this is not of itself sufficient evidence that no difference exists in group types. It is a logical possibility that the selection of a common research target reflects an overlap in definitional scope. That is, some NGOs, social movement organizations and non-profit organizations (NPOs) also fit interest group categories. They are not mutually exclusive. Indeed, if we take seriously the theoretical and disciplinary origins of these labels then there is every reason to expect such an overlap. Where such an overlap is not evident, then pointing out equivalences (and thus potentially redundancies) will aid analytical and empirical research. Political science scholars engaged in interest group research sometimes seem to imply that the ‘new’ entrants to the field apply their new labels rashly. But if one looks hard enough the evidence within these separate literatures suggests a similar degree of dissatisfaction over terminological specificity as is expressed by interest group scholars above. Researchers in the civil society, NGO, social movements and NPO fields are also expressing some frustration with definitions that reiterate normative assertions but hinder empirical observation. While a lack of specificity remains a problem in the literature, some scholars have made a point about the need for agreed definitions and the removal of normative undertones. This shared dissatisfaction across literatures presents a window of opportunity to manufacture a better consensus on what to include, and why. The ensuing debate provides some clarity as to where overlaps between interest group and other definitions may exist, and where collapsing labels, or at a minimum recognizing equivalences, could be entertained. NON- GOVERNMENTAL ORGANIZATIONS (NGOs)

Scholarship in the NGO area has identified the absence of any definitional consensus. Authoritative voices, like Peter

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Willetts, argue that ‘Many diverse types of bodies are now described as NGOs. There is no generally accepted definition of an NGO and the term carries different connotations in different circumstances’ (2005, 4). As similar observation is made by Martens (2002, 272). She argues that ‘despite the increasing interest and the growing literature on the issue, NGOs have not yet sufficiently been defined’. Legal definitions of NGOs do exist, but, according to Martens (2002, 275) do not offer a satisfactory solution. The definitions vary between jurisdictions, and, as such, mean that data generated from such definitions is not comparable. She complains that sociological studies tend to offer definitions of what NGOs are not, rather than positive definitions. She points to the ‘diverse and sometimes even contradicting interpretations of the term’, and explains that ‘it makes comparisons of single NGO studies difficult, if not impossible’. This is much the same complaint as interest group scholars. Despite the lack of any disciplined application of the term NGO, Willetts is easily able to identify ‘some fundamental features’: they must be ‘independent from the direct control of any government’, not be a political party, be non-profitmaking and not be engaged in any illegal or violent activity. Thus, he defines an NGO as ‘an independent voluntary association of people acting together on a continuous basis, for some common purpose, other than achieving office, making money or illegal activities’ (2005, 5). This accords with the approach of Jordan et al. (2004), and suggests that when Willetts says ‘NGO’ he might as well say ‘interest group’. Indeed he admits that ‘interest group, pressure group, lobby and private voluntary organization – could all be applied legitimately to most NGOs’ (2005). If this were not enough, in her review Martens offers the definition that ‘NGOs are formal professionalized independent societal organizations whose primary aim is to promote common goals at the national or the international level’ (Martens 2002, 282; italics in original). The way she unpacks the definition is worth examining in detail. Martens (2002, 282) explains: NGOs are societal actors because they originate from the private sphere. Their members are individuals, or local, regional, national branches of an association (which, again, are composed of individuals) – and usually do not (or only to a limited extent)

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include official members, such as governments, governmental representatives, or governmental institutions. NGOs promote common goals because they work for the promotion of public goods, from which their members profit and/or the public gains. NGOs can be professionalized because they may have paid staff with specifically trained skills, but they are not profit-orientated. NGOs are independent because they are primarily sponsored by membership fees and private donations. They may receive financial funding from official institutions, but only to a limited extent, so that they are not under the control of governmental institutions. NGOs are formal organizations because NGOs have – at the least – a minimal organizational structure which allows them to provide for continuous work. This includes a headquarters, permanent staff, and constitution (and also a distinct recognized legal status in at least one state).

In sum, Martens has elaborated a definition of an NGO that matches the interest group definition provided by Jordan et al. (2004). So, at least in the NGO area, there is an organizational-based definition that matches an emerging consensus in political science practice. But this initial clarity is confounded by the use of other labels to refer to NGOs which makes an authoritative definition hard to find. These labels include non-profit, voluntary, social economy, third sector, community sector and civil society organizations (Lyons 2001, 8–9). NON-PROFIT ORGANIZATIONS (NPOs)

While interest group studies may be a stagnating field, the study of the ‘voluntary sector ’ has been growing; with the expansion of dedicated graduate programmes and of specialist journals (Smith et al. 1995, 3). Developments here mirror those more recently in the civil society area of scholarship (see below). The emphasis on the role of such groups in enhancing democracy and political linkage is also a key element in explaining rising scholarly interest. As Wuthnow observes, since Tocqueville, voluntary associations have been considered important actors in facilitating ‘political participation’ and forming ‘an informed electorate’, and with ‘augmenting’ the political system (1991, 6–7). The interest in the ‘voluntary’, ‘third’, ‘not-for-profit’ or ‘non-profit’ sectors lies in the theoretical perspective that equates it with a space or sphere beyond the state and market where important values can be preserved and protected (see Hodgkinson

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and McCarthy 1992, 3). The organizations populating this space are thus significant as agents to reproduce values. Yet agreeing on how to identify such organizations is a challenge. Scholars of the non-profit sector claim the same ‘conceptual confusion’ highlighted in interest group studies. Key contributors to the literature argue that ‘definitions of voluntary organisations are contested, and the boundaries of the sector cannot be drawn with confidence’ (Smith et al. 1995, 2). The lack of clarity is said to impede efforts to catalogue the size and significance of the sector. But a definition of an NPO is relatively straightforward to find. And perhaps the most authoritative definition of non-profit organizations comes from the work of Salamon and Anheier who direct the Johns Hopkins National Comparative Non-profit Sector Project (NCP). They define an NPO as an organization sharing the following five characteristics: (i) organized, (ii) private (i.e. non-state), (iii) non-profit-distributing (putting profits back into the aims of group, not distributing them to owners or directors), (iv) self-governing (has internal apparatus for governance), and (v) voluntary (involves some meaningful participation in operation or management of organization) (see Salamon and Anheier 1996). A close examination of the methodology of the study confirms it incorporates groups that are no different to the definitions of NGOs already discussed (Salamon and Anheier 1996, ch 1), and that may differ from interest group only in that some NPOs would not meet the requirement of being in addition tasked with influencing public policy.13 This hunch is reinforced by the fact that organizations the like of which have been, or would be, studied as interest groups are studied as NPOs: in the opening chapter of a book introducing the ‘voluntary sector ’, mention is made of UK organizations such as Shelter, Child Poverty Action Group and the National Association for the Care and Resettlement of Offenders (Smith et al. 1995, 1). Interest group scholars would no doubt readily pursue such cases as part of their territory. Where things become difficult is in placing this definition among the plethora of related terms used in the field. Speaking with respect to the accumulating knowledge on the ‘non-profit sector ’, Morris (2000, 1) complains that: The problem has been that as new scholars enter the field they have brought alternative definitions of the subject area with

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them. Institutions which are neither statutory, nor profit maximizing, have been collectively and variously called the voluntary, third, non-profit, or more recently, civil society, sector. Scant attention has been given to how these various and competing definitions relate to one another.

So even among this narrow research community, labels proliferate. Morris prefers the term ‘third-sector organisations’ for ‘organisations which are neither statutory nor profit maximising’ (2000, 2). This picture is complicated by the coexistence of labels such as private voluntary organizations (PVOs), social economy, foundations, informal organizations and charities (Hodgkinson and McCarthy 1992, 21; Salamon and Anheier 1996, 3). While Salamon and Anheier (1996, 3) argue that these labels ‘reflect wholly different concepts and refer to distinctly different groupings of institutions’, others are not so sure. Predictably, the call for clarity is not always heeded. Indeed, some see it as a red herring. Kendall and Knapp (1995, 66) contend, ‘There is no single “correct” definition which can or should be uniquely applied in all circumstances’. This seems reasonable enough; they prefer the purpose of the categorization to be the measure of definitional adequacy. But this jeopardizes the accumulation of research findings. The ‘problem’ of imprecise labelling becomes more evident when existing work seems to be relabelled to follow academic fashion. The re-branding of the Johns Hopkins study as a study of ‘civil society’ has attracted criticism for just this reason (Morris 2000). The objection is that NPOs, so defined, omit organizations that should properly be included in a definition of civil society. For instance, the ‘non-profit-distributing’ element of the NPO definition removes ‘mutual societies’ and banking associations, which do return profits to members, from the NPO sector; placing them instead in the for-profit sector. Morris argues that these mutual societies generate more social capital (fostering trust and face-to-face communication) – an important aspect of civil society – than many NPOs. Thus, she defends a difference between the non-profit sector and civil society. The definition of NPO above has also been tinkered with, often making empirical work more difficult. While the ‘street definition’ of not-for-profit and voluntary groups may rest on some notion of delivering a ‘public benefit’ (as often does

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their tax-exempt status), scholars have tried to avoid such definitions given the problem of identifying such a benefit empirically (Kendall and Knapp 1995, 89). However some explicitly seek to deploy this as a definitional attribute, even an explicit focus. For instance, Osborne (1996, 11) adds ‘motivation’ to the Salamon and Anheier (1996) definition and insists on the label voluntary and non-profit organization (VNPO). That is, they say, ‘the motivation of a VNPO should not be based upon financial gain, but rather should hold some normative voluntary value’ (Osborne 1996, 12; bold in original). A similar normative spin is provided by Hodgkinson and McCarthy (1992, 3) who claim that the ‘nonprofit or voluntary sector ’ remit is ‘to serve undeserved or neglected populations, to expand the freedom of or to empower people, to engage in advocacy for social change, and to provide services’. Such definitions make it hard to argue in general terms against the value of the voluntary sector: who could disagree with groups whose primary task is as outlined above? But it is a risky approach for advocates of the sector, as this undifferentiated approach makes the poor practice of one or two voluntary sector or non-profit groups cast doubt on the entire sector. More generally, from a research perspective, it makes empirical analysis difficult as choosing normatively attractive groups will differ wildly among scholars. CIVIL SOCIETY ORGANIZATIONS (CSOs)

In the civil society literature there is an emerging consensus that further empirical analysis is required to sustain claims about its democratic value (or otherwise) (Heinrich 2005). As in other areas of scholarship, the desire to generate meaningful comparative analysis has driven efforts towards better definitions. In reviewing major empirical studies on civil society, Heinrich (2005, 213) observes that most see civil society as a sphere – separate from the state and market and family – which is populated by ‘voluntary non-profit organizations’.14 Some scholarship on civil society has been heavily normative, spelling out what this sphere should look like. In some cases this normative theoretical work has gone on to shape empirical studies, which has caused problems. As Heinrich (2005, 213) explains, ‘Whereas normativetheoretical treatises, and their narrow definitions, dominated

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the literature in the 1980s and 1990s, with the emergence of a growing number of empirical research studies on civil society, broader definitions have come to the forefront. This is a result of the recognition that strongly normative definitions have not been able to provide appropriate operational criteria, and lack conceptual coherence, since they treat the same association differently depending on time and space.’ Normative definitions reserve the term civil society for a limited number of approved voluntary associations: groups that adopt certain practices and/or pursue certain goals/aims (see Van Rooy 2004). This type of approach begets a circular argument which means that civil society is by definition a ‘good thing’. Some have sought to draw general attention to the risks of labelling creating unrealistic expectations, with McLaverty pointing out that ‘there is nothing intrinsically democratic about “civil society organizations”’ (2002, 310). While the normative approach has given way to a focus on whether civil society is capable of delivering on what is claimed, the major comparative civil society studies deploy no common approach to operationalizing civil society (Heinrich 2005). Aspirations for empirical testing of claims are hampered by such problems. In pushing for definitional clarity, evidently, the biggest border skirmish is between civil society and non-profit. Interestingly, Heinrich includes the Johns Hopkins National Comparative Non-profit Sector Project (NCP) among studies of ‘civil society’. This is because, as Morris (2000) noted above, the project has recently re-badged itself as a study of civil society. This has been controversial. The NPO approach has been criticized for not including ‘unorganized’ forms of action, much as interest group and NGO perspectives are criticized for not including protest-based social movements. It has also been criticized because it does not address the cultural aspect of civil society: namely that civil society embodies (and presumably reproduces) norms like cooperation and democracy. Thus, the NCP project is criticized – as are approaches like it – for equating the study of NPOs with civil society (Heinrich 2005, 219). However, sifting out NPOs that do not reproduce approved norms or are not imbued with acceptable motivations or interests is a difficult, perhaps impossible, task; and arguably provides a poor definitional basis for an empirical analysis. There are signs

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that this trend is being overcome, with Heinrich noting a ‘trend towards inclusive definitions which regard the set of norms espoused by civic actors as a question for empirical inquiry, not as a criterion for in/exclusion from the civil society sphere’.15 This seems like a sensible option when large-scale research hinders any appreciation of the espoused norms of a group. Nevertheless, ‘the debate over the distinctiveness versus sameness of non-profit sector and civil society terminologies is still unresolved . . .’ (Heinrich 2005, 224). But beyond the introspective literature reflecting on definitional issues, everyday usage has tended to see NGO and civil society being used interchangeably. Chandhoke remarks that ‘civil society has come to be identified with NGO activism both in influential tomes on civil society and in policy prescriptions of international institutions today’ (2002, 38). Indeed, leading scholars conducting empirical work seem to settle on the idea that civil society is a sphere populated by voluntary associations; the latter which are defined in a way almost identical to NGO or interest group. For instance, Scholte offers the following: activities are considered to be part of civil society when they involve a deliberate attempt – from outside the state and the market, and in some other organized fashion – to shape policies, norms and/or deeper social structures. In a word, civil society exists when people make concerted efforts through voluntary associations to mould rules: both official, formal, legal arrangements and informal social constructs. ‘Civil society’ is the collective noun, while ‘civic’ groups, organizations, and so on, are the individual elements within civil society. (2000, 175, italics added)

By way of example, Scholte includes voluntary associations, business associations, academic institutions, foundations, unions, and campaign groups as within civil society (2000, 175–6). Clarity in this area of scholarship is fleeting indeed. SOCIAL MOVEMENT ORGANIZATIONS (SMOs)

It is no surprise that political organizations studied under other labels are also the concern of social movement scholars. The study of social movements involves both issues of collective action or mobilization and of matching political advocacy to environmental conditions; issues also common

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to ‘political parties’, ‘interest groups’ and ‘voluntary organizations’ (della Porta and Diani 2006, 19). The term social movement organization (SMO) has come into common usage to denote political organizations participating in broader social movements. This has parallels with the approach civil society scholars like Scholte take in separating the sphere of civil society from the manifestation of CSOs. There has been a tendency to use social movement as shorthand for approved groups delivering approved ends. This includes an assumed commitment to an emancipatory, participatory and inclusive form of democratic politics. For instance, in summing up the field, della Porta and Diani (1996, 163) observe, ‘Social movements . . . declare that they wish to construct a new model of democracy, and the organizations involved in them have been described as being permeated with a participatory and decentralized conception of it’. But, as they readily admit, empirics does not often bear this claim out. The approach set out by two of the more eminent scholars in the field describes the normative element of some SMO definitions. For them, by definition, the basic point of an SMO is to set about a new democratic politics; even if they often fail to embody these values in their own practice. Given that many organizations studied as social movements have been studied as NGOs or interest groups, the term has come under pressure from other terms for dominance. Some interest group scholars make the straightforward claim that social movements are simply interest groups by another name (Jordan and Maloney 1997). Others modify this to mean that SMOs are one type of interest group. Leech, for instance, argues that ‘the social movement is a special case of an interest, and the SMO is a special case of the interest group’ (2001, 3). She suggests social movements are not necessarily connected to claims on the government – they may pursue social goals – and SMOs have members where an interest group is any organization that attempts to influence public policy.16 Leech argues that given this difference – that SMOs are a sub-set of what she defines as interest groups – studies of SMOs and interest groups should be kept analytically separate. Separating out SMOs from other political organizations tends to rest on distinctions between aims and tactics. Some scholars reserve the social movement label for

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groups that pursue ‘idealistic or moralistic claims’ or pursue the interests of the marginalized, while others restrict its use to highly formalized groups, while still others see protest tactics as a core element of distinction (della Porta and Diani 2006, 140). But, empirically, many ‘groups’ target society broadly and pursue targeted influence of civil servants or government: the same group can juggle direct and indirect strategies (Binderkrantz 2006). Using political strategy as a distinctive marker for an SMO is not the firm foundation that it may seem. The distinction between social movements and NGOs is addressed by Willetts (2005, 16). He says that ‘NGOs should not be contrasted with social movements, because NGOs are essential components of social movements’. He continues, ‘A social movement consists of a range of organizations who collaborate for some common purpose that is sufficiently compelling to generate a sense of collective identity, along with all the people, within and outside the organizations, who identify with the common goals and the collective identity. Thus a social movement is more than a coalition of NGOs and less than society as a whole’ (2005, 16; italics in original). This reflects the developing usage among social movement scholars. Leading social movement scholars are resistant to the focus on social movements as aggregations of social movement organizations; however the term is often stretched to refer both to ‘networks’ and to single organizations. A focus upon social movements as single organizations has prompted labels such as ‘professional social movement’ or ‘single organization movement’ (della Porta and Diani 1996). They give away this territory to interest group studies, claiming such terms are better approached from existing public interest group labels: ‘qualifying Common Cause as a “professional social movement” does not add very much to the understanding of it, that cannot be provided by concepts like “public interest group”’(della Porta and Diani 1996). In this sense, an SMO is an interest group. This concession reflects the broader argument that the study of social movements should focus much more on the relations between social movement organizations, rather than on social movement organizations individually (Diani 2003, 304). It is accepted generally that if the study of social

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movements is reduced to examining social movement organizations, then there is a weak case for insistence on genuine ‘social movement’ labels and theories. Diani is quite clear on this point: ‘If we maintain our focus on single organizations, there is indeed no ground to claim that the Worldwide Fund for Nature is an SMO rather than a public interest group, or Earth First! a social movement rather than a radical grassroots organization. Identifying them as one or the other depends ultimately on the socially constructed professional identities of the researchers’ (2003, 304). Diani argues that political organizations would be ‘interest groups’ rather than ‘social movement organisations’ where they ‘act mainly on their own, and are the main focus for their activists’ loyalties, to the detriment of broader movement identities’ (2003, 305). He concludes, ‘In these terms, “social movement organization” is defined not in terms of attributes, but in terms of relations: SMOs are all those groups who identify themselves, and are identified by others, as part of the same movement, and exchange on that basis’ (2003, 305). This relational approach – emphasizing how organizations regard one another as a defining feature of ‘movement-ness’ – is clearly elaborated in principle, but the drift back to studies of (social movement) organizations (and of functions) is almost irresistible. And where this drift is evident, the difference between SMOs and interest groups is almost impossible to spot. Della Porta and Diani (2006, 137) explain that, ‘Even though social movements do not equate with the organizations active in them . . . organizations often play very important roles within them’. They describe the ‘functions’ that ‘organizations in active in social movements fulfil’ as including ‘defining organizational aims; managing and coordinating contributions; collecting resources from their environment; selecting, training and replacing members’. In addition, such organizations must ‘mobilize resources from the surrounding environment, whether directly in the form of money or through voluntary work by their adherents; they must neutralize opponents and increase support from both the general public and the elite’ (2006, 137). This could be quite easily accommodated under the (interest group) organizational tasks of policy influence, mobilization and organizational maintenance.

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Whether one is convinced of a relational approach to social movement analysis or not, the consensus is that the term social movement organization (SMO) has equivalency with interest group or NGO. While some may prefer to reserve the SMO label for groups exhibiting specific advocacy tactics or pursuing valued causes or ideals, this has largely been accepted as inhibiting empirical analysis. A distinction can be forced at a conceptual level but it is hard to maintain empirically. The value of this commensurability is that it enables interest group and social movement organization scholars to share both empirics and analytical frameworks. Empirical overlaps? It has been common to assert differences among these ‘group’ types on the basis of political tactics and strategy, level of institutionalization, degree of formal organization, or the nature of political targets. But this approach means variables we may want to investigate are used as the basis to define a set of groups (Andrews and Edwards 2004, 486).17 As discussed above, the book is interested in ‘groups’ that have a collective action function and a significant policy function. So to what extent is this definition commensurable with other ‘group’ labels? As a by-product of the above discussion over the commensurability of labels, this definition does not talk past those who may study NGOs, CSOs, SMOs, or NPOs. It is selfevident that, just as in the interest group field, no ready and binding consensus exists on defining these terms either. However, the review illustrates a set of authoritative definitions utilised by leading scholars in these fields (see Table 2.1). To this extent, it is possible to compare labels. This book takes as its empirical concern interest groups, SMOs, and politically dedicated NGOs. Further, and put another way, this approach simply omits those NPOs and CSOs that are not engaged in political activity and that are not organized.

Conclusion Labels for ‘group-like’ political organizations proliferate. As rehearsed above, interest group scholars employ different labels for an organization with the same properties, and at

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Table 2.1 The commensurability of ‘group’ labels Label

NGO

Key author

Willetts (2005) NPO Salamon and Anheier (1996) CSO Scholte (2000) SMO Diani (2003) Interest Jordan et al. group (2004)

Criteria Policy focus

Collective (affiliates)

Non- NonNot a Formal profit Governmental party organization

a















b

















c

d























a Some b Some

would not insist on policy activity. controversy about whether mutual associations and co-operative banks should be included despite their profit-distributing function. c The key feature here is that it is not a familial organization – i.e. beyond the family. d Some may insist on a public good caveat in terms of aims of the SMO.

other times the same label for organizations with different organizational properties. Even where there is agreement on the use of the term interest group, it is deployed inconsistently and idiosyncratically. To add to the muddle, the orthodox political science term ‘interest group’ has to some extent become eclipsed in usage by social movement organization (SMO) or non-governmental organization (NGO). To these additional terms such as civil society organizations (CSOs), voluntary sector organizations (VSOs), and third sector organizations are in common usage. While interest group scholars have long complained of a lack of consistent usage and definition for the term ‘interest group’, we can see the same complaint emerging in NGO, social movement and civil society literatures too (Smith et al. 1995; Morris 2000; Martens 2002; McLaverty 2002; Jordan et al. 2004; Heinrich 2005; Willetts 2005). There is a common scholarly dilemma besetting social scientists engaged in what could, perhaps, be usefully considered ‘group scholarship’. The plethora of labels attempting to account for group activity is a significant impediment to exploring and comparing empirical evidence. It means that scholars often talk past one another and fail to absorb each other ’s findings. Or they too readily ingest findings that do not strictly apply. But by far the biggest problem in this instance is that claims about

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the democratic potential of ‘groups’ are most often made under these new labels. That is, the labelling comes accompanied with new and heightened expectations. Totalizing expectations – that ‘groups’ generally do or do not address democratic deficits – are unhelpful. This is particularly so when the types of groups to which these expectations are attached seem to differ or are left ill-defined. Theorizing the democratic potential of groups and the subsequent empirical investigation of group practices require some definitional clarity on at least two levels. As Rossteutscher (2000) reminds us, the types of groups we search out may reflect disciplinary frames. Our definitions are a by-product of legitimate differences in theoretical focus; for instance the emphasis on social-capital style developments of individual capacity and social cohesion directs definitions towards groups having affiliates, but does not insist on a political aim. Being explicit about the theoretical frame adopted then informs the organizational characteristics essential for groups to be fairly considered as potential democratic agents. This volume is concerned with assessing the claim that ‘groups’ are capable of repairing democratic deficits in western democratic contexts. Part of assessing the value of groups thus also requires some specificity over the claims made about groups. The primary concern in the literature reviewed in Chapter 1 is the decline of a linkage function by parties and the need for a mechanism to aid political representation and accountability of new forms of governance. This is the ‘frame’ through which we analyse groups and democracy. Given that this book is concerned more specifically with the capacity for groups to ‘link’ citizens with public policy and formal political processes – by providing political advocacy – then groups ought to have some political focus and collectively engage or organize individuals.18 Both roles necessitate in groups a formal political aim. The local golf club may aid socialization, but it is not about sustained political engagement in formal politics. Therefore this book adopts the definitional approach of Jordan, Halpin and Maloney (2004). The emphasis on organizations whose purpose is political advocacy strips out recreational, social and sporting groups whose sole function is other than political. In addition, the insistence that a

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group organizes or affiliates individuals, and, as such, has to contend with collective action problems, removes noncollective actors such as lobbyists and governmental agencies.19 This approach is defensible as these omitted organizations are by definition incapable of the affiliation of individuals for political advocacy: they are by definition incapable of democratic ‘linkage’. While there is no authoritative labelling approach, the direction pursued in this book does fortunately find some consistency across extant literatures. As reviewed above, the book defines interest groups as groups that voluntarily mobilize individuals,20 are formal organizations, are non-profit and have a focus on political advocacy. Influential scholars assign a similar set of features to NGOs (Willetts 2005), NPOs (Salamon and Anheier 1996), CSOs (Scholte 2000) and SMOs (Diani 2003).21 The flexibility in the use of these ‘group’ terms is underlined in the way in which data from the US Encyclopedia of Associations has been reworked and presented as a study of SMOs, voluntary associations and interest groups (see Martin, Baumgartner and McCarthy 2006, 772). As indicated above, many scholars (but clearly not all) deploying various ‘group’ labels share this type of definition. As far as this is the case, when we study interest groups we are also studying SMOs, CSOs and NGOs. Thus, the above discussion makes clear that the definition used in this book does not talk past those who may study NGOs, CSOs, SMOs or NPOs. But while ‘we’ may accept the interchangeable nature of terms like NGO, interest group and CSO, on the basis that they all describe a particular type of ‘group’ or political organization, there is no way to stop deployment of labels for different types of political endeavour. However, when we are clear on the democratic ‘goods’ we claim groups can produce and then adopt a clear organizational definition to identify groups with at least the theoretical potential to deliver such goods, then the actual phrase used is less important. Commensurability is not simply about labels, but about the equivalence of the phenomenon to which labels are attached.

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Notes 1 Another catch-all term would be ‘associations’ (see Rossteutscher 2005). 2 Although I have heard lobbyists claim that because millions of Europeans drive Fiat cars, then when Fiat speaks it ‘represents’ a large number of consumers. See Salisbury (1984) for a discussion of representation used in this context, versus collective membership-based interest groups. 3 These included S.E. Finer (1958) Anonymous Empire: The Study of the Lobby in Great Britain; J.D. Stewart (1958) British Pressure Groups: Their Role in Relation to the House of Commons; H. Eckstein (1960) Pressure Group Politics: The Case of the British Medical Association; H.H. Wilson (1961) Pressure Group: The Campaign for Commercial Television; A. Potter (1961) Organised Interests in British National Politics; G. Rose (1961) The Struggle for Penal Reform: The Howard League and its Predecessors; P. Self and H. Storing (1962) The State and the Farmer; James B. Christoph (1962) Capital Punishment and British Politics; W. Grant and D. Marsh (1977) The CBI. 4 Although this is stretched to groups with individual businesses as members. 5 This term is normally limited to the voluntary sector, such as those working in charities and social services. 6 Often used interchangeably with VSO. 7 It refers to a definition from the Economic and Social Committee which includes ‘social partners’ (unions and employers); ‘organisations representing social and economic players’ (those not included in social partners); ‘non-governmental organisations’ (which it says ‘bring people together in a common cause’) and community-based organizations (which are, it says, ‘organisations set up within society at grassroots level which pursue member-oriented objectives’) and ‘religious communities’. See http://ec.europa.eu/civil_society/coneccs/question.cfm?CL=en (accessed 21/03/07). 8 See www.wto.org/english/forums_e/ngo_e/intro_e.htm (accessed 21/03/07). 9 See various issues of the International Journal of Not-for-Profit Law for specifics of the legal status of such organizations across the globe. A particularly good overview is provided by McGregor-Lowndes (2002). 10 They used the following definition: ‘Non-profit institutions (NPIs) have the following characteristics: they are organisations, they are not-forprofit and non-profit-distributing, they are institutionally separate from government, are self-governing, and non-compulsory’ (ABS 2002). 11 The way in which the easy availability of Political Action Committee data has led the volume and nature of ‘group’ research in the US is described by Salisbury (2001). 12 The commonplace drift of organizations into and then out of public policy life is noted in US data by Schlozman et al. (2008). 13 Perhaps in anticipation of criticism, the UK project contributors explain that the expansiveness of the definition is due to the need to capture cross-national variations (Kendall and Knapp 1996, 100). 14 See Jensen (2006) for a discussion of the various conceptual approaches to civil society. 15 Yet in his outline of the Civil Society Index project, of which he is direc-

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16

17

18

19

20 21

tor, Heinrich explains, ‘Concepts such as social movements, social participation, social capital or voluntary organisations, while related, are not able to fully and validly describe this important social space’ (2004, 2). While he states a wish to avoid equating the ‘space’ of civil society with a collection of voluntary organizations – as is the empirical convention – the indicators used to measure civil society refer throughout to civil society organizations (CSOs). Curiously she suggests that SMOs would be roughly equivalent to the categories ‘citizen and non-profits’ and ‘unions’ in US data. The basis for such a decision is a little ambiguous. Andrews and Edwards (2004) deploy the term ‘advocacy organization’ to gesture to all organizations – regardless of label – that fit a definition not dissimilar to ours (although they insist on a ‘public good’ aim). As explained in Chapter 1 democratic contribution is understood in an explicitly formal political manner. The democratic deficit we focus upon is the direct matter of political linkage: Do groups assist in repairing deficits in formal political institutions such as to constitute political linkage? Do they provide for avenues of participation or representation in formal political life? Interest group scholars preserve the term ‘interest group’ for collective actors and ‘policy participants’ for the unitary actors. NGO scholars may seek to create another term for these unitary actors as well. They accept affiliation of individual institutions, e.g. businesses. There may be arguments for preferring interest group as opposed to NGO only in the sense that the latter is a term in use by governmental institutions and encourages (variable) legalistic and formal definitions. The interest group tag is largely a scholarly term, the definition and meaning of which can be better policed by researchers.

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3 Democratic expectations: the representation account

Introduction There is heightened interest around the contribution of groups in addressing democratic deficits, as Chapter 1 made apparent. What is perhaps most remarkable about this attention is that it has emerged, in parallel, within a diverse range of literatures that refer to multiple levels of governance. Groups have become loaded with a number of great democratizing expectations: to address a decline in political participation, to engage citizens in democratic processes of government, to school citizens in politics and to address the political exclusion of marginalized constituencies. Above all, the expectations loaded upon groups reflects a broader diagnosis and prognosis about contemporary democratic systems; ‘that traditional representative democracies are in trouble; and . . . that an associative turn might provide the cure’ (Rossteutscher 2005, 5). Against the backdrop of raised expectations, there is some concern over the capacity of groups to actually deliver. While groups are pencilled in as democratic agents, it remains unclear how and on what basis groups are actually capable of restoring democratic legitimacy to political institutions and processes. Even if one limited the democratic claims made for groups to the idea that their participation adds to the democratic legitimacy of debate on a specific policy issue or controversy, there exists a palpable concern that they could not do so. Much of this concern could, as flagged in Chapter 2, be simply a case of mislabelling. But even when the claims for democratic contribution are limited to groups with affiliates, concerns remain over whether group practices are up to

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the task. It is fair to say that there is a deal of scepticism about whether groups are able to meet these expectations. Of course, it may well be that these expectations about group capacities are ill thought out, misplaced or misjudged. Indeed, this is the argument put in this book, and is elaborated at length in Chapter 4. However, for now, in terms of moving the debate forward, a key challenge is making explicit the assumptions underpinning these democratic expectations. This chapter addresses the nature of the expectations set by scholars within this debate. It is argued that implicit within the interest group critique of the democratic capacity of groups is a ‘representation’ frame. This frame is also shared by scholars in the civil society and NGO literatures. A ‘representation’ frame proposes that groups ought to offer a ‘membership’ mode of affiliation and practise internal democratic decision making as mechanisms of authorization and accountability. However many groups lack internal democratic practices and offer few opportunities for affiliates to participate. Guided by an implicit ‘representation’ narrative of groups, the absence of internal democratic practices is interpreted as a sign of ‘failure’ or ‘deficiency’. It is argued here that such an account is unhelpful and has led to a range of erroneous claims about the democratic potential of many groups. Unpacking this representation account serves as precursor to an alternative account, based on solidarity, which is elaborated in Chapter 4.

The evidence: groups lack internal democracies The early rush to embrace groups as agents of democracy, reviewed in Chapter 1, has been met by a period of reflection and renewed caution. The proposition that groups can remedy democratic deficiencies has invited scrutiny of the internal democratic practices of groups. And as discussed previously, scholars are ‘discovering’ that many groups under-perform. In the UK context, the warning of longstanding group scholars is perhaps best captured in a series of contributions by Wyn Grant (2001, 2003, 2004, 2005). He states unequivocally that in many groups, ‘The general answer is that

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internal democracy is often entirely lacking or heavily constrained . . .’ (2003, 297). He says ‘Most pressure groups are not very democratic internally. Where leaderships are elected, it is often through processes that lack transparency . . . While there may be elaborate networks of committees to discuss policy, direct consultation of the membership may be limited to an occasional questionnaire or internet poll’ (2003, 301). He continues, ‘Members may really be support-ers, providing funds and campaign support but with few opportunities to express dissent about policies or strategies. “Exit without voice” may be their only way of expressing discontent and, if there is a large enough turnover of members (as there is in many groups), the reasons for depar-ture may not be apparent’ (2003, 301). In short, groups are hardly the little democracies that would find them well-suited to democratically legitimate policy processes that suffer similar democratic deficits. Looking beyond national politics, a similar note is struck in the literature on global and European governance. Warleigh’s (2000, 2001) discussion of the EU’s engagement with groups is a case in point. He is particularly ‘sceptical’ of the potential democratizing effects of the EU’s engagement with NGOs. An empirical examination of consumer, environmental and social policy/civil liberties groups active at the EU level (both European and national) revealed that most groups examined had poorly functioning internal democratic processes and failed to facilitate among their members or supporters high levels of engagement with the European policy process (Warleigh 2001). The overall conclusion here is that democratic enhancement relies on groups possessing and practising internal democracy. As such these groups are likely to be poor agents of democratization (Warleigh 2001, 623). As the early rush to endorse the global civil society revolution subsides, commentators and scholars are generally becoming more cautious about the ‘idea of civil society as panacea’ (Glasius et al. 2006, 21). According to Collingwood and Logister (2005, 179), one of the key criticisms has been that there are insufficient procedural constraints on INGOs (absence of internal democracy, participation and accountability). In a similar vein Colás (2001) argues that ‘the democratic claims in favour of global civil society

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immediately raise thorny questions about its agents’. These include, ‘who are the constituents of global civil society? How has their mandate been legitimated? What is the remit of their representation? How can their actions be made accountable?’ For Colás, the evidence finds groups largely deficient in relation to direct, let alone representative democratic, accountabilities to either supporters or those they seek or claim to work for. Some ask if INGOs or global civil society suffer their own ‘legitimacy deficit’ (Collingwood and Logister 2005). Data on global civil society shows that most groups are funded, supported and based in western democracies (Western Europe and North America especially), despite the fact that much of their work entails advocating for people in the ‘south’ (Glasius et al. 2005, 408). The 2005 Civil Society Yearbook provides some interesting data. Based on analysis of the Union of International Associations (UIA) database, the study concludes that there is ‘extreme concentration of the network [of INGOs] in the developed world . . . and the underdevelopment of global civil society in most of the developing world’ (2005, 408). Based on a count of linkages between INGOs, the above assessment shows that western INGOs are more connected – and are network hubs – compared to INGOs in developing nations. So, global civil society turns out to be Western European and North American groups drawing support through sponsorship and donation from their citizens and redistributing to the global south. This for many heightens the concerns over who INGOs are accountable to: donors or those they seek to help? Many such groups do attend to such questions, such as through voluntary accreditation schemes and regular ‘accountability statements’.1 However, there is a question mark over the democratic control of groups, and whether such groups ought to facilitate the capacity for those they help to better speak in their own voice (perhaps through a stake in a democratic groups structure). These recent contributions echo a longstanding and consistent finding made by group scholars in western democracies. In the UK, Finer (1974, 261) observed that members’ and leaders’ views are often far apart. In Australia, Lyons notes it is often the case that membership-based NGOs have disinterested membership-bases and are effectively left to be

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run by the leadership group who are ‘clearly not interested in taking steps that might achieve a wider membership involvement’ (2001, 24–5). It is a relatively uncontroversial proposition that many interest groups (aka civil society organizations, social movement organizations or NGOs) do not provide effective internal democracies or democratic accountability or authorization. The more controversial issue is how to interpret this finding. The question of interpretation is addressed in a moment. For now, the focus is on why these findings typically fail to surprise group scholars.

The orthodox expectation: ‘hollowed out’ groups Generations of group scholars expect, before they have even started, to find groups that are democratically ‘hollowed out’. It is possible to discern three broad approaches to this set of expectations: nature, age and period. Each set the same expectations – hollowed out groups – but offer different explanations. It is argued that these are unhelpful, leading scholars to mount teleological arguments that underplay the contingent nature of group evolution, particularly with respect to democratic practices. This line of argument is picked up in later empirical chapters. Intrinsic (un)democratic nature Interest group scholars have long struggled to discern the intrinsic democratic qualities (or otherwise) of groups. This is in part a reflection of the dominance of pluralist assumptions in much group work; and equally of competing Olsonian rationales. Scholars fundamentally, although often implicitly, disagree over the dominant impulse that drives and motivates group life. The early group theorists had a quite simple, yet attractive, proposition that interest groups emerged, and thus signified, a salient set of interests attached to a group of citizens (see Bentley 1908; Truman 1951). Thus, group systems mirrored societal cleavages. With no suggestion that converting latent to actual interest organizations was a selective process, groups took on the status as linkage between citizens’ preferences and policy processes. The contribution from Olson (1965), among others, challenged this benign

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assessment of groups put forward by ‘naive pluralism’.2 The revelation that groups were mostly held together by selective incentives broke the link between sets of interests and social structures, pointing to the likely biased nature of group mobilization. If group formation reflects the efforts and enterprise of group entrepreneurs (Salisbury 1969), then groups were not necessarily the authentic indicator of societal interests assumed; caution was thus required in evaluating the weight to give to group claims. These two positions often constitute the confines for debate among group scholars regarding democratic potential. In fact, Terry Moe (1980) underscores, perhaps better than most, the ‘half-way-house’ that scholars find themselves in with respect to groups and democratic practice in suggesting that these positions – pluralist and Olsonian – are not so much competing as complementary: groups can sometimes mimic the conditions of group theory and at other times Olsonian assumptions prevail. Moe seems to suggest that whether these assumptions do obtain is less a once and for all type question and more contingent on the exact circumstances of sets of groups or even individual groups. But some authors have assumed that groups may vary considerably in respect of their democratic qualities. For the most part, the storyline is one of democratic decline which is conceptualized as straightforward – even automatic – adaptation by groups to environmental change. Accounts seek to emphasize ‘age’ (similar groups at same duration of existence experience same problems) and/or ‘period’ (historical events or forces affect all groups regardless of age) explanations for democratic performance.3 Age arguments A very strong theme in interest group and social movement scholarship is the impact of age on group democratic practice. Arguments suggest that soon after formation, groups are propelled towards structures that diminish the role of affiliates in decision making. In particular, the Michels-Weber thesis casts a very long shadow over social movement and interest group scholarship. The thesis suggests ‘a natural process, where over time, and as a consequence of organisational growth . . . groups undergo goal transformation and oligarchisation. As participants in the social movement

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groups have a stake in preserving the organisation, regardless of its ability to attain its original goals, these processes typically result in the maintenance of the organisation gaining increasing priority’ (Rawcliffe 1998, 102–3; italics added). This process leads to ‘increasingly centralised structures and professional ways of working’ which ‘minimise the importance of membership involvement’ (Rawcliffe 1998, 111). It is an ‘age effect’ argument. But evidence of such an effect is mixed. For instance, Rucht (1999, 152) concludes that he found ‘no such thing as an “iron law” at work’. In fact, the inevitability of such a process has long been contested. Comparatively early on, Zald and Ash (1966, 328) suggest that empirically there is more flexibility in organizational transformation than is implied. They conclude that ‘While there is often an association between growing institutionalization and bureaucratization and conservatism, there is no evidence that this is a necessary association’ (1966, 340l italics in original).4 This book finds a great deal of sympathy with their early, and so often ignored, argument about the contingent nature of group evolution, particularly as regards internal democratic life. So, there is doubt over the inevitability of representation being undermined as groups grow old. Yet, that Rucht needs to make the same argument some forty years after Zald and Ash hints at the power of the age-driven orthodoxy. While not as explicit a focus in the group literature (but see Mundo 1992, 30), the age effect embodied in the Michels-Weber thesis is nevertheless evident. The common link is the argument that, over time, an initial focus on policy goals is substituted for the pursuit of plain old ‘maintenance’. Once groups are up and running, the group literature has tended to be dominated by talk of ‘maintenance’ (see Wilson 1973; Moe 1980). The core proposition is that after formation, the imperative driving leaders’ actions becomes organizational survival rather than the original policy goals. There is a vulnerability to organizations that pursue political purposes: members may simply not all agree on goals, purposes may be unachievable or simply lose relevance over time, and purposes may simply not be enough to attract sufficient numbers of members. In the face of such vulnerabilities, the stability and survival of the group is secured by managing selective incentives.

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This approach tends to characterize internal factors – principally the changing motivational preferences of members – as decisive in the organizational form that emerges. Such an account imbues members with what could be regarded as an unwarranted instrumental rationality: but there may be plenty of members who are quite satisfied with political lobbying as a reason for joining (see Walker 1991). The question may be not ‘Are there members motivated by purposive aims?’, but ‘Are there enough members motivated by purposive aims?’. As will be explored in Chapter 6, the decision by leaders of particular groups to pursue a specific recipe for group growth – involving mass-member funding – may be what drives the diminution of democratic life. Period arguments A number of highly influential contributions have put forward arguments suggesting that changing conditions are conspiring to undermine the historical role of groups as democratic agents. The contributions of both Putnam and Skocpol perhaps best reflect this line of argumentation. Putnam’s analysis of the US ‘participation revolution’ warns that the apparent growth of group numbers is ‘a proliferation of letterheads, not a boom of grassroots participation’ (Putnam 2000, 49). He argues that the contemporary growth is among organizations that lack individual members (‘massmembership’ organizations) as opposed to ‘chapter-based organizations’ which create opportunities for direct engagement between members. He develops a period-effect argument, saying that these chapter-based groups, ‘each . . . very different from one another in its constituency, age and leadership – seems to have entered rough water at about the same time in the last quarter of the twentieth century’ (2000, 58). The explanation for Putnam lies in the changing behaviour of Americans: patterns of work, electronic entertainment and generational change are all key explanatory factors (2000, 283–4). He notes that many chapter-based groups experienced growth in membership up until the 1960s, after which they experienced decline. Putnam summarizes (2000, 63): In the last third of the century, by contrast only mailing list membership has continued to expand, with the creation of an entirely new species of ‘tertiary’ association whose members

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never actually meet. At the same time, active involvement in face-to-face organizations has plummeted . . .

The account juxtaposes the ‘old’ and democratic good and the ‘new’ and undemocratic bad groups. A similar trajectory to that of Putnam is traced by Theda Skocpol (1999). According to Skocpol (1999, 465) ‘the world of American membership federations was riding high from the late 1940s through to the mid-1960s’. These were eclipsed (from the 1960s onwards) by movements, and ‘oldline federations were no longer where the action was’ (1999, 467). In the 1970s, there was an ‘advocacy explosion’ characterized by the ‘proliferation’ of organizations (1999, 469–71). Skocpol says that ‘Within the expanding group universe . . . new kinds of associations came to the fore: relatively centralized and professionally led organizations focused on policy lobbying and education’ (1999, 471). Much as Putnam argues, at the same time, the ‘membership federations’ were ‘not only bypassed in national politics; they also dwindled as locally rooted participant groups’ (1999, 473). Skocpol asks ‘Why did the focus of America’s associational universe change so abruptly from membership to advocacy in the late twentieth century?’ (1999, 480). Her answer, like that of Putnam’s, is a mix of factors, ‘racial and gender change, shifts in political opportunity structure, new techniques and models for building organizations, and recent transformations in U.S. class relations’ (1999, 480–1). Skocpol notes that at one time the logic for influence was for ‘association-builders’ to ‘knit together national, state and local groups that met regularly and engaged in a degree of representative governance’ (1999, 491). She argues that the ‘new’ associative logic is as follows: In short, all sorts of new organization-building techniques encourage contemporary citizens’ groups – just like trade and professional associations – to concentrate their efforts in efficiently managed headquarters located close to the federal government and the national media. Even a group aiming to speak for large numbers of Americans does not absolutely need members. And if mass adherents are recruited through the mail, why hold meetings? From a managerial point of view, interactions with groups of members may be downright inefficient. In old-time membership federations, annual elections of leaders and a modicum of representative governance went hand in hand

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with membership dues and interactive meetings. But for the professional executives of today’s advocacy organizations, directmail adherents can be more appealing. (1999, 494)

However, to what extent is this so much (or only) a ‘type of group’ problem? Could ‘chapter-based’ groups become ‘mail order ’ groups over time? Could ‘face-to-face’ groups learn to be less participative? And if not, how do they adapt to this challenge from ‘below’ (the diminution of the raw material) and survive? Some of Putnam’s and Skocpol’s own analysis also leads one to doubt the straightforward vulnerability of face-to-face groups to demand-side changes. For instance, Putnam’s discussion of the experiences of pro-life and prochoice groups seems to demonstrate the vulnerability of ‘mass-membership’ groups to fatal loss of members (2000, 154). So, is hollowing out less a matter of group type – a type of undeniable genetics – and more a matter of the type of response groups make to difficult organizing environments? Could not all groups become – or come to mimic – aspects of Skocpol’s tertiary groups? These are valid questions, but are taking a (largely unwarranted) back seat to the ‘hollowing out’ headline. The age- and period-based arguments import a teleological element which acts to dampen any optimism about the democratic contribution of groups. The net result is further support for a representation metric. When found to come up short, groups are criticized for lacking internal democracies. The presumption being that such practices are a ‘natural’ default setting for groups. But, should all groups conform to the ‘old’ style chapter-based organization?

Interpreting the evidence There may be rather a high degree of consensus that groups typically have poorly developed internal democracies, often encouraged by frameworks that suggest this is a more or less normal or expected by-product of the nature of groups, or of historical processes. However there is less agreement on how to interpret the evidence. Two schools of thought are evident in the literature. On the one hand, some authors imply that this is a deficiency, while others, by contrast, suggest that

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there is no obligation for groups to be democratic practitioners at all. On balance, the former position tends to dominate, and it permeates the expectations surrounding groups as democratic agents. There is a dominant thread in the literature that assesses findings of absent internal democracies and the lack of participatory opportunities as ‘deficiencies’ in need of rectifying. Note above Lyons’ disapproval at the finding that NGO leaders are not even interested in increasing member involvement. The presumption is that groups ought to enfranchise their members through internal democratic processes. Some take this a step further, by suggesting that this type of normative proposition should directly inform the rules of governing institutions that regulate the access of groups to policy processes. Warleigh proposes that the EU establish the ‘representativeness’ of groups before allowing them access to the policy process. He concludes that ‘the Union should impose a different kind of conditionality: NGOs must address their internal democracy as the price of access to EU decisionmakers’ (2001, 636). Retrieving the democratizing potential of groups requires excluding those not practising democracy themselves. For Grant, the findings of poorly practised – or even absent – internal democratic processes goes directly to the question of group legitimacy: ‘if groups fail to offer at least an opportunity to participate in decision-making, their representative legitimacy may increasingly be called into question’ (2001, 345; italics added). And it is representative legitimacy that is the key. He argues that there is the need for a ‘wider debate about the democratic legitimacy of pressure groups’, in order to create ‘a greater transparency about both the representativeness of groups and their relations with government’ (2001, 348; italics added). An outcome of such a debate could include ‘a code of conduct requiring non-governmental organizations to meet certain standards before they are recognized. The standards might include mechanisms for reporting membership; transparency about the source of funds and how they are used; proper procedures for the election of group leadership; and regular and systematic arrangements for consulting membership about policy’ (Grant 2001, 347). In a related article, he concludes that ‘at some point there will have to be some consideration of the

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accountability of non-governmental organisations to their own members. Organisations that seek to represent should be able to demonstrate whom they represent and how they represent them’ (2003, 307–8; italics added). Such arguments are at an intuitive level hard to quarrel with: to suggest the opposite, that groups should not engage with their members and democratically enfranchise them in terms of internal process of electing leaders and determining group positions, would offend a strong conviction among scholars and citizens in modern democratic systems. But as will be argued in Chapter 4, as attractive as it is to view things this way, these simple propositions are not as straightforward or compelling as they may first seem. The strength and pull of these types of conventions about groups and ‘representation’ is evident in the discussions among supranational or international institutions, such as the European Union and the United Nations. Proposals centre on limiting group access to groups that are themselves more ‘representative’ and ‘democratic’. Institutions such as the EU, WTO and UN actively discuss the value of groups but also the need to vet groups. For instance, the report of the UN Panel of Eminent Persons on United Nations–Civil Society Relations called for a ‘more selective and not just increased engagement’ with NGOs (UN 2004, 8). It also recommends accreditation of groups. In a similar vein, in its 2001 White Paper on European Governance, the European Commission acknowledges the need to establish mechanisms for accrediting NGOs, arguing that ‘Civil society must itself follow the principles of good governance’ (European Commission 2001, 15). As Greenwood and Halpin (2007) note, the European Commission has actively been toying with the idea of a test of NGO ‘representativeness’ in order to limit group access. Again, the broad proposition that groups need to establish representativeness in order to effectively contribute to the democratic legitimacy of governing processes is powerful. Groups can contribute, but they need to decide to offer necessary internal democratic structures. The solution emerging in the literature is that all groups become democratic practitioners or they face exclusion from the political process.

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The representation account The emerging conclusion among academics, and governmental institutions, is that threshold tests of internal democratic behaviour should have to be met in order for groups to have access to policy processes and governmental institutions. The core concern is to ensure that group positions as advocated by leaders are representative of the wishes of the constituencies they organize and advocate for. As such, these proposed limits emphasize relatively straightforward tests to establish the existence of practices that would suggest representativeness. Groups should affiliate individuals as members, with the related internal democratic structures such as election of leaders and consultation with members over group policy that such a mode of affiliation implies. This approach appears to be informed by the view that all groups should and could adhere to a single set of universal standards which, if adhered to, would ensure a group is representative. While Rossteutscher (2000) argues that the absence of a definition of what a ‘proper democratic association would look like’ hinders any robust empirical examination of the capacity for groups to enhance democratic outcomes, others believe they know. This volume advocates its own solution (see Chapter 4), but for now we concentrate on the orthodox representation account. It is argued that this type of response draws on a dominant – albeit largely implicit – representation discourse in the group literature. The group literature rarely extends beyond discussions of representation. A representation narrative dominates. Dunleavy, for instance, reiterates the general consensus in the literature that ‘No group leader can publicly represent members’ interests without regular and open procedures for gauging their views’ (1991, 20). In a similar vein, studies like that of Franke and Dobson (1985) probe the degree to which the policy positions put by leaders ‘represent’ the views of members. This reflects the aggregating function attributed to groups, and the notion that they pursue the interests of ‘members’. Internal democratic processes – part and parcel of a membership style affiliation – are logically required in order to aggregate and distil the interests of members. As reviewed above, Grant (2001, 2003, 2004, 2005), for example, calls

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explicitly, for ‘members’ to be given ‘opportunity to participate’ in groups, for the ‘accountability’ of groups to ‘their own members’, and for groups to be ‘representative’ of the ‘interests’ and ‘causes’ they pursue. Discussions of democratic expectations around group behaviour reflect the adoption of a ‘representation’ narrative of group practice. As will become evident, the relevance of this type of talk depends on which groups one has in mind. Similar expectations shape discussions of affiliation style. The group literature maintains a qualitative difference in the manner by which individuals affiliate with interest groups; some groups practise more participation than others. For instance, in their search for ‘authentic members’, Baumgartner and Walker distinguish between ‘contributors’ and ‘members’ as modes of ‘group affiliation’ (1990, 662). The former make financial donations to the group and the latter take up formal membership of an association. In other literatures, ‘contributor ’ is sometimes replaced by ‘supporter ’. Whatever the exact formulation, ‘member ’ is used to denote both a group affiliation inclusive of some involvement in policy formulation and the authorization of leaders, while ‘supporter ’ or ‘contributor ’ denotes a ‘looser ’ group affiliation limited mostly to financial payments (Jordan and Maloney 1997). Terms such as ‘credit card participation’ (Richardson 1995), ‘astroturf participation’ (Cigler and Loomis 1995, 396; cited in Jordan and Maloney 1997, 188) and ‘mail order groups’ or ‘memberless groups’ (Jordan and Maloney 1997, 187) draw attention to the way in which group practices fall short of representative style expectations. Commenting on US evidence that among most groups ‘there are few if any institutional means for connecting members to their organizations’, Barakso and Schaffner (2008, 205) concluded that ‘in an era when interest groups play central roles in terms of agenda setting and policymaking, both lawmakers and citizens have reason to be concerned about who, precisely, is being represented by these organizations’. The implicit normative tone here seems evident: groups under-perform when they do not practise ‘membership’ whereby individuals are democratically enfranchised with internal group decision making structures. These types of expectations of group practice appear to draw on what Jordan and Maloney described as the ‘extreme’

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and ‘popular ’ vision of groups as ‘voluntary, democratically accountable, and individual based’ (1997, 70–1). They say that the commonly held ‘stereotype’ of an interest groups includes that ‘The membership has some control over the leadership of the organization in connection with goals and means (internal democracy)’ (1997, 71). Their position draws on what Hayes (1986, 137) referred to as ‘pure membership groups’, where individual members are engaged in local chapter-based face-to-face meetings and had some control of the group’s policy agenda. Elsewhere, Perczynski (2000) clearly states that the asserted democratic benefits from governing institutions engaging with groups relies on the accuracy of the assumption that groups are, or at least could be, voluntary, internally democratic, accountable to members and provide arenas for member deliberation. It is this image of groups that seems to shape the ‘representation’ expectations of scholars and the diagnosis of ‘deficiency’ where empirics do not match. This book does not dispute the finding that groups often lack internal democratic processes. As will become evident, groups vary remarkably with respect to their democratic practices. The more controversial issue, and that pursued here, is how to interpret the finding. What metrics should be used to adjudicate over the democratic potential and practice of groups? The implicit orthodox test applied to groups is a representation test: democratic enfranchisement of group affiliates which ensures accountability and authorization between a group’s leaders and members. Evidence is usually of an organizational nature; specifically, whether active internal democracies exist and whether individuals are affiliated in such a way as to allow them control over group agendas (that is, affiliated as members rather than supporters). As exemplified above, the absence of such organizational practices is interpreted as democratic deficiency. But is this approach relevant to all groups, and, if not, to which groups should it apply? Moreover, what other forms of legitimacy are relevant? What are we to do in the case that groups are unable (rather than unwilling) to operationalize forms of democratic accountability and authorization that are demanded under the representation test? Should they be excluded as is implied?

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A need for variation? The debate around groups as democratic agents has been shaped heavily by a ‘representation’ frame. This frame has established expectations of groups in terms of their internal democratic practices, such as decision making structure, membership base and affiliation practices. This has had two clear impacts on the scholarly debate. Initially, these expectations sustained claims for the democratic capacity of groups. Subsequently, the same expectations have been deployed as a ‘metric’ by which to test the democratic capacity of groups; with studies mostly finding them failing. But there are hints in the literature that democratic representative expectations need to be more varied. The monolithic presumption that groups ought to conform to the representative frame of ‘voluntary, democratically accountable, and individual based’ seems unhelpful. This is especially so when attention moves beyond the orthodox focus of group scholars on business associations, professional groups and trade unions. Some scholars, principally outside of interest group specialists, offer a direct repudiation of representation metrics and its associated model for group democratic practice. These inform the revised approach developed in Chapter 4. Not applicable to ‘institutions’ While groups are assumed to be constituted by the voluntary collective action of individual citizens, many ‘groups’ are in fact institutions that do not have affiliates at all. Jordan, Halpin and Maloney (2004) argue that ‘policy participants’ – organizations that pursue policy change but without affiliates – are without potential for democratic participation. They state that ‘only a minority of what have been in the past termed “interest groups” are actually in a position to even potentially enhance political participation’ (2004, 209). Policy participants have no affiliates, which removes any need for internal democracy; this is not an insignificant point given that US research shows that more than 80 per cent of ‘interest organizations’ are in fact non-membership groups, without affiliates (Lowery and Gray 2000, 8). This is the position adopted in this volume (see Chapter 2). A related issue is that of donors. Research, predominantly from the US, finds that many groups are in fact funded by a

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handful of large donors (see Nownes 1995). In this respect, they may be much like a corporate actor (albeit probably nonprofit in legal structure). The fact that such groups garner all their funding from a few individuals means they are unlikely to have members. Their views are unlikely to be legitimated by any type of representative claim; other than perhaps through opinion polls they may commission to gesture to broad public opinion. This suggests that the best way to conceive of such ‘groups’ is also as institutions. But still concerns remain that even among ‘groups’ with affiliates, the representation frame may be too constrictive and thus obscure important variation. We don’t do representation! We are not in the democracy business! The presumption of the representation frame is that groups are by definition – by their sheer existence – engaged in representation. Scholars quite rightly point out that some interest groups – with affiliates – do not claim to actually ‘represent members’. Jordan and Maloney (1997, 191) note that ‘public interest/campaigning/protest group politics do not significantly extend participatory democracy’. Importantly, they follow, ‘But this is not a criticism of the groups because they have not set themselves up in the business of enhancing democracy. Groups such as Greenpeace and FoE [Friends of the Earth] are committed to maintaining a high profile for environmental ends: the mass membership is a tool of that process’ (1997, 191). Of course, this raises the critical question, if groups are not in the representation game, then what are we to make of their advocacy? As will become evident below, a plethora of scholars are pursuing answers to this question. And in Chapter 4 this book offers its own answer. While scholars – and governmental institutions – tend to start with a presumption that groups are implicitly about representation, many groups themselves say otherwise. Perhaps sensing that their rise-and-rise is threatened by revelations of democratic ‘deficiencies’, groups have been increasingly active in reiterating their bases of legitimacy. They are becoming more careful to delimit their representational claims. The explanation offered by the Platform of European Social NGOs for the various forms of legitimacy it invokes is informative. It talks of groups as being either

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‘representative of particular groups, whether other NGOs or citizens’, as designed to ‘advance the interests of those unable to do so themselves’ or to ‘“represent” or advance the public interests, ideas, issues or values’ (2001). Similar ‘mixed’ responses emerge from other groups. This is not so much representational confusion by groups, but evidence of representational complexity away from the usual ‘economic’ groups studied by group scholars. As becomes apparent, precisely who groups are (or should) be accountable to is a more complex question than the representation frame admits. As it turns out, arguing that a group should be held democratically accountable to those it ‘represents’ does not offer a straightforward recipe for groups to follow. Indeed, it is just the start of a very difficult process of defining precisely to whom a group should be democratically accountable. It is sometimes conceded that ‘accountability’ – and to whom groups demonstrate their legitimacy claims – is a confusing thing in many groups, particularly for those operating in the voluntary sector. For instance, Taylor and Warburton (2003), reflecting on the UK voluntary sector, identify accountability to various ‘audiences’, including those they seek to assist, their members, the government (who they may be contracting with for service provision), the board/trustees of the group, the supporters, the volunteers, and the staff. Van Rooy, referring to the findings of a study of UK NGOs, observes that half of group leaders stated they were accountable upwards to boards and donors or the like, and did not interpret accountability as a ‘downwards’ issue to ‘those whose interest they claim to promote’ (2004, 73). This may be the case, but the overriding issue here is that multiple forms of accountability are possible, and that groups seem to choose different approaches. Moreover, many groups choose not to deploy representative claims to legitimacy, and thus eschew ‘downward’ forms of accountability – to those ‘persons’ whose interests they advocate for. The suggestion made by some scholars is that groups should be simply judged against what they claim. The core issue here is that groups have become ‘enrolled’ into democratization projects as conceived by both scholars and political institutions. But, many groups have, in turn, contributed to their own enrolment by reproducing the ‘cuddly’ labels, such as civil society, and claiming to ‘speak

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on behalf of ’ citizens. Is ‘speaking on behalf of ’ any different than old-fashioned ‘representation’? This ambiguity has become somewhat of a flashpoint for debate and discussion. Is it enough that groups say ‘we do not do representation’? Is there something else lurking behind this observation? And is it possible to generalize about the democratic practices of public interest groups, or any other types of groups? Representation is difficult to operationalize Some scholars struggle reconciling the representation account with the need to pursue good causes. This is particularly salient where groups pursuing what are considered prime facie ‘good causes’ are challenged in terms of their democratic legitimacy. While the long shadow cast by Michels-Weber means that, more generally, groups are often characterized as elite-driven oligarchies, there is a general acceptance by some that leaders genuinely struggle to find a democratic footing (even from the outset). Again, perhaps this owes to the fact that many groups are deemed to pursue altruistic aims as compared to the ‘self-interested’ domestic economic interest groups. This dilemma is particularly evident in the NGO and civil society literature where groups are often engaged in soliciting funds from the global north, but actually seeking to advance the interests of those in the global south. One keen observer admits that ‘although most NGOs stress democracy and democratization, many are not themselves internally democratic’ (Sikkink 2002, 306). However, she believes that this is not because of ‘a lack of commitment to democracy’. Instead it reflects confusion over ‘who should participate in decision making about leadership and policies – should NGOs be run by their staff, their boards, their volunteers, their members, those who provide funds, or those on whose behalf they organize?’ (2002, 306). The challenge, according to Sikkink, is for groups is to enhance ‘their own internal democratic practices and the representation of and accountability of the transnational network sector ’ (2002, 316). Even though a representation frame is adopted by the likes of Sikkink, there is recognition that for individual groups it may be both difficult to meet in practice and hard to work out the precise practices required to meet its conditions. Representation can also be difficult to operationalize for

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very different reasons. Some constituencies are difficult to organize because they are, for instance, geographically dispersed, lack resources or are otherwise marginalized, disenfranchised, incapacitated or confined. Even where a group leader accepts the representation frame as a guiding template for organizational design, these types of practical issues may stand in the way. This is precisely the case made for patient groups. In relation to patient groups in the UK, Baggott et al. (2005) note the difficulty in sustaining groups. Patients tend to be isolated, often lack mobility, and in some cases their illness makes political organization a low priority (Small and Rhodes 2000, 50–1). In relation to groups advocating for those with terminal illness several dilemmas present themselves. The human reaction of straightforward denial of illness is an inhibitor for those with terminal illnesses engaging in collective action; ‘The common approach of “taking one day at a time” and “of not looking too far ahead” may similarly inhibit informed discussion’ (Small and Rhodes 2000, 67–8). Similarly, within patient groups, those with well-developed illness may be most concerned with palliative care issues, while those with very early symptoms may be more worried about ‘cure’ and thus happier to pursue the cause for basic medical research. At the other end of the scale, motherhood is a relatively short-term ‘condition’, and, as such, mothers are hard to organize (Baggot et al. 2005, 127). The dynamics of operationalizing the conditions of group ‘representation’ are likely to vary considerably from constituency to constituency. Representation only matters when groups make decisions Some scholars argue that the representation frame is valid, but that it need only apply to groups engaged in making decisions. So, agenda setting activities should attract a lower threshold test of democratic accountability. Van Rooy (2004, 138) cites Edwards and Zadek (2002) who say: Any non-state actor is entitled to voice an opinion. This is a basic human right that need only be subject to the minimum amount of regulation required to guard against slander, violence or discrimination. No other legitimacy is required. But negotiating a treaty is a very different manner, in which detailed rules may be essential to preserve genuine democracy in decision making. In this case, legitimacy through representation is essential.

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In the abstract this sounds like a reasonable access rule. And, of course, it is virtually impossible, especially with the proliferation of online and web-based campaigning platforms, to refuse the right of voice to any group, regardless of organizational form or message. However, this position ignores the ‘difficulty’ argument reviewed above: what if an obvious set of interests exists but representation cannot be achieved? The pursuit of an argument that we should be unconcerned with the (democratic) provenance of groups who are voicing and not deciding tends to rest on the suggestion that the public and policy makers can decide for themselves who to ‘trust’. For instance, Van Rooy suggests ‘the credibility of a given organization is affected by its reputation for representivity, along with the myriad factors already discussed, but its entrance ticket to the world stage is not conditional upon it’ (2004, 138–9). Indeed, it is hard to imagine how such a limit could practically be placed on groups if all they wanted was to voice a view. However, accreditation at international workshops or meetings does require some formal vetting procedure. And, therefore, these arguments would in practice mean opening up such events to a broader stable of groups. It follows from this logic that wanting a seat at the table and changing policy by force of something other than weight of argument requires more legitimacy than that. However, others do not agree. They go further, claiming that voice alone allows for ‘accountability’ to those affected, and to group affiliates, but that this is achieved through external accountability. External accountability? The ‘representation’ approach implies that internal democracies and opportunities for participation by members/ supporters of groups (whether they be citizens or individual businesses) are necessary to legitimate group advocacy. Some argue that this is not possible and suggest that the ‘project’ of an associative solution to democratic deficits be withdrawn altogether. For instance, Anderson and Rieff (2005, 29) maintain that NGOs are not ‘representative’, but are ‘singleminded advocates – organisations with an axe to grind and a social mission to accomplish’. Indeed, they dismiss the relevance of representation framework entirely, arguing that ‘in the end, NGOs exist to reflect their own principles, not to

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represent a constituency to whose interests and desires they must respond’ (2005, 29). But, if not representation then what? They argue that NGOs should ‘assert themselves on the basis of their expertise and competence and, concomitantly . . . give up their claims to intermediation and representation – that is . . . give up the claim to constitute global civil society’ (2005, 35). This is perhaps at the extreme end of the debate, but nevertheless presents a robust challenge to the ‘groups as democratic agents’ project. In the face of such criticisms, others have sought to reconceptualize group advocacy in a manner which preserves democratic legitimacy but does not draw upon a representation frame. The ‘market place of ideas’ approach disputes the entire notion that groups should conform to internal democratic standards, or that this would necessarily deliver legitimacy. Risse maintains that the criticism of INGOs over so-called ‘input legitimacy’ problems – their absence of internal democratic enfranchisement of members – ‘misses the mark’ (2006, 190). He says that ‘All they [groups] have to wield influence in world politics is moral authority and expert knowledge in their respective organization’s “issueareas” of concern. (I)NGOs’ moral authority however, is directly linked to claims that they represent the common good in global affairs as well as the “voices of the weak and powerless”’. Where others construct democratic legitimacy as based on representation – and thus generated by internal democracies and accountability to affiliates – this position takes an entirely different approach. In this vein, Wolf (2006) argues that in a market place of ideas there is little justification for vetting access for any group – regardless of view, internal structure or funding source. Underpinning this view is the notion that INGOs should construct ‘external’ chains of accountability. A representation account envisages internal accountability which has INGOs being held to account by internal democratic processes involving supporters/members. By contrast, external accountability has groups held to account by those who are ‘affected’ by decisions (most often referred to as the ‘global public’) or by supporters via a more indirect mechanism. By the mere fact that the reputations of groups decline if their knowledge and commitment to global values is found to be baseless, the groups are said to be held to account (a form of

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external accountability). Risse says ‘the influence of (I)NGOs in world politics is directly linked to their external accountability and legitimacy. Their vulnerability to threats to their reputation serves as a powerful control mechanism to keep them honest’ (2006, 190). This accountability mechanism justifies the abandonment of the need for internal legitimacy. A related approach emerges in the work of Florini (2000, 236; cited in Sikkink 2002, 315), who argues that poor and inaccurate arguments and ideas are eventually picked up by supporters, who will seek change through voice, or ultimately exit. As such, a ‘market place for ideas’ is self-regulating. The backdrop to the emphasis on looser (and nonrepresentative) forms of external accountability is an insistence on the value of voice. The priority is to have more diverse voices rather than to ensure that the only voices heard are expressed by ‘representative’ groups. For instance, Van Rooy (2004, 137) argues that group involvement on this basis will deliver more ethical policies, for better quality policies, and enhance accountability of governing institutions. Of course these statements rely to a large extent on rather hazy normative definitions of which groups constitute global civil society: presumably Al-Qaeda or the Ku Klux Klan are not contributing to Van Rooy’s particular construction of ‘ethical’ or ‘good quality’ policy? But what of the International Chamber of Commerce? Could business contribute to these outcomes? Would a faith-based group be acceptable? Normative definitions make it hard to answer such questions. A voice focused, externally legitimated, model of group advocacy does get some support from those studying the impact of technology on political participation. It has been suggested that new technologies may render traditional modes of engagement unnecessary. For instance, speaking from within the social capital literature, Peter Hall argues that ‘there may be ways of operating an effective democracy in an age of new media that do not require as much face-toface interaction among the citizenry as this traditional conception contends. Organizations that promote environmental concerns or care for the elderly that do not bring their members into much direct contact with one another may still be effective intermediaries capable of ensuring that government remains responsive to the citizenry’ (2002, 56).

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Of course, the question remains one of degree; how responsive does a group need to be to its constituency (and in what ways) to ensure that when it pursues an agenda with government it also ‘links up’ citizens and government? This debate could be viewed as in some way entwined in a broader contrast between input and output legitimacy. Concerns over an absence of confidence, trust and support for political processes in western democracies have been commonly viewed as symptoms flowing from low levels of democratization of contemporary policy process (particularly those pertaining to globalization). Without disregarding these arguments, some have also emphasized the role that low levels of efficacy may have on these same symptoms (see Scharpf 1999). Put crudely, underperforming governmental institutions have also contributed to a loss of confidence in political institutions. Turning this causality on its head, it has become fashionable to argue that addressing legitimacy deficits can be achieved by addressing ‘output’ legitimacy. Returning to the group context, the lesson is that groups are just as likely to choose to claim legitimacy on the basis of efficacy – how well they achieve their stated purposes – as they are on the basis of some democratic authorization by those they advocate for or who are members. Are we not better off with effective groups for the disabled, the environment or world peace even if they are not democratic? In this manner, ends can be said to justify the means. Other bases of legitimacy While the above focuses upon the analyses of scholars, it is perhaps timely that an attempt is made try to ingest the practices of groups themselves. Some scholars have worked inductively, mapping the types of approaches that do legitimate advocacy. If one defines something as legitimate in so far as others are willing to accept it, then this approach maps legitimacy rules.5 Rather than pursue a discussion of first principles, Van Rooy aims ‘to explore how . . . new legitimacy rules are being created en route’ (2004, 62). This approach illustrates a ‘plurality of legitimacies’ that operate with respect to groups. Van Rooy accepts that representation is ‘the hallmark of legitimacy’ but that it is ‘a ball of wool in need of much untangling’ (2004, 63). In relation to legitimacy derived from

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representation, Van Rooy identifies membership (size, breadth, depth of commitment); internal democracy (election, control); and accountability as core dimensions. These reflect the general themes of the representation account above. Groups that have large memberships, that cover a significant volume of their constituency or the general public, and that have members actively engaged in the group are often viewed as more legitimate from a representation point of view. In terms of internal democracy, Van Rooy asserts, ‘whether and how the members (if any) select their leaders, and how that membership has a say in its leaders’ decisions are all important in generating legitimacy criteria’ (2004, 70). This gels with a broad representation account. But crucially, to this representation account she adds several other bases of legitimacy: victimhood, expertise, experiential evidence and moral authority. These are worth exploring in more detail. Groups can use the stories of those who are victims – ‘those whose lives or livelihoods have been adversely affected by the activity of some outside agency’ – as a way to gain legitimacy.6 Those most affected attain more authority than others. Groups that possess expertise also gain legitimacy, and groups can of course organize on the basis of expertise (e.g. scientific associations) and recruit or purchase expertise (commission research or hire relevant professional experts). Some groups derive legitimacy by virtue of having direct experiential evidence of events, problems or interests; ‘it draws from the legitimacy of the grassroots rather than the legitimacy of the academic or political world’ (Van Rooy 2004, 92). Groups may deploy evidence provided by paid ‘field’ officers or may simply use staff with ‘field’ experience in advocacy to add a heightened degree of plausibility and authoritativeness to their work. Finally, groups may claim moral legitimacy by pursuing abstract values that are viewed as legitimate, such as human rights, or by claiming to pursue the ‘public interest’. The value of Van Rooy’s work is that she meticulously and faithfully maps the rules that are in play. We can all recognize cases of groups deploying arguments that draw on all or a mix of these bases of legitimacy. But, for our present purpose, the key question is to what extent these ‘other ’ legitimacies are enhancing the democratic role of groups. Of course, just because a practice is accepted as legitimate is not the same as

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saying something is democratically legitimate (see Rehfeld 2006). Moreover, under what conditions – if at all – are nondemocratic forms of legitimacy (what Van Rooy rather confusingly places under ‘representation’) justified? What is the relative weight we should give to these legitimacy claims? Is there a hierarchy within this plurality of legitimacies? The valuable work of Van Rooy raises more questions.

Conclusion While largely agreeing with the empirical findings – many groups are without internal democracies or extensive options for participation – this book takes up the issue of whether groups need all aspire to the same internal democratic models. The dominant representational account suggests that groups should aspire to internal democratic norms and membership forms of affiliation. The influence of Michels-Weber and period/age-related arguments about the inevitable democratic ‘hollowing out’ of groups also strongly shape the pessimistic expectations of groups scholars towards democratic practices, while further supporting a representation metric. The representation account is entirely understandable. In part it reflects the origins of group analysis in domestic national groups of organized labour and business. Here the usual critique is of a membership simply remote and disinterested from a professionalizing leadership. And this is against a benchmark that groups more or less accept; they explicitly claim representation. Thus calls for more representation seem to follow more or less logically. However, the salience of the representation account becomes less apparent when one talks about groups engaged in organizing around the environment, ethnicities, the disabled, mentally ill and the homeless – internal structures that would satisfy the ‘representation’ and ‘authenticity’ tests seem trickier to construct. As such, the ‘thorny’ questions associated with groups and democracy are perhaps best explored by continuing to foster an engagement between group studies and those under NGO, voluntary sector and civil society labels, albeit that they do also apply to the orthodox fodder of interest group analysis. The normative tone, that poor democratic qualities are

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ipso facto deficiencies, is – it will be argued – without clear logic. Does it mean that just because groups – by definition – have affiliates they should engage with them along democratic lines? Does it follow that all groups with affiliates should/could also rely on democratic forms of legitimacy to underpin advocacy? While the representation framework leads us to suppose otherwise, this volume argues groups should not be expected to automatically appreciate the value of the representational account nor aspire to the associated organizational practices. Building on these observations that some groups should not be judged by the same expectations, Chapter 4 offers an alternative approach to setting expectations about the internal democratic and participatory patterns of groups. It is argued that some interest groups need not (or cannot) pursue ‘membership’ style affiliations because to do so is unnecessary (or impossible); its contribution to legitimating group advocacy is tenuous. Those that ‘need not’ pursue membership affiliations are groups that cannot pursue representation; here it is suggested they pursue solidarity. The groups that ‘cannot’ are groups capable of representation but that find practical impediments to engaging fully with their constituency.

Notes 1 For instance, Oxfam UK publishes an Annual Accountability statement that sets out the source of donations, expenditure, administration costs and the like. The key here is showing that it spends the majority of funds raised on actual projects, and that it does so in a manner responsive to the persons it is attempting to help in the various overseas development contexts. 2 This is a phrase used by Jordan and Maloney (2006). 3 See discussion by Aldrich (1999, 202) with respect to types of arguments for organizational change. 4 Key environmental factors shaping transformation are (i) the level (and fluctuations) of support for the aims of the group, (ii) the level (and fluctuations) in the likelihood that group goals will be met, and (iii) the number (and fluctuations) of groups pursuing similar goals (Zald and Ash 1966, 330). 5 See Rehfeld who refers to the ‘decision rules’ that decide the basis upon which a ‘representative’ is recognized (2006, 7). 6 Groups may directly organize on the basis of victimhood, but this is particularly rare.

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4 Between representation and solidarity: (re)calibrating democratic expectations

Introduction As expounded in Chapter 3 the dominant frame in setting the type of democratic expectations adopted of individual groups is a representational one. The assumption is that groups affiliate members who collectively decide the positions of the group, which leaders subsequently advocate on their behalf. From such a perspective, the legitimacy of a group’s advocacy rests on a test as to their democratic representativeness. Moreover, the democratizing potential of groups relies on the maintenance of this type of arrangement between groups and members. It follows that where many groups are found to ‘fail’ to embody this set of arrangements, the democratic basis for engaging groups more closely with governing processes is thrown into doubt. In this chapter it is argued that the representation account does not serve us well in terms of setting the metrics with which one may go on to interpret empirical evidence of group democratic practice. Several objections are set out. It is maintained here that the expectations set by this frame are very difficult – perhaps impossible – for all interest groups to match. There are practical impediments to some groups meeting a representational promise in practice. Moreover, it is unclear whether, for some groups, the adoption of the practices of a representative group would actually contribute to the group’s democratic legitimacy. There is surely a need to argue why groups would ‘naturally’ seek to match a representational account: what conditions would prompt a group to seek to match representational conditions? Stated in the reverse, what conditions would ‘allow’ groups to fall ‘short’ of representational conditions by design?

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Even where groups do have internal democratic procedures for electing leaders and setting group positions, there is also a degree of ambiguity over who should be enfranchised. The presumption in the representation frame is that affiliates are enfranchised as ‘members’. But, in the same breath, scholars question the authenticity of some groups – arguing that they try to advocate for constituencies without actually enfranchising them. So, at a minimum, to restore some clarity to the deployment of the representation frame we need to disentangle the difference between who is affiliated and the constituency being advocated for, and then establish who should be enfranchised within the democratic processes of the group. These types of question suggest that our expectations of group democratic practices should be more nuanced. Setpiece squabbles over whether groups – in general – are democratic or not are unhelpful; but more importantly they hamper making sense of empirical diversity. The representation framework unearthed in Chapter 3 reflects valid insights into assessing the democratic promises of groups; there is no quarrel in that respect. The trick is to identify to which groups such a representation test should be applied; and, by extension, where ‘other ’ forms of legitimacy are more relevant in backing up group advocacy claims for the balance of the group universe. As will become evident, the approach advocated for in this chapter puts the emphasis on the role of constituency type in sorting out this complex puzzle. The chapter makes several propositions. Firstly, borrowing from O’Neill’s discussion of representing nature and future generations, it is argued that advocacy by interest groups for some constituencies simply cannot be pursued through representation style behaviour; it can only be pursued through a form of what is referred to here as ‘solidarity’. Secondly, in turn, it is argued that the legitimacy of solidarity style advocacy by groups does not require (indeed does not benefit from) internal democratic structures. That is, some interest group advocacy is founded on other – non-democratic – forms of legitimacy; that these same groups have affiliates does not imply the need to engage democratically with them. In essence, solidarity is a nondemocratic form of political representation. Thirdly, by deploying the representation-solidarity categories as a type of

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continuum, the chapter demonstrates how it is possible to calibrate our democratic expectations of groups in order to then contrast them against group practices (and changes thereof). The chapter concludes that the ‘problem’ of undemocratic or unrepresentative groups is less a problem of recalcitrant group practice than a problem of scholarly perception/expectation. It contests the idea that all groups should pursue membership style affiliations and internal democratic practices. It argues that only a small fraction of ‘groups’ could ever be expected to be agents for democracy where that implies advocacy underpinned and legitimated by internal democratic practices and the enfranchisement of the constituency whose interests are being advocated. Normative expectations are different to actual practices. The argument here is not that groups will adhere to theoretical norms, but that scholarly expectations should. We may, however, ask why groups exceed or fail to meet our theoretical thresholds. This latter point is dealt with in the subsequent chapters. For now, this chapter pursues this conceptual distinction between representation and solidarity, while the subsequent Chapter 5 demonstrates its analytical value by reviewing actual group behaviour.

Preliminary exclusions Terminological diversity has been a key factor in hindering attempts to get to grips with the democratic potential of interest groups (see review in Chapter 2). As Jordan et al. argue, ‘only a minority of what have been in the past termed “interest groups” are actually in a position to even potentially enhance political participation’ (2004, 209; italics in original). For Jordan and his colleagues, the emphasis was to contrast ‘policy participants’ – those defined as politically active institutions (without affiliates) – with ‘interest groups’ – those politically active with affiliates (whether businesses or individuals). In line with Salisbury’s (1984) call not to conflate ‘institutions’ (such as corporations, lobbyists or state agencies) with ‘interest groups’, Jordan et al. (2004) reserve the ‘interest group’ term for those groups that affiliate individuals, and hence are engaged in collective action. In relation to our present concern with such democratic impact,

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only ‘interest groups’ would have any such potential. In this chapter it is argued that we should be even more cautious with respect to the potential contribution of interest groups as agents of democracy. The argument pursued here is that even within the ‘interest group’ label defined by Jordan et al. above, the degree of potential democratic contribution is different on at least one count. This position is supported by an argument about the (in)ability of a vast number of ‘interest groups’ – as defined by Jordan et al. (2004) – to meet the type of threshold test of internal democracy assumed or demanded by scholars and governmental institutions. A more nuanced approach is advocated here, reflecting the caution urged by Rossteutscher (2005) over whether we really have an adequate account of what a democratic association should look like. It is argued that interest group scholars are poorly served in engaging in this normative debate by the classificatory systems applied to groups and the emphasis on ‘membership’ and ‘representation’ that underpins them. It is proposed that some groups are either incapable of establishing democratic accountability in the ways proposed or the merit of so doing seems logically unnecessary to their main political task and function. The aim is to point out that the normative solution implicit in the discussion of group practices adopts an oversimplified view that all groups are making the same representative claims and, as such, should be forced to adopt similar internal democratic practices. In making public arguments groups are making very different claims to legitimacy with clear implications for the types of internal practices we would expect to witness. That these claims are often accepted, by citizens, the media and governmental authorities, suggests they be taken seriously. However, what is proposed here is that this practice of claiming diverse bases of legitimacy – as Van Rooy reliably mapped (see Chapter 3) – hints at a more substantive and fundamental conceptual difference in the democratic legitimacy of groups. But if not representation then by what metric should groups be judged? What is their basis of legitimacy? And what has it to do with group democratic potential? One position is to argue that some types of groups are trying to achieve something rather different than others, thus representation is not so crucial for each and every group. For instance della Porta and Diani (1996, 145) argue that

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‘professional SMOs do not necessarily address themselves to those whose interests they wish to promote, as a normal pressure group would. Rather, they have a “conscience constituency” composed of those who believe in the cause they support’. The distinction between representative ‘pressure groups’ and non-representative ‘SMOs’ is somehow arbitrary: again it depends on what groups one has in mind when formulating such divisions (see Chapter 2). But the general insight that some groups operate with an orientation to a more diffuse or even third-party conscience constituency is worthy of fuller exploration.

Pursuing representation or solidarity? The implicit normative aspect of the representative narrative of groups would approve of all groups practising membership and frown on supportership. However, as will become evident, this chapter questions the logic of such a view. Drawing on theories of representation, this section examines the appropriateness of linkage styles between affiliates and groups. It is argued that expectations of ‘democratic’ behaviour ought to be calibrated by the style of advocacy pursued by different groups (on a continuum from representation to solidarity); itself shaped by the types of constituencies groups advocate for. A representation account simply and straightforwardly suggests that a group with affiliates ought to democratically enfranchise those affiliates. Thus, groups who practise a loose form of supportership style affiliation ought in fact to be offering a fuller and more intensive membership style of affiliation. To see why the ‘representation’ narrative alone is insufficient as a heuristic device for analysing group life, it is necessary to step back and consider what representation implies more generally. Even setting to one side its post-modernist usage (see Yeatman 1994), it must be acknowledged at the outset that representation is a difficult concept to define. Birch (1972) identifies four distinct forms in which a constituency may be represented. They are symbolic, microcosmic, delegate and elected. Pitkin suggests that there are two broad models of political representation: ‘acting for ’ and ‘standing for ’. The

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‘standing for ’ model implies no action on behalf of a representative – that they are there fulfils their role. This equates with Birch’s symbolic and microcosmic models of representation. Similarly the ‘acting for ’ category of Pitkin (1967) relates to the delegate and elected models of Birch. Diggs (1968, 28) contrasts descriptive with practical representation. Nordlinger (1968, 112) distinguishes between ‘delegate’ representation, ‘typical’ representation and ‘procedural’ representation. Apter (1968, 279) takes a different perspective and talks of popular, interest or functional representation. Popular is based on the rights of citizenship, interests on some presumed social significance (usually occupational), and functional on presumed or recognized expertise (usually professional). But, according to Pitkin’s seminal work on the subject, political representation is at its core about the representative ‘acting in the interest of the represented, in a manner responsive to them’ (1967, 209). Claims to representativeness are underpinned and legitimated by reference to indicators of responsiveness. As O’Neill (2001, 496) has noted, the basis for ‘any particular individual or group making public claims to speak on behalf of the interests of others’ relies on ‘authorisation, accountability or shared identity [presence]’. That is, the legitimacy of any advocacy rests on establishing one or more of these mechanisms. Representation rests on these mechanisms of responsiveness between advocate and constituency. This account of representation and legitimacy seems straightforward enough, yet it starts to unravel when considering what exactly is being represented. The question ‘What is being represented?’ is fundamental to determining what type of responsiveness is required and, moreover, what is possible. Pitkin says, ‘Where representation is conceived as being of unattached abstractions, the consultation of anyone’s wishes or opinions is least likely to seem a significant part of representing’ (1967, 174). According to Pitkin it is possible to distinguish between unattached and attached interests (1967, 210). She says unattached interests are ‘interests to which no particular persons were so specially related that they could claim to be privileged to define the interests. But when people are being represented, their claim to have a say in their interest becomes relevant’ (1967, 210).

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The point here is that if interests are unattached then responsiveness becomes difficult to achieve; to whom precisely – to what constituency or client group – is the representative to be responsive to? In the case of representing attached interests, another series of issues becomes pertinent. For instance the nature of these interests becomes relevant (Pitkin 1967). The nature of interests refers to whether they are understood as ‘objective’ and, hence, determinable by people other than the constituency whose interests they are, or as definable only by the person who feels or has them. Where it is asserted that a constituency has ‘objective interests’ it is implied that they have ‘true interests’, and a representative would be justified in pursuing ‘true interests’ even against their wishes. In the alternative case, because interests are only definable by the person/constituency, representatives need to constantly consult with their constituency. The capacities of both the representative and the constituency are important (Pitkin 1967). If one subscribes to the view that a representative is best able to judge the ‘true interests’ of a constituency, then the representative’s position in the polity and superior wisdom should not be subordinated to the constituency’s uninformed wishes. Alternatively, if one assumes that the constituency itself can only define its interests, then the representative is likely to be equal in both wisdom and information. Therefore, they must consult with their constituency. The nature of the issues to be dealt with has a significant bearing on the type of representation required (Pitkin 1967). If one conceives of issues and problems as questions of knowledge (to which a correct, valid and objective answer can be found) then the representative is to take up the role of expert and the opinion of the constituency is less relevant. Conversely, if issues are understood as emotive or subjective choices, the representative cannot forge ahead without appropriate consultations with their constituency. Pitkin’s assumptions for attached interests are summarized in Table 4.1. Significantly, all these assumptions have a bearing on the type of interaction between the representative and those represented. If attached interests are being represented — there is an identifiable constituency of ‘people’ — the nature of interests, the capacities of the representative and constituency, and the nature of issues being addressed,

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Table 4.1 Assumptions guiding interactions between the representative and their constituency Assumptions

Ends of the continuum

Nature of interests

‘True’ or objective

Subjective

Capacity of representative vs constituency

Representative superior

Representative same as constituency

Nature of issues

Question of objective knowledge

Question of arbitrarily choosing between various options

Source: Summarized from Pitkin (1967)

collectively indicate the level of consultation needed between these two parties. For each assumption, adopting a position closer to the left end of the continuum should logically provide a justification for the minimum of interaction between representative and constituency, whilst the alternative end of the continuum should imply a great deal of consultation between representative and the constituency. As this continuum signifies, the nexus between types of interests, the types of issues and the capacity of the representative versus the constituency, provides sets of assumptions that enable representatives to establish a rationale and justification for the degree of consultation necessary between the representative and their constituency. Indeed, these types of considerations are often used, by representatives, in framing efforts that actively construct their relationships with those they claim to represent. This framework can be helpful in deconstructing the representational practices of groups. And, in addition, it reinforces the fact that saying a group is ‘representative’ misses much scope for variation. For example, using Pitkin’s scheme, it is easy to see how groups advocating for the sick and incapacitated could construct models of ‘representation’ that do not involve the sick and incapacitated in their own representation. And, as Chapter 6 will illustrate, these arguments can be deployed in the context of business associations – perhaps the paradigm case of the representative group. But what about the case of unattached interests? O’Neill (2001) approaches the issue of representation through a

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discussion of types of constituencies. He argues that some constituencies are simply unable to utilize democratic responsiveness as a way to legitimate representatives. Human constituencies can, for the most part, according to O’Neill, speak in their own voice and be present. As such, they can authorize representatives to speak for them or at least keep unauthorized representatives accountable (by dissenting from their advocacy). These constituencies require the style of representation Pitkin called for in the case of attached interests. This is not the case for other constituencies. O’Neill says that the difficulty in representing nature, future generations and non-humans is that ‘two central features of legitimisation – authorisation and presence – are absent. Indeed for nonhumans and future generations there is no possibility of those conditions being met. Neither nonhumans nor future generations can be directly present in decision-making. Clearly, representation can neither be authorised by nonhumans or future generations nor can it be rendered accountable to them’ (2001, 494). For O’Neill, this denies those advocating for such constituencies’ usual representative forms of legitimation. Indeed, whether knowingly or not, Pitkin did refer to attached interests as belonging to ‘people’. According to O’Neill, ‘The standard solution offered to the problem is that current generations authorise or act as trustees on behalf of the interests of nonhumans and future generations’ (2001, 495). The solution, given that humans must act on behalf of those unable to be present of authorize their own representatives, is to install proxy or virtual forms of representation. There is precedence for this in the way parents represent children; and it is on this basis that it is often deemed legitimate (O’Neill 2001; see also Goodin 1996). There is a robust literature on the ‘representation’ and ‘enfranchisement’ of nature which confirms the salience of the attached/unattached distinction. Speaking with respect to nature, Eckersley notes, ‘If we are to try in some way to “represent nature’s interest”, then vicarious representation seems unavoidable if justice is to be done, even though we humans have no vantage point outside our historically constituted human selves and human communities from which to understand nature’s needs and interests’ (Eckersley 1999, 45). This remains sensible enough. Nature cannot talk, so people need to do it instead. But plenty of people

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claim to divine nature’s interests – and they do not always agree. Are groups that release ‘non-native’ lab animals into the environment, potentially harming native ecological systems, deemed to be acting in nature’s interests? Precisely because ‘the spokepersons for nature speak in different voices’ we can see the dilemmas in privileging environment groups – even if they ‘represent’ the views of their members – as the legitimate voice of nature (O’Neill 2001, 496). How would claims of vicarious representatives be disentangled? Almost certainly such claims would reduce back down to epistemic claims. This is precisely O’Neill’s argument. In the absence of the usual forms of legitimation available to those speaking for various human constituencies, ‘the remaining source of legitimacy to claim to speak in such cases is epistemic. Those who claim to speak on behalf of those without voice do so by an appeal to their having knowledge of objective interests of those groups [read constituencies], often combined with special care for them’ (O’Neill 2001, 496). Advocates for such constituencies are operating in the realm that Pitkin described for unattached interests: no person is objectively better placed to speak for these types of constituencies. Legitimating advocacy for non-human constituencies or interests becomes a matter of asserting one’s epistemic claims, such as scientific competence, spiritual connections or experiential understandings. The practical impossibility of advocates for non-humans and future generations actually engaging directly with their constituencies removes any potential for the responsiveness that Pitkin identified as central to acts of political representation. A narrative for advocacy, separate from representation, is surely needed. O’Neill concludes that we can distinguish between ‘“acting in solidarity with” and “acting as a representative of”’ (2001, 492, fn. 18). For O’Neill, those advocating for such constituencies engage, by necessity, in solidarity and not representation. He warns of a problem when the two are confused, when ‘acting in solidarity with’ and in this sense ‘on behalf of ’ a particular group is taken to involve action ‘as a representative of ’ that group (2001, 492, fn. 18). This book considers the distinction as crucial to understanding varied group practices and to sorting out the scholarly debate about democratic potential.

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In a recent excellent contribution to the literature on representation, Rehfeld (2006, 2) makes the salient point that one needs to separate out democratic and non-democratic political representation. He concludes that, ‘The standard, democratic account [of representation] thus turns out to be merely a special case of the more general phenomenon: political representation arises simply by reference to a relevant audience accepting a person as such. Thus, political representation, per se, is not a particularly democratic phenomenon at all.’ In agreeing with Rehfeld, it is suggested that non-democratic representation where democratic representation is not possible, best be called solidarity. When Rehfeld asks ‘What could “political representation” be if it does not necessarily depend on notions of accountability, authorization, and “acting for another ’s interests?”’ (2006, 2), his answer is ‘non-democratic representation’. In this volume, it is called an act of solidarity.

Characterizing group advocacy: two narratives The above discussion has salience for how group advocacy is conceived, and the role of the participation of group affiliates in legitimating that same advocacy. It provides the basis for a companion narrative on group advocacy to that provided by representation. In reviewing the work of O’Neill, Spash (2001, 477) notes: Developing the meaning of representation in the political context means differentiating between those outside an existing group who express solidarity (for example a man supporting feminism) and those who are assumed to be representative of a group (for example, a woman writing on feminist issues). The latter can gain legitimacy through authorisation by a group and being held accountable to them. This is impossible for future generations and nonhuman species.

This is a key insight that guides the framework developed below. Before elaborating why an ideal type group pursuing solidarity is a manifestly different proposition to one pursuing representation, a set of additional terms are required. The core distinction is between the affiliates of a group – those who are joining or supporting a given interest group – and the beneficiaries or constituency of the same group – those whose interests the group’s advocacy is aiming to advance.

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For a group to be described as empirically pursuing representation, it must be pursuing the interests of its affiliates but where the affiliates and the beneficiaries/constituency are the same set of individuals. As such, group leaders can access the interests they advocate for by directly consulting with their affiliates. Responsiveness – and ‘membership’ style linkages with affiliates – would, therefore, logically legitimize the advocacy of group leaders. By contrast, a group pursuing solidarity is pursuing the interests of the beneficiaries who are not exclusively the affiliates. That is, the affiliates and the beneficiaries/constituency are mutually exclusive in solidarity groups. Group leaders cannot logically access the interests of the beneficiaries via consulting with the affiliates. As such, the responsiveness of leaders to affiliates – including membership style linkages and democratic decision making processes – does not add to the democratic legitimacy of group advocacy: legitimacy comes from other sources. It is important to acknowledge at this point that some argue that enfranchising the ‘affiliates’ of groups advocating for non-human constituencies does add to the democratic legitimacy of the group. This is most developed in the area of representing nature. In reviewing the literature, Eckersley suggests that if the hope for ‘representing’ the environment lies in citizens internalizing nature’s interests then ‘members of environmental organisations’ may be best equipped for such representation (1999, 28). She reviews Dobson’s (1996) argument which proposes that members of environment groups could be elected as trustees for the environment, and held accountable to those group members; the environment would be represented ‘in representative assemblies by deputies elected from the environmental sustainability lobby’ (Eckersley 1999, 28). The implications in terms of representative practice would be that such individuals would be acting both as trustees for animals and future generations and accountable delegates for their movement constituency (the green movement) . . . the idea of representational democracy has a double meaning, for it requires not only ‘representational thinking’ but also some form of authorisation to speak on behalf of, and corresponding accountability to, a constituency (which itself has taken on a trusteeship role on behalf of nature). (Eckersley 1999, 28)

But the notion that individuals from an environmental

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group, and crucially held accountable by members of an environment group, could present a legitimate voice for nature is a controversial approach. As O’Neill points out ‘natural scientists, biologists, and ecologists are often heard making special claims “to speak on behalf of nature” where their claim to do so is founded upon their knowledge and interests. Environmental lobby groups make similar claims. However, such claims are also commonly disputed’ (2001, 496).1 The view here is that internally democratic environment groups are in no better a place to speak for nature than non-democratic ones. Enfranchising their affiliates does not serve to enfranchise nature – it simply promotes the values of the members of that group above other epistemic forms of accessing nature’s interests. It does not resolve the remaining problem of legitimacy. Nevertheless, it remains that groups have less often been discussed in terms other than representation. But there are exceptions. For instance, the social movement literature has established the concept of ‘solidarity movement’ (see Giugni and Passy 2001). Passy (2001, 5) explains ‘Individuals who are involved in this [solidarity] movement defend the interests, rights, and identities of others . . . The acts of political mobilization by those in the movement do not serve their own interests. These individuals do not stand to benefit directly from their participation in contentious collective action.’ According to Giugni (2001, 242), solidarity movements involve ‘people engaging themselves on behalf of others without taking any (material) advantage from it’. The argument based on altruism is less than convincing. After all, groups that are largely based on self-interested pursuance of goals can also, logically, pursue altruistic goals. They may do so in order to garner a good public image, but it is nevertheless altruistic. We do not pursue the notion of altruism, but prefer the more promising one of solidarity – for it is this term which holds within it important implications for internal democratic and representative processes. For our purposes, the motivation of affiliates is less important than the claim that solidarity groups/movements are dedicated to pursuing the interests of a third party – a constituency – which is not affiliated to the group. Whether it be motivated by – or constitute an expression of – altruism matters little; this type of triangle (interest group – interest

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group affiliates – ‘third party’ constituency or ‘beneficiary group’) means that the ‘claim making’ of the group is legitimated not on representation, but on solidarity. The question is: Does the identity and characteristics of this ‘third party’ with whom a group shows solidarity matter? The literature does seem to imply that these solidarity movements are specific to constituencies of ‘people’ (see Passy 2001). Passy lists four areas in which solidarity movements are active as ‘human rights, development aid, immigration/asylum, and antiracism’ (2001, 11). In contrasting the work of the ecology movement (WWF) with that of a human rights movement, Passy and Giugni (2001, 89) argue that, ‘Actions carried by the solidarity movement benefit other persons; those by the ecology movement produce gains for participants as well.’ Again, there is surely as much a case that those contributing to solidarity movements create a more just and equitable world – which presumably they enjoy – in the process of assisting third parties. Indeed, their empirical study of why individuals join these two groups establishes no clear differences – both in fact see individual benefits accruing from affiliation. This reinforces the above point that what makes the groups discussed by Passy (including ecology groups) unique is that they affiliate individuals to assist them pursue the interests of a third party. That is, the group allows individuals to affiliate in order to support work that advocates for a third party constituency, not for the affiliates. On this basis groups such as the WWF and human rights groups are acting as solidarity groups. The only outstanding question is whether groups that are acting in solidarity with human constituencies ought to enfranchise as members individuals from that same constituency rather than seek support from elsewhere. In short, they do not address whether such groups ought to pursue representation in preference to solidarity. For our present purposes, we do not need to concern ourselves with motivations (altruistic or otherwise). What is pertinent is that solidarity is about one set of people (affiliates) engaging in advocacy on behalf of a separate constituency (beneficiary group). This book distinguishes between groups whose advocacy is by definition about representation and about solidarity; taking these definitions as means to calibrate democratic expectations. It is then

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possible to ask how these expectations (promises) contrast with their practices.

Calibrating group potential It is argued that interest groups, as defined by Jordan et al. (2004), can be conceived at a conceptual level as resembling two ideal types of groups; each pursuing quite a different political purpose, making different claims to legitimacy. Each, so it is argued, requires different democratic organizational practices to legitimate its advocacy. These generalized expectations are shaped by the type of constituency a group advocates for. Empirically, groups may exceed these requirements (and why they do is worth exploration), but these practices are not logically linked to, nor do they enhance, the legitimacy of their advocacy claims. Groups may not match their practice to their promise, in which case they are ‘fair game’ for critics of group democratic under-performance. Calibrating expectations about appropriate democratic practices and levels of participation can be done by defining whether a group embodies a promise to pursue representation or solidarity. The process by which it is possible to calibrate group expectations is elaborated as follows and summarized in Tables 4.2 and 4.3. Solidarity Groups that advocate for the interests of constituencies of non-humans and future generations – those constituencies that lack entirely the potential for representation – embody a promise to pursue solidarity. Interest groups that advocate for these types of constituencies cannot physically affiliate those constituencies. As O’Neill put it, their beneficiary group lacks the basic capacity to be present, and is not able to be affiliated to the group or to exercise accountability and authorization, the central components of responsiveness and therefore representation. These interest groups, and those who affiliate with them, are acting ‘in solidarity with’ constituencies rather than being representatives of the constituency. Groups pursuing the interests of constituencies that are unable to speak in their own voice must develop processes to

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give legitimacy to the interests they advocate: they make epistemic claims. A group pursuing the interests of nature may use, for example, scientific analysis of an ecosystem to legitimate its claims that an increase in intensive land-use would be harmful to the system’s integrity. The views of the group’s affiliates are not relevant in terms of legitimacy. For instance, they are unlikely to take a survey of individuals affiliated to them to enhance their influence, nor are policy makers likely to seek any reassurance that the position advocated by the group accords with the views of affiliated individuals. As Van Rooy (2004) argues, they are likely to invoke other ‘legitimacy rules’ such as ‘victimhood’, ‘expertise’, ‘experiential evidence’, or ‘moral authority’ (as opposed to emphasizing ‘representative’ considerations such as ‘membership’ size, breadth and depth or ‘internal democracy’ such as election, accountability and control). For individuals joining this type of interest group, affiliation amounts to an expression of solidarity with a separate constituency. If individuals were affiliated to such a group as ‘members’, and were involved in decision making and group agenda setting, this would merely be as part of a process to divine the interests of a third party (the group constituency or ‘client’ group). But it is not clear that this would actually add anything to the legitimacy of the group (although see discussion by Eckersley 1999 above). In short, groups with potential only to pursue solidarity need only engage in supportership as an affiliation style; with its implications for very shallow internal democratic practices and limited responsiveness to affiliates. It is, therefore, a moot point why such solidarity groups have affiliates at all. Groups pursuing solidarity need not have affiliates for legitimacy reasons; but affiliates bring advantages such as funding, they gesture to electoral clout and potentially provide a core of activists/volunteers. The size of what social movement scholars term a group’s ‘attentive public’ (Robinson 1992, in Jordan and Maloney 1997, 57) is perhaps more important than its supporter base. It is the resonance of the group’s views with an attentive public, as opposed to the affiliated supporters, that provides groups with political power. One could, however, imagine other positive impacts from membership practices by groups that rightly pursue solidarity. Close contact with individuals affiliated with a solidarity

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group may be useful in establishing transparency over the group’s expenditure of supporters’ funds and in managing its public image. This is evidenced by the broad use of ‘accountability statements’ that report to affiliates on expenditure and broad advocacy strategies. The frequent furore over the pattern of expenditure of donations by groups illustrates the value of internal governance processes that involve the donors in scrutinizing expenditure (if not deciding on the specific actions it should fund). More generally, the trustee structures that many groups deploy embody the principle of oversight. It may also be an important organizational incentive for recruiting those who like to be ‘active’ even if they are not ‘deciding’. Representation Groups that advocate for a constituency that can be present, and can affiliate individuals from that same constituency to the group, embody a promise to pursue representation. These interest groups have the potential for representation as they can by definition affiliate those for whom they advocate. Their beneficiary and affiliates can be the same people, and these individuals are in principal able to be involved in internal democratic processes. Individuals can form part of a sectional or categoric (Yishai 1991) constituency by virtue of their formal economic role (doctor, lawyer, mechanic, etc.) or social/cultural identity (religion, ethnicity, etc.) or experience (e.g. prisoner, asylum seeker, unemployed person). It is the specific economic function/identity/experience that individuals fulfil that forms the criteria for their inclusion in any constituency. In Pitkin’s terms, these interest groups advocate for the interests attached to human constituencies (1967). This has implications for the expectations of interest groups advocating for such constituencies. Individuals may decide not to join ‘their ’ interest group/s, yet they are still involuntarily part of the constituency from which the group/s must draw members/supporters and claim to represent. Individuals cannot easily ‘exit’ from the constituency, as they are not often given an opportunity by the political system to ‘voluntarily’ join the constituency (unless of course the political system comes over time to recognize a new sub-constituency, e.g. single mothers versus mothers).

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Therefore, such groups have an exclusive set of individuals from which to recruit, and cannot easily refuse affiliation from those individuals that fit the definition. This approximates Dunleavy’s term ‘exogeneous group’, the key characteristic of which is that ‘their potential membership is fixed or delimited by external factors’ (1988, 33). As such, the groups are tied to fulfilling, or appearing to fulfil, a charter to represent a distinct and exclusive group of individuals: their constituency. Policy makers often seek a single – or at least a broadly held – view from an entire ‘sector ’ or industry, as there is an implicit assumption that representative groups have constituencies that share a basic affinity with one another. These interest groups represent constituencies that are made up of individuals who can speak in their own voice. Claims to speak for sectional or categoric constituencies are, therefore, legitimated by the accountability of leaders to their constituency and the authorization of leaders by their constituency. There is an expectation, or more accurately a presumption, therefore, that these groups affiliate with the individuals they organize in a manner that resembles ‘membership’. One could imagine that measures to enforce groups with representative potential to adhere to membership style affiliations and internal democratic procedures would enhance the legitimacy of their advocacy activities. For instance, knowing that the majority of doctors are members of the British Medical Association, that doctors authorize their representatives, adds something to the BMA’s advocacy when it comes out against extended opening hours for GP surgeries. Likewise, knowing that the Botanical Society of America is made up of professional biologists, and that the members are engaged in forming Society policy and scientific statements, has some bearing on how their advocacy is treated. This participatory potential/promise is not always fulfilled, and, as was reviewed earlier, groups employ democratic processes to legitimate representative claims to varying degrees. By way of a summary, Table 4.2 elaborates the generalized types of advocacy possible by interest groups; contingent largely on the type of constituency being advocated for.

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Table 4.2 What generalized type of advocacy is promised/possible? Sorting questions . . .

Solidarity

Representation

Constituency being advocated for?

Non-human/future generations

Human

No

Yes

No chance of speaking in own voice

Can speak in own voice

Is an overlap between i) those ‘affiliated’ with the interest group, and ii) the ‘constituency’ being advocated for possible? Can the constituency potentially speak in its own voice? Source: Halpin 2006

The calibration of expectations for groups in relation to linkage and internal democracy is, as has been argued, contingent on whether they implicitly promise to pursue solidarity of representation. These expectations are summarized in Table 4.3 below. Table 4.3 Summary of expectations for group democratic practices Implications . . .

Solidarity

Representation

Implied type of ‘linkage’ with affiliates

Supportership

Membership

Implied extent of internal democracy

Because those affiliated with the group are not the beneficiary group they advocate for they need not be consulted in determining positions

Because those affiliated with the group are the beneficiary group they need to be consulted

Implied source of legitimacy

Epistemic source: question of expertise or strength of solidarity (experiences) or empathy with beneficiary group

Question of representatives being responsive to the represented; are processes in place for authorization and accountability?

Source: Halpin 2006

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The conclusion from above is that some interest groups implicitly promise to pursue solidarity and others representation. This provides two ideal type narratives by which to talk about group life, calibrate expectations of democratic practice and to which practices can be usefully compared. It is against this set of expectations that empirical evidence of participatory and democratic practices can be judged.

Between parsimonious typologies and analytical purchase It is perhaps prudent to anticipate some reaction by group scholars that this introduces ‘yet another ’ set of terms to an already crowded field. The ‘non-cumulative’ nature of the classificatory literature has been noted before and the absence of attempts to connect up with the efforts of others rightly criticized (Jordan and Richardson 1987, 19). It is recognized that there is clearly little novelty in the simple proposition that there are differences among interest groups (as defined by Jordan et al. 2004). And whatever the criticism that categories over-generalize there is a useful role for parsimonious categories or types. Indeed, there are clearly existing conventions (albeit loosely applied) that currently inform sub-division of the interest group category. It is not feasible to catch all possible variations, but three broad approaches seem particularly evident: (i) describing by the objective interests groups ‘represent’, (ii) describing by influence strategy and (iii) describing by form of affiliation struck by groups with those who ‘join’. The various ways labels are utilized in the literature are summarized in Table 4.4, with solidarity and representation added. The purpose of this table is to demonstrate that the solidarity versus representation distinction does not replicate these conventions, nor seek to replace them; rather, it seeks to productively complement them. Quite rightly, Jordan and Richardson (1987, 39) warn of the trade-offs between complexity and utility when it comes to terminology over group type: Two main streams thus exist in the literature; the approaches which find two major categories, and the approaches written in reaction which accept a more complex typology. One way to choose between the approaches is to consider the purpose for which the classification is made: horses for courses. Though simple twofold categories

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have weaknesses, the picture can become so complex when one allows for all the dimensions available that simple divisions still have a useful place [italics in original].

But this wise counsel needs also to be mediated by questions as to whether existing categories are up to important – and emerging – analytical tasks. The salient question is: Where do current categories leave us in relation to calibrating our democratic expectations of groups? The task is simply to ask how these labels can assist – if at all – to move beyond a representation account of groups? The immediate problem is that these labels do not help directly shape expectations about democratic practice. In fact, all these labels are meant to apply to groups generally. And all are perfectly compatible with the representational account in Chapter 3. Obviously, we could use supportership and membership groups as categories to distinguish between groups which involve affiliates in the governance of their affairs. But this can only ever be a post hoc empirical assessment of practice. That is, we can use the supportership/membership group distinction to say whether a group in practice reflects the representative account. But we cannot use these categories to say whether a representative account ought to apply to that group. Quite rightly, the choice of labels is guided by and contingent upon what aspect of group life one is interested in. A preoccupation with influence begets insiders/outsiders, an interest in political participation begets supporter/member distinctions; so an interest in representative democratic potential begets solidarity/representation distinctions. For now we are concerned with simply satisfying group scholars that existing labels do not disentangle the dimension of ‘type of advocacy promised’, which solidarity and representation group labels do. With respect to the pre-existing labels in the table above, the most likely objections are that (a) the solidarity/representation distinction repeats the sectional/public interest distinction; (b) solidarity groups are simply ‘groups for ’ and representation ‘groups of ’; (c) the solidarity/representation distinction reflects groups that organize diffuse versus concentrated interests. It is argued that this is not the case, but each possible objection is addressed below. (a) The most likely objection is that the solidarity versus representation group labels are public interest/promotional

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Table 4.4 Summary of group labels, characteristics and categorization tests Group Labels

Group characteristic

Sectional / producer Group purpose Openness of affiliation Group interests Cause/Promotional/ Group purpose Attitude Public interest Openness of affiliation Group interests Group strategy

Insider

Group status/strategy

Outsider

Group status/strategy

Membership

Group affiliations

Supportership

Group affiliations

Representation groupa Solidarity groupa

Type of advocacy

a This

Type of advocacy

Threshold test for categorization To pursue discrete or limited interests of affiliates Limited to a specific constituency Pursues economic interests To pursue a public good or interests not just of affiliates Open to all Pursues public interests Pursuance of system changing demands by public and politicized means Strategy – pursuance of reasonable/limited demands Status – Part of the reutilized policy process Strategy – pursuance of system changing demands Status – excluded from access to reutilized policy process Affiliation inclusive of (potential) for routine involvement in policy formulation and authorisation of leaders Limited involvement, usually only financial support Constituency advocated for has possibility for presence Constituency advocated for has no possibility for presence

refers only to ‘potential’ for representation or solidarity.

versus sectional/producer interest groups distinction by another name. Jordan and Richardson (1987, 19) argue that the literature repeatedly ‘rediscovers’ these same binary categories. They conclude that terms like sectional, producer and economic/social refer to groups that ‘look after the common interests of a section of society, and membership is normally

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restricted’. By contrast, terms like cause, promotional or attitudinal all relate to groups that are ‘open to anyone accepting the belief or principle that is being advanced’. Their argument is hard to dispute. But as the table above illustrates, the labels are often applied according to differing criteria (they are operationalized differently) reflecting different analytical dimensions. Some use them to describe openness of affiliation, others to describe group purpose and others to describe group interests. The label itself may be rediscovered, but this is because people re-use labels to denote different dimensions. The justification for the ‘new’ solidarity and representation labels is that it sets out a clear basis for the use of the label; (re)deploying old labels in yet another new way would just add to the confusion. The other problem is that the public interest versus sectional distinction cannot tell us about the expectations with respect to democratic practices. For instance, empirical cases that show cause or promotional groups are poor democratic practitioners lends support to causal arguments that promotional groups are poor contributors by definition (see Barakso and Schaffner 2008). But promotional groups are defined (by different scholars) because of their open membership, public interest goals and outsider strategies. This makes identification difficult. The additional problem is that there is no clear argument for why promotional groups would (or would not) benefit from internal democracies. The label could be used to designate poor democratic practitioners, but saying a group is promotional does not help us set expectations of whether it should be internally democratic and accountable to members. Using a different set of labels, Jordan and Maloney, for instance, say that promotional groups do not extend participatory democracy (1997). They may be right in so far as many such groups may have no internal democratic processes. But this empirical finding is not the same as saying such groups should not have internal democratic practices. It is consistent with the representational account – groups ought to have internal practices, and where they do not this is a deficiency. (b) This general approach – and the labelling confusion – is repeated by Whiteley and Winyard, although they see promotional groups as ‘groups for ’. They contrast representational

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and promotional groups, arguing that the former are ‘groups of’ and the latter ‘groups for’. They elaborate: ‘Promotional groups are those that speak on behalf of, or for the poor, while representational groups are those whose membership is made up of the poor, or a particular category of claimant’ (1987, 27; italics in original). This sounds reasonable enough. But a brief thought experiment reveals the complexity introduced by imprecision over the dimension to which such labels are to be applied. Using the promotional label confuses ‘strategy’ with ‘type of advocacy’ dimensions, while our solidarity label is applied on more transparent criteria. Moreover, analytically, it enables us to separate out and differentiate groups on one important dimension. For example, using the solidarity and representation categories, a group organizing social workers that, nevertheless, speaks about the needs of the homeless, is a ‘group of ’, but acting to assist the interests of the homeless. Their legitimacy as social workers is used to give weight to their advocacy: they are representative, not of the homeless, but the social work profession. The same can be said of unions speaking up against the ‘war on terror’ or business associations advocating for ‘environmental measures’ like renewable energy. In all cases, the union, the business association and the organization of social workers are ‘groups of’, but engaged in promotional strategies for other constituencies. Thus, the metric against which their democratic practice is measured is a representation one.

Jordan and Richardson themselves, by their own usage, pinpoint just this problem. In a bid to summarize the diverse terminology, they conclude that ‘in broad terms, the distinction is between groups of, versus groups for ’. Referring to the case of the National Viewers’ and Listeners’ Association, they argue that its inability to recruit sufficient members from its constituency – UK viewers and listeners – meant it fell short of a ‘group of ’. They say it ‘is another example of a body for promoting particular types of media, failing by low recruitment to be a representative body of viewers and listeners’ (1987, 20; italics added). This approach may be seen, by some, to be the same as the solidarity/representation distinction developed above. It is not. The task Jordan and Richardson set themselves was to use the group-for/group-of distinction as both a descriptive label and an analytical term.

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That is, the NVLA is at the beginning ‘typed’ as a ‘group of ’ by virtue of its selectiveness of membership (‘openness of affiliation’ dimension in Table 4.4) – that is its promise or potential. However, it operates – its practice – as if a ‘groupfor ’ because it cannot muster sufficient affiliates from the relevant constituency. It is important to be clear when using language for empirical description and conceptual typing. To say a promotional group is a ‘group for ’ and a sectional group a ‘group of ’ is ill-conceived, unless it is clear on what dimension the label is to be applied: is it restricted membership, interests advocated for, constituency coverage or a mix of these? It is maintained here that, contra Jordan and Richardson, regardless of the degree of success a group has in actually recruiting its constituency into membership, it remains conceptually a representation group by promise. Practice is another matter. While some may be tempted to conclude otherwise, ‘group of ’ and ‘group for ’ do not straightforwardly correlate with representation and solidarity categories. This is because the groups of/for categories are applied on different criteria. Jordan and Richardson apply it both on the basis of openness of membership and degree of constituency coverage in membership. Whiteley and Winyard apply it on the basis of whether the cause being pursued is that of the membership. We deploy representation group as a label for groups where the constituency the group is formed to advocate for is also able to be the membership. Empirically, we can then use the same categories to say whether a group adheres to its potential – are representation groups also representation by practice? The discussion of environmental groups, by Baumgartner and Jones (1993), provides a further opportunity to illustrate the analytical bite of the approach. For their analysis, they collect all groups ‘active in the area of the environment’ in the US congressional lobbying system. To establish the breadth of ‘environment groups’ included they contrast the American Phytopathological Society with the Sierra Club. The former turns out to be a group of plant scientists, the latter an advocacy group supporting nature. The difficulty is in assessing in what way they conform to the label ‘environmental group’. The claim is they are ‘true advocacy groups for the environment, wildlife, or land conservation’

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(Baumgartner and Jones 1993, 185). But the criteria for applying such a label seem difficult to clarify. Is it (i) that they are actually active on environment issues; (ii) that they advocate for the environment (or part thereof); or (iii) that they organize the environment into membership? All the above options appear possible and defensible when one speaks of an ‘environmental group’. The solidarity/representational approach allows us to interrogate this further. The initial question is what constituency do they claim to advocate for? Is it professional ecologists (in the case of the American Phytopathological Society) or is it nature (in the case of the Sierra Club)? The former is a representational by promise group and the latter a solidarity by promise group. This should inform, and it does, who they affiliate in order to advocate for the environment: the former affiliating professional ecologists and the latter the general public. (c) The international relations, European Union and global politics literatures tend to prefer the term ‘diffuse interests’ to account for the groups engaged in what is referred to above as solidarity. Thus, we anticipate some scholars will say that groups we say only have the potential for solidarity – those advocating for non-humans, the environment and future generations – and those that only practise solidarity – even where they could practise representation, such as some groups advocating for the poor or political prisoners without enfranchising them – are representing diffuse interests. It is not the same. The core difficulty is that ‘diffuse interests’ are underspecified: when are interests actually diffuse? The answer, more often than not, is that when a set of interests find voice via a ‘group for ’ they are assumed to be diffuse. By a process of backward mapping, the existence of a ‘group for ’ – against the absence of a ‘group of ’ – is evidence that interests are diffuse. This distinction seems remarkably similar to distinguishing between public interest and sectional groups (see above) on the basis of type of interest. But the larger problem is a conceptual one: is saying a group is solidarity by promise the same as saying it represents diffuse interests? What if we were to say diffuse interests do not need internal democracies to legitimate themselves? Evidently, this is not the same thing. Most would accept that the interests of the unemployed, asylum seekers or the homeless are

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diffuse, if by diffuse we mean that the constituencies are large and thus hard to actually organize collectively. This plays to Mancur Olson’s approach to the collective action ‘problem’ which he saw as particularly relevant to large constituencies. But few would argue that the advocates of such ‘diffuse’ interests – as is the case with our category of solidarity group – would not gain democratic legitimacy by engaging directly with these constituencies. Thus, saying a group is pursuing diffuse interests is not the same as saying it is a solidarity group. So, are existing labels up to the task of the debate over interest groups and democracy? The argument here is that they are not. Labels reflect discussions over sub-dimensions, and are used in a way that conflates dimensions with overall organizational properties and, saliently, with democratic effect. Openness of membership, or promotional strategy, for example, are dimensions that do have some family resemblance with our new categories. Thus, it is understandable that they can come to be lent on as ways to distinguish between types of advocacy. We prefer a dimension that has so far garnered less attention, such as the type of constituency being advocated for. It is argued that in terms of calibrating democratic potential, and then comparing and evaluating with empirical practice, such a dimension is crucial. Such a dimension is crucial to (i) measures and expectations about participatory and representative internal democracies of individual groups, and (ii) measures and cleavages of bias (beyond blunt business versus public interests).

Conclusion This chapter has scrutinized the potential groups have to deliver on heightened democratic expectations. The conclusion drawn is that it is largely our scholarly expectations of groups, rather than ‘deficient’ group practices, which are in need of review. In defence of this position, a number of points have been made. Firstly, the chapter has established that only a small minority of all groups actually have any potential to meet expectations for democratic practice. Policy participants – groups without affiliates (accounting for as much as 80 per cent of all pressure participants) – are by definition unable to

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comply with such demands; they would fail any democratic tests proposed. Only interest groups – defined as those with affiliates – have even the potential to adopt internal democratic practices. The second point is that only a sub-set of interest groups can engage with the constituencies they are advocating for. For some groups – those advocating for non-humans, future generations and nature – establishing leadership responsiveness to affiliates is not going to generate democratic legitimacy. Calls for groups to become more ‘representative’, upon threat of being restricted from policy access, miss the larger point that many groups do not in fact have any potential for representation. Two narratives of group life were elaborated – representation and solidarity – each of which established a different set of expectations for linkage with affiliates. It is argued that scholars should recalibrate expectations of group democratic practice based on what their promise is – whether for representation or solidarity – with this largely dictated by the type of constituency being advocated for. Time dictates appropriateness; social capital concerns, ‘new’ NGOs and global civil society references, all create new complexions to the issue of legitimating advocacy. The emphasis on issues of voice, external legitimacy and loose forms of participation, for instance, all ask more of our analytical labels: we need labels that can help us intervene in these debates and sort the normative wishful thinking from the empirical evidence. The solidarity and representation categories are one way in which analytical purchase can be gained over questions of which internal democratic practices are appropriate for which groups. Chapter 5 uses these analytical categories to review the conduct of a broad range of well-known groups (across countries) for which data would be readily accessible to others in the scholarly community.

Note 1 This reflects the side of the continuum that Pitkin described, where knowledge of objective interests can be held to justify the absence of consultation with a constituency, even were one to be identifiable.

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5 Democratic promises and practices: some empirical evidence

Introduction The previous chapter provides a heuristic device by which to calibrate expectations of group democratic practice. This chapter reviews groups active in different national systems (UK, Australia, US) to establish the analytical value of the above discussion. Cases are drawn from within the literature and from the author ’s own empirical studies, and consist of groups that should be readily familiar to scholars (or at least readers could familiarize themselves easily with the cases through a simple web-based search). They were chosen in order to illustrate the use of the representation and solidarity terms for the purposes of calibrating democratic promise and contrasting it with practice: the emphasis is on outlining variations. Empirical evidence of practice is contrasted with promise (as calibrated by the analytical categories above), and generalized labels are generated which capture the diverse way in which these theoretical labels find their way into practice. That scholars construct such frameworks to calibrate potential, does not mean that groups themselves appreciate the same logic or are able to construct group organizations in that image. It has been asserted that this division reflects important dimensions of group life – and it is also claimed that many group leaders acknowledge these ‘rules’ as having currency – but not that these automatically structure group behaviour. It is possible to see some fluency with these general categories and the principles that underpin them among groups, but many examples of non-conformance. At the two ends of the continuum, we find groups that largely approximate in practice their promise of representa-

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tion or solidarity. Between these are (i) groups that underachieve (constitute representative promises but fail to match them with practice); (ii) groups that over-achieve (need only pursue solidarity but pursue representation); and (iii) groups that under-achieve representation but with pragmatic reasons (their constituency is able to exercise voice but access to them is difficult). As is evident below, group life does not simply ‘fit’ into either of these conceptual ‘ideal type’ boxes; however, these concepts provide one way to gain purchase on promises and practices of interest groups with affiliates with respect to democratizing and participatory potential.

Where promise meets practice Two cases demonstrate where the promise of ideal type representation and solidarity (respectively) are closely approximated by practice. Representation by definition The National Farmers’ Union Scotland (NFUS) is a farmers’ union that pursues the interests of a discrete vocational grouping: Scottish full-time farmers. Farmers can be affiliated to the group and mechanisms of responsiveness between them and group leaders can be established. Using the framework prescribed in Chapter 4, this group implies a promise for a representation style of advocacy. It is this sort of group where the representation narrative is most appropriately applied. And, it so happens, empirical analysis establishes that the NFUS matches its promise for representation with relevant practice. The NFUS explains its legitimacy as flowing from an engagement with ‘members’ couched in straightforward representative terms. At interview a staff member explained: We have 71 branches . . . The branches are the base level of which the members meet. So if you are a member, you join up, you get assigned to a branch. Now the reality is . . . that less than 10 per cent of members go to branch meetings with any regularity . . . The Council is in effect all nine regional boards meeting together in plenary session. And there is a numerical base, so for every 80 members in the branch you get one person on a regional board. The Regional Boards are responsible for appointing the

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members of 8 subject committees (e.g. livestock committee, crops committee, environment and land use). Now what happens here is the Chairman of each of the Regional Committee and the Chairman of each of the Subject Committees . . . are the Board of Directors, plus the Presidency, plus the Treasurer, plus the CEO.

Those affiliating to the NFUS are enfranchised within these internal democratic structures; thus they are ‘members’. They can elect office bearers within the group and attend and vote on motions at the AGM. There is a presumption in all this that the NFUS pursues the collective views of its members, and that they shape the group’s policy agenda. Moreover, there is provision for face-to-face meetings among members. The precise structure here is unimportant; the salient point is that the NFUS pursues a cumbersome and resource-intensive engagement with its affiliates (who are from the constituency whose interests are being advocated – farmers). It admits that it is not very well used, yet it persists. The rationale for this set-up is to generate a form of democratic responsiveness between members and leaders in support of its representative claims – if it did not do so farmers might exercise voice and undermine the group’s authority. Interestingly, the Scottish Government also recognizes the NFUS’s representative role. They ‘read’ its involvement as based on ‘representative’ activity (evaluating it likewise); and contrast it with something that is non-representative (close to what is characterized herein as solidarity). A Scottish civil servant responsible for formulating the Scottish agricultural policy strategy remarked at interview: The NFUS has its regional structure and so therefore it can say, ‘We have put this down the line, we have spoken to our members and this is what they are saying.’ Single issue groups . . . tend not to have that mechanism. So you are then in danger of negotiating with leaders of the group who may or may not be representative of their membership. You could get leaders in and they may be reasonable people and you could come to some sort of deal and that just falls apart . . .

Groups like the NFUS are ‘representation by definition’ type groups: they can engage directly with their affiliates (who are also their beneficiary/constituency group) and they do. Responsiveness is possible between representatives and the

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represented and democratic structures are in place to make that possible. The literature is replete with cases where such practices, while formally available, are used infrequently. However, following Pitkin’s point above, the key is that internal democratic practices are there and responsiveness is possible. If nothing else, these groups are (to borrow Hirschman’s terms) vulnerable to ‘exit with voice’; there is an inbuilt imperative for leaders to ensure some degree of fit between the interests they pursue and those of their membership lest they risk losing the trust and status ascribed to them from government (and other actors). This is supported by interview evidence which revealed quite a deal of activity by the NFUS designed to assess the support for ‘rebel’ farmer organizations. They explained the need to try and incorporate their concerns (a co-option strategy) in order to support their claims as the ‘representative’ voice of Scottish farmers. By contrast, groups like WWF Scotland (see below) sought out complementary niches alongside other groups advocating for nature: they show no such sign of needing to outcompete ‘rivals’ in relation to representative claims.1 Solidarity by definition At the other end of the representation–solidarity continuum is a group like the World Wide Fund for Nature (WWF) Scotland. Its claim is that it takes action for a living planet. It advocates for nature: it promises solidarity and delivers it. It offers a very open type of affiliation, recruiting through direct mail and increasingly via online strategies, seeking up to £10 per month. While the language of ‘member ’ is used, the internal participatory and democratic opportunities are minimal. As one interviewee from WWF explained, in straightforward solidarity terms: We do not pretend to be representative. We offer individuals a product and they can choose to support it by paying subscriptions. Therefore we have no need to consult with members. In fact when we asked them if they wanted to be consulted they said ‘No’. They preferred the resources to go into getting the message out. Our role is informing the policy process. The role of science is high as it provides the basis for our advocacy. We offer an expert view and not representation.

Accountability to affiliates is at best an indirect affair, the

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WWF interviewee stating, ‘we do have 26,000 supporters in Scotland, and the annual subscription can be withdrawn at any time’. Of course, as social movement scholars remind us, above a respectable level of support the actual number becomes less important to government, as it is more concerned with the sentiment and sympathy of the groups’ ‘attentive public’. It is immediately apparent that a solidarity group needs to deploy a range of non-representative arguments to legitimate its advocacy. As in the statement above, such groups seem to use epistemic claims backed up by scientific evidence as their main legitimacy claim. In terms of political strategy then, the primary emphasis is not on mediating between the views and mood of group affiliates and the political ‘realities’ of civil servants and elected officials. Rather, the focus is on activating and shaping public opinion and harnessing the authority of scientific argument. The WWF Scotland spokesperson remarked, ‘Our legitimacy arises from the quality of our contribution to the debate . . . If science is one plank of the armory then public opinion is the other.’ The most salient point is that the route of public opinion and science – not the predispositions of a majority of WWF affiliates – is used to drive home advocacy. As referred to earlier, the WWF’s concern is to mobilize and gesture to as big an ‘attentive public’ as is possible, while gathering sufficient paying supporters to keep its operation running. Groups do seem to understand the difference between solidarity and representation in quite concrete terms. And, importantly, they see constituency as a key variable in shaping their internal governance arrangements. For example, at interview, a senior staff member of the RSPB commented: In a sense the environment is the odd one out . . . because those of us that are advocates for the environment don’t have a client who benefits from our activities. The ultimate beneficiaries of what we advocate are the birds and the plants and the bees all of the rest of the environment out there, which we do because we think it is a good thing both in the long term for human kind as a whole and good in itself, whereas your tourism operator, your farmer, your forester, your fisherman, they’ve trade unions representing their interests. So we are slightly different in that sense.

Of course, the individuals it affiliates as supporters may be, as one colleague pointed out, predominantly the urban

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English gardener (and it does seem to focus quite heavily on its mail-order business which is tailored to just such a clientele). However, the point is that it does so as part and parcel of sustaining a campaign on behalf of birds and related ecological systems (not to ‘represent’ gardeners). Groups such as WWF Scotland could be conveniently characterized as groups who pursue ‘solidarity by definition’. They match a promise for solidarity with equivalent practice. Their advocacy need not rest on membership and internal democratic processes. The literature consistently finds that groups advocating for constituencies such as non-humans and the environment operate bereft of opportunities for political engagement by supporters and seek to maximize supporter revenues (see Jordan and Maloney 1997). There is no quarrel with the empirical veracity of this image. Rather we wonder if those constituencies could in fact be organized in any different a way? Put another way, is this a ‘natural’ mode to organize advocacy for such constituencies or is it an unwelcome development eroding an otherwise more democratic and participatory alternative? This book errs towards the former. Saliently, WWF Scotland does not pursue the line of Goodin (see Chapter 4), that an environmental interest is best deduced by those – like their supporters – who have a special affinity with nature. Thus, they do not seek to enfranchise their supporters. Democratic decision making does sometimes emerge in solidarity by promise groups, but largely disconnected from the question of legitimating advocacy.

Additional diversity Unsurprisingly, for the most part group practices vary from the types of promises they embody for representation and/or solidarity (as imputed from the conceptual framework in Chapter 4). A few variations demonstrate the use of these analytical categories in calibrating potential and contrasting with practice: it shows how they provide traction in interpreting group practice and opening up points for further debate. This is particularly so with respect to what practical impediments would make a ‘failure’ to fulfil their representative promise justifiable.

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Solidarity by choice Groups who have the potential for representation, and confront very few obvious impediments to affiliating their beneficiary group, but who fail to fulfil that potential, could be referred to as ‘solidarity by choice’ groups. It is here – where the practices of groups fail to match the promise for representation – that claims of democratic underachievement seem most clear-cut. It is to these groups that critics of group democratic practice should properly aim their criticisms. It is most hard to identify these groups, given that a majority of interest groups project and explain their internal procedures in representative terms (but see the case of the Royal National Institute of Blind People to follow). It is quite uncommon to find groups that do not have a constitutional façade that refers to members, and enfranchises ‘members’ in, at a minimum, the election of trustees at AGMs. But the most important trend to note in this regard is the tendency for groups with an implicit promise of representation to reduce affiliation practices towards supportership. The immediate pay-off from the framework developed in Chapter 4 is that it makes it easier in articulating and identifying the scope and direction of what are commonly referred to as ‘hollowing out’ processes among interest groups. Jordan and Halpin (2004, 447–8) report the way in which the Federation of Small Businesses (FSB) in the UK has shifted its affiliation from membership to ‘fee for service’ terms. They note that, ‘The “second wave” of FSB members [post1990s] are invited into membership as an economic decision – there need be no identification with goals.’ They conclude that this development weakens its capacity to ‘compensate for a participatory decline in voting and party activity’ and they come to resemble ‘the broad picture in public interest groups’ (2004, 447). This is not an isolated instance; similar trends are reported in Australia (Halpin and Martin 1999). This type of shift towards solidarity by choice seems connected with efforts by groups to pursue ‘professionalized’ advocacy – which requires increased financial resources, a passive membership and increased leadership autonomy. The mechanics of this hollowing out process will be explored in Chapter 6.

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Representation by choice There are some instances where a group that is clearly limited to pursuing solidarity (solidarity by definition) – its affiliates are not the same as the beneficiary group – nevertheless appears to adopt an internal structure perhaps more appropriate for groups pursuing representation. It presents itself as a representation group. In a democratic context, such groups appear as ‘over-achievers’. The National Trust for Scotland is one such group that pursues representation by choice. Its mission is to ‘protect and promote Scotland’s natural and cultural heritage for present and future generations to enjoy’. It uses the language of membership, and asks individuals to join by way of a modest annual fee. ‘Members’ are free to stand for election at an Annual General Meeting, although the positions are not hotly contested. In relation to policy advocacy, its ‘beneficiary’ group is ambiguous. In its recent ‘Governance Review’ of 2003, it stated; It is undoubtedly the case that the Trust has a large number of members – some 260,000 at the latest – that it relies heavily on income received from the membership in the form of annual, or other, subscriptions, and that it has clear responsibilities towards its members. The Trust is not, however, wholly and solely a membership organisation . . . the Trust holds its properties for the benefit of the nation as a whole. It is conceivable, therefore, that circumstances could arise in which the Trust would have to give preference to the interests of the nation over the interests of its membership [italics added].

The need to pursue a position at direct odds with a membership decision – presumably democratically produced – is an eventuality that is not likely to emerge in ‘representative by definition’ groups. The Trust’s advocacy, in practice, rests on a bank of relevant expertise – the democratically determined consensus among its members is not a strong feature of legitimating its stated policy. Why these democratic practices are pursued is a moot point; and one that deserves further empirical work. That the National Trust (for England and Wales) adopts a different presentation in relation to representation is also noteworthy (see Chapter 8). It could be that these practices are often hangovers from early structures where such groups were effectively organizations of heritage and cultural ‘experts’, and hence their ‘expert’

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opinions mattered. By contrast, it may be a modern phenomenon whereby some groups decide to present themselves in a way that promises democratic accountability to those who fund them – the supporters. Of course, the extent to which this is a veneer or a deeply ingrained democratic culture is debatable. And, as is discussed below, practice is never static: such groups can retract and reframe their promises (and practices) as they evolve. Representational aspirants Some groups do not fulfil their potential for representation, but confront conditions that make doing so difficult. They could be referred to as ‘representational aspirants’. While O’Neill (2001) applied the term solidarity to those advocating for non-human constituencies (those without possibility for presence), some groups find representative promises very hard to fulfil; largely because the constituencies they seek to advocate for – their beneficiary group – are difficult to mobilize. This is most obvious in the case of advocates for constituencies that are politically or economically marginalized (e.g. unemployed, prisoners, asylum seekers). The example of Amnesty International (AI), examined by Jordan and Maloney (1997), is just such a case. They cite Ennals (1982), who observed that the focus of AI’s work was defined by the answer to the question ‘What will be the most beneficial to the interests of the prisoners involved?’ (Jordan and Maloney 1997, 32). AI is not pretending to represent its members but to act in the interests of – to act for – prisoners held unjustly. They go on to cite Ennals’ description of AI as run by a secretariat somewhat remote from the concerns of supporters; AGMs and annual elections exist, but these are under-attended and effectively divorced from strategic decision making. Leaders decide which ‘prisoners’ are to be championed and how to proceed in protecting their interests. In fact, the other major human rights organization, Human Rights Watch (HRW), has not even attempted to repeat the AI approach to mass membership, instead attracting its support from a handful of large donors. In short, for these groups it is very difficult, for whatever reason, to effectively establish a system of responsiveness between these constituencies and their advocates. Potential exists but serious (perhaps insurmountable) impediments

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exist to converting it into practice. As such, groups may have potential for representation, but instead pursue solidarity; they aspire to representation but practise solidarity. This leaves them open to criticism that they are undemocratic and unrepresentative. As Grant has argued of such groups more generally, ‘however well-intentioned they are, they are not the authentic voice of the excluded groups [read constituencies] themselves’ (2001, 346). The concern with ‘authenticity’ emerges from the observation that some marginalized constituencies do not often exercise presence or speak in their own voice; but, crucially, they have the potential for both. Some argue that this potential should be exercised more often (Young 1989; Phillips 1995). In practice there are limits to what is popularly accepted in relation to representing attached interests as though they were unattached. Phillips notes that the importance of this requirement for presence surely fluctuates between constituencies: ‘some experiences are more detachable than others’ (2001, 26). For example, she says that it appears less problematic to have an agricultural expert represent the interests of farmers than it would for a male expert on gender to represent women, given that the experiences of the former constituency are more ‘objectively’ accessible than those of the latter. This type of pragmatic principle – ‘objective accessibility’ – points to possible ways of policing the boundaries of authenticity. These types of considerations point to how groups who have representative potential, yet practise solidarity, can be defensible. That is, to borrow the terminology of Dalton and Lyons (2004, 15), these types of principles help to sort out which groups that advocate for the disadvantaged should be ‘governed by the disadvantaged’ and which ‘governed for the disadvantaged’. Returning to the case of AI, the absence of internal democracy to enfranchise its supporters (the general public) seems appropriate; after all it is the input of prisoners that would enhance legitimacy. The argument for AI to be democratically accountable to affiliates is weak, yet to criticize it for not engaging better with the political prisoners it advocates for is clearly implausible. It is less clear in the case of Oxfam, for instance, which advocates for what it says is ‘humankind’: ostensibly those (mostly but not exclusively) in developing countries or facing humanitarian crises. Of course, it is

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eminently possible to deploy moral, ethical or other principles to buttress attempts to render the interests of humans that are otherwise attached, objectively accessible in the absence of authorization from and accountability to them. In this regard, the international law with respect to Human Rights has served to legitimate the actions and advocacy of a plethora of groups. And it is this type of device that supports the work of groups like Oxfam and AI. Scholars and observers may be able to easily spot the potential for representation, but the challenges for group leaders to put potential into practice are often immense. These operational challenges are worthy of more investigation.

Shifting along the representation–solidarity continuum: re-defining practices and promises While the analytical categories and the discussion above have approached groups in a static snapshot manner, groups can shift, redefining both promises/potential and practices. Groups that at one time practised solidarity may shift to a representation style of operation: over time they have redefined their practice. The Royal National Institute of Blind People (RNIB) is a group that pursues the interests of the blind. Since 2002 it has affiliated the blind into membership, in part a reaction to the type of criticism about authenticity cited above. It explains: RNIB is a membership organisation which radically affects how we govern ourselves. Being a member is all about being closer: to information that can help you; to a community of other members; and to RNIB itself where you can make your voice heard and influence what we do.

It offers ‘full membership to those who are blind and partially sighted, their families and carers’. Associate membership is offered to ‘well-wishers’ and to ‘related professionals’. Its structure is a recent development. Its website explains: We began recruiting to our new mass membership in 2002 . . . because: We want to give a say to a greater proportion of blind and partially sighted people on how we are run and how we deliver our services. Many blind and partially sighted people have had no input into our decision making until now. Membership

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will give people that, by involving them in consultations and giving them a chance to vote and stand for election.

There is also an apparent appreciation of the increased status that membership brings. It continues: a large membership will give RNIB a stronger voice when we negotiate on behalf of blind and partially sighted people with Government and other organisations. That will help us press for more changes to the law, more accessible services and better services for blind and partially sighted people generally.

The RNIB has turned away from a solidarity style in order to fulfil its implicit promise as a representative group (a contrast to the turn towards solidarity style practices by the FSB discussed earlier). Leaders, such as those at the RNIB, apparently recognize a value in matching participatory potential for representation (and membership) with democratic practices. This type of change of group modus operandi is what the authenticity critics would no doubt like to see across the board. But clearly, as the Amnesty International example above attests, some such transformations are easier to make than others. A similar phenomenon, but in the reverse direction, is evident in the case of the Australian Conservation Foundation (ACF). It has changed over time from a group pursuing representation to one pursuing solidarity: it has redefined its promise. As Warhurst (1994, 77) explains, the ACF commenced life as a ‘“semi-scientific body” . . . and drew upon the upper echelons of scientists in government and universities’. It had active AGMs, and contested elections for a board which then set strategic direction. Post1970s, it pursued a more radical agenda and tactics, and opened up its membership to a mass public. In the latest period covered, Warhurst explains how the ACF appointed a lawyer as Director and a rock star as its President. The organization for senior scientists had become a mass-affiliation group pursuing an environmental agenda. The ACF started life as a group of professional ecologists concerned with the environment, its legitimacy arising from the democratically derived view of its professional membership. It has ended as a group pursuing affiliations with supporters and generating an attentive mass public to show solidarity with nature. Warhurst (1994, 82) notes that while ‘The culture of the

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organisation is participative . . . the leadership has tended to overshadow the membership’. Indeed, the ACF itself now talks of supporters and volunteers; its website does not explicitly show how a ‘member ’ can actually influence the group direction. That the ACF has changed from a group with representative potential to one with solidarity potential – without a name change – highlights both the potential for change and the difficulty in identifying it from afar.

Mapping prevalence The above discussion sets out to illustrate the relevant logical possibilities based on well-known case studies with which the general reader would be familiar. However, what do we know about the overall prevalence of these types of group practices? A 2008 random survey of groups active in Scottish public policy, conducted by the author, provides an opportunity to capture and quantify the diversity and scope of practice. As suggested in the framework elaborated in Chapter 4, the 469 groups in the sample were coded according to the constituency type they claimed to advocate for. Groups were coded on the basis that they were advocating for constituencies that were (a) human or (b) non-humans, future generations or the environment. This was done on the basis of the author ’s knowledge of each group, and checks of websites and available group records. Somewhat surprisingly, given how much scholarly and popular attention is lavished on environmental and nature-based groups, a full 91 per cent of the sample advocate for some type of human constituency, with only 9 per cent advocating for non-humans, future generations or the environment. This suggests that an overwhelming number of policy active groups are in fact capable, at least in principle, of representational practice. But just because scholars compile theoretically and normatively defensible frameworks for calibrating practice – in our case based on constituency type – does not suggest (and it is not meant to imply in this case) that groups will match it with prescribed practices. Actual practices are dealt with in a moment, for the more interesting finding is whether the constituency the groups themselves said they

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advocated for matches the constituency coding provided. And it is also worth noting that in coding groups according to solidarity or representation potential – as is in fact the implication of coding according to constituency type – there are some grey areas. Like all binary categories, there is inevitable loss of nuance when stark choices are imposed. Jordan and Richardson’s (1987) discussion of the sacrifices inherent in juggling, on the one hand, analytical parsimony with, on the other, a full embrace of empirical diversity, springs to mind here. The initial point of interest is the way groups described the constituency they sought to advocate for. The respondents were asked, in an open question, to indicate the constituency or constituencies whose interests their particular group claims to advocate for. Unsurprisingly, the 469 groups provided a wide range of responses, too many to summarize meaningfully here. They included: members of particular trades and professions (e.g. architects, fishermen, pharmacists, plumbers); individuals affected by particular conditions or disabilities (e.g. mental health problems, dementia, HIV, blindness and partial sight); particular disadvantaged or marginalized sections of society (e.g. unemployed people, the homeless, ethnic minority communities, and lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender individuals); particular forms of fauna and flora (e.g. bats, birds, insect life, native woodlands); particular sports or pastimes (e.g. angling, cycling, gardening, hill walking); and the heritage and conservation of Scotland in general or of specific communities and geographic locations. Several groups that were coded – not based on the survey data – as advocating for human constituencies (thus capable of representation) claimed to be advocating for the ‘general public’. A Scotland-based group that seeks to engage young persons in voluntary service suggested that it advocated for the ‘General public, especially those with greatest barriers to participation in society’. This group was coded as a representation group by dint of the fact that it emphasized some part of society – and not as a future generation style of contribution. A similar issue arose with groups that manage Scottish rivers. One such group in the sample suggested that they advocated for the fish and the river – they self-identified as advocating for nature (solidarity by promise group). Yet

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another claimed they advocated for the interests of river users and fishermen – they self-identified as advocating for humans (representation by promise group). They were both coded as solidarity groups, as many have statutory status to protect the river and fish species. But it is a difficult call, particularly given that species protection is for the purpose of human financial gain. It has long been accepted that researchers should be wary about what labels and groups claim. In the Australian context, for example, Trevor Matthews (1980) noted that the Smoke Abatement Society turned out to be a front for a lobby of smokeless fuel businesses (i.e. gas companies). In a similar manner, some groups claimed to not be in the ‘representation’ business at all. A group campaigning for bicycles as an alternative mode of transport in and around the Scottish city of Edinburgh suggested that ‘We don’t claim to represent people; we fight for our objectives’ (italics added). But as the ‘our ’ implies, this group does pursue the interests of specific persons, those who use and wish to use bicycles to travel in and around Edinburgh – it is a human constituency and a representational by promise group. The same would be the case for the various NIMBY (Not in My Backyard) groups that oppose local developments under the pretence of protecting the environment. But what about their practice? The initial key question here is who is enfranchised in such groups? Are the ‘members’ having the ‘influence’ actually from the constituency being advocated for or not? The first and most general test is whether these groups actually seek to recruit affiliates from within the constituencies they advocate for. When asked if they ever ‘attempted to recruit members of this constituency to their organization’, 387 (82.5%) indicated that they did indeed try, 43 (9.2%) indicated that they did not try, while a further 22 (4.7%) believed it was impossible to recruit these constituency members. But how did this practice map onto the expectations set by the representational and solidarity promises each group implies? Remember, some groups constructed their constituency differently than the objective coding done by the research team. The initial concern is whether groups advocating for humans, the representation by promise groups, do actually

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attempt to recruit their constituency into the group. The bottom row of Table 5.1 suggests that in fact there is a rather mixed approach to the way groups actually fulfil their potential. The vast majority of groups with representation potential do actually try to recruit the constituencies they advocate for. But small proportions do not. What is most notable is that the majority of solidarity groups appear to over-perform: they claim to seek to enfranchise constituencies that they, in principle, cannot actually make present or that are without voice. Like the National Trust for Scotland, discussed above, they perhaps recognize the ‘fashion’ for discussing their activities in terms that constitute a promise for representation, when such a promise seems unnecessary. The survey data allows us to unpack thus puzzle. Table 5.1 Member influence by constituency type Per cent ‘high degree’ or ‘some degree’

Human

Nonhuman

87.6

86.2

AGM or conference where members can help decide policy In reality members have influence on political work Statutes give members influence over political work Members participate actively in political work Contested elections for leadership positions

75.8

63.0

74.8 62.4 56.9

67.9 40.7 51.9

Yes, attempt to recruit members of constituency

85.5

53.8

Source: Author ’s survey (2008)

In terms of representation, a group like the Association of Chief Police Officers in Scotland has the potential to be a representation group – it advocates for Chief Police Officers. And, it does indeed seek to affiliate individuals from this constituency. However, some do not fulfil representative potential. A group providing advocacy for ‘Adults with severe and enduring mental illness’, for example, said that they could not affiliate the constituency they served. This echoes the general point that some human constituencies are effectively impossible to organize. A small but sizeable cohort of the representation groups did not try to recruit from their constituency. For some, like the Chief Fire

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Officers Association Scotland, this was down to the fact that their constituency automatically become members upon being awarded their post. Thus, there is no need to actively recruit anybody. Others are more focused upon service delivery rather than political advocacy: even though to be included in the survey sample they had to be ‘politically active’ in Scottish public policy.2 In this sense, the individuals they ‘help’ are not recruited. A group like COTS – Childlessness Overcome Through Surrogacy – has members, but this act of ‘joining’ implies that they wish to actively participate in the surrogacy process. Others, like the Royal Pharmaceutical Society of Great Britain, who are actually a membership-based professional organization of pharmacists, claim that they advocate for the ‘general public’; whom they do not seek to recruit. This is not simply the group misunderstanding the survey question. Rather it shows that they emphasized their regulatory function – to police the professional standards of pharmacists – rather than their advocacy function for pharmacists (which they also engage in). In so doing they point to the diverse directions in which groups can choose to see accountabilities flowing. Our carefully crafted analytical categories have strong resonance with practice – groups recognize them – but they do inevitably over-simplify. On the solidarity side, things are even more interesting. The group Animal Concern is advocating for the interests of animals and by the measure deployed in this volume is a solidarity by promise group. And, as we would expect, the group said it was ‘Not possible’ to affiliate its constituency. But a particular puzzle is the number of solidarity by promise groups that do claim to affiliate their constituency. This, at least in principle, would be impossible. So what is the reason for the large number of solidarity groups that say they seek to recruit those they advocate for? The answer seemingly is that they conceptualize their constituency as the ‘general public’. For instance, the Dog Aid Society of Scotland stated that it advocated for the ‘general public’ and as such sought to recruit them. Similarly a bird group says it represents people who like birds, the Friends of the Earth said it advocated for ‘everybody’ while an animal welfare group said it advocated for ‘supporters of animal welfare’. So, the explanation is that some groups claim their

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constituency as the general public and therefore attempt to recruit them. This approach to constructing accountability flows is not insignificant. Indeed, Rehfeld (2006) highlights the difference between, on the one hand, advocating for nature because of its intrinsic value, as opposed to, on the other hand, the value it has to a discrete set of humans. This has strong implications for what expectations we ought to have about internal democratic practices. The above provides a valuable insight into the way constituency is conceptualized and the extent to which groups – of both ideal types – go about recruiting and affiliating that constituency to the group. As outlined in Chapter 4, the constituency a group serves is crucial to how the expectations of internal group democratic practices should be calibrated. And, as was made clear then, these two types sit at the ends of a continuum. So it is to be expected that empirical cases would likely be only a partial approximation of the theoretical type. Most saliently, by following the thought process of group leaders, through a series of linked survey questions, it is possible to see how, in practice, they form accounts of the constituency they purport to serve. But it is a relatively weak test of whether promise matches practice, as it does not ascertain whether groups actually follow through with enfranchising the constituencies they say they advocate for. Respondents were asked several questions to ascertain membership influence (this replicated the approach adopted by Binderkrantz 2006). Data is available on whether, according to leaders, the members are able to influence group affairs; whether they have AGMs, or leadership elections, for example. But, as is evident in Table 5.1, the overwhelming majority of groups say they have such practices in place. The most popular platform for members’ influence, however, would appear to be the organizations’ AGMs or annual conferences, with 84.6 per cent of all groups indicating that these allow members to help to decide organizational policy positions to at least some degree. The survey also found that over two-thirds (67.1%) had organizational statutes giving their members influence over their political work to at least ‘some degree’. Consistent with the view that formal democratic processes are often under-utilized, just over half (55.3%) indicated that their members participated

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actively in the political work of the organization, again to at least some degree. Thus, it would appear that to some extent, the basic internal apparatus associated with a ‘representational’ account is common to many groups. In terms of the relationship between constituency type and membership influence measures, the table indicates a consistently higher incidence of member influence in groups with human, as opposed to non-human, constituencies. But it is important to recognize from the outset that many – in fact probably most – groups are formally organized or constituted as democratically governed organizations. That means the Statutes or the Articles of Association (or whatever other legal instrument governs the running of the group) enfranchise members in terms of paying a member fee, electing leaders or trustees, and attending and voting at an Annual Meeting or similar. This evidence reinforced similar recent findings from the US. The large-scale examination of the provision for ‘member influence’ in the constitutions of US groups by Barakso and Schaffner (2008) found that a large proportion of advocacyfocused US groups did have formal democratic governance practices, including AGMs and elections. Interestingly, they suggested that professional groups and trade unions had the highest level of ‘member influence’ compared to lower levels by what they call citizen groups. In assessing their findings they conclude that ‘the relatively undemocratic governance structures found in contemporary citizen associations may call into question the legitimacy of the claims of these organizations to represent the interests of their members in the political system’ (Barakso and Schaffner 2008, 205). But the finding that citizen groups – which is a term they use to encompass groups not organizing economic interests or the professions – have low levels of formal democratic governance could be explained by the fact that this category includes large numbers of groups advocating for non-humans and future generations. Moreover, it likely includes a range of groups that organize to show solidarity with human constituencies that are marginalized or poorly organized (in essence groups capable of representation but organized along solidarity lines). While the empirical results match those found in our small Scottish sample, the conclusions drawn here are quite different.

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That groups are designed in such a manner often reflects general good governance procedures as set down by charities law, not-for-profit tax regulations or similar codes of conduct. Therefore, this data provides a relatively weak test in relation to practice, but it does support the selective case studies above, in that the translation of promise into practice is by no means straightforward, and that this ‘translation’ process is open to interpretation – and reinterpretation – of key parameters by group leaders over time. For instance, with respect to what constituency is being served, how easy or difficult it is to recruit them into affiliation with the group, and what the primary group purpose is (service delivery, sectional advocacy, regulation for the public benefit, etc.).

‘Types’ of compromise between promise and practice It is not very satisfactory to merely observe that different groups arrive at different practices for a complex range of reasons. This may be a truism, but one task of social science is to organize the inevitable complexity of life into schemas that make them comprehensible but yet would be recognizable to participants. The aim in this concluding section is to identify some common ‘ideal type’ strategies that seem to be pursued and review the types of arguments – theoretical and practical – that are used to support them. Just as Van Rooy (2004) pursued an inductive mapping of the ‘bases’ of legitimacy that groups tapped in legitimating their advocacy, here the aim is to arrive at a set of strategies that groups tend to follow which packages up what their advocacy claims signify. In some senses the choice of strategy is akin to a group’s ‘democratic identity’ (see Heaney 2004 on group identities generally). Table 5.2 outlines the alternatives that emerge in the above analysis. It follows from the argument above that practices reflect one or other legitimate logics of appropriateness, and that these may expand and contract as these more abstract normative debates inform practice and vice versa.

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Table 5.2 Ideal type legitimacy strategies Group practices

Constituency/potential Humans (representation potential)

Non-humans/future generations (solidarity potential)

Representation practices

1 Embodied enfranchisement strategy

3 Mass ‘enfranchisement as proxy’ strategy

Solidarity practices

2 Benevolent strategy

4 Elite epistemic strategy

(1) This category is the straight match between representative potential and practice. Groups choose to pursue the line that they represent a human constituency and they back this up with internal democratic processes that reassure interlocutors of the validity of their claims. There is no need to dwell on this case, as it is well described above. (2) Philanthropic endeavour has a strong history. It was perhaps most evident in the Victorian period in Britain, is a major social referent in American culture and remains a major plank of more contemporary discussions about the ‘governance’ value of the ‘third sector ’ or ‘civil society’. Indeed, much practice within the group life we have mapped reflects a benevolent strategy – one set of individuals work together in order to aid the condition of another constituency or group of individuals. This is solidarity practised where representation would be possible. The catch is that many groups were formed without a strong political or advocacy dimension. In contrast, their task was redistributive or reformational: to raise the lot of those in need; those who could not help themselves materially or who suffered from (what was considered at the time) a ‘flawed’ moral character. This approach was at one point in history legitimated by a strong moral case about the ‘deserving poor ’. Local organizations in Britain, often of economically privileged married women, would raise funds and disburse them to the needy – but those of good moral standing, those who were in need through no fault of their own. Organizations like Voluntary Services Aberdeen are membership-based organizations – but only in the sense that their original charter was about ‘members’ donating money to redistribute as needs required

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to the local community. They do not enfranchise the constituencies they are there to assist – the old, the disabled and so on. This is not their purpose, and it never was. The problem for such groups is that they are often prevailed upon to advocate the views of ‘users’ of their services, particularly to local authorities who provide their funding. They are drawn into advocating for such constituencies. There is nothing willfully disingenuous in this scenario; it is a by-product of necessity in conducting activities like needsanalyses for community and social services planning. The data on participants in Scottish public policy, presented above, provides some sense that a not insignificant portion of the ‘groups’ that actually engage in policy debate – that share a policy view – are this type of not-for-profit group. Group scholars should consider them part of their turf, but in so doing the ‘representation’ template derived from, say, professional or economic groups, is not able to be applied off-the-rack. (3) Some groups have internal democracies of a sort, but they do not enfranchise the constituency they seek to advocate for. As per the argument in this book, such groups are not engaged in representation. But these groups seem to appreciate the argument put forward by Goodin that the affiliates of solidarity groups can come to internalize the interests of, say, the environment. Thus, in enfranchising the affiliates of the group, by giving them a say in the policy of the group, the interests of the environment are being represented. This approach does lend itself to those cases where science is viewed as a suspect force in defining the interests of the environment or nature. Equally, it is important to be aware that this proxy enfranchisement may simply cloak what is the pursuit of the affiliates’ own interests. As Rehfled (2006) notes, precisely what is being advocated for in the case of non-humans or the environment is sometimes unclear. Where non-humans are advocated for on the basis of some ‘intrinsic’ value, then non-human interests are being pursued. But where non-humans ‘are valued because humans value them, that is another matter ’ (Rehfeld 2006, 1, fn. 2; italics in original). Rehfeld’s small aside is quite significant and cannot be brushed off lightly. Because, as he rightly observes, lurking within the ‘non-human

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constituency’ basket is a raft of causes that are largely shaped by specific and narrow ‘values’ held by a discrete human constituency. They are to some extent attached. This is a slippery slope, because one could say that nature is only valued because of its worth to humans. But of course, much advocacy is based on an assertion that nature and animals have an intrinsic value and interests of their own – just unvoiced. (4) The more usual approach is for groups pursuing the interests of nature – solidarity by promise groups – to rely on science or other epistemic sources to legitimate advocacy. It is this approach which finds many such groups relying on expert witnesses, scientific reports and evidence from the field to support advocacy. The authority of their advocacy does not come from their sometimes very large affiliate base. This simply funds the research and the advocacy. There is no attempt to enfranchise these affiliates, nor is any claim made to represent their views. This is the strategy where the solidarity promise of groups is matched by practice.

Conclusion As is evident, several groups can be identified where practice most approximated potential. As would be anticipated, a review of other groups shows that their practices can be described spanning the full length of the solidarity– representation continuum. The difficulty in accessing constituencies, and drawing them into direct affiliation with a group, made ‘representing’ some constituencies – and typically those politically marginalized already – very difficult to practice: despite it being a possibility. Such interest groups would fail tests of representativeness; but denying them access would impede the task of political inclusion that many scholars would be willing to support. As Sikkink and others claim, groups often explore democratizing their practice but find it very hard to do. This highlights how the task of addressing democratic deficits through enhancing group ‘representativeness’ may work against, or at cross purposes to, that of political inclusion. In agreeing with the suggestion that there needs to be

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more debate over the ‘representativeness’ of groups (see Grant 2001, 2003, 2004, 2005; and Warleigh 2000, 2001), the position developed in the chapter suggests that an acrossthe-board insistence on groups practising ‘membership’ style affiliations and internal democracies would be overly heavyhanded, possibly even counter-productive. More nuanced approaches to vetting the policy involvement of groups suggest themselves. The argument put in this chapter clarifies the implicit potential of groups (based on the constituency advocated for) – to show solidarity or to represent – and suggests how this translates into forms of group affiliation – supportership and membership. On the basis of this empirical analysis, and in combination with the theoretical arguments made in Chapters 3 and 4, this book contests the position that all ‘interest groups’ should pursue membership style affiliations and internal democratic practices. Theoretically, this approach assumes that all groups pursue representation; a case that is undermade and a view that this book contests. Practically, it underplays the difficulties in actually mobilizing some constituencies by (at least potentially) sympathetic or altruistic individuals. For example, if the affiliates of WWF Scotland were to decide lobbying positions, would that actually contribute to representing the environment? The present practices of the National Trust for Scotland highlight the ambiguity (and potential for tensions over accountability) that membership style affiliations bring to what are ostensibly solidarity by necessity groups. Until the benefits of such representative practices are more evident, it is unclear why groups would and should go down that path. But some groups do take that apparently difficult road; why that may be is worthy of empirical exploration. This book has established that the number of ‘groups’ to which democratic expectations are invested needs to be contained to a rather narrow sliver of the entire population. Following Jordan, Halpin and Maloney (2004), policy participants (likely to be the bulk of policy active – non-collective – institutions) are discounted as groups with democratization potential. To this, we can add groups with potential for solidarity (solidarity by definition) in addition to groups capable of representation but who find insurmountable impediments to engaging directly with their constituency (representational

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aspirants). Conceptually conflating group ‘affiliates’ with the ‘constituency’ (or ‘beneficiary group’) has inhibited a more fine-grained account of the participatory potential of interest groups. By disaggregating these two terms, this chapter provides one way to gain purchase on the question of appropriate group democratic practices. The suggestion here is not that the conceptual distinction between solidarity and representation be pursued directly in deciding on access to policy processes: it is not intended as the basis of any iron rule of democratic legitimacy. Rather, it is anticipated that this will provide a basis to problematize the issue further. Debates as to what extent the disjuncture between representative promise and group practice can be reasonably tolerated, and the impact this would have on the quality and integrity of democratic systems of government, are logical extensions of the ground opened up by the approach pursued here. This review of group practices establishes the way in which these two narratives of group advocacy help to calibrate expectations which, in turn, provides a nuanced set of expectations against which practice can be interpreted. Many other labels could be generated from additional case study review. The simple point to be made here is that these ideal type labels (representation and solidarity) provide an analytical tool for comparing and contrasting group promise with the diversity (and changeability) of group practice. As reviewed earlier, it is common for scholars to note the ‘hollowing out’ of group democratic life, based almost always on sectional or producer groups. The example of the UK Federation of Small Businesses (FSB) is a case in point. Such processes can be tracked by looking at the erosion of the representative promise through the ‘drift’ towards a more solidarity set of practices. If anything, the framework developed herein works simply to pose questions about democratic promises that groups embody, using this as a heuristic device through which to interrogate practices as they unfold and develop. Perhaps the key finding here is that engaging with the issue of democratic promise versus practice is best done by looking at changes in group practices over time. That is, groups appear to be dynamic organizations, capable of redefining missions, aims, identities and structures. Thus, democratic practices are likely to be altered over time; and it

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is not impossible to rule out a group changing its core democratic promise (as the ACF example demonstrates). Groups can come to embody entirely different advocacy claims, thus shifting the democratic promises they make. The concern with change over time ties us nicely back into the theme that this book commenced with: the debate between groups as a source of democratic decline or renewal. The recent momentum has been with the view that groups are themselves being ‘hollowed out’ over time. In the four chapters that follow, the book critically reviews and empirically explores some of the major arguments and theoretical assumptions that shape our expectations about the democratic potential of groups.

Notes 1 The competition among such groups is more in relation to resources such as subscription or donation income among the predisposed. 2 This was defined as having responded to at least one Scottish Government policy consultation process since 1999. The survey was conducted in 2008.

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6 The orthodox case: the drift from representation towards solidarity*

Introduction The longstanding expectation and finding by group scholars with respect to democratic representation is of ‘hollowed out’ group practices (see discussion in Chapter 1). Participative internal democracies exist only as promises inscribed into the constitutions and by-laws of groups, but are poorly practised. This book is less down-beat than the expectation in the literature. This is partly because we do not see any cause for solidarity groups to have internal democracies that enfranchise affiliates. The argument pursued in this book would see no deficiency in a finding that solidarity groups do not actually enfranchise affiliates. In fact, in Chapter 8 it is argued that many of the best-known groups currently engaged in solidarity style advocacy have always been without clear enfranchisement of their affiliates. There are, for sure, groups that seek to advocate for non-human constituencies and enfranchise those individuals who affiliate to them. But this is not substantively addressing the democratic legitimacy of the groups’ advocacy, nor, by extension, the democratic legitimacy of governing processes of which they are a part. But for representation groups – those advocating for human constituencies – it is accepted here that there is a clear normative case for them to organize and affiliate the constituency they seek to advocate for, and in so doing to enfranchise those affiliates within internal democratic processes. For these groups, the absence of democratic practices is a notable omission. These practices are frequently absent, particularly with constituencies that have historical-

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ly been marginalized or viewed as incapable of their own voice and have as such been ‘advocated for ’ by benevolent solidarity groups. One can think of youth advocates, those for the mentally ill or for the homeless and unemployed. But in Chapter 9, there is evidence of such groups undergoing a conversion to reinstate representative practices. For more powerful constituencies, such as professions or producer/business categories, the more usual deficiency is not an absence of formal representational practices; but the poor implementation of democratic practices. By and large, it is this scenario that group scholars have in mind when they talk of democratic ‘hollowing out’. They mean poorly attended AGMs, branches that barely function and policy that is made by professional staff; moreover, they mean the reduction of ‘membership’ to the mere act of paying a subscription. In short, it is the substitution – by representation groups – of internal governance practices associated with solidarity groups. Representation groups come to operate as though they were solidarity groups yet maintaining the veneer of a representation group. This chapter deals with the orthodox case of democratic practice among groups: namely, the representative group that under-delivers on its promise. The present chapter asks the question: why do representation groups seem to fall short of their democratic promises? This may seem a question with an obvious answer. The influential approach of Michels/Weber on oligarchy and bureaucratization, and the related social movement theories of ‘institutionalization’, suggest groups transform themselves from relatively lively participative organizations into professionalized and bureaucratized organizations as they grow older. But why? James Q. Wilson was onto something when he said ‘the adoption of democratic forms are all prudential ones; that is to say, they stem from the perceived usefulness of associational democracy, rather than from the apprehension of some obligation to be democratic or to acknowledge the “right” of a prospective member to be enfranchised within the group’ (1995, 236; italics added). However, this is not often explicit in the work on groups and democracy. As discussed in Chapter 3, it is possible to discern three broad approaches to this set of expectations in the group literatures: nature, age, and period. Each set the same expectations – hollowed out

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groups – but offer different explanations. The difficulty with these nature-, age- and period-based arguments, is that they import a teleological element which is without clear justification. Here, in this chapter, hollowing out is not viewed as inevitable, but as a choice based on decisions by leaders to seek to match changes and preferences among key audiences: their members (and broader constituency) and policy makers. Regardless of what one thinks groups ‘ought’ to practice, the issue of whether they in fact practice democracy is in part down to the judgement of the groups’ leadership. And, as Wilson argues, this judgement is likely to involve reference to the demands of members, of the prevailing environment, and of the history and structure of the group itself (1995, 237). Entrepreneurs have to juggle such pressures to sustain a group. Whether democracy is practised – and the way in which it is practised and the purpose it is put to – is most likely to be a by-product of whether it stabilizes a group and assists it to survive. It is evident that organizational form matters for the democratic capacities of groups; as it does for other group capacities (e.g. policy implementation capacity). Choices of organizational form have important implications for subsequent generation of group capacities. For instance, choices of models that omit local chapters reduce the capacity for local mobilization, but may support a litigation focus (Edwards and McCarthy 2004, 138). Groups can make rather stark choices with respect to membership structures: they may, for instance, decide to have no members at all (Andrews and Edwards 2004, 488). While scholars may create expectations about ‘proper ’ group democratic practices, the empirical question is whether groups appreciate the same normative arguments. Moreover, how are democratic practices established and embedded in organizational forms? And how are they dislodged or eroded? This directs attention to democracy as a ‘by-product’ of group careers. This chapter concentrates on the role that group adjustments to contemporary research-based or evidence-led policy processes plays in (re)setting the way groups engage with those they seek to affiliate and represent. The argument here, consistent with the literature, is that there is a relationship between the policy style of these groups, the recruiting approach, the volume of members attracted and the policy

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freedom of the leadership. This (un)virtuous circle links up mobilization and influence strategies in such a way as to drive the hollowing out noted by scholars.

Juggling mobilization and influence: the ‘membership tightrope’ It is generally accepted that, by definition, groups engage in two general tasks: mobilization and influence.1 Most accept this, but study them separately. But implicit within the literature is the notion that leaders constantly juggle these imperatives and that this helps shape organizational practices. This juggling act seems salient to the way democratic practices evolve within groups. Definitionally, groups are organizations that engage in public policy influence and that mobilize individuals (Jordan, Halpin and Maloney 2004). As outlined above, accounts of group ‘life’ emphasize the two ‘tasks’ of policy influence and mobilization as of central importance (albeit they are often analysed separately). Moreover, and crucially for this chapter, the group literature reminds us that these two tasks of group life are central to defining the overall organizational dilemmas that shape group life and exercise the minds of leaders. For instance, Schmitter and Streeck (1981) argue that interest groups must be attentive to a ‘Logic of Membership’ and a ‘Logic of Influence’2 and that interest-group organizations must build internal structures that ‘respond to both logics equally and simultaneously’. Yet striking a balance between the two logics is not easy, as they may not be complementary. Fundamental organizational dilemmas for groups will likely emerge from shifts in these characteristics or ‘logics’. It is not uncommon for empirical studies of group influence strategies to talk about mobilization in making their analysis (see Mendes 2003, 87; Maloney et al. 1994, 32). Narratives predominately aimed at understanding a group’s influence require resort to mobilization issues. This further suggests that changes in one or other of these characteristics will likely have repercussions for the group organization as a whole3 (see also Heaney 2007). This chapter pursues an account of group survival which directs attention to individual group level activity. It is argued

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that groups (particularly those mature groups – already formed) can usefully be conceived as organizations managed by leaders with the aim of securing organizational survival within a changeable environment. The manner in which the tasks of influence and mobilization are formulated and undertaken constitute the core ‘characteristics’ that help discern overall group form at any one time. How they are formulated and executed (e.g. what mix of membership incentives or political strategy is pursued) is assumed to be shaped by changeable historical conditions and the perceptions, skills and role of leaders/entrepreneurs (and the assumptions they have about what responses will work). Environmental conditions – again interpreted by leaders – can from time to time destabilize the way one or other task is executed and thus destabilize the overall group form (see Halpin and Jordan 2009). These ‘organizational dilemmas’ catalyse efforts to re-stabilize the group, often resulting in a new organizational form. In terms of group ‘careers’, it is helpful to see groups as undergoing a series of ‘initial organizational form’ – ‘organizational dilemma’ – ‘response’ – ‘new organizational form’. This chapter suggests that one important factor in explaining the ‘hollowing out’ phenomenon is that representation groups – unlike solidarity groups – walk a particular type of ‘membership tightrope’ (Maloney et al. 1994). As discussed in Chapter 4, representation groups can potentially enfranchise their constituency by enfranchising their affiliates. And – at least formally – many do just that. For representation groups, therefore, the mood of their constituency is of political – not just financial – importance. The exit with voice of an affiliate to a representation group is of far more consequence than it is to a solidarity group. Moreover, even critical voice from the non-membership – from the constituency the group claims to represent – is politically harmful. Where a ‘farmer ’ criticizes the National Farmers’ Union, regardless of their membership of that group, it subtly erodes the authority of the group: simply because the authority of that group comes from its claim to represent. When a member of the public criticizes Greenpeace, there is no such erosion of its authority: that individual has no status as a member of the constituency Greenpeace – as a solidarity group – seeks to advocate for (i.e.

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nature). Representation groups face a more precarious journey along the tightrope. In terms of resolving the influence versus mobilization dilemma, the typical rule of thumb is that outsider style policy stances appease members while insider approaches are more necessary to be effective in policy advocacy. The challenge for leaders is to balance or juggle these two concerns. The outcome, as is reflected in the two cases discussed here, is often (but not necessarily) to privilege policy influence while pursuing member satisfaction through selective incentives. In other words, groups develop (or emphasize) non-political functions as a way to bind members to the group.4 As James Q. Wilson suggested, appeals to members by way of selective incentives are likely to maximize the autonomy of leaders (1995). He states, ‘ideological incentives, especially if threat oriented, tend to constrain and radicalize the leaders of an association, whereas selective incentives, especially material ones, tend to bestow discretionary authority on such leaders’ (1995, xi). As such, this strategy may relieve pressure on the leaders who would otherwise have policy outcomes as their only means of satisfying the membership. There is nothing automatic or inevitable about this form of compromise – groups could err on the side of keeping the group participative and perhaps enduring limits on policy reputation and access (an extreme version of this is the so-called ‘outsider by choice’ group). Other groups seem to be able to sustain grassroots democracies and policy success: see for instance the Campaign for the Protection of Rural England (CPRE) (Lowe et al. 2001). But, many of the more prominent groups do not, preferring to build resources, size and influence through a commitment to ‘insiderism’. The obvious question here is whether ‘insiderism’ is compatible with representation groups keeping their democratic promises. This is beyond our scope here. For now, the chapter sticks to the initial question of unpacking how and why some groups hollow out. This chapter explores the evolution of democratic group practices within two representation-by-definition groups. The Federation of Small Businesses (UK) and the NFF/NSW Farmers’ Association (Australia) are both representation by definition groups. These cases were chosen in order to best illustrate the general argument. They are relatively

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well-known representation by promise groups, and both have been subject to previous academic study (including by the author) and maintain informative websites that would enable a general reader to investigate claims made here quite easily. While they formally or constitutionally retain a form that more or less reflects their representative promise, and historically have implemented these provisions with some considerable gusto, it is possible to identify how practice has been watered down and eroded. In essence, they come to operate more as though they were solidarity groups: affiliates not involved in policy making and little direct contact among affiliates. It is argued that this erosion of practice reflects or is a by-product of the adaptation of such groups to the ‘orthodox’ policy process (Grant 2001). That is, the need for a responsible (accepting not going to get everything all of the time), insider, even-tempered, well-researched and professionally delivered group policy strategy means that resource requirements rise exponentially. Groups responded with plans to raise membership levels and extend a reliance on paid staff, which tended in turn to change the complexion of the membership and the input of members.

The National Farmers’ Federation / NSW Farmers’ Association This section considers the National Farmers’ Federation (NFF) and its largest state farm organization – the New South Wales Farmers’ Association (NSWFA). This is a useful case for the purpose of illustrating the broader argument made above. The NFF has been subject to various positive appraisals by Australian scholars, from an influence perspective (influential and responsible) and a mobilization perspective (high membership density) (see Trebeck 1990, 138; Connors 1996, 271). Indeed, an Australian survey of national policy makers concluded that, ‘The NFF was considered clearly the most effective organisation in raising issues in Canberra and particularly successful with the media and Senators’ (NFF 2001). There is no reason to doubt that these evaluations, based on a measurement of influence (or even mobilization), are correct. Rather, it is argued that these evaluations seem to miss much of what a sustained examination

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of such a group in context reveals. One-off evaluations miss the underlying challenges involved in keeping the NFF family together and ensuring its survival. The material presented is the result of an extended study of the NFF family of organizations. Access has been secured to internal review documents, which – along with informal discussions with group office bearers and staff – provide an insight into the way leadership cohorts identify and interpret environmental changes, define organizational dilemmas and mount responses. Based on this material, it is argued that the NFF family can be understood to have undergone three broad phases of development, each sparked by an organizational dilemma (often reflecting tension between imperatives of influence and mobilization), itself catalysed by environmental change de-stabilizing preceding (settled) organizational forms. In each case, a revised organizational interest group form is developed. After a brief discussion of group origins, all three phases are summarized below. Origins: amateur and voluntary The earliest origins of Australian farm organizations were in local voluntary groups formed in the late 1800s. Successive state and national organizations were prompted by organized labour, the power of merchants and unstable prices. The preSecond World War period saw separate farmers’ and graziers’ groups aligned to a country-based political party; together these groups constituted the party membership organization – much as unions were to labour parties in many western nations. These disparate groups reflected regional, commodity and historical cleavages. Arguably, pluralistic group formation reflected varied interests. In the post-Second World War Two era, commodityspecific national organizations were involved in clientelistic relations with a dedicated public service to govern a fragmented set of specific industry assistance measures. There is no doubt, however, that, even in this scenario, tensions between leaders and rank and file over influence and objectives were evident. The absence of first-hand accounts makes adjudicating on the thinking of group leaders difficult. However, as Bell (1994, 142) notes about this period, business groups could resolve organizational dilemmas arising from a tension between influence and mobilization in quite

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straightforward ways. Business interests, he remarks, worked through old-boy networks direct to ‘clientelistic’ ministers, and proposals were unsophisticated and unresearched. That they were accompanied by rhetorical claims of the importance of business and the need for government to listen (targeted at appeasing members) did not threaten group access or influence. Leaders could appease members and policy makers at the same time: tension avoided! First phase of development: professionalizing influence The 1960s and 70s marked a period that destabilized the preceding organizational form. It threatened to re-open the tension between member mobilization and influence. In the 1960s the then Country Party leader (and Federal Trade Minister), John McEwen, insisted that Australian farmers speak with one voice in policy representations. Disunity and inconsistency amongst farm groups, he asserted, would leave government with no other choice but to act on their departmental advice or the advice of other more professional and cohesive sectors.5 In the 1970s, a number of changes in the political environment drew the attention of agriculturalists to the need for a co-ordinated, professional and credible political representative. The creation of the Industries Assistance Commission (IAC) to review assistance levels (in addition to the general increase in capacity and economic expertise of the civil service) ‘changed the rules of the policy formulation game’ (Martin 1989; see also Warhurst 1982). The need to increasingly couch farmers’ views in terms of the national interest using sophisticated economic analysis in open public inquiry was arguably a factor in the push for a unified structure. This, along with the cessation of National Party patronage, reduced the importance of parliament and the minister as primary targets for political influence by farmers (Longworth 1975, 7-16). Concern mounted about the growing influence of the Australian Council of Trade Unions (ACTU) and a countervailing force was deemed necessary. These changes in policy process catalysed an organizational dilemma. It destabilized the plethora of semi-professional commodities and state-based groups that each operated successfully in sub-domain niches. To maintain policy influence the groups needed to become better

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resourced and speak with a cohesive industry voice. Faced with such challenges, the duplication of work, and maintenance of group offices in close geographical proximity to one another, became untenable. In response, a first wave of reform was undertaken. It was characterized by professionalization, unification and centralization; mirroring a broader trend in the Australian group community in the late 1970s and 1980s (Warhurst 1994). Changes were largely organizational and aimed at creating a system of interest representation that would accommodate the demands of the political system. Unification was achieved with amalgamations among the plethora of state, commodity and regional groups. They were rationalized and brought together, resulting in the formation of the National Farmers’ Federation (NFF) in July 1979. Branching off the NFF are state farm organizations (SFOs) and commodity councils (CCs). The NFF centralized activities in Canberra, the national capital. The NFF, and more importantly its SFOs, had the resources to hire permanent professional staff and economic experts to replace the small bands of often elected amateur leaders. Internal reviews and debate at Annual Conferences of SFOs at the time make clear that group leaders actively read the challenges in a similar manner, and that the aim of reform was to meet the requirements of being influential in a changing policy environment. But there was not unanimous support. Some mistrusted aligning organizational form with policy imperatives. In his presidential address to the 1966 NSW Graziers’ Association Annual Conference, Bruce Wright warned that unity would benefit politicians more than primary producers. He said: In my view we should not be concerned about the convenience of government or political parties . . . to force into a common organisation interests which are not ideologically homogenous must – and does – lead to the suppression of ideas, to intolerable delays in evolving policy and the emergence of watered down compromise lacking in the vigour of conviction. I fear the regimented suppression of opinion far more than I do the consequences of government being confronted with conflicting policies. (Connors 1996, 121)

Despite these arguments, amalgamations went ahead. In September 1975, an amalgamation committee was formed

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between the Riverina Graziers’ Association, NSW Graziers’ Association and the United Farmers’ and Woolgrowers’ Association to consider plans for a merger (Graham 1978, 3). The report released by the committee listed the positives and negatives. The tone of the report gave the clear indication that the advantages outweighed the disadvantages. The plans were put to a referendum of members of the organizations in July 1977 which returned an overwhelming ‘yes’ vote for amalgamation.6 In 1978, the Livestock and Grain Producers’ Association (LGPA) was established.7 This type of approach was repeated across Australia. As Wright had argued, amalgamation had not, in and of itself, resolved diverging interests, ideologies or identities. Rather, financial necessity from an organizational perspective and political pressure from an external perspective had proved strong incentives to set aside, rather than resolve, the heterogeneous interests of the farming constituency. It was more important to maintain political reputation and influence than ensure every faction has its voice heard. This organizational resolution was clearly based on matching external conditions for influence (and the financial and staff resources this entailed), rather than any emerging homogeneous base from below. Farmers in the 1970s and 80s were not any more socio-economically or structurally homogeneous than in preceding decades (arguably less so). The settlement, then, was constructed around the leaders’ view that organizing to pursue influence was more important than privileging mobilization. The NFF at its inception was a neat package of one SFO for each state, with two each for Western Australia and Queensland, and a set of CCs that covered each major commodity sector. In a departure from the policy pursued by the previous collection of separate federal commodity organizations, the NFF policy agenda emphasized macro-economic reform in preference to the reform of specific agricultural policies. To be influential in the general economic policy area, farm interest groups adopted a different approach to policy making. Table thumping, intimidation and threats were replaced by rational economic argument, researched policy positions and the expectation that all interested parties would have to give ground to reach consensus. As has been well documented, this role has assisted a managed

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change in the paradigm underpinning general agricultural policy (Keating and Dixon 1989; Coleman and Skogstad 1995; Wonder 1995). Leaders recognized this and explicitly reinforced the case for change. Donald McGauchie’s presidential address to the 1995 NFF Annual Conference included the following: The task for the NFF then is to demonstrate that our agenda is in the overall national interest as well as the interest of the farm sector. If we adopt a purely sectional approach, we are not going anywhere. That means we have to construct alliances with other interest groups to widen our base of political support. It also means our proposals must be well researched and able to withstand public scrutiny. (McGauchie 1995)

In terms of mobilization, SFOs – those with direct individual farmer members – emphasized few selective material incentives beyond the usual magazine, access to farm insurance and advice on legal/employment matters. Recruitment campaigns were often run by local members and couched in pursuit of collective policy goals and embedded in emotive references. Second phase of development: professionalizing mobilization While the NFF family structure was firmly established, its first decade and a half was characterized by wide-scale unrest in the farming constituency: not least because of a period of high interest rates, low prices and rapid farm restructuring. As Grant (2001) has noted more generally, pressure on insider style strategies are at their height when a constituency is undergoing economic hardship. Thus, the NFF model was subject to the first signs of destabilization. The second organizational dilemma emerged from the NFF’s pursuit of policy influence. It was guided by an imperative to match policy system demands (along with solving internal financial problems). Influence was increasingly pursued in ways very remote from grassroots members (with the exception of several large industrial relations campaigns). The policies of the NFF family supporting the end of protectionism – and with that generous tariff and subsidies – were linked to rapid industry restructuring and economic hardship. Many members became upset with the apparent NFF inaction on these issues. Alternative farm

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groups emerged (among them the Graingrowers of Australia, Canowindra Reform Group and Womens’ Rural Action Group) seeking to unseat the NFF: none succeeded. Yet the NFF was suffering a decline in membership and was subject to heightened public criticism from within its constituency. This threatened resource levels and reputation (including authoritativeness). In sum, the leaders conducted advocacy in a more de-politicized and remote manner; their ‘responsible’ and measured approach was a precursor for access. But this also risked mobilization efforts. It needed to re-stabilize the professionalized advocacy model it was committing itself to. Analysis of the NFF leadership’s review of its organizational future acknowledged much of this analysis. It recognized a feedback loop between its policy strategy and membership dissatisfaction about levels of representation. It accepted that the grassroots felt distant from the leadership given that the majority of farmers did not understand the issues they pursued. Subsequently, ‘the direct benefits to individual farmers from such issues are difficult to quantify and communicate’ (NFF 1994, 4). The NFF also acknowledged that its approach to policy change had direct implications for the role of membership in policy development. The new policy approach required more time of office bearers which meant that older and wealthier farmers were more likely to be involved (1994, 11). Additionally, it recognized that the range of issues in which organizations were involved required office bearers with skills and experiences in a range of non-agricultural policy areas. Therefore, ‘Unless elected representatives have a wide range of skills and experience, there is likely to be a heavy reliance on staff for policy development. That situation has potential danger ’ (1994, 11). The final implication of this policy role, acknowledged by the NFF, was an increased demand for financial resources. The expansion of the issues that required attention spread existing resources over a broader number of issues and necessitated hiring staff away from core commodity areas. The professional staff necessary to conduct a credible researchbased approach to advocacy was expensive to acquire and retain (1994, 13). This scenario resonates very strongly with the tensions discussed in general conceptual terms above; the group

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ensconced in a strongly insider professionalized form of influence strategy is prone to destabilization. The response from the NFF was not to change influence strategy. The NFF family – in fact, its state organizations that have direct members – pursued organizational reforms to stabilize support while continuing its insider strategy and neo-liberal policy platform. Contra Maloney et al. (1994), in walking its ‘membership tightrope’, the NFF leadership decided not to give way to members. A second wave of reforms were planned and executed in the mid-1990s. A flurry of consultancies, reports, strategic plans and reviews were conducted by the NFF family, which illustrate the assumptions and plans of leaders.8 The intensity of the ‘review’ activity intimates the level of urgency. Analysis of these documents, and associated public statements, highlights significant organizational change. The reform strategy involved setting quantitative membership targets, the development of a product which could be marketed, the sophisticated and aggressive marketing of membership, broadening the membership base and the reallocating of significant levels of resources to support the recruitment of members (see Halpin 1997 for details). These reforms were guided by an effort to exclude policy considerations as a driver for joining decisions. The NSWFA membership manager boasted: ‘commercial concessions [have] progressed to levels now where we can provide an income-positive result for nearly all members who participate’ (Mason 1995, 21). Intuitively at least farm leaders appreciated the observation offered by James Q. Wilson that leader autonomy is related to the basis of mobilization. Changing the way members are recruited, such as deploying selective incentives, may be logically associated with retaining members amidst commitment to an (otherwise unpopular) insider strategy. For the NSWFA at least, membership levels stabilized and then rose. In sum, the above reforms sought to separate joining decisions from political strategy, hence undoing the tension between influence and mobilization imperatives. The evidence from internal review documents – written by and commissioned for the group leadership – shows these were explicitly designed as processes to deliver strategies to both secure the survival and stabilize the group. The emergent

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second organizational form is one where members are largely remote from real policy determinations, policy strategy is heavily insider focused and both influence and mobilization tasks are highly professionalized. The democratic venues of the association are now, more than ever, poorly patronized. Members can and do participate in branches, regions and annual conferences. However analysis shows that most conference motions that are passed emerge from the leadership cohort. Branches are often poorly attended, and levels of accountability are, therefore, operating at lower levels (see Halpin 1999). Much communication from leadership to members is pre-packaged policy positions for consumption; and, for many, engagement is about service provision on a value for money basis. A third phase of development? Instability in second phase reforms seems to be raising the prospect of a new (third) organizational dilemma. Key destabilizing trends in the group environment include: the government consulting farming constituencies independently of the NFF family (and promoting fragmented associative structures); the rising heterogeneity of the farming constituency; and the breakup of NFF organizational unity. The second reform strategy was ultimately premised on the willingness of government to underwrite the NFF: not in terms of any neo-corporatist guarantees of exclusive access or formal public functions, but simply in terms of assisting it to deflect any competitors (by insisting that farmers work through the NFF structure) and in working with the NFF on key policy strategies. But this type of government ‘will’ is prone to erosion. And the signs are that it has started to weaken, which has again raised an organizational dilemma. While government defended the NFF organization from ‘rebel’ commodity groups in the 1990s, it has, at the same time, explicitly sought to consult more broadly and directly with rural and farming communities. This is particularly so with respect to land management issues, where the use of regional and local planning processes has provided an avenue for grassroots members to directly voice their views. This has obvious risks for a group where members are largely detached from policy formulation and advocacy: there is no sure mechanism to ensure that grassroots members stay ‘on-message’

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(see discussion in Halpin 2002). Cutting members off from policy messages, via selective material incentives, makes it hard to mobilize them when (and if) they are needed: as discussed above, decisions about group organizational form do have implications for group capacities. Further, government has actively promoted industry specialist trade associations (e.g. horticulture, dried fruit, wine, organic agriculture) and there are signs that some SFOs are looking to move out from under the NFF umbrella.9 The NFF structure has struggled to stretch across and cover this growing spectrum. A multivalent reform process has been initiated, but outcomes are still unclear. Again, an internal NFF review process has been initiated, this time with the intention of revisiting the federal structure of the NFF. The most prominent proposal has been for a unitary organization to replace the current federated structure (Morse 2001). The plan was for all SFOs to become divisions of a new national farmer body called Australian Farmers. The proposal10 explicitly identifies the irrevocable decline of the farmer subscription base, the heterogeneity amongst its constituency, the struggle to keep up with a ballooning and diverse issue agenda, competition from other groups and the decline in staffing and resources to unacceptable levels, as key challenges. It also devotes considerable time to discussing the organizational barriers within the NFF to optimizing existing resources and skills. In a sense it recognizes a similar raft of issues to that which sparked the second wave of reforms, but this time it contemplates the wholesale reorganization of the system of farmer representation. Not unexpectedly, the proposal has failed to garner the support of the member organizations of the NFF who fear loss of control to the centre (Morse 2001). Debate continues on how best to rationalize the structure.11 In the meantime, the NFF itself has recently indicated its intention to ‘focus on farmers’ costs and market returns, and will no longer address issues like women’s affairs, education and health. It’s going to be back to our core constituency – farmers, one representative said. We’ve been trying to do too much with limited resources’ (Weekly Times, 2/4/03, 3). Further, the NFF is ‘also looking to attract money from the agribusiness sector for projects of mutual interest’. In this

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regard it has already participated in forming the Agrifood Awareness Australia, an organization dedicated to educating the public on the positive benefits of gene technology.12 The resting point, a third organizational form, is as yet unclear. As Wanna and Withers (2000) have noted with respect to industry policy more generally, associative structures born in one era often outlive their relevance: and perhaps it is the case that with neo-liberal reform now largely over, the tool of that change – a centralized, professional and unified general farm group – is less relevant (see also Bell 2007). A competitor to the NFF seems implausible. But the NFF’s dominance does belie significant weaknesses. Its organizational form is increasingly unstable, and other more nimble forms may be emerging – but they are not direct competitors. Instead various forms of organization are being tested. Some pursue a ‘memberless’ think tank style – the Australian Farm Institute has been formed with loose links to NSWFA. Others see a renewal of commodity-based groups. Others still see a broader rural constituency as of sufficient size to sustain a general group structure. Still others see value in a group pursuing interests of viable and productive farmers: removed of the vocal ‘rump’ who are under pressure to leave the farm industry. Whatever the result, the continuous juggling of mobilization and influence ‘settings’ by the NFF/NSWFA has direct implications for the democratic practices of the group. It cannot be separated from this complex contextual milieu.

The Federation of Small Businesses (UK) The above analysis of Australian farm associations applies equally to other representation by promise groups. The FSB is the only UK group dedicated to the political organization and representation of small business people. When the 25th Anniversary Commemorative History of the Federation of Small Businesses was published (Bettsworth 1999), Tony Blair (the then Prime Minister) provided the Preface in which he remarked that the FSB ‘is now one of Britain’s most important representative bodies’. The FSB claims to be a representative body, is understood as a representative group, and has a formal organizational structure that fulfils promis-

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es of a representative body. Like the Australian NSWFA, the FSB has been subject to similar claims of success linked to its contemporary commitment to insiderism (see Ramsden 2002, 246), and its radical increase in membership (in total and density terms). But closer inspection from an organizational point of view finds similar developmental steps linking trends of increasing insiderism, professional recruitment and influence strategies, and a decline in member participation. This second case develops, but also confirms, the overall importance of balancing mobilization and policy styles. Origins The FSB was formed in 1974, as the National Federation of the Self-Employed (NFSE) and had its roots in what King and Nugent (1979) described as the mobilization of the British middle classes in the 1970s against the emerging social and economic partnerships between big business, labour and government. In transforming itself into the contemporary Federation of Small Businesses (FSB) it has changed in size and in other significant ways. The NFSE was formed by Norman Small, then Yorkshire Organiser for the National Union of Small Shopkeepers. Its emergence was triggered by reaction to the proposal for a Class 4 National Insurance contribution. The proposal meant that the self-employed would have to contribute to the scheme pro rata to their earnings in addition to the existing flat rate contribution but without any additional benefits. This policy was in addition to the introduction of Value Added Tax (VAT) which was already causing small businesses resentment. Originally a flat rate tax, it was proposed this be further complicated by a multiple tier system. This added to the concerns of small businesses that they had become the unpaid tax collectors for government. Both issues (VAT and Class 4) had sections of small business calling for militant forms of direct action to repeal the proposals. An early advertisement from the NFSE stressed that the self-employed would get no financial advantage from paying the increased national insurance contributions. The immediate response was rapid, with membership climbing to 1,000 in just a week. But a year after its formation, Norman Small resigned as president following accusations by a group of reformers that he had been defrauding the group. McHugh

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records the emergence of a reform group: ‘They made a number of charges against the leadership . . . They demanded the adoption of a democratic constitution, an inquiry into the Federation’s financial accounts and the resignation of three executive officers including the Chief Executive, Keith Shouls’ (McHugh 1979, 53; italics added). This turnover of the leadership saw the NFSE stabilized financially and begin to be politically credible. Interestingly, democracy was introduced into the NFSE initially as a control on leaders’ use of funds: membership was calling the shots over early group organizational form. Contra the period-based arguments about groups and democracy, even relatively recent groups are formed and conceived as democratic endeavours. Membership of the NFSE expanded to around 40,000 by the end of the 1970s, a level at which it remained until the 1990s. During this time, membership was recruited mostly on the basis of ideological appeal. As such, the protest type of tactics that the NFSE supplied fed their desire for advocacy to be seen to be done. But, as the NFSE leadership (at various times in this period) started to toy with a more insider style of advocacy – of building a reputation as a responsible group – the first moves to establish non-political inducements for membership emerged. By July 1980 First Voice (the member journal) had a recruiting supplement that described how the FSB approach had two legs. The first was the claim of achievements (collective success) that tapped in to the purposive dimension, but it also, secondly, listed member benefits. As with the NSWFA case, the FSB position cannot be oversimplified into a neat narrative of a group growing with no incentives at the outset, but in later periods growing with their use. However, there is a pattern of building up material selective incentives as part of a new supply-side recruitment strategy. In the first five years of its operation, according to McHugh (1979, 57-8), there was an ongoing, and largely unresolved, debate about political strategy. He observes: ‘The essential argument within the NFSE about its role was, and is, between those concerned to transform it from an “outsider” group, denied legitimacy by government, to an “insider” group which would gain access to the government decision-making process . . . The argument has never been decisively resolved but at different points in the Federation’s

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development one tendency or the other has been more in evidence.’ But after the initial fairly pure ‘outsider ’ strategy of trying to alter government policy by protest and ‘noise’, the reformist NFSE leadership sometimes undertook activities that were consistent with a more ‘insider ’ focused strategy. But the NFSE was for the first decade of its life an organization equivocating between conflicting styles of influence. This reflected different perspectives among activists in the organization and thus appealed to different sections of the small business community for recruitment purposes. This balancing of influence and mobilization imperatives was resolved more decisively in the second phase of FSB growth. In developing its capacity as an organization capable of pursuing an insider strategy, the early NFSE developed a complex structure for policy development and promotion (Elliot et al. 1982). Policy committees existed as part of a dedicated policy making structure quite separate from the branches and regions. Members were able to present motions for action to branches, which would go through to regions and then be debated and voted upon at Annual Conferences. However, even at that stage, motions voted upon at Annual Conferences were non-binding on leadership. It was the policy committees, and the activists who sat on them, who developed and also tended to promote Federation policy. A cadre of activists drove policy. The birth of the modern organization, 1990 to 2001 If the 1978 to 1990 period was one where the NFSE inched inside the policy process, significant changes in both policy and membership style occurred at the start of the 1990s. Partly in response to McCabe’s (1989) internal report into membership resignation, the NFSE changed to a more media-friendly title, and moved to a heavier reliance on staff. It may be that the financial and hence organizational stability of the group was originally based on satisfying a membership urge for protest, but, this was not likely to lead to an effective policy influencing group. This was acknowledged by Brian Prime, National Chairman (1986–89), who claimed, ‘It is listened to in Westminster and Whitehall, and by the media, because it has learned the expertise over the years to negotiate with Government rather than stand outside and shout abuse through the letterbox’ (quoted in

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Bettsworth 1999, 188). This policy innovation did, however, threaten to limit the ‘abuse’ shouted at government which had no doubt served to buttress the modest membership levels the NFSE had experienced. This necessitated a renewed approach to recruitment. In 1991 the NFSE was rebranded as the Federation of Small Businesses (FSB). A significant event was the appointment of John Emmins as the Chairman of the Recruitment Committee. This resulted in radical change in the way members were recruited. As Brendan Burns (former National Vice Chair of the Policy Committee) put it in an interview (November 2000), ‘It was this decision which resulted in a radical change in the way membership was sold and a separate organization was virtually set up to sell FSB membership’. Emmins replaced most of the existing recruiters and, in effect, established a section of the organization for managing the sale of Federation membership. The recruitment process was administered on commission by professional recruiters. The targeting of areas and professions was done strategically by the FSB leadership, with the marketing tactics left up to individual commission-only recruiters. According to a study by Evans (2002, 6) there were 120 salespeople across the UK, normally individuals with a small business background and mostly, but not all, full time. The Federation supplied pamphlets and other promotional material at cost to recruiters. Emmins stressed the importance of recruiter motivation and used training, confidence building, incentive packages, sales games and an annual conference (2002, 7) The services on offer extended beyond the original (selective) provision of VAT inspection support and legal advice. All members had access to free benefits that included a 24-hour advice line, and payment of professional fees in representations relating to tax, VAT, employment disputes, health and safety, statutory licences, data and property protection, PAYE disputes and business-related criminal prosecution. Additionally, payments were made in the event that any staff of a member company were appointed to jury service. The package of benefits also included advantageous insurance rates and debt collection rates, special terms on telephone services (FSBTelecom) and internet services (FSB Dial), and preferential rates on a range of insurance and

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financial services, plus FSB magazines. Of course, one cannot underplay the symbolic importance to members of joining the FSB. They display the FSB logo on their premises as a signal to the ‘VAT-man’, and regulatory authorities, that they belong to a broader group – to prosecute them is to prosecute the small business community. It also serves as a message to customers that they are a legitimate business, that they are respectable.13 But both these by-products of FSB membership can be achieved only when the FSB itself has an air of respectability to it: and this required a commitment to a responsible public image. The impact of these incentives was apparently remarkable. The income of the FSB rose, in annual terms, from £1.1 million to £15.9 million between 1990 and 2001. At the same time membership expanded to 185,000. This large and rapid increase in members, and thus in group income, ‘bankrolled’ the innovations in the FSB’s ‘evidence’-based policy approach (set out below). The rapid increase in members allowed a flow of more resources. There was an increase in the number of paid staff. During the two-year period 1999-2001, the Press and Parliamentary Officers that existed prior to 1999 were added to by six Policy Development Officers (PDOs) in the London Office to develop research-based policy proposals. These were attached to subject committees made up of FSB members. There were efforts to reinforce the capacity of the FSB bureaucracy. The appointment of a Human Resources manager, and a Marketing and Promotion manager, both paid staff, was achieved in the period 1999-2000 (FSB 2001, 10). In addition a National Policy Publishing Manager was appointed to ensure that ‘all the Policy publications are produced and conform to an agreed design and format’ (FSB 2000). By 2001 the paid staff of the FSB numbered more than 100 (FSB 2001, 13). Above all there was an attempt to provide an evidence base to inform its policy influence activities. The organization, first in Scotland, and then in the rest of the UK, developed a policy manifesto and a research document laying out the ‘Barriers to Growth’, which was based on a survey of all members. The Manifesto for Scotland was timed to coincide with the election of the Scottish Parliament and in the UK it was designed to coincide with the UK election of 2001. From

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the Manifesto emerged a series of policy statements on single issues. The Manifesto, like the other statements of group policy, did not emerge directly from consultation with rank and file members. Clearly, motions and debate from the FSB Annual Meetings guided the crafting of the manifestos, and the National Council (elected by members) discussed, amended and ratified the documents. But they were not the direct products of an internal process where members participated directly in their development. Even the vast committee structure was at arms length from the process. These documents, along with the establishment of paid staff and a regional structure, provided the FSB with a professional capacity to pursue a responsible insider strategy to policy development and promotion. In many ways the FSB has undergone what is a reasonably orthodox transformation into an insider group: a group pursuing non-controversial aims through bargaining between officers and public servants and adhering to ‘rules’ of bargained incrementalism. But the process is incomplete. It has modified its goals and adopted a bargaining and persuasive approach to policy advocacy. But the process normally associated with this strategy is professionalizing the group’s research and advocacy capacity to research the written submissions that are the core currency of this medium. In turn, this type of professionalization generally implies increased group officer and leader autonomy. The FSB falls short of these expectations: the legacy of its early decision to be an activist-directed group persisted. It has pursued an insider strategy in the sense that it has adopted more reasonable and realistic aims, and it has stressed evidence rather than threats and noise, but it has retained a prominent role for activists and there is persistent sensitivity to any power by paid officers. It has professionalized its policy advocacy and research capacities, but where staff have stepped in to provide the policy leadership required to meet the continuous and escalating demands of government it has placed them at odds with activists. The fact that the FSB has in recent years been a far less aggressive headline-winning organization and more of an evidence-based, insider group, means that it is less attractive to the sort of ideologically driven member it initially attracted. While an insider strategy may have a policy payoff it is

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not necessarily what motivates members. The premise in the literature is that groups who depend on a membership that receives no selective material rewards must stick close to the protest mode – this was the core claim of Maloney et al. (1994). It is therefore significant that the FSB has professionalized both its recruitment and policy development process. There is an alternative way to walk the membership tightrope; but one that sacrifices democratic potential for policy influence. This recruitment ‘pitch’ has been effective, but it perhaps changes the nature of the organization from a political collectivity to a ‘service club’. And growing numbers can be a burden on the organization if expectations about services are raised. Arguably an indicator of the changing meaning of ‘membership’ is the decline of participation in the FSB. As Table 6.1 illustrates, while raw numbers of members attending the AGM and voting in elections has increased, they represent a decline as an overall percentage of total membership by virtue of the rapid increase in overall members. Table 6.1 Membership participation in AGM and elections for FSB Year

AGM attendance No.

2000 1999 1998 1997 1996 1995 1994 1993 1992 1991 1990

402 369 286 262 241 266 – 165 157 153 178

% of total membership – 0.25 0.27 0.24 0.27 0.39 – 0.31 0.34 0.41 0.45

Voting in elections No.

% of total membership

10150 – 7323 7074 6337 5346 3564 5415 4015 2148 2338

– – 6.91 6.43 6.97 7.75 – 10.31 8.73 5.81 5.85

Source: FSB Annual Reports, various years; missing data is due to difficulty in obtaining some Annual Reports.

Linked to the drive to increase members in the 1990s there was the paradoxical effort by the FSB to wean itself off a dependence on subscriptions. It located sponsors to

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purchase advertising space it its publications, sponsor events or ‘just help the Federation at either a local or national level’ (FSB 2001, 9). Sponsorship for conferences, member services contract agreements and commissions, and credit card schemes have started to make a budgetary impact. While the total income of the Federation has gone from just over £1m to almost £16m, the proportion of income derived from membership fell from 93.2 per cent to 82.4 per cent. The vast majority of expenditure, currently over 80 per cent, is on what is referred to in Federation annual reports as ‘membership benefits’. The balance is expended on general and administration costs. Unfortunately the membership benefit figures cannot be applied directly in an Olsonian sense of selective membership benefits. Included under the heading are the policy committee, regional and branch costs, the legal insurance scheme and the parliamentary and press offices. Only one of these (legal scheme) is a selective benefit. The share of expenditure focused on membership services has increased from 60 to over 80 per cent in the past decade.

Table 6.2 FSB income and expenditure related to member expansion, 1990-2001 Year

Total income

% income from subscriptions

£ 2001 2000 1999 1998 1997 1996 1995 1994 1993 1992 1991 1990

15,916,281 13,423,323 11,795,302 9,617,800 7,969,753 6,905,357 5,658,466 – 3,111,654 2,013,612 1,503,560 1,116,619

82.4 88.0 87.0 90.5 92.8 91.7 92.8 – 95.3 94.7 95.2 93.2

Total expenditure £ 13,477,474 10,698,393 8,783,404 6,494,763 5,106,385 4,247,670 3,107,156 – 2,041,864 1,493,139 1,300,154 1,072,976

% expenditure on member benefits 82.5 81.1 78.1 81.3 80.4 78.3 73.9 – 71.7 68.1 62.5 66.4

Source: FSB Annual Reports, various years; missing data is due to difficulty in obtaining some Annual Reports.

Potential members are invited to save money – not to make a contribution to support for the political role of the

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group as a whole. These ‘new’ members, attracted under a rationale for membership that pushes service provision, are altering the internal life of the organization as they do not ‘require’ high profile contestation as evidence of group activity. Ironically this may be allowing the group to develop an insider policy style which is more effective than protest – but the members are joining in spite of rather than because of this style. This does raise important issues of the political content of the membership. The original membership received gratification from their own gesture of supporting an organization to seek collective ends (they literally received nothing else). Leaders received a ‘buzz’ of political non-partisan organizational politics. Burns (2000, interview) referred to his activist cohort in the organization: ‘Originally we came into it because of the politics . . . Because it gave [us] political clout and [by developing a mass membership] what we were doing was playing the “n” game. Membership numbers helped with lobbying.’ Burns then distinguishes quite clearly between the recruits that joined as a political statement and those that are now simply buying services more cheaply. He says older activists are not being replaced, ‘because we’re going out and recruiting members in for benefits. All those political people that should be coming through and putting pressure and pushing people out, is drying up. What we’re getting is a lot of people that are coming along that are interested in local things or really not interested in policy at all . . . We’ve attracted in an awful lot of people that are just in for the benefits.’ There is an uncertainty about the consequences of serviceled membership for the leadership. In one sense, the FSB leadership simply sold membership and fostered a large cohort of disinterested members which left them to get on with their policy activism. As Wilson noted above, a policyindifferent membership can increase the freedom of the leadership. At the same time if there is such limited interest in politics, the logic is simply to drift to being a service club and to let the policy face return to the background. One suspects in the latter case that at some point policy makers discern that the views of the group are not a reflection of deep membership concerns and the policy making credibility of the group is devalued.

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Conclusion This chapter has reviewed the evolution of two groups that fit fairly and squarely within a representation by promise category. Both groups advocate for human constituencies that by definition have the potential for presence and voice. Their practices, at least constitutionally, also reflect this promise of representation. Both groups seek to affiliate the constituencies they advocate for – farmers and small businesspeople respectively. As has been established, based on evidence from UK and Australian business groups, there is a tendency among such groups to pursue the growth of their resource base by securing a growth in members through an exchange of membership for selective incentives. In many ways, these representational groups come to mimic the organizational attributes of solidarity groups. To the extent that this pattern is repeated across the group systems of western democracies, there is, as a consequence, a homogenization of internal organizing styles among groups. And, as such, a general erosion of internal democratic practices among groups. The lesson from this chapter is that these representational groups ‘hollow out’ because in the search for more resources they – perhaps unthinkingly – grow an increasingly loosely attached set of members. While Wilson suggests this may be a conscious ploy, the evidence suggests it is more likely to be a strategy driven by a keen desire and conviction by leaders that to be policy effective they need to maximize resources. The organizational problematic facing both groups is, it is argued, a familiar one. But, as will become evident, it is not the only one. Groups that by choice aspire to political influence will likely mirror the dominant strategies required to gain access. In the case of contemporary groups – or at least in Australia and the UK in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries – the policy environment has been stressing responsible, well-tempered and evidence-based strategies. This is very much what Wyn Grant calls the ‘orthodox’ mode of policy making (2001). But such strategies catalyse two dilemmas. Firstly, such strategies are resource intensive, so financial support becomes an issue. Secondly, such strategies are incremental and technical in nature, which means they are ill-suited to direct involvement of lay members and prone to be undermined by the rump of the

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membership. Policy strategies may be efficacious, but they may look to a remote membership like failure or gridlock. As such, for representation groups, these conditions seem to make walking the ‘membership tightrope’ the most precarious. The groups we reviewed responded by deploying an Olsonian strategy of selective incentives. Not because members would not join without them, but because not enough of them would join without them. The incentives – and aggressive marketing – raised the membership levels quickly and significantly. This also has by-products which are (i) attracting members who are content with no political input and (ii) discouraging ‘voice’ through converting group activism to more passive group consumption. There is nothing inevitable about this ‘cycle’ of events. As will become evident in the chapters that follow, key agents made choices – or won the argument among group elites – to steer a course of group expansion. Groups can mobilize support, albeit small and volatile, through explicit recourse to shared policy goals or ideals. However, these groups decided that they needed more resources, and to get them they sought more members. The by-product was a diminution of the internal democratic practices within the group. To get more members they fostered a different means of affiliation. There was nothing automatic or inevitable about this pattern. Other cases, such as that of the CPRE, demonstrate that group leaders can sustain a more focused group with a high level of member engagement (see Lowe et al. 2001). Both groups decided – as illustrated by the reform and strategy documents they composed – to pursue a political strategy and to underpin it through the methods described. However, there is no getting away from the fact that this approach is a popular one. And such a trend does not auger well for the democratic legitimacy of groups. As the next chapter suggests, the ‘choice’ to pursue this recipe is down, in part, to the intervention of leaders in these groups who see the world in Olsonian terms. This chapter also has indirect implications for the varied approaches to investigating the democratic qualities of groups reviewed at its outset. Static approaches that assert a democratic ‘nature’ (or otherwise) are easily refuted by the meandering nature of group evolution, although it is unlikely that any scholar would actually explicitly claim that groups

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are naturally (un)democratic. The dynamic approaches that assert a ‘hollowing out’ of group life, by either age or period effects, imply an environmental determinism that is often undermined by empirical evidence. A more useful question might be ‘Why would entrepreneurs establish internal democracies?’ And ‘Why would groups dispense with internal democracies or hollow out?’ The point here is not that the outcomes predicted by Michels-Weber and period or age arguments are inaccurate. Clearly, the FSB and NFF/NSWFA do hollow out. The overall point is that this was not inevitable, and that in fact it was a choice actively made by groups in order to set a particular course: as a major policy player with influence in a resource-intensive evidence-based environment. To step up to the challenges of modern policy making they needed more members, and it didn’t much matter what they thought or how much they participated. The argument of this chapter is that democratic practices are not innate to groups, not a ‘default’ nature. Rather they are installed, and (re)produced by group leaders that seek to shape the group’s organizational form to secure survival. Thus democratic practice is most appropriately thought of as a by-product of processes aimed at survival. The representative – and solidarity – accounts developed in earlier chapters built on objective assumptions about the advocacy tasks of groups and the ‘appropriate’ types of democratic organizational practices such tasks imply. It is possible, as scholars, to argue that groups pursuing ‘representation’ by promise should deliver it in practice. But empirically, groups may formulate different assumptions, conceive of their advocacy task in different ways and thus pursue different practices. There is no reason to suppose that group ‘architects’ – leadership cadres – will necessarily construct democratic practices according to the accounts provided by scholars (as Chapter 5 amply demonstrated). Put simply, the most plausible explanation for the democratic practices exhibited by groups is that group leaders adopt different sets of assumptions about organizational design, and identify different organizational dilemmas to resolve. If one accepts that democratic practices are a bit part of overall organizational design, then it makes sense to interpret changes in such practices against the shift in overall group design.

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Notes * This chapter draws in part on work undertaken together with Grant Jordan on the FSB. This is reported in joint publications by Jordan and Halpin (2003, 2004). 1 Most groups also provide services to members. But this is not by definition a necessary part of group life. 2 Schmitter and Streeck (1981) discuss interest groups as having two ‘organizational’ logics: the ‘logic of goal formation’ and the ‘logic of efficient implementation’. However these logics refer to the way a group develops formal and informal organizational procedures. Given that this paper is developing a framework of the imperatives an interest group may have in terms of its intermediation activities, these logics are not of prime importance. 3 This is also a theme repeated in the study of other political organizations, such as political parties (see Rose and Mackie 1988; Mair 1995; Bltyh and Katz 2005) 4 The reverse sequence is also evident, although not in our cases here. Some groups in fact start out as non-political clubs or service-delivery organizations (such as in the voluntary sector), only to be drawn into politics over time. 5 See the strong debate over the pros and cons of unity: Campbell (1971 and 1972); Corbett (1972); Harman and Smith (1967); and Harman (1972). 6 According to Trebeck (1990, 136) the response to the referendum was 93% in favour. For the referendum to be valid, over 50% of the financial membership must vote. 7 The mood at the time of amalgamation can be captured by a panel discussion regarding the future of farm organizations and militancy printed in The Land newspaper during 1977. One said that the bickering between farm organizations ‘probably played right into the politicians’ hands. I don’t think this should happen. They should go with one voice to debate these issues.’ A fellow panellist said regarding professionalism, ‘The leaders we have at present are more or less on an honorary basis, aren’t they. This is the point we’ve got to look at really. We’ve got to have a man who’s getting a pretty good salary, probably in the $40,000–$50,000 bracket. You know one who is going to be there all the time.’ The appointment of professional salaried staff was perceived by some as the loss of control by hands-on farmers of their organizations: ‘I think you still have got to have a fellow that’s got to go back to the farm and get his hands dirty and sow his crop.’ 8 The NFF produced ‘NFF Review: Issues paper ’ (NFF 1994) and ‘NFF Strategic Plan’ (NFF 1996b), whilst the NSWFA commissioned ‘What are we here for?’ (Michels Warren Pty Ltd 1993) and the South Australian Faremers’ Federation (SAFF) produced the ‘Strategic Plan 1997-2002’ (SAFF 1997). These represent the most significant documents available to the author. 9 For example, the WAFF and SAFF – both under severe financial stress – have sought to combine organizations – at least for the purposes of grain industry policy (where both are big players). 10 The document is not in the public domain, but was made available to the author by the NFF on condition it not be directly quoted.

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11 The emerging compromise is for incremental change, including constitutional change to make it easier for emerging industries to join as associate members, a reduction in the scope of issues pursued, and a diversification of funding sources. 12 Its membership is the NFF, AVCARE (representing manufacturers of crop protection and veterinary health products) and the Grains Research and Development Corporation (GRDC) (an organization funded by grain grower levies that commissions grain R&D). 13 It is also worth noting more generally that it is becoming practice that government procurement contracts, certainly in the UK, require companies to belong to the relevant trade association (and often then, to be accredited by a best practice scheme).

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7 Making Olson work: rejuvenating ‘supply-side’ explanations

Introduction The work of Mancur Olson (1965) on the ‘collective action problem’ has perhaps been the dominant influence on contemporary group scholarship. An obligatory section in text books and a mandatory reference in articles on group formation and maintenance, Olson’s contribution has been profound. In the US, the most authoritative recent review of the interest group field attributes the sheer volume of studies on group formation to the dominance of Olson’s hypothesis (Baumgartner and Leech 1998). In the UK, Olson’s work is highly influential, albeit often criticized (see Marsh 1976; Kimber 1993; Jordan and Maloney 2006). Olson’s contribution is no doubt responsible for much pessimistic commentary on the prospects for democratically run groups. If one accepts his assumption that individual contribution to the achievement of collective policy goods is irrational, then the prospects of group formation itself, let alone any chance of vibrant internal group democracies, are slim. In arguing that groups that form do so because of economic selective incentives that make joining rational, Olson forewarns us of the bleak prospects for democratic life within most groups. But, even in cases where Olson’s warning may prove to be empirically true – groups are ‘hollowed out’ in democratic terms – it is argued here that it need not be a consequence of a natural individual self-interested utility maximizing rationality. Rather, it may be a by-product of the supply-side strategies of groups that funnel a variety of motivations and rationalities into a single offering to join an Olsonian style group. This suggests a less

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downbeat approach to the prospects for democratic renewal among representation by definition groups. It is argued here that the act of a group ‘choosing’ a selective-incentive-based supply-side strategy is effectively a choice to make Olson work. This chapter builds upon the existing supply-side group literature by emphasizing the role that the interpretive frames of leaders have in shaping what is actually supplied. The aim is to establish why leaders supply what they do. The chapter argues that the types of opportunities for participation offered to affiliates of groups are heavily shaped by the assumptions of leaders as to what they should supply and what is in demand. It follows that should the assumptions broadly underpinning Olson’s account of collective action problems also be shared by the leaders of a group, then that group will likely resemble an Olsonian style group. To illustrate the general argument, this chapter utilizes the case of the NSW Farmers’ Association (NSWFA) – the peak body organizing farmers in New South Wales (the most populous state of Australia). Through exploring this case, the chapter highlights the way interest group organizations can reshape (hollow out?) the ‘practice’ of ‘membership’: assisted by the Olsonian assumptions about motives for collective action. Changes over time are not simply driven by demandside social change but, rather, by ideational change among elites and accompanying framing efforts. This, as becomes evident, extends to recasting the style of representation offered by the group. Regardless of whether individuals see commitment to policy goals as a key motivation for joining, they are offered a joining opportunity that is restricted to an exchange of support for selective incentives. But leadership assumptions do not literally remake the worldviews of members (and potential members). As becomes apparent, subsequent framing of the roles and rights of ‘membership’ embeds this basic Olsonian rationale among affiliates. Together, by the combination of leadership assumptions and framing efforts, Olson is made to work.

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The Olsonian paradigm: overcoming ‘demand side’ problems Olson’s hypothesis – as applied to group life – has centered on the irrationality of group joining. He argued that it is ‘important to distinguish between the obstacles to grouporientated action that are due to a lack of group consensus and those that are due to a lack of individual incentives’ (Olson 1965, 60). As is well rehearsed, Olson asserted that common interest was insufficient for group formation. Instead, it was argued that the addition of selective incentives – for which benefits accrued only to those who actually joined a group – was necessary. His argument rests on the assumption that ‘rational’ actors would not join a group where the benefits (such as may result from policy change) were equally available to the general constituency or public: in his parlance, rational actors in such a situation would ‘free-ride’. But, the application of selective incentives would render membership cost-effective and, therefore, rational.1 His assertion that individuals do not simply join out of identification with group goals was supported by evidence that ‘participation in large voluntary organisations is very much less than that theory [traditional] would suggest’ (1965, 59). The significance of this hypothesis for group scholars was immense. Olson’s discussion about the apparent irrationality of joining groups – and the measures needed to restore rationality – problematized what pluralist and group theory had held as relatively straightforward issues. Some form of Truman’s ‘disturbance’ type model – whereby governmental action catalyses latent constituencies into political mobilization – had held sway for many decades.2 To subsequent generations of group scholars, Olson’s ‘free-riding’ analysis has become an article of faith. Olson always maintained that in some cases non-economic incentives – for instance ‘prestige, respect or status’ – could motivate collective action (Olson 1965, 60). He also argued that these types of incentives were still private goods that accrued only to those who participated and, therefore, their addition did not weaken his analysis (1965, 61). In this spirit, subsequent authors have elaborated and added to the list of incentives that can be viewed as selective – for instance social connections, feelings of efficacy, etc. – but always in a manner that reaffirms the

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basic Olsonian model. Not only do solidary and purposive factors now accompany financial costs or benefits (Knoke 1990), but also it is now generally acknowledged that each individual has a unique subjective calculus by which costs and benefits are defined. This type of ‘add-ons’ approach has attracted the criticism that it departs too far from Olson’s main thesis. The constant amending of the framework has led some to question its usefulness altogether. Young and Forsyth (1991, 538, fn. 21), for instance, argue that ‘To call these benefits selective incentives . . . is to preserve the model at the expense of stretching the sense of the term to unrecognizable dimensions.’ And, as Jordan and Maloney (1998) note, this list of ‘soft incentives’ renders Olson’s approach largely nonfalsifiable. The state of play in this sub-literature would be something like: people join for a mix of reasons – including, access to services, sense of efficacy, belief in group goals, social contacts – the sum of which provide benefits that exceed the costs to the individual. Yet Olson’s legacy casts a long shadow over group scholarship. Perhaps the longest shadow cast by Olson’s contribution is in respect of the rather sour note he strikes regarding the prospects for participatory and democratic life within groups. Not only has his theory shaped expectations of why people do (or mostly do not) join groups, but it has promoted the view that leaders are involved in shepherding new groups from risky and unstable organizational beginnings, where political commitment to policy change plays a key part in mobilization, to stable de-politicized structures (see J.Q. Wilson 1973; Moe 1980; Hansen 1985). For Olson, the continuation and reproduction of various types of interest groups – their ‘maintenance’ – required the continued application of either ‘coercion or outside inducements’ (1965, 45). He argues that the continued ‘mobilization’ of a latent group with a collective interest can only be effected by the application of ‘selective incentives’ (1965, 51). For Olson (1965, 132), groups cannot sustain themselves on the back of political aims alone: The common characteristic which distinguishes all of the large economic groups with significant lobbying organizations is that these groups are also organized for some other purpose. The large and powerful economic lobbies are in fact the by-products of

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organizations that obtain their strength and support because they perform some function in addition to lobbying for collective goods.

As such, the key task for a group entrepreneur is to maintain the ‘other ’ function that in turn delivers the selective incentive (the club, the buying group, the insurance scheme, etc.).3 Indeed, Olson is explicit in this regard, saying that ‘imaginative entrepreneurs will be able to find or create selective incentives that can support a sizeable and stable organization providing a collective good to a large group. The successful entrepreneur in the large group case, then, is above all an innovator with selective incentives’ (1965, 177; italics added). Thus, it is easy to see that Olson’s intervention into the scholarly literature around group life has lent a great deal of weight to the lowered expectations of group scholars towards the possibility that the democratic promises of groups will ever translate into practices. The collective action problem identified by Olson rests predominantly upon the argument that individuals are selfinterested utility-maximizing agents. Thus, viewed from an Olsonian perspective, the problem in relation to group joining and maintenance is one of lack of demand. Potential members will simply not join a group for their commitment to purpose or identification with collective aims or goals alone: selective incentives are also needed. And, as Moe (1980) has identified, such demands sustain a form of affiliation that is weak in terms of face-to-face engagement and involvement of members in internal decision making. In fact, the group ‘maintenance’ literature suggests that the changing motivational preferences of members are decisive in the organizational form that emerges and is maintained. And the role of entrepreneurs becomes largely reactive to and constrained by established incentive preferences: groups end up lacking participative internal processes because most members will not engage in them as it is irrational for them to do so. This type of assumption is reproduced by research that, while disagreeing with Olson, follows a general trajectory of theory testing (see Jordan and Maloney 2006). Such approaches constrain themselves to the question of assessing whether Olson is ‘right’. The overall position in the group literature – both advocating for and arguing against – is that

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Olson can be proved right or wrong in a ‘for-all-time’ type of manner. That is, context plays little part in generalizing a finding that ‘affiliates’ or ‘non-joiners’ do (or do not) act out of an Olsonian type calculus of benefits and costs in their joining, and subsequent membership, behaviours. The rather simple – although probably controversial – central contention of this chapter is that this ‘mixedincentives’ finding makes more sense when one adopts a supply-side – not a demand-side – view of group life. Put another way, the finding that groups survive on the basis of an exchange of incentives – and even that some members suggest such incentives are crucial to their joining behaviour – does not offend the argument here that supply-side matters. The difference here is that such findings are viewed as the outcomes of social processes, and not as the starting assumption about human rationality.

Supply-side approaches There has been criticism of Olson. Pursuing the question ‘Is Olson right?’ has amounted to testing the rationality of individuals. This tackles Olson’s argument on its own ground. It focuses our attention on the demand-side of group life: what types of affiliations with groups do individuals want? Two problems arise. Firstly, if we accept that rationalities change, then we must accept that any ‘answer ’ to Olsonian style rationalities can be more or less evident. As such, Olson could be more or less right from context to context and, importantly, over time. Testing the rationality of members of group X at any two points in time will likely reveal shifting commitments. Indeed, some argue that the joining decision is in fact made, and re-made (Dunleavy 1988, 32; Young and Forsyth 1991). But the more overarching problem, and that explored in this chapter, is that the focus is inevitably on the individual’s rationality separate from the question of what groups are willing to supply by way of affiliation. This chapter pursues, and in so doing seeks to rejuvenate, the issue of supply-side effects on group life. There is already a valuable supply-side thread in the group literature. Influentially, Jordan and Maloney (1998) have argued that the joining behaviour of individuals is heavily

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constrained by the joining opportunities offered by groups themselves. In fairly clear terms they state ‘it needs to be recognized that groups can, by their marketing strategies, alter the level of demand for membership’ (Jordan and Maloney 1998, 390; italics in original). They argue that rather than focusing only on the rationality of individual joiners – the ‘joining decision’ as it is often referred to – equal attention should be given to the supply of ‘joining opportunities’ by groups. Their core argument is that groups distribute joining opportunities unequally among citizens. Groups have the ‘members they chose to have’ (Jordan and Maloney 1998, 396; italics in original). By extension, the argument is that the skewed membership of such groups (middle class, medium–high income, young persons) is best explained not simply by theories focused on prevailing citizen views/ attitudes (post-materialism) or some core human rationality (Olsonian) but by the fact that groups aggressively target and seek out this segment of the public because they are reliable joiners. In passing, it is somewhat puzzling that any ‘test’ of Olson would be explicitly conducted on the terrain of so-called ‘public’ interest groups. While it is pertinent that so many individuals will act for the common good – which Olson apparently claimed was unlikely – this would be a far harsher critique were it to arise from the collective action of groups advocating for economic interests, or at least ‘attached’ human interests. As it turns out, Olson himself was cautious in over-claiming for his theory. In the small print, even Olson is reticent to claim that such ‘charitable action’ could be reduced to a question of self-interest. While one could render philanthropy consistent with his theory by assuming such participation reflects, for instance, a selective social benefit – a feeling of satisfaction or similar – he argues ‘when all action – even charitable action – is defined or assumed to be rational, then this theory (or any other theory) becomes correct simply by virtue of its logical consistency, and is no longer capable of empirical refutation’ (1965, 160, fn. 91). In a sense, Olson is right to wonder why charitable action for others would be drawn into his account: after all, this is not a prima facie question of who pays for a good they get. So, some precision is required in applying Olson’s claims, and here the focus is on the typical group Olson had in mind.

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This chapter concurs with Jordan and Maloney that joining behaviour often arises as a by-product of the joining and participative opportunities offered by groups. The contention here is that the opportunities offered to those affiliating with a group will be mostly a by-product of the paradigm or frame that leaders adopt to make sense of member recruitment and group maintenance. Rather than see group entrepreneurs as captured or constrained (structured) in their adaptive choices by the self-interested utility-maximizing motivations of individual supporters, the impact of the interests, values and assumptions of group leadership on the type of joining opportunities offered to individuals is probed. Others do note the possible importance of the type of communications of leaders in shaping the preferences and orientations of affiliates. For instance, Jordan and Davidson (in Jordan and Maloney 2007) go so far as to note the importance of the way leaders ‘construct’ policy issues and the way such framing impacts on recruitment (this is also a strong element of the social movement literature). Here it is argued that this supply-side approach warrants a more robust extension. The idea of ‘construction’ is extended back to the way leaders create the pre-conditions for an Olsonian group: making Olson work.

The argument: extending the supply-side perspective The approach pursued here develops supply-side explanations for joining and subsequent group participative behaviour. In so doing, it emphasizes the importance of the interpretive frames leaders use in shaping what is actually supplied. Borrowing from a broadly constructivist institutional approach (see Hay 2006), it is argued that group leaders supply joining opportunities, and construct subsequent participatory ‘membership’ practices, that conform to their interpretation of what is in demand and/or what it is they are able to supply. It follows that when leaders adopt an Olsonian account – they view a decline in joining (and of levels of participation after joining) as a ‘collective action problem’ and non-joiners as ‘free-riders’ – they will likely redesign the group in the manner Olson prescribed (empha-

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sizing economic selective incentives). If Olsonian assumptions dominate thinking about groups and the democratic quality of group life – or generally has currency in group leadership circles – then that is crucial for the type of practices groups develop. In this sense, one could argue that Olson’s theory is made to work by group leaders who adopt that interpretive frame. And, consequently, the democratic life of groups is curtailed because of the Olsonian assumptions adopted by leaders, and not because of the ‘base’ rationality of group members (potential and current). Supply-side issues are crucial. The approach advocated here draws from a broader thread in political science. Colin Hay has drawn attention to the ways in which ‘conduct shaping social, political and economic theories’, like Olsonian style rational choice accounts of political action, can come to be self-fulfilling prophecies (2004, 59). He has persuasively argued that if actors ‘internalize’ the assumptions of theories, like rational choice, then ‘they will act on the basis of such assumptions, however inaccurate they may be, to produce outcomes consistent with the theory’s predications’ (2004, 59–60). The central tenet of Hay’s approach is that the constructs key authoritative actors use to make sense of political participation structure the pattern and style of participation citizens are then able to engage in. In this vein he proposes that ‘In so far, then, as the predictions of rational choice theory . . . conform to political economic practice, it may well be because political and economic actors have internalized precisely such theories, incorporating them within their modes of calculation and practice’ (2004, 60). Thus, echoing a supply-side emphasis, Hay argues that ‘democratic polities get the levels of political participation they deserve’ (2004, 501; italics in original). Returning to the group context for one moment, such an argument suggests that groups drift towards hollowed out groups sustaining membership commitment through nonpolitical selective incentives, not because they need to match some underlying human rationality, but because they produce this behaviour by their own actions (see Hay 2004, 59). As Hay argues, ‘rational choice models correspond most closely to the reality they purportedly represent where they “describe” the behaviour of actors who have internalized rational choice assumptions’ (2004, 40). Groups reflect such

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an account of group life where group leaders comprehend joining behaviour – or lack of it – through an Olsonian frame, and respond according to that frame. A supply-side explanation would emphasize joining behaviour as a by-product of joining opportunities: leaders get the participation they deserve (or want?). Groups, that formally apply a representational model of internal democracy, unwittingly – or deliberately (the question of motivation is not important) – shape what it means to be a ‘member ’. In sympathy with Hay, it is argued that Olsonian accounts of political activity may come to be fulfilled through the assumptions, and subsequent framing activities, of key authoritative agents like group leaders. One can see how Hay’s argument may work when applied specifically to Olson and groups. In the context of considering the generality of his theory Olson claims that ‘The theory is general in the sense that it is not logically limited to any special case. It can be applied whenever there are rational individuals interested in a common goal’ (1965, 159; italics added). This could be restated in the inverse: where leaders are convinced (or assume) that individuals operate under economically rational calculations, they will deploy an Olsonian organization. They then make Olson work by reinforcing and constructing relations with members on a basis that reinforces key Olsonian assumptions. And this is precisely Hay’s point; Olson is made to work through the interpretative frameworks of key agents. It is easy to argue that simply because members affiliate with a given group in exchange for selective incentives, and they participate very little in the internal life of the group, that Olson was correct. But what if that is all the participation on offer? It is a supply-side phenomenon. It is perhaps understandable that Olsonian style assumptions appeal to professional group staff and leaders. Such assumptions make the ‘choice’ by individual agents predictable (Hay 2004, 52). As such, it is a lot more appealing than the likely ‘reality’ which would consist of a mix of overlapping and changing preferences and motivations. As Hay has argued, under an Olsonian approach ‘We need know nothing about the actor to predict the outcome of the political behaviour ’ (2004, 53). The cadre of modern group professionals may indeed know very little about those they seek to organize, but when they

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assume them to be potential free-riders it doesn’t matter (at least not initially). But this only gets us part of the way. Hay’s insight needs to be extended. It is not only the assumptions of leaders that are crucial to making Olson work. As Hay notes, it is the internalization of assumptions by key actors that makes Olson, and other such social or economic theories, come into being. Presumably, in Hay’s example of voting behaviour, the assumptions of parties that citizens are self-interested prompt them to hollow out participatory opportunities, which in turn leads to extinguishing any demand (on this point he is not crystal clear). But in our case, a very important set of actors are the group members themselves. Olson’s approach maintained that the deployment of selective incentives was simply meeting demand from self-interested utility-maximizing individuals. But, in our account, the selective incentives reflect supply-side assumptions by leaders. And, there is plenty of evidence that the motivations of members – the demand-side – were mixed. This creates a problem for leaders (albeit they may not recognize it); how to embed Olsonian rationales across an audience with mixed motivations? While members may be satisfied with their exchange of services for support, this may not be stable; and members may still seek to exercise their right for voice as per their constitutional enfranchisement within the group. The assumption that individuals are self-interested utility maximisers may be incorrect, but leaders can make it work by seeking to shape members’ expectations of membership in an Olsonian image. There is no overnight conversion of member rationality to utility maximization. Rather, their behaviour is moulded by constructing a ‘participation with limits’ that mimics Olson’s predictions. To summarize, Olson needs to be made to work on at least two levels. If a group (a) only supplies membership that is passive, and (b) coaches members to accept that as a legitimate basis on which to affiliate, then Olson is made to work.

Case study background A few basic details on context, in addition to those already covered in Chapter 6, are important. The NSWFA is the sole

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peak farmers’ group in the largest state of Australia. It is one of several state farm organizations (SFOs) that make up the National Farmers’ Federation (NFF) which represents farmers’ interests at the national level. It was formed as the Livestock and Grain Producers’ Association (LGPA) in 1978, as a result of a merger between the two longstanding primary producer groups – the Farmers and Settlers Association (FSA) and the Graziers Association (GA). It was renamed the NSWFA in 1987. The NSWFA has always presented itself as the representative of farmers in New South Wales. It allows membership only to those who own farms – with subscriptions on the basis of farm size or yields. However, over time various forms of affiliate and partner memberships have been made available (without voting rights). The organization operates a branch structure, where local delegates are elected to the regional and, subsequently, the state Annual Conference. The office bearers are elected at the Annual Conference, where motions are presented, debated and voted upon. In terms of group type, the NSWFA claims to be a representative group and offers representative practices. Indeed, in relation to design, the group has one of the more exhaustive internal democratic and participatory systems of contemporary groups. As such, it provides a good canvas upon which to look at the way representative practices can be reshaped by strategies informed by Olsonian assumptions. As outlined in the previous chapter, by the early 1990s the NSWFA was facing a policy context that demanded resources and a professionalized approach to lobbying. But, as with many groups organizing industry sectors on the wane, it suffered a declining membership base. As farm numbers declined, mostly through aggregation, the subscription base of the group shrank. Against this backdrop, the NSWFA’s membership had been in steady decline ever since its formation as the LGPA in 1978 (see Table 7.1).4 As examined in Chapter 6, the NSWFA sought to professionalize its approach to member recruitment and offer selective incentives in order to meet its resource needs. In so doing, it transformed itself into a group with a largely passive membership. While members remained constitutionally enfranchised, by the mid-1990s most local branches were operating on a skeleton membership or not operating at all. A

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Table 7.1 NSWFA membership since establishment Year

Member numbers

Year

1978 1979 1980 1981 1982 1983 1984 1985 1986 1987

25,000 21,500a 21,000a 20,500a 20,291 18,547 17,077 17,120 17,133 16,842

1988 1989 1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995 1996 1997

Member numbers 15,719 15,692 15,330 14,456 14,266 13,370 13,305 13,736 14,271 14,842b

Source: NSWFA, pers. comm. 1997 a Estimate provided by NSWFA Financial Controller and Treasurer. b Estimate based on NSWFA claim of a 4% increase on previous year (NSWFA 1997, PR/359/97).

keen observer and student of Australian farm organizations noted that ‘few farmers attend branch meetings or annual conferences. Policies are formulated on their behalf by organisation executives and opportunities for ordinary farmers to express a viewpoint . . . are rare’ (Connors 1996, 266). Comments from a senior NSWFA office bearer during this period indicated that whilst membership increased after reforms in the mid-1990s, member participation in Association democratic activities had decreased.5 The question is how this ‘hollowed out’ state was arrived at. If potential members conformed to the Olsonian assumption of a self-interested free-rider, the NSWFA’s pursuit of selective incentives appeal would have witnessed a flood of joining activity. And, as the table above illustrates, there was an increase in membership joining. But does this evidence prove Olsonian demand-side explanations? To answer this, one needs to go back to the early 1990s.

Deploying Olson: the leadership diagnosis of the member decline This chapter concentrates on the discussion about reforms in the mid-1990s. As the membership decline reached critical levels the NSWFA, like many state farm organizations

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(SFOs), responded with inquiries or consultancies. The NSWFA contracted the firm Michels Warren Pty Ltd in 1993 to report on strategies to turn around the membership decline. This report, and its subsequent debate by the leadership, provides a rare, yet invaluable, window into the way the problem was framed and how this initial problem definition shaped actual organizational responses and reforms. The internal report The purpose of the 1993 review was explicit: ‘[to] recommend a plan of action which, firstly, identifies the causes of the present decline in the Association membership numbers, and, secondly, will result in a permanent turnaround in those membership numbers’ (Michels Warren Pty Ltd 1993, 1). The emphasis on membership numbers flowed directly from their importance ‘to the overall credibility, lobbying effectiveness and financial viability of the Association’ (1993, 1). The report places the problem of membership decline firmly in an historical context. In contrast to the environment of the 1960s, it explained, the NSWFA operates in a political environment in which few Australians have direct contact with farmers. The Association competes with a range of other locally based groups for members’ time and resources. Agriculture is a less important sector of the economy and lobbying has become more sophisticated. Farmers, too, have changed. They are under more economic stress, are more diversified, and are often involved in part-time off-farm work (1993, Diagram 2). The report concluded that the ‘Association operates in a way appropriate to the conditions of the 1960s, before the amalgamation of the UFWA and the Graziers’ Association’ (1993, 8). This comment did not imply that the Association’s lobbying activities were inconsistent with the demands of the political environment. Rather, it suggested that members’ expectations of the Association in the 1960s were consistent with what the Association provided; however, since then, member expectations have changed while the Association has not. Consequently, the report focused on the ‘need to “position” the Association to meet members’ expectations’ (1993, 8). In essence, and consistent with the analysis provided in Chapter 6, it argued that the NSWFA had responded to the changes in the policy process

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by adopting a new strategy of influence, yet it had failed to change the manner in which it communicated and interacted with members. It pointed to a palpable disconnect between policy practice and members’ expectations. The report identified several key issues that contributed to the drop in membership numbers and advocated measures to address each one (1993, 3–4). Firstly, the report argued that both members and staff were unclear what the role of the Association was and should be. It suggested that the traditional view of the Association had been that its focus is lobbying, albeit with an attached set of token member services. However, the problem with lobbying as the ‘product’ is that ‘a farmer does not have to be a member to gain the benefits’ (1993, 17). The Olsonian reference is impossible to miss. The report argued that the Association had been relying on the ‘tradition and goodwill of each generation joining and supporting the Association because their families have always been members’, or ‘expectations of lobbying performance’ to gain and maintain members. According to the report, these are factors that are all under threat (1993, 17). It is suggested the Association offer a range of services which only members can access, thereby avoiding a reliance on these increasingly diminishing factors. They argued that without selective incentives members would stop joining. A related finding was that many existing services were perceived as irrelevant or were not fully understood by members. Further, many services offered could either be accessed by non-members or were available from alternative sources at the same price or better by both members and nonmembers: they were not acting as selective incentives. As such, the report concluded that membership of the Association offered no real value for money. Therefore, it was suggested that the Association commence the marketing of services. The report observed that ‘the majority of members are not fully aware of all elements of the Association and its services’ (1993, 4). Consequently, it advocated that staff and office bearers all take responsibility for actively selling membership. It is suggested that membership be sold ‘in terms of the value for money provided in comparison to the membership fee’ (1993, 47). Again, the Olsonian emphasis on economic rationality emerges – without value for money in service provision, why join?

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But other largely non-Olsonian explanations were offered. The report argued that the lobbying process was not well understood by members, claiming that ‘it is often difficult for an individual to understand how some lobbying activities have relevance to their family farm’ (1993, 9). Members, it suggested, were not aware of achievements, had unrealistic expectations of what could be achieved and were unclear on the role the Association and other organizations played. The Association was said to overstate its influence on specific policy issues, with members feeling misled. It was recommended that a member education process be conducted. Here, there is little Olsonian influence: if members just understood what lobbying did for them, they would join. A similar finding was that a communications gap existed between members, office bearers and staff — a gap that had been worsening over the preceding 15 years. The report concluded: ‘Care is required to convey the appropriate messages and use the appropriate forms of communication’ (1993, 4). Members, it suggested, required face-to-face communication and viewed other forms as secondary. It recommended that the Association conducted more meetings in the ‘bush’, targeted specific groups of members with information relevant to them and communicated more often with women and young farmers. A final, but significant, finding related to the representation of farmers. It said that a perception existed that the Association was unrepresentative of its constituency.6 General Council and Annual Conference were perceived as in need of rationalizing, branches were often poorly run with boring meetings and some General Councillors were regarded as ineffective. The report suggested rationalization could be achieved through measures such as giving increased attention to women, youth and intensive industries; altering the conduct of Annual Conference and the election of General Councillors; orienting the content of branch meetings towards local issues; and altering committee structures to allow experts to make a contribution without having to go through the election process. The diagnosis of the problems with the NSWFA, and the range of solutions reviewed, was consistent with a broader review conducted by the NFF (NFF 1996b) and by several other state farm organizations (SAFF 1997). This was a wide-

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spread and shared set of conclusions among Australian farm groups in the 1990s.7 The Michels Warren report captures a rather muddled and multi-faceted assessment of the root cause of membership decline and instability. It thus reflects a degree of ambiguity with respect to the issue of how to address the problem of membership decline at the NSWFA. Concerns about the role of the association, lobbying, communications and the representation of farmers all draw on a ‘communications gap’ diagnosis. These could have been used to engage in a process of reinvigorating grassroots participation within the existing (or new) democratic venues. However, the points regarding service attitude, marketing of services and selling membership all draw on an Olsonian-inspired ‘free-rider ’ diagnosis. It was suggested that traditional attachments and the anticipation that participation will contribute to policy changes are both losing currency as motivational factors for farmers to join the Association. Consequently, it advocates they be replaced and/or complemented with services to which only members can gain access. These findings could be used to justify the rolling out of ‘selective’ incentives and the selling of membership on the basis that they cover the cost of membership. There was evident confusion over what had caused the decline in membership. Was the problem of membership decline simply the result of the failure of communications procedures to bridge the increasing distance between leaders and members arising from a change in the policy process? Alternatively, was membership decline brought about by the rise of individualism in the context of weakening traditional attachments between the Association and members? In reality, it was probably a bit of both. Survey evidence from a study conducted by the author in the mid-1990s across three NSWFA branches established just that: mixed motives for joining. For instance, respondents who were members of the NSWFA reported varied reasons for membership. The provision of selective member services did figure, but were outweighed by lobbying. This is not inconsistent with other survey data on motives for joining groups (see Jordan and Maloney 1997). But, of course, the biggest finding is that members (and non-members) selected a mixture of the above. The orthodox Olsonian free-riders were harder to find than Olson would have had us believe.

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Table 7.2 ‘Why are you a member of the NSW Farmers’ Association?’ Reasons Services/benefits/wages information Lobbying/need to be represented Commitment to farm community Services and commitment Lobbying and commitment My parents were Combination of all the above Intend to leave Total

Active member (%) 10.4 37.5 10.4 8.3 14.6 0.0 18.8 0.0 100.0 (n=48)

Non-active member (%) 23.2 40.6 8.7 8.7 7.2 2.9 4.3 4.3 100.0 (n=69)

Source: Author ’s own survey. Coded answers to open-ended question.

Non-members and past members were asked to indicate what would entice them to join the NSWFA. As is evident, a change in policy or philosophy is stated as the most important factor. At interview it became clear that many individuals would remain in it for the services, but were nevertheless dissatisfied with the policy positions on offer (see Halpin 1999). Table 7.3 ‘What would entice you to become a member of the NSWFA?’ Reasons Change in policy or philosophy Better contact/communication Services/benefits Don’t know Need to be asked Nothing Total

Past member % Non-member % 52.2 0.0 8.7 4.3 8.7 26.1 100.0 (n=23)

29.5 9.1 6.8 13.6 15.9 25.0 100.0 (n=44)

Source: Author ’s own survey. Coded answers to open-ended question.

But what matters is the dominant view adopted by the leadership of the NSWFA; and whether they can shoe-horn this diversity into a willing group of passive subscriptionbased members.

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Reaction to the report Reaction to the report captures the inherent tensions between a ‘free-rider ’ versus ‘communication gap’ interpretation of membership loss and instability. In implicit support of the Olsonian perspective, the President argued that ‘it was a fact of life that lobbying successes alone were no guarantee of attracting new members, or even of holding existing ones’ (The Land 1994a 102; italics added). By contrast, a General Councillor argued that the President ‘was on the wrong track in trying to direct the Association to become a service organisation rather than a lobbying force’ (1994a, 102). Similarly, in response to the report’s focus on service provision, an NSWFA branch secretary was reported as saying ‘the organisation already offered sufficient services to its members such as merchandise and financial and industrial relations advice; it now needed to redefine its role while rebuilding its membership base’ (Dick 1994a, 9). This was a defence of a primary policy focus. Amidst the ongoing public debate about why the Association was losing members and what action it should take, the Association started its formal response. The consultants’ report was well received by the Association leadership. As is usual in these circumstances, the CEO of the NSWFA was reported as saying that most of the recommendations would be implemented (Austin 1994). Within months of its release the longstanding CEO retired, and five long-serving membership recruitment officers were replaced (Dick 1994b). Three management teams, comprising senior office bearers, were constituted to review the recommendations and formulate responses (Dick 1994a). The initial response of the Association included measures consistent with the ‘communications gap’ diagnosis. The new CEO had developed a management plan to foster amongst staff the customer-service principles advocated in the review.8 Within a year the Association adopted a new logo and the slogan ‘NSW Farmers Association for Growth’ (The Land 1994b, 16). It introduced a campaign to inform members about the role and decision making process of the Association. According to the Membership Marketing Manager at the time, ‘This was necessary to reinforce to members the role of their Association. It allowed greater

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understanding and ownership plus easier promotion to potential members’ (Mason 1995, 21). However, no fundamental change had occurred to the structure of the Association and no concessions were made to facilitate the enfranchisement of women or youth in the democratic processes of the Association. It became apparent that reforms that at first appeared to be a response by the Association to the ‘communications gap’ diagnosis amounted to a more targeted promotion of the same organizational structure that existed prior to the review. The Association did not undertake the reforms to its structure, procedures and political strategy necessary to facilitate the increased participation and ownership of the process by members — all reforms consistent with a commitment to a democratic route to group rejuvenation. The NSWFA’s substantive response: a problem of free-riding! The initial flurry of activity seemed to be aimed at responding to the ‘communications gap’ diagnosis. However this was eclipsed by activity consistent with the ‘free-rider ’ diagnosis. The NSWFA adopted a number of interrelated and complementary measures in order to respond to the ‘free-riding’ diagnosis. As mentioned in the previous chapter, the strategy involves setting quantitative membership targets, the development of a product which can be marketed, the sophisticated and aggressive marketing of membership, broadening the membership base and the reallocating of significant levels of resources to support the recruitment of members. The NSWFA set itself the membership target of 18,000 by the year 2000 (Macaulay 1997, 16). However, there was no equivalent focus on increasing the qualitative elements of membership such as the degree of participation. Indeed, participation came to be equated with simply joining the Association. The view of the NSWFA became that they could not sell membership based on lobbying. Therefore, they proceeded to define a new product to market, a product that would be available exclusively to members. This process came to be encapsulated by the term ‘value-adding’ membership. The NSWFA had always provided buying, financial and industrial relations services. However, this was expanded to include discounts on interest rates, vehicles, holiday accom-

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modation, fertilizer, phone rates and various other products or services9. In some instances these services were more about reducing the cost of leisure activities rather than those costs associated with running a farm enterprise. An aggressive marketing approach was applied to recruitment. Specific industries and areas were targeted so as to enhance market share. Secondly, communications media, such as farm organization magazines, were redesigned to assist efforts at recruitment. Finally, marketing principles and techniques became more prominent in the recruitment process. For instance, the NSWFA sent out renewal notices and notification of loss of membership on a tighter time frame in order to maximize early renewals. This measure was aimed at freeing up area managers from the task of pursuing renewals much earlier so they could progress on to other tasks.10 A related trend was that of broadening the scope of the Association’s representational coverage to maximize possible membership income. This measure took two forms – promoting other smaller industries to become affiliates (dairy and oyster farming for example) and promoting sections of the constituency to become individual members in their own right. The Association took some measures to address the issue of the membership of women and youth. However, the membership categories created to facilitate their membership did not include the voting rights. Consequently, these initiatives have the effect of maximizing the membership of the group whilst not manifestly increasing their impact on the organization’s internal democratic activities. An injection of resources was made into recruiting members. In the mid 1990s, the number of area managers in the field increased from six to ten. The NSWFA secretariat employed a dedicated Membership Marketing Manager whose prime role was to co-ordinate the recruitment of members. It also employed a Director of Commercial Services and Property who, amongst other things, negotiated commercial deals for membership. Additionally, a Co-operative Manager administered a buying service that provided discounted goods to members. The budget for Membership Recruitment and Field Service in the late 1990s was estimated at four times the 1985 figure of $220,000 (PA Management Consultants 1985).11

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But perhaps more important than the above managementlevel strategies is the way in which the services were packaged up and presented as an economically rational ‘joining opportunity’. Consistent with the general redefinition of participation (see below), the Association emphasized that the cost of membership subscriptions could be recouped through member benefits. The President, Ian Donges, claimed ‘it’s now possible for members to recoup far more money in commercial benefits from belonging to the Association than it costs to join’ (NSWFA 1997a, PR/002/97). Similarly, in 1998 he argued that ‘those members participating in the Member Services schemes are more than offsetting their Association annual membership subscription’ (NSWFA 1998, PR/039/98). As noted above, such measures occurred at the same time as the reversal of the trend of decline in the NSWFA’s membership numbers. Regardless of whether these increases came from full memberships amongst the intensive industries or from the ‘additional’ member category (those that do not vote but receive the services), the measures stemmed the tide of the membership fall. Interestingly, the Association itself attributed the increase in membership of ‘11 per cent in three years’ to ‘member discount services and other inducements to farmers’ (The Land 1998, 53). In this sense, joining the Association was presented as a cost-neutral decision. If members (and potential members) are assumed to be Olsonian ‘free-riders’ how could they fail to be impressed? The attribution of success in member recruitment to selective incentives is important as it shows a positive feedback effect, confirming the original decision by leaders. It could be seen as vindicating the NSWFA’s assumption that traditional attachments and the desire to contribute to policy change no longer attract or maintain membership. And, as will become evident in the next section, by equating ‘participation’ with paying the subscription fee, the Association had (perhaps unconsciously) defined the limited extent to which its members were expected to be involved in its activities. In short, the NSWFA diagnosed the drop in membership – and the difficulty in mobilizing non-members – as an Olsonian collective action problem. As such, its remedy was to construct an explicit campaign to lure members to the

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group by virtue of proposing a revenue-neutral joining opportunity. Despite demand-side motivational diversity, the NSWFA sought to emphasize economic (and largely nonfarm) selective incentives to cover costs. A general recipe? Most SFOs have deployed a similar response: a pattern of providing incentives to members to underpin support.12 One Australian rural media commentator observed that this is linked with questions of organizational survival: ‘The increasing array of deals is clearly a bonus for the tens of thousands of members of farm lobby groups. But it also reflects the changes many of the organisations are having to make to ensure they survive and maintain the political clout they have long exercised, clout that far exceeds the size of their constituency’ (Bolt 2003, 16). She continued, ‘In the face of a long-term decline in farmer numbers and increasing financial pressures on those who remain, virtually all of the farming organisations including the NFF, are engaged in a battle to remain relevant and appropriately resourced.’ But the consistency is due, in no small part, to the dominance of broadly Olsonian-inspired theories. There is no suggestion here that all CEOs have been tucked up in bed at night with a copy of Mancur Olson’s book. There is, however, a common orthodoxy, perhaps supported by practitioner journals: at interview several remarked on a journal known as ‘The President’s Brief ’ as being instrumental in instilling the key assumption of this theory to the leaders of such organizations. Regardless of the source, there can be no mistake that modern Australian farm leaders do see the difficulties of member support in Olsonian terms. The WA Farmers’ Federation marketing manager argued in the press that the advantage of these selective benefit schemes for farm organizations is that ‘They quarantine benefits to members, discouraging free riders, unlike the gains from lobbying’ (Bolt 2003; italics added). Its membership material asserts that ‘Our aim is to ensure that each WA Farmers member can directly save more each year than the cost of membership.’ Again, the revenue-neutral calculus is promoted.

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Constructing and legitimating a rationale for ‘thin’ representation The reform measures of the NSWFA, while appearing to install Olsonian assumptions about joining, do not explain their success. Specifically, they do not establish how the Association made Olson appear to work in the absence of a conversion in member rationality. Why would members limit their participation to paying subscriptions and not seek active participation and monitoring of its policy deliberations? Olson assumed these were ‘demand-side’ givens, but the evidence from surveys of members (reported above) shows a mixed motivations finding. Thus, it is also important to examine the way leaders view, and construct, the style of representation affiliates are entitled to expect after joining. It is not only the imposition of an Olsonian resolution to the membership ‘problem’ that accounts for the hollowing out of the NSWFA. It is also a by-product of the way the NSWFA shaped expectations of what membership was about in the organization. To achieve this it had to change the way farmers conceived of their ‘selves’. Much as Hay (2004) suggested, a passive membership is somewhat of a self-fulfilling prophecy where key agents operate by its assumptions. That is, when NSWFA leaders assume, as did Olson, that members will shy away from participative commitments to group life, and that requests for support on the minimal basis of economic selective incentives are more appealing, they offer just this type of joining and membership proposition. If Olsonian joining is all that is supplied, then that is the only form of participation members can engage in. The ingestion of the assumptions of Olsonian rational choice theory by group leaders and managers ends up making the theory self-fulfilling. But Olson must be made to work at another level. An outstanding question remains how this arrangement actually sticks. How does it satisfy those who may not actually be seeking such an affiliation? How are they beguiled? Or do they just leave? This point is not dwelt upon by Hay in his analysis of party membership and voting behaviour. Consistent with Hay, it is argued here that what Olson assumed to be simply matching a demand-side disposition among individuals, ends up being a supply-side imposition. If

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that is the case, and it is accepted here, then the selfinterested rationality is something that cannot be taken for granted; it must be made to work. There needs to be an accompanying rationale for the style of representation offered that is accepted by members. Otherwise, the support of the group may fail, members may leave, and other more participatory groups may be formed: if nothing else, the Olson-inspired group would seem in a precarious position. It is argued here that actually satisfying members with an exchange of financial support for incentives is achieved by constructing a form of ‘representation’ consistent with Olsonian assumptions. What would that look like? Some guidance is provided by Pitkin’s (1967) framework on types of representation (see Chapter 4, Table 4.1). A rationale consistent with the Olson end-point of satisfied, but non-participating, members is achieved by reinforcing a rationale that borrows from the left-hand side of Pitkin’s continuum. That is, a model of representation needs to be constructed within which: the nature of members’ interests is viewed as homogenous and objectively calculable; the leadership and the secretariat are ceded responsibility for deciding the long-term best interests of their membership; and the nature of the issues are accepted as complex yet can only be resolved by the application of economic and scientific knowledge. This is confirmed explicitly by Moe (1980, 539) who states that, ‘When individuals are motivated by economic gain and their perceptions of efficacy [through collective political action] are low, Olson’s perspective generally applies.’ If members adopt this rationale it should convince them to limit their active involvement in the influence activities of the group in deference to a professional and competent leadership team who can properly represent them. Consequently, some consistency would be established between the representation supplied and that accepted. To the extent that the NSWFA leadership can install these perceptions among members (and would-be members) they will have literally made Olson work. It is important to recognize that the mechanism with which group leadership attempts to shape and construct representation is discursive, it is about framing.13 Much of the relevant literature on ‘framing’ derives from the study of social movement organizations. The dominant narratives or

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interpretive systems used by individuals to make sense of their circumstances are paralleled in a collective organizational sense by action frames. This facet of group communication has been given a great deal of attention by those researchers trying to explain the mobilization of social movement actors (see Jenkins 1983). Organizations, both institutionalized and non-institutionalized, construct action frames in order to mobilize collective action. These frames assist in creating conditions where ‘a critical mass of persons collectively define a situation as ripe [for collective action] and persuade others on an ongoing basis that their version of reality rings true’ (Benford 1993, 199). Here frames are scrutinized to understand the promotion of intra-organizational ‘discipline’ rather than motivating collective action. Whilst the achievement of demobilization or ‘abeyance’ is of particular import in terms of the NSWFA, it is less understood (and studied) than that of mobilization. The NSWFA leadership has not sought to reshape its relations with members in any conspicuous fashion. Rather, it has acted through a complex of discursive devices and constructions. Legitimating the Olsonian solution Whether the type of hollowed out representation offered by the NSWFA can be sustained in practice is contingent not on whether the assumptions of leaders are correct but whether members accept it. One therefore needs to determine how its associated rationale for representation has been made to appear as though it accords with the capacities and interests of farmers, that is, to appear authentic. Several discursive constructions have served to legitimate the Olsonian style of joining opportunity on offer by the NSWFA. The group has reinforced to members that they need to understand themselves as needing representation akin to that supplied. It is a kind of backward mapping. The minimal model of membership implied by the Olsonian exchange is carried forward in the way the NSWFA construct the type of representation they will offer members. But this need not necessarily have been the case. In principle, such joining decisions may have been a prelude, for instance, to claims for – or offers by the group of – engagement in internal democratic deliberation and participative engagement: unlikely, but possible. However, the NSWFA has constructed membership in an

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increasingly passive manner. Opportunities for representation are shaped by assumptions that interests are defined on the back of a business and economic rationale, and that most members seek individual solutions to individual problems – the association acts only on collective problems of an environment setting nature. EFFICACY: SHAPING REPRESENTATIVE DIVISION OF LABOUR IN THE NSWFA

The core achievement of the NSWFA has been promoting a clear ‘division of representative labour ’ between itself and its members. This ‘division of labour ’ clearly sets out the territory over which collective action facilitated by the Association starts and ends. In so doing, it encourages individualized member activity on an increasing range of issues, hence limiting the likelihood of members politicizing these issues or calling on the Association to act on their behalf. The aim is to have the efficacy of working collectively on many ‘individual’ issues diminished. This approach is evident in statements by the NFF and NSWFA in which the individual farmers take the bulk of the responsibility for adjusting to changes in the political environment. In its review the NFF stated: NFF and state farm organisations generally have seen their role in terms of creating a competitive business framework where individuals can take advantage of such opportunities and succeed according to their ability. It is impossible for farm organisations to guarantee a viable future for all producers, regardless of their commercial ability. (NFF 1996a, 6)

In a similar manner, the CEO of the NSWFA announced to members that ‘your Association cannot guarantee you better profits but we can guarantee a determination to pursue opportunities from which a farmer may achieve better returns’ (Comensoli 1995, 2). These are specific instances of a broad and sustained message by leaders. These statements seek to curtail the escalation of demands by members to solve their individual firm-level problems. They establish the position that non-core issues should be addressed through firm-level activity. Firm-level activity is not meant to imply that farmers adopt firm-level lobbying, but rather that they respond to changes in their operating environment through on-farm management decisions. In drawing up its division of labour, the NSWFA is

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proposing it accept responsibility for ‘environment setting’ at the associational level whilst responsibility for the survival of individual firms within that environment lies squarely with the individual farmer. The individual level of action is made to appear more efficacious (for most issues) and thus reduces demands on the collective level. In terms of support, if members accept the ‘division’ then they also accept that the leadership undertakes collective representation for them. Their responsibility is to provide financial support to the leaders who are best able to deal with the big issues by mounting sophisticated arguments based on thorough research. In relation to environment setting, this division promotes a dependency on leaders and minimizes the degree of accountability demanded by members. FARM INTERESTS ARE ECONOMIC INTERESTS

The NSWFA has attempted to foster a ‘farm as a business’ frame, in which farmers are encouraged to see themselves as businesses with clear economic interests. De-emphasizing the fact that farms, unlike other businesses, are often part of farm families and rural communities, makes it easier to objectively define interests (i.e. farmers’ interests are economic, and can be calculated by professional experts – deliberation is less necessary). This attempt to redefine farmers’ interests was pursued by the use of a ‘farm as a business’ frame as a mechanism to change the way members understand themselves (see Walter 1995). From the early 1990s, the family farm was being equated with a family business and the interests of farmers were being substituted with the interests of small business. This was a departure from the farm as a lifestyle or sub-culture emphases of earlier frames. The ‘farming as a business’ frame was introduced by farm organizations (and government agencies) and used frequently by members of the National Party.14 Comments by the then Minister for Primary Industry and Energy establish the general position: ‘I’ve made it quite plain that all farmers I think have to see their operations as a business’ (Anderson 1996). This ideological innovation that farmers are not driven by lifestyle but by good business sense also heralded a representative innovation: farmers were now like small business. The implication for representation was that farmers, like small

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business, could now make the biggest step towards changing their own predicament through individual management innovations. Under this frame, the ‘good’ farmer was characterized as the one who had made technological innovations, was familiar with market trends: futures, forward contracting and direct marketing were suggested as the key indicators of the ‘new’ innovator. In the NSWFA Magazine, Executive members reinforced aspects of the ‘farm as a business’ frame. The 1995 President suggested that the core concern during his term in office was profitability (NSW Farmers 1995a, 3). In July of 1995, Peter Comensoli, Executive Director of the NSWFA, outlined four of the major areas the organisation needed to pursue. Amongst these was ‘the issue of farmers’ business skills needing to be upgraded to face the challenges of the future . . . emphasis must be on farmers’ abilities to manage their farms as businesses’ (NSW Farmers 1995b, 9). This frame is powerful in the sense that it has privatizing and individualizing effects. Members who are not succeeding at business – and historically have sought strident political action by the NSWFA – are unlikely to publicize ‘failure’, lest they be stigmatized as poor managers. NATURALIZING INDIVIDUALISM

Finally, leaders sought to encourage a self-image of farmers as individualistic (rather than collective) types of people. This helped ‘naturalize’ low levels of member engagement in the policy activities of the NFF. This is not wholly inconsistent with the views of farmers themselves. It is undoubtedly true that the prevailing life experience of farmers, largely selfemployed and geographically isolated, might be conditions supportive of individualism. However, this individualism is not a historically determined feature (Harman 1968). Rather, it is the fulfilment of a condition, and at the same time a precondition, for the reproduction of a ‘division of labour ’ which allows farm group leadership to exercise significant levels of autonomy without being subject to a decline in support or onerous levels of democratic accountability. Politics has, in some ways, become dependant upon individualism; political institutions develop strategies and discourses that reproduce it as a necessary condition for their ongoing survival.

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Conclusion This chapter has reflected on the apparent triumph of Olson in predicting hollowed out groups, and suggests that such an empirical outcome does not prove the assumptions of the theory. Rather than demand-side driven outcomes, it has been argued that group practices reflect both the assumptions of leaders who supply an Olsonian group, and their success in constructing a complementary logic of representation. As outlined above, this chapter argues that when individuals join a group, the opportunity offered is packaged up and circumscribed from the start. Passive participation is inscribed into the act of joining, by the way ‘joining’ is offered and framed, and the subsequent ‘membership’ experience constructed. This ‘supply’ of thin representation is shaped by the assumptions made by leaders: Olsonian assumptions drive the provision of joining opportunities. To be sure, these frames can be – and are – contested; but leaders are in a more dominant position to set and legitimate the terms of membership. In the case considered, the interpretive lens adopted by leaders to make sense of the perceived difficulties in gaining and maintaining members was instrumental in transforming the NSWFA. The figures do not lie, and the aggressive implementation of selective incentive schemes in the mid-1990s effectively raised the number of overall members, but participation levels were low. From the outside, one may be tempted to claim a triumph for Olson. The supply of passive and economically-rational joining opportunities met with the extant demand. But the story is somewhat more complicated than that. Olson’s approach maintains that the deployment of selective incentives amounts simply to meeting demand from self-interested utility-maximizing individuals. But does the fact that members join when such incentives are offered prove that Olson was right about motivations and rationality? In the above account, the selective incentives reflect supply-side assumptions by leaders. They interpret evidence in such a way as to realize an Olsonian style organization. They make Olson work. However, the assumption that individuals are self-interested utility-maximizers may be incorrect, and the survey data reported here suggests that the

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more likely scenario of mixed motivations is accurate. Indeed, the contrast between the stated motivations for joining from affiliates and the discursive environment – establishing what is on offer by way of affiliation mode – highlights the broader point that unexpected demand and supply-side findings co-exist. The discursive environment does not literally change the motivations of affiliates (current and would-be) but it curtails and delegitimizes them. That is, the NSWFA leadership created an environment where ‘thin’ membership was constructed as sensible and legitimized it by the calculus of benefit and cost. Because people accepted this does not mean they would not join for purposive reasons. It reflects the discursive environment that structures engagement in particular ways. Put simply, the lesson here is that while groups may continue to formally offer political enfranchisement to members, the ways in which these opportunities are (or are not) taken up may reflect the way membership is constructed. Supply-side factors are not just the ‘on-paper ’ propositions but also the cognitive aspects relating to how political enfranchisement should be ‘experienced’ and ‘understood’. This argument flags up a broader problem in Olsonian arguments: one not explicitly tackled by Colin Hay’s critique of the structuralism inherent in rational choice. As seen above, members of the NSWFA were essentially offered no choice but to join for the economic incentives. But what would stop them from becoming enraged with the activities of the Association and mobilizing resistance to the Association’s official view, hence, undermining its credibility? On a similar tangent, there is no reason to assume that the initial rationale for membership would not develop into a different form of attachment.15 The reform measures of the NSWFA, while appearing to install the assumptions of an Olsonian model regarding motives for participation, do not explain their success. Specifically, they do not establish how the Association made Olson appear to work when there was no conversion in member rationality. Why would members limit their participation to paying subscriptions and not seek active participation and monitoring of the Association’s policy deliberations? Olson assumed these were givens, but leaders know better. Thus, it is also important to examine

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the way leaders view, and construct, the style of representation affiliates are entitled to expect after joining. As evident above, leaders need to make Olson work by seeking to shape members’ expectations of membership in a sympathetic manner. Not only are leaders deploying this Olsonian-inspired framework to guide their decisions, but in turn they are seeking to have members (and would-be members) also accept these rules as guiding their behaviour: to see the proper conduct of an affiliate to be passive; to defer to professional representatives; to judge their interests on a business and economic level and on an individual (not collective) basis; and to judge the value of membership on a cost/benefit basis factoring in economic selective incentives. In developing the supply-side approach to group life, this chapter directs group scholars to pay more attention to the discursive practices of leaders. Unlike social movement literature, interest group scholars have been less engaged with the discursive underpinnings of group life. However, recent work by Heaney (2004) on ‘group identity’ implies a role for the active invention and reinvention of a group’s personality. This is crucial not just for its policy profile – how it is received by key interlocutors – but also for sustaining its constituency base.

Notes 1 The exception to the scenario presented relates to group size. In small groups it is supposed that no selective incentives need necessarily be supplied as potential membership is small and the benefits more easily distributed. 2 Indeed, this type of assumption is implicitly adopted by social movement studies and by group scholars specifically (and political scientists more generally) when offering explanations for action and group formation. 3 It is possible to interpret Olson as suggesting that groups may simply start out as non-political organizations, and simply dip – just momentarily – into political life, and out again. Their ‘other purpose’ is in fact the identity of the group. But this is not the scenario to which Olson is referring. 4 These figures give a sense of the overall level of membership of the Association. However they cannot be expressed as a percentage of total farm numbers so as to determine the membership density because they are riddled with anomalies. For example, in 1995 there were more members paying subscriptions to the wool section than Australian Bureau of Statistics figures indicated there were NSW wool producers

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5 6

7

8 9

10 11

12 13

14

15

(A. Mason, 1995 Membership Marketing Manager NSWFA, pers. comm., 23 March). Given that each year will manifest the same inaccuracies, comparisons between years provide an accurate overall trend yet preclude meaningful density figures. Anonymous 1999, pers. comm. Phone conversation with senior NSWFA office bearer. The report claims that of the General Councillors ‘70% are medium to large sized farmers or graziers. This category only represents about 30% of the total membership’ (Michels Warren Pty Ltd 1993, 40). In passing, it is worth noting that these groups engaged in a robust form of self-reflection, which points to the depth and extent of activity that often goes on within groups to set direction and keep themselves afloat: more than the rather pedestrian label ‘group maintenance’ seems to imply. Comensoli, P. 1995, pers. comm. Letter to the author, 30 June 1995. In interest group parlance these are referred to as ‘member services’. However it is acknowledged that they are financial bonuses accruing to members only, and used as a way to attract members who would not otherwise support the group’s activities. Macaulay, A. 1997, pers. comm., 5 August. NSWF Membership Marketing Manager, Sydney. 10 field staff at a cost of at least $80,000 per year is $800,000 per annum. This is without considering the salary of the Membership Manager or the costs of communicating with members and convening conferences (based upon pers. comm., 5 August 1997. NSWFA Membership Marketing Manager, Sydney). It is also worth noting that this is also evident in producer groups (and unions/business/trade associations) across the UK. The concept of framing has been used to discuss the intractability of specific social policy debates (Schön and Rein 1994) and more generally in studying policy agendas (see Baumgartner and Jones 1993). The National Party has historically been the party of rural areas and primary industry in Australia. References were made to farm businesses as early as 1990, however it became most emphasised later than this. The argument that the decision to join is a continual process (Dunleavy 1988) or a developmental process (Young and Forsyth 1991, 537) rather than a one-off decision suggests this.

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8 Are ‘protest businesses’ contemporary phenomena?*

Introduction There is a thread in the social scientific literature that has ‘old’ groups democratic and participative, but ‘new’ groups democratically hollowed out. It is suggested that there was a time when groups were about engaging with citizens, involving them in face-to-face meetings, and actively mobilizing them into political life; but that such a time has passed. It is a troublesome conclusion, not least because it lends itself to demand-side explanations about the lack of interest among citizens in group joining, and suggests a broader malaise in contemporary political citizenship. It could easily support the argument that group life is atrophying because contemporary social forces conspire against collective association. This chapter addresses this broad outlook by way of engaging with a specific thread in the group literature around the development and significance of so-called ‘protest businesses’ in the UK. Using group case study histories from UK groups that have been associated with the term ‘protest business’, the chapter argues that these groups are not the hollowed out ‘end-point’ of some historical transformation. As is demonstrated, they were always devoid of internal democracy: ‘membership’ has always amounted to remote financial support for a third party cause and groups have always employed business and marketing techniques to prompt support. Protest businesses are not contemporary phenomena. This conclusion questions any generalized pessimism around contemporary groups as agents of democracy.

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Are contemporary conditions eroding otherwise democratic groups? Against the backdrop of a decline in voting turnout and of party memberships, the sheer size (and growth in size) of some well noted UK interest groups has prompted discussion as to whether groups provide a more suitable linkage into political life – perhaps replacing parties (see Pattie et al. 2004). Associative forms of politics seem all the more attractive when the groups in question are referred to as ‘social movements’ or ‘civil society’, as both terms conjure up images of participatory and internally democratic collective enterprises. Indeed, social movement scholars, who have been tempted to talk about movements in abstract or general terms as ‘participatory’ movements, have been lured into citing US groups with large memberships as examples of the burgeoning movement sector and their democratic potential (see Dalton 1994). Needless to say, the debate around an enhanced representational role for mass-membership groups has attracted critical empirical analyses. In the UK context, perhaps the most well developed, and most critical, has been that of Jordan and Maloney (1997). They argue that the rapid rise in the membership of UK groups (but they do discuss the US as well) owes itself to the particular ‘business’ model that these groups have deployed. Better marketing of the joining proposition and the targeting of the wealthy, yet already ‘environmentally predisposed’, explains the contemporary growth of major UK environment/conservation and human rights groups. They reject the assumption by some movement scholars that the growth of large-scale groups is either a spontaneous growth in support of political aims of the movements, or that it is an indicator of enhanced levels of direct political participation. They point out that these large groups are often those with the most superficial degree of member participation in group decision making. The claims of participatory potential are not borne out in the ‘supportership’ practices of these groups. In sum, Jordan and Maloney have argued that those groups in the UK with the most impressive and rapid increases in membership numbers resemble ‘protest businesses’. The surge in mass membership reflects better ‘supply side’ organizing.

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This argument has a more general significance, not least because it can be interpreted as confirming and bolstering a broader and influential literature which argues that contemporary associative forms are democratically ‘hollowed out’ and bereft of member involvement. The Jordan and Maloney argument can be linked into a temporal argument: protest businesses are the undesirable result of historical processes that erode groups as democratic representative agents (see Chapter 3). In a faint echo of the protest business line, Putnam argues that the apparent growth of group numbers is ‘a proliferation of letterheads, not a boom of grassroots participation’ (Putnam 2000, 49). Putnam makes a distinction between the ‘face-to-face’ organizations – chapter-based organizations with a pyramid structure that foster opportunities for direct engagement between members – and the ‘mass-membership’ or ‘tertiary’ organizations – those that lack direct member engagement and participation. Putnam notes that many chapter-based groups experienced growth in membership up until the 1960s, after which they experienced decline. He states unambiguously that, ‘In the last third of the century . . . only mailing list membership has continued to expand, with the creation of an entirely new species of “tertiary” association whose members never actually meet. At the same time, active involvement in face-to-face organizations has plummeted . . .’ A similar argument is made by Theda Skocpol who contrasts ‘old federations’ with ‘new movements’ (1999, 463). She argues that ‘the world of American membership federations was riding high from the late 1940s through to the mid-1960s’ (1999, 465). These were eclipsed (from the 1960s onwards) by movements, and ‘old-line federations were no longer where the action was’ (1999, 467). In sum, the post-1960s, it is argued, has spawned a movement-society in which individuals are unwilling to engage in ‘old-style’ face-to-face mobilization. New groups are born that meet the demand for memberless groups, while groups requiring old-style intensive participation find survival increasingly difficult. Some have queried the empirical accuracy of this account, arguing that ‘large, affluent and heavily professionalised’ groups are only ‘a tiny proportion of the total population’ (Edwards and McCarthy 2004, 136). One reason for the contradiction, they argue, is that scholars have a propensity

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to study what they are familiar with. And often, findings from these particular groups come to be ingested to the literature as broader trends or findings. As McCarthy points out, ‘Widespread images of SMOs without members and with checkbook members have drawn attention away from both an empirical and a theoretical focus on more traditional SMO forms, and, as a result, have provided a distorted picture of the recent evolution of the population of national SMOs’ (2005, 195; italics in original). Based on analysis of US national SMOs he concludes that the ‘rate of founding of federated SMOs with members has not declined during the past several decades as the focus upon the emergence of professional SMOs has suggested’ (2005, 205). In short, populations do not seem to be changing complexion, but when one stumbles across contemporary ‘memberless’ groups they are conveniently interpreted as part of a broader shift. As elaborated in Chapter 5, survey evidence of the Scottish group system shows a similar picture. In the UK context, the debate has not yet developed to such a point. However, the ‘protest business’ line can encourage a similar sense of despondency about the democratic nature of contemporary associative life in Britain. For instance, Wyn Grant, following Beer (1969), has recently differentiated between post-war eras of producer group dominance, eclipsed by ‘other regarding’ mass-member groups (2007). He notes that the ‘new generation of cause groups with mass support’ are ‘very different from the elite based cause groups of an earlier era’ (2007). It is hard to disagree with the argument that changes in fashions and tactics have occurred. But, our approach here is, like McCarthy (2005), to emphasize variation and caveats to, rather than challenge outright, this larger finding. Indeed, Jordan and Maloney themselves did not claim all groups were becoming protest businesses, just that some large-n groups were. In sum, the ‘protest businesses’ finding, regardless of the caution with which Jordan and Maloney (1997) may have developed it, can easily come to constitute a bell-weather for the ‘general’ and ‘new’ non-participatory nature of associative life. Here, in this chapter, it is suggested it ought not to be interpreted that way. The crucial empirical question, then, is whether these democratically inferior groups, over time, emerge from

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otherwise participative and democratic groups, or whether they were born protest businesses.

The ‘protest business’ thesis The puzzle that Jordan and Maloney set out to solve was the rapid recent growth in size of several major environment/conservation and human rights groups in the UK. While environmental and human rights issues have broad appeal, they wondered how it was that groups could grow so rapidly. They argue that groups have transformed themselves organizationally in order to better market themselves to the ‘predisposed’: growth has come from the application of aggressive marketing techniques which has simply enabled groups to present a larger number of people with an offer to support the group (Jordan and Maloney 1997, 3). As mentioned above, they sought to redress social movement scholars who, on the one hand, talk of movements as democratic and participative, but, on the other, point to large SMOs as having more members than parties. Together, these twin points supported the notion that growth in massmembership groups equated with the general enhancement of representative democratic life. Jordan and Maloney set out to establish that this is not the case. But what type of organizational characteristics demarcate a group as a ‘protest business’? Their claim is that groups, over time, and in order to continue to achieve their ends, have turned to corporate or business practices and structures. They outline six features of a ‘protest business’ (1997, 22): (i) Supporters rather than members are important as a source of income. (ii) Policy is made centrally and supporters can influence policy primarily by their potential for exit. (iii) Political action is normally by the professional staff rather than the individual supporter or member. (iv) Supporters are unknown to each other and do not interact. (v) Groups actively shape perceptions of problems by providing supporters with partial information. (vi) Supporters are interested in narrow issue areas. Particularity rather than ideological breadth is the agency of recruitment.

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In differentiating their term from others, they say the term ‘protest business’ signals ‘important links to business practice’ and implies ‘hierarchical organization, lack of internal democracy, [and particular sets of] political strategies and tactics’ (Jordan and Maloney 1997, 72). The deployment of professional business thinking – and in particular marketing disciplines – is central to the protest business form. The growth of these groups is largely down to the fact that ‘Groups successfully market . . . themselves to their predisposed public . . .’ (1997, 77; italics in original). Their explanation for rapid growth in these mass-membership groups is that ‘Groups can by their marketing strategies alter the level of demand for membership’ (1997, 144). They say ‘Modern large-scale campaigning groups which are the product of mail order marketing are . . . essentially protest businesses’ (1997, 148; italics in original). Thus, sophisticated marketing techniques are central indicators of a protest business. But, their concern is that such forms of membership are not participative, which means groups are poor contributors to democracy. They suggest that the attitude of protest businesses is ‘supporters should be seen and not heard’ (1997, 188; italics in original). While they do not say it in so many words, one suspects that Jordan and Maloney are concerned that the initial application of business or marketing tools sets in motion arrangements that push groups down an ever more businesslike pathway. They cite, for example, the escalation of expenditure on recruitment among groups. The more the groups rely on mass membership – which is inevitably fluctuating and ephemeral (high churn rates are typical) – the more they need to spend on such recruitment to ensure the group is able to fund itself. Indeed, expenditure on membership recruitment (and recruitment of marketing professionals from outside the ‘cause’) is a recurrent indicator they use to reinforce the emergence of protest businesses that ‘are part of the funding of protest rather than a means for much individual participation’ (1997, 145). Indeed, they identify continually the application of marketing concepts and ideas (even market speak) by ‘protest business’ groups. The ‘casual’ nature of joining – low subscription fee and no direct participation – leads to a similarly casual approach to re-joining (1997, 169). It also has policy impacts, with such groups

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choosing policy issues, and strategies, that gel with the supportership and that ensure ongoing recruitment (1997, 186). They find that these groups target those predisposed who are also able to pay. Thus they mobilize the middle-class professional rather than working-class citizens. Rootes and Miller (2000, 3) suggest that from the 1980s onwards there was a period of dramatic growth in the number of members and supporters of such groups in the UK. Of course, Jordan and Maloney’s key concern was to stop the rush to judgement that such growth only reflects a resurgence in environmental attitudes. It is not that they did not accept that a broad-based sentiment existed that was supportive of environmental values; just that these groups were best placed to harness the up-swing by their businesslike approach to recruiting members and supporters. And that this increased ‘membership’ was of a very shallow variety. The question is how we ended up with these UK ‘protest businesses’. Were they born ‘hollowed out’? Or have they evolved that way? Could they have organized differently? Jordan and Maloney do not, themselves, suggest how these groups came to be the ‘protest businesses’ they find today. Although they do say that in all cases they reflect a ‘shift’ from a previous organizational form (Jordan and Maloney 1997, 182–3) and they do remark that their ‘core argument’ is that as groups ‘have greatly increased the scale of their support, they have also transformed the implications, requirements, and nature of that support’ (1997, 17; italics in original). This could be construed as just enough of a hint to encourage the conclusion that they may have once been little democracies: but it is not clear. Neither do they look across group populations to suggest whether there is any different type of ‘shift’ evident among other like-groups. This is understandable as their contribution is in surveying selected ‘large-n’ groups in order to pinpoint the practices that characterize the contemporary protest business form. However, evolutionary questions are quite important in evaluating their argument. Are protest businesses an adaptation of previously internally democratic organizations? Are they new arrivals, shoving out – or out-competing – old fashioned, but democratically valuable, groups? Or were they born protest businesses? We do not know.

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Asking why these groups, or in fact any groups, have developed in such a manner may attract the retort that such evolution is anticipated by Michels-Weber and by the group ‘maintenance’ literature. The so-called Michels-Weber argument suggests an inevitability in groups drifting towards oligarchy and bureaucracy, and, ultimately, elite control (although it is by no means broadly accepted: see Rucht 1999 and Clemens and Minkoff 2004). This type of argument has shaped the expectations of generations of social movement authors, who often have a normative concern with protecting the ‘movement qualities’ of groups, or, in the parlance of the literature, protecting groups from processes of ‘institutionalization’. This is despite the fact that resource mobilization theory has tended to see such processes of formal organization as signs of ‘maturity’ and necessary preconditions for influence (see also Berry 1999). Jordan and Maloney (1997) do offer the aside that protest business type groups ‘seem affected [as much] by the Michels iron law of oligarchy as political parties’. This offers a crumb of encouragement to those that see protest businesses as a sign of the erosion of group democratic potential. Social movement scholars would no doubt see the stories that are told in what follows as processes of institutionalization. These arguments are not dismissed, but it is suggested here that the teleological element is unhelpful. It is true that some groups may professionalize, bureaucratize, and come under more leader control. But it is unclear that such processes are departures, as opposed to continuities, with past innovative organizational structures and tactics. History requires that we judge innovation by the yardstick of the day: and as will be revealed many protest businesses have long been so inclined. Thus, adopting modern marketing approaches – the heart of the ‘protest business’ form – is a logical evolution, rather than an abrupt sea-change. The argument appended to the work of Jordan and Maloney here, therefore, is simply that this business-like approach to getting members – and the shallow nature of the participation in internal democracy such membership implies – is not new to this post-1980s period that they emphasized. Rather, it is a logical continuation of the longstanding legacy of business and growth orientated strategies by such groups. They may not have been ‘born’ protest

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businesses, but very soon after their initial formation phase subsided, they were set on a path towards such a type of group; a path from which they have not yet deviated. They are right to say ‘Major British organisations . . . are best seen as organisations with financial supporters rather than membership bodies. Participation through contribution is widespread’ (Jordan and Maloney 1997). Indeed, the groups themselves would accept this analysis. But, these groups established clear identities as solidarity (by practice) groups from the outset. They were there to gather funds from one set of individuals to assist other constituencies (whether human or non-human). And while the words of ‘membership’ may have been uttered, members were not enfranchised in the sense of deciding group policies. The broader message of this chapter is to remind group scholars that history matters. But group histories are not something that we do very much of. And, subsequently, the general issue of group survival and evolution is underexamined (see discussion in Lowery and Brasher 2004). It suggests that it is perhaps better to trace the evolution of particular groups, establishing ‘mechanisms’ that generate the observed group form (see Locke and Thelen 1995). In this chapter the evolution of a set of interest groups that have been identified as the paradigm case of contemporary ‘protest businesses’ are examined. The accuracy of the contemporary snapshot characterization of these groups as protest businesses is not disputed. Rather, the aim is to complement this snapshot by gesturing to historical antecedents. It is argued that these groups by and large fulfil a legacy set down in the formative stages of their ‘careers’ to pursue a form of group practice that adheres to a solidarity form. Consistent with that, they by and large fell well short of trying to establish active and enfranchised ‘memberships’.1 But in terms of protest business arguments, each group shows an early commitment to key attributes associated with this label. This suggests that the hollow participation provided by such groups in their contemporary guise is not a ‘new’ adaptation, but the fulfilment of a foundation promise. Very soon after birth they were protest businesses.

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The cases This chapter examines several UK pressure groups: Oxfam, The National Trust (NT), and the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB). These are among groups that Jordan and Maloney single out as exemplars of modern ‘protest businesses’ and their contemporary ‘form’ conforms closely to the key ‘attributes’ of a protest business. At the outset we need to distinguish between the NT and RSPB, on the one hand, and Oxfam on the other. The former two organizations were founded in the late 1900s, while Oxfam was founded in the post-Second World War period. Other differences include the mechanism that established the group. The NT was, in 1907, a statutory body under an Act of the UK Parliament. Conversely, the RSPB and Oxfam remained private bodies with charitable status. Some may object that the broad aim of these groups is not public policy change: they are not really groups as we have defined them in this volume. It is true that these groups are all engaged in a range of non-political activities: Oxfam delivers overseas development assistance, the RSPB manages large areas of reserve and the NT manages a broad range of historic properties and estates. In themselves, these activities are policy-relevant: decisions over which historic monument to save or which catastrophe to respond to or aid programme to fund are by no means ‘private’ matters. But beyond that, each group is explicitly policy active: they have explicit policy goals, lobbying agendas and policy staff. Their initial agenda was political – to change the then norms about the landscape, bird welfare and social justice: and this continues. But, the final defence of the choice of cases is that these types of groups have been mentioned and referred to as ‘protest businesses’ in the literature. A contemporary overview A brief analysis of the current form of these groups (re)confirms – following Jordan and Maloney – their identity as contemporary protest businesses. All these three organizations practise supportership, and not membership. That is, those affiliated with the groups are providing a small financial contribution but not expecting to be enfranchised in decision making processes as a result. Similarly, all groups

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rely rather heavily on this supportership for income. Supporters of these organizations are not in a position to decide the key strategic direction of the group. While there may be AGMs, and these AGMs (or postal ballots of members) may decide a Council (or other similar organ), the policy agenda of these groups is decided by a small elite supported by professional staff and expert advice. Group supporters are by and large remote from direct political advocacy. There are small cohorts of activists who engage in letter writing or e-activism, and some supporters run local meetings, fundraising campaigns or give talks at schools. But they are not expected to develop strategies for campaigns and then execute those plans. None of the groups examined currently emphasizes face-to-face engagement between supporters. Where local meetings or branches do exist, these are focused on things like volunteer fundraising (as with Oxfam retail shops) or administering properties (as with the NT) or maintaining reserves (as with RSPB). But these are not part of a process of enfranchisement, nor are they a routine part or an anticipated part of joining the groups. These are ‘extras’ for those who wish to engage in related activities. By examining their historical development it will be possible to ascertain when, at what point, each group adopted its ‘business’ orientation, with its implications for internal democratic practices. Table 8.1, constructed by the UK Office of National Statistics, lists the environmental/conservation groups in Britain with the largest membership numbers. Data on membership levels illustrate that UK-wide, these groups are among those with the largest membership numbers. The figures are for growth up till the late 1990s, which is most relevant to test the claim that protest businesses are a modern phenomenon. But it is salient to note that these groups have continued to amass a large supportership. For example, today’s National Trust has over 3.5 million members, 50,000 volunteers and 5,000 staff (National Trust Strategy Document 2008). According to its website, the RSPB has over one million members in the UK. Oxfam Oxfam was born as the Oxford Committee for Famine Relief.2 It was one of many relief committees formed during

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Table 8.1 Membership of groups by year (000s) 1971

1981

278 National Royal Society for the Protection of Birds 98 Civic Trust 214 Wildlife Trustsb 64 World Wide Fund for Nature 12 The National Trust for Scotland 37 Woodland Trust – Greenpeace – Ramblers Association 22 Friends of the Eartha 1 Council for the Protection of Rural England 21

1,046 441 – 142 60 105 20 30 37 18

Trusta

29

1991

1997 1999

2,152 2,489 2,643 852 1,007 1,004 222 330 – 233 310 325 227 241 255 234 228 236 150 195 200 312 215 176 87 123 129 111 114 112 45

45

49

Source: ONS (2001), Social Trends 31, Table 11.2, p. 194 a Covers England, Wales and Northern Ireland. b Includes The Royal Society for Nature Conservation.

the Second World War against the backdrop of famine in parts of Europe. It was established in 1942, at a meeting in Oxford, with the purpose of addressing the particular plight of civilians in wartime Greece. Its website history boasts ‘Although most similar groups closed down after World War II, Oxfam kept going. Typical.’3 And, it is precisely this persistence beyond the initial focused ‘cause’ that demarcates the beginning of its drift to a protest business. The initial aim of the Committee was to raise money with which to purchase food supplies that could be delivered to civilians in war-time Greece. In September 1948, the Committee met to discuss whether to close down, as many others Committees had done. Where other ‘relief committees’ were being wound up, the Oxford Committee decided ‘the work must go on’ (Black 1992, 32). A key mover in that decision was Cecil Jackson-Cole. Jackson-Cole ‘loaned’ an administrator (Mr Andrews) from his own estate agency business to the Committee. Black (1992, 33), described the estate agency as ‘a business with an ulterior purpose: the development of charities’. As it transpired, Jackson-Cole had the habit of employing staff in his estate business that were also willing to put their time and energies into building successful charities. According to Black, ‘The guinea-pig organisation that Andrews and his team would set about building was the

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Oxford Committee for Famine Relief ’ (1992, 33). By loaning staff Jackson-Cole established, early on, the principle with the Committee ‘that a permanent organisation, even a small charity, needed a qualified and remunerated direction’ (1992, 33). Jackson-Cole essentially set about building a rudimentary protest business. Jackson-Cole’s approach was to apply general business practices, and employ professional staff, to build and ‘grow’ a charitable business. This was not at all usual for the time. Business approaches to charitable affairs were not common, nor was the use of personnel with business backgrounds or acumen; ‘the idea of charitable organisations employing professional or business people was strange’ (1992, 33). The injection of business staff and practices also translated into applying a business way of thinking to charitable endeavour: but ‘Jackson-Cole’s idea that charities should follow the path of business practice was extremely radical, even subversive; charities were run by amateurs to keep the costs to a minimum. And the notion that they should plough back part of their receipts into growth, as did commercial concerns, was almost indecent . . .’ (1992, 33). But, JacksonCole’s approach bore fruit for the Committee. Other novel practices followed. They purchased a permanent shop front to sell unwanted goods to raise funds. They engaged in an aggressive media campaign for fundraising. Amidst the usual ‘here we are’ style of group media advertising, the Committee spent big on national advertising. Jackson-Cole had previously reinforced the maxim that one needs to spend money to make money; his 1946 campaign in The Times cost £55 but raised £1200. The Committee had agreed, subsequently, that part of the profits could be reinvested in future advertising (Black 1992, 35). With this one act, the business model of investing to accumulate was adopted and came to shape subsequent strategies. There was direct engagement between Oxford Committee volunteers and supporters, but it constituted local volunteer organizers giving speeches in church halls, and other community venues, to illustrate why support was required. This was not ‘membership recruitment’ in any sense of the term; it was straightforward pursuit of financial support. Consistent with the protest business line, Jackson-Cole ‘simply wanted Oxfam to become well-known and thereby

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widely supported’ (Black 1992, 56). Thus, his methods were focused on mass support and a high public profile. JacksonCole left his post as Honorary Secretary in 1966, but as Black says his contribution was the ‘drive for the application of business techniques to voluntary action’ (1992, 87; italics added). Jackson-Cole’s legacy was a fledgling protest business. And the protest business path was continued by the newly named Oxfam and helped support its more explicit turn into a policy advocate.4 Supporters were never terribly formalized; they donated money to campaigns but did not get involved as an ongoing ‘member ’ label might imply. The lack of supporter input is clear when it is realized, as Black explains, that Oxfam never really had a firm statement of detailed policy objectives against which it spent. This would be the usual way of group supporters influencing the ends to which their efforts and funds were being put. Rather, Oxfam wanted to be open to all comers (Black 1992, 73). Direct accountability and authorization by supporters is not evident. In fact, if anything, Oxfam typically fielded requests for grants on an ad hoc basis, with decisions to allocate funds made by the Executive Committee alone (1992, 73). Professional staff levels did grow both at home and in the field. In 1960, the post of ‘Grants and Administrations Officer ’ was created to regularize decisions on where money was spent. The Committee did incrementally draw on significant expertise – often from Oxford University (1992, 73). But steps were made to give permanent staff a bigger role in administering requests, a sub-committee was established, and firmer guidelines laid down on what to (and what not to) grant income for. Even the most controversial of issues – such as the debate in 1963 over Oxfam’s support to projects promoting the use of oral contraception – were resolved within the Executive Council. Public opinion clearly mattered, although Black recorded that the impact of the decision was minimal as it took a year for its position to be announced and the issue had become less heated. Indeed, member losses as a result were very minor (Black 1992, 94). As Jordan and Maloney suggest for protest businesses generally, the ‘feedback’ loop between policy and ‘supporters’ is really one of exit. But the minute nature of these ‘repercussions’ for Oxfam – on an issue that was potentially dynamite – does throw cold water on those

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who suggest that ‘external’ forms of non-democratic accountability are a very strong discipline on group policy (see Chapter 3). Early marketing approaches to supporter recruitment and fundraising were further developed. In 1960 Oxfam deployed a ‘pledged gift’ system for the first time; it reflected a view that average working-class persons were unlikely to write monthly cheques or covenants, but might be willing to respond to a monthly request for money at the doorstep. The scheme was a success, with a team of door-to-door collectors requesting a shilling in return for a small newsletter. After three years of operation it had 300,000 subscribers and 26,000 collectors (Black 1992, 79). For the 1960s, this level of support – and rapidity in growth – is remarkable when it is considered that the 2008 membership figure is just 500,000. Perhaps this period was the real growth spurt of Oxfam? Indeed, Black reports that supporters were at 200,000 by 1960, and income had risen from £500,000 in 1959–60 to £1,400,000 in 1960–1 (1992, 80). The membership tables Jordan and Maloney (1997) used to scrutinize the protest business thesis needed to stretch back an additional decade to capture the Oxfam story of an early protest business model prompting a flush of ‘joining’. More supporters meant more income, and in 1962 Oxfam moved into a single and purpose-built HQ in an Oxford suburb. The 1960s also saw expansion of the gift shop phenomenon, with three additional stores opened (Black 1992, 97). But its ‘business’ tactics were controversial. In the mid-1960s, the Charity Commission established a Committee to investigate Oxfam’s alleged ‘high pressure fundraising’. It became clear that at least half the objections came from other voluntary groups and charities. As Black comments, ‘Where some organisation carped, others imitated’ (1992, 96). The protest business model being pushed by Oxfam was catching on, but smaller charities found the competition difficult. The Oxfam model of investing money to make money was not viable for charities with small financial clout. ‘Small charities without the resources to do the same resented the way Oxfam seemed to be cornering the market in British generosity by up-front investment in publicity’ (1992, 98). The ‘cost’ to the group system from the spread of the ‘protest business’ organizational form

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among groups may be the loss of a plurality of voices. Internally the growth of the 1960s through pledged giving was viewed as precarious. As an internal report for Oxfam suggested ‘It was easy to mistake the successes of the time for the bottom rungs on a ladder, when in fact they were the crest of a wave’ (quoted in Black 1992, 98). The impression among the public that administrative costs were too high was suggested as one reason for the loss of income. The impact of media spending was falling, and the 1963 peak of ‘pledged gift’ income was down. Black sums it up well: ‘It seemed that the days of the cut-price donation were over ’ (1992, 99). Of course, this was not the case. The next wave of technical marketing tools – direct debit and web marketing – would give a new surge. Applied in the same way – a keen sense of how to juggle upfront investment versus net return – guided all development of Oxfam’s support base. But, other areas of the fundraising ‘business’ prospered. The local support groups expanded to 20, and they started to rent temporary shop fronts to sell gifts and second-hand goods. In 1964 Oxfam created a trading company to sell Christmas cards and other goods through these stores. All profits were returned to the Oxfam charity in order to avoid taxation. By mid-1966, 50 such stores were in operation, and this was the beginning of what Black calls the ‘charity shop bonanza of the 1970s’ (1992, 100). Black says that ‘Shops assumed in the 1970s and 1980s the role that advertising hoardings had played for Oxfam in the 1960s. In fundraising terms, the Shops were by far the largest contributor to Oxfam income’ (1992, 165). At their peak, they operated in over 800 sites! This was mirrored in the expansion of Oxfam Trading, the company that bought and sold foreign-produced handicrafts. Black says that the organization’s growth in the 1960s was in pursuit of the ‘educated pound’. That is to say, individuals were canvassed and after having the dimension of the issues explained they chose to support the cause. But in the 1970s this gave way to a pursuit of the ‘pound pure and simple, via gifts, donations or Oxfam Trading profits’ (1992, 252). It is legitimate to treat Oxfam as a contemporary interest group, with the explicit (but not sole) aim of seeking public policy change. But it is important to remember that its roots are in funnelling aid from the British public to assist

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humanity elsewhere. It has drifted into a more explicit and self-conscious interest group role over time. In fact, Black observes that the ‘decision’ to engage in such a role can be traced to a meeting of the Executive in January 1963, where it was accepted that ‘propaganda activity is a function of Oxfam’ (1992, 107). The aim of the ‘new’ political Oxfam was to educate people about work poverty, without deemphasizing its aid programme (1992, 107). Oxfam has made ‘public information and education’ a ‘purpose’ alongside fundraising for aid; and 5 per cent of income was granted to this purpose. Predictably, a more overt policy advocacy role stimulated questions over who Oxfam served. A debate within Oxfam emerged around its legitimacy as a ‘voice’ for those it sought to help: those in poverty across the world: ‘A tension had arisen between the obligation of compassion of the donor, and the obligation to the dignity of the receiver . . . Who ultimately did Oxfam exist to serve?’ (Black 1992, 195). She reports the then Director posing the question ‘Is Oxfam primarily a Victorian charity ethic in Britain, or is it a service to the marginalised populations of the world?’. The problem was that Oxfam knew, and their fundraising staff told them, that it would be hard to ask people to donate if the pitch was ‘Oxfam was paying for the poor to discuss their problems because it did not know what to do about them’ (1992, 195). Oxfam knew it needed to come with a set agenda already established: a proposition that could be supported. It reaffirmed its self-image as a group expressing solidarity with the globe’s poor. It could not aspire to organize and represent the poor without losing the benevolent support of UK citizens. The result of this debate was a document produced by key staff called ‘Oxfam: An Interpretation’, published in 1975. According to Black, ‘This statement was an important marker in Oxfam’s evolution, recording a turning-point in its own perception of the world and of its mission. The sense of solidarity with the poor, supplanting the old idea of beneficence towards them, was to lead Oxfam in new directions and has remained ever since at the heart of its philosophy’ (1992, 197; italics added). In its 1982–3 Annual Report, Oxfam states its ‘determination to represent the poor who have no voice of their own in the decisions and councils of the rich nations’ (Black 1992, 256; italics added). It deploys representation as Rehfeld does; that is, non-democratic representation (see Chapter 3).

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Since its earliest days, Oxfam has been committed to the ethos of a protest business. The use of business know-how, professional staff and the investment of money to make more money has been ever-present. In short, Oxfam has always been conceived as a protest business. Consistent with its identity as showing solidarity with the poor, it has not sought to democratically enfranchise its affiliates. The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) The RSPB has its origins in the anti-millinery groups that opposed the cruelty arising from the fashion of wearing plumage on women’s hats (Bassett 1980). In the mid to late 1800s, the near extinction of the crested grebe in Britain and Ireland and the extent and impact of egg-collecting – both activities of the upper classes – sparked a rapid change in public attitudes. Legislation was passed protecting wild birds.5 The legislation may have been ineffective, but it did put bird protection onto the social and political agenda in Britain (Bassett 1980). A number of groups in the UK had formed to support the cause of wild bird protection. The Sellbourne Society for the Protection of Birds, Plants and Pleasant Places (1885) was among the first national organizations. The same year the Plumage League was formed, and the two bodies merged a year later in 1886. A Fur and Feather group was founded in Manchester in 1889, while the embryonic start of the RSPB emerged in Disbury, England under the leadership of Mrs R. Wiliamson. These two latter groups merged to form the Society for the Protection of Birds in 1889; this was the birth of the modern day RSPB. From the outset, the group was a self-described ‘membership’-based organization. The initial constitution specified that ‘Each local secretary shall subscribe one shilling a year, and each ordinary member pay two-pence, postage fee, for card of membership’ (Lemon 1943, 68). The ‘members’ were given rules to abide by, which included refraining from wearing feathers from birds not otherwise killed for food, discouraging others from the destruction of birds, and pursuing their general protection. But, in practice, membership was a term used very loosely. The first ‘Report’, which covers the group’s foundation, records: ‘It will be seen that no subscription is asked from ordinary Members, and, at starting, no payment was required

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even for Cards of Membership. Donations, at one time declined, have since been gratefully accepted to meet the growing expenses of the Society, for report, postage of letters and leaflets’ (RSPB, Report 1891, 8). Cards of Membership were to be obtained from local secretaries – this is how recruitment occurred. As the same report makes clear, the aim of the RSPB was not to engage wealthy elites in local good works. Rather the RSPB purpose was ‘the hope of inducing a considerable number of women, of all ranks and ages, to unite in discouraging the enormous destruction of bird-life exacted by milliners and others for purely decorative purposes’ (RSPB, Report 1891, 7). It was about mass mobilization, without, at least initially, the emphasis on mass funding. But this lack of emphasis on money would soon change. It is also important to note that at this very early stage the Society was entirely an affair for women. There were no male leaders or members. But, quickly, men were entering the organization. Indeed, the initial 1891 Report states: ‘At first the Society was composed of women only, but gentlemen have shewn their approval of the object of the Society by joining it as Members, or by authorising the mention of their names as earnest sympathisers’ (RSPB, Report 1891, 8). But it was, nevertheless, referred to as the Ladies’ Society for the Protection of Birds in early Annual Reports of the RSPB. The Society expanded quickly in its first year, to a reported 5,000 members (Bassett 1980, I). And, apart from the efforts of local secretaries, the role of the press was crucial to the Society’s ‘popularity’. Mrs Frank E. Lemon, who was appointed Honorary Secretary of the Society in 1892, wrote that ‘the press extended a most encouraging welcome to the new Society’ (1943, 68). A particularly hard winter in 1890–91 saw nationwide appeals in the newspapers asking members of the public to feed the birds. This further raised the profile of the Society, and its membership levels increased rapidly. Within five years the Society had a combined membership of twenty-five thousand: a five-fold increase in five years. A key plank in any protest business formula is the engagement of broad civil society in the cause. The Society has always maintained the importance of creating a favourable climate of public opinion. From its earliest days it was producing large numbers of pamphlets and leaflets and

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establishing close co-operation with schools and education authorities (see Bassett 1980, II). But the emphasis on straightforward membership numbers soon became a focus on paying members. Its 1897 Report asks for all members to become permanent and paying ‘subscribers’ to the Society. This was needed to ensure a permanent supply of money year on year to fund a London HQ and an assistant salaried secretary (RSPB, Report 1897, 4). Recruitment was by local members contacting others they knew. The 1899 Report has a copy of the constitution appended, which includes an arrangement that each Associate that subscribes more than 5s and donors of over £5 5s ‘will receive a copy of each new publication as issued’ (RSPB, Report 1899, 23). This clear attempt for the central organization to incentivize existing members to recruit others is a marketing technique that modern scholars would associate with the contemporary image of the ‘RSPB as protest business’. By the 1903 Report, income was becoming a problem and, significantly, the Society decided to go into debt for the first time; it says ‘increase in finances unfortunately lags far behind the opportunities for work and usefulness which are constantly presenting themselves. It has been felt impossible to refuse to do urgent work . . . the committee confidently anticipate that the small debt which consequently meets the Society at the close of the year will not be permitted by bird lovers to cramp its energies in 1904’ (RSPB, Report 1903, 11). This moment established an ethos that guided the RSPB thereafter: to grow its financial base given that the resources needed to protect birds are infinite – there will never be enough! In its third year, the Society elected a Committee and a President, and adopted a formal constitution. Within the fledgling Society, and its constitution, the term ‘member ’ is bandied about, but with little of the democratic ‘baggage’ that scholars may associate with it. A ‘Note’ in the 1905 Report reminds what they called ‘Subscribers’ that subscriptions become due on the 1st day of January each year and are payable before 31st of the following July. This is the initial shift to a regular form of subscription payment, a process of regularizing income. In 1905, over half of all income is from subscriptions, with the balance from donations and income

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from sales of publications and Christmas cards (RSPB, Report 1905, 12–13). Diversification of income, and the development of products to market to members (and by members to others), are again associated with ‘modern’ group business models. But they were evident in the earliest days of the RSPB. The Society received its Royal Charter in 1904, a measure of the broad support for its cause it had managed to generate. While the charter reaffirmed the general objectives set out at foundation, it did emphasize the importance of research. Its second objective was, ‘In the furtherance of the above to promote interest, research or study in all matters concerned with birds by means and in such a manner as may seem advisable to the Society’ (Bassett 1980, II). This item has come to be a defining feature of the Society’s modus operandi: the use of science to back its cause. And it supports its current contemporary reliance on in-house scientific capacities. In 1918, for example, the RSPB became aware of the harm caused to seabirds by floating oil from a mixture of wartime wrecks and oil-driven ships. Based on available scientific data, it wrote to shipping companies and owners requesting they fit their ships with separators. The faith in science, rather than the views of its ‘subscribers’, reinforces that the RSPB has always viewed itself as engaged in a solidarity style of group activity. The early advocacy focus of the RSPB was on the cruelty of killing birds and it targeted the millinery trade. But by the 1920s the RSPB had already broadened its focus and ‘emerged from a mere anti-plumage movement into a popularity based organisation working for the general protection of birds’ (Bassett 1980, II; italics added). The RSPB had the mass-support focus of a protest business early on. Fast forwarding to 1945, there is evidence of what we may consider ‘modern’ member marketing techniques. In that year the RSPB implemented a new Gift Token Scheme, whereby individuals could buy one year ’s membership to the RSPB as a gift for others (RSPB, Bird Notes and News, Winter 1945). It is reported that this ‘has also had a great influence in the acquisition of new adherents’, but at least some credit lies in the fact that the Society also provided prizes of books to members ‘gaining 5, 10, 20 new recruits to the society’ (RSPB, Report 1945, 5). This is not professionalized recruit-

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ment, but it is about maximizing supporters. In fact, incentivizing members to recruit is a continuing feature of RSPB practice. This practice is linked to a record increase in members in 1945, when 1,159 members joined (RSPB, Report 1945, 5). The 1946 Report begins: ‘For the first time during its history the membership passed the 6,000 mark’ (RSPB, Report 1946, 5). The only official history of the RSPB is – perhaps unfairly – downbeat about the success of these efforts. It laments, ‘At the beginning of 1940, membership totalled 4,852, an appalling figure when taken against the 5,000 odd supporters by the end of the first year of existence, let alone the 20,000 total in 1898. By 1950, there were still a mere 6,265, and five years on only 7,000’ (Samstag 1988, 74). This is true, but of course, membership cards in the late 1890s were all but free. It is understandable that when support meant paid support, that levels would drop. Samstag continues, ‘And yet, 12 years later those numbers had increased five-fold, and more than trebled again within the next five years. By 1978 there were more than a quarter of a million, and today’s virtual doubling of that figure reflects continuing steady growth, if inevitably less spectacular’ (1988, 74). In part this turnaround is due to the appointment in 1966 of a professional Development Officer to increase membership (1988, 77). Professional staff were able to tweak the existing commitment to a protest business organizational form. In this connection it is noteworthy that, since the 1960s, the RSPB has used upcoming member milestones as a marketing opportunity. In 1969 it said, ‘We need 50,000 members by December ’, in 1977, ‘Please help us reach the first hundred thousand this year ’, and in 1996, ‘Help Enrol our Millionth Member ’. There is a great deal of continuity. Interestingly the latter advertisement includes ‘3 months free trial with a completed direct debit form’. There is a track record of very aggressive marketing offers. Part of marketing membership means knowing more about members; the RSPB is often surveying its members. The RSPB’s own archives suggest the first survey being conducted as early as 1968; but it was not aimed at finding out members’ policy views or reasons for joining. It was about finding out the members’ social interests and types of leisurely pursuits they engaged in such that they could be on-sold products.

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The early practice of the Society to sell Christmas cards to raise money has been fine-tuned and substantially professionalized. It continued selling cards, and then a series of informational leaflets. Latterly, courses were delivered when the HQ moved to Sandy (a semi-rural location outside London) in the 1960s. It developed a formal mail-order business in the 1960s. The first sales catalogue the author could find in the archives is from 1961. The ramping up of the marketing effort – but also its professional scientific advocacy and bird sanctuary property acquisitions – is a reflection of the growth in staffing. As late as 1972 it had just 22 staff.6 But just over a decade later the ‘RSPB Three Year Plan 1984/5–1986/7’ reports the following staffing levels: ‘340 permanent staff, 100 seasonal casual, and 140 temporary staff each year ’. Its 2002/3 Annual Report says RSPB has 1,300 staff. The RSPB’s focus on building a sizeable membership or ‘subscriber ’ base was reflected in its acceptance that members would come and go: it focused on the broader numbers game. In 1985, it reported a membership of 475,000. The Annual Report boasts, ‘The loss of members throughout the year was only 9.4 per cent, the lowest level for at least five years. However, to replace even so small a fall-out presented the daunting challenge of recruiting 29,000 new members. But we achieved this and more. Our net increase over the year was 12,108’ (RSPB, Annual Report & Accounts 1984–5, 1; italics added). That this type of churn is tolerable (note the word ‘only’) remains the privilege of groups that practise a solidarity style – constructing group function as attracting general public support for the interests of a third party constituency (whether that be nature or needy humans). One could not imagine all but the most general and encompassing of trade unions or business associations (see the FSB case in Chapter 6) being so free and easy with member ‘exit’ given their finite constituency base: groups designed on a representation style naturally find churn harder to handle (see NSWFA in the previous chapter). So when in 1996/7 the RSPB’s Annual Report proclaims: ‘We have just recruited our millionth member ’, it will actually have recruited many more to sustain this figure. In the early 1990s members were still being asked to recruit members in return for free gifts. A 1992 internal

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memo to staff outlines how to handle rejections and how to approach friends for membership, also referring to how to handle requests for a free gift. In the 2006/7 Annual Report, the Marketing Director says: ‘There is never enough money in conservation: for us, more income simply means more work for birds’ (RSPB, Annual Report 2006/7, 34). This is a legacy from the earliest days of the RSPB, where supportership growth to meet the inexhaustible needs of birds was a mantra. The difference is that the RSPB just got very good at growing support after the Second World War. The transition from a group of women objecting to the destruction of wild bird populations due to the millinery trade to one of the most influential and largest UK environmental/conservation groups is remarkable. It would be easy to conclude that growth in scale is itself proof of a more fundamental change in organizational form. But, along the way the RSPB has not fundamentally changed its modus operandi. It has retained a pattern settled upon early in its life, of reasoned argument, science-driven advocacy and conservative tactics. It has always utilized the media and public education to raise both funds and awareness. It very quickly transcended its infancy to become a massmembership group – initially focused on support, then on paid-support. It has, thus, always been reliant on affiliated individuals for funding and sought to expand membership by direct and targeted marketing very early. From the 1980s onwards the RSPB may have engaged in a more advanced form of member marketing, employed executives to make such processes more efficient, and become better at targeting potential supporters. But this is more of a technical upgrade to a pre-existing commitment to a particular model of group organization. Change within the RSPB has been only of a first order nature – updating technical processes to achieve longstanding strategies for funding, decision making and influencing public policy. The evolution of the RSPB is not a story of the erosion of a highly participatory group. Once it transcended a thousand or so women members in the late 1800s it was already a mass-membership organization. After that time, it was no longer about involving members in decision making on the protection of birds beyond the usual subscription paying and local fundraising activity. The RSPB utilized the most

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Table 8.2 RSPB membership numbers, selected years Year

No.

1892 1893 1894 1895 1896 1897 1898 1899 1900 1901 1902 1903 1939 1942 1945 1946 1947 1948 1949 1950 1951 1952 1953 1955 1956 1957 1958 1959

5,200 9,159 11,461 13,134 15,000 16,200 20,000 22,000 4,222a 4,560 4,962 5,410 4,852 3,558 5,535 6,264 6,064b 6,214 6,251 6,265 6,461 6,803 7,004c 7,000d 7,531 7,500e 7,500 8,101f

Year 1960 1961 1962 1963 1964 1965 1968 1969 1970 1973 1978 1980 1984 1985 1986 1988 1989/90* 1991/2 1992/3 1993/4 1994/5 1995/6 1996/7 2001/2 2002/3 2004/5 2005/6 2006/7

No. 10,579 14,245 17,532 21,101 25,017 29,719 35,900 52,911 66,000 117,950 245,693 330,000 360,000 475,000 500,000 544,000 770,000 840,000 850,000 860,000 890,000 925,000g 1,000,000 1,022,000 1,037,000 1,041,712 1,051,582 1,045,191

Source: RSPB Annual Reports (located at RSPB library, Sandy) *From 1989/90 onwards figures are for ‘members’. Prior to that they were for ‘memberships’. A membership was simply the number of applications accepted. The latter reflects how many others in a household joined (for family memberships, etc.). Ratio is about 1.5 members to 1 membership. a Now counting paying ‘Associates’ – not reporting members in total. b Changed procedure for keeping members on books two years after last sub paid. c At thus stage recruitment is still by members. d This figure excluded life members and fellows who had passed away. e From here on associate and fellows aggregated into ‘members’. f For this first time this includes 1,697 ‘Junior ’ members. g This is quoted in internal RSPB reports as 570,000 memberships.

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sophisticated ‘business’ tools of its day to expand the membership base – to foster both political and economic resources in its cause. Formally, members can elect leaders onto a governing Council; there is a constitutional enfranchisement of supporters. At interview a staffer explained that ‘the formal lines of authority are members elect council who set the strategic policy which is implemented by the management board. That is the formal democratic accountability.’ But, much as with the National Trust (see below) there is not any presumption that members decide or deliberate over policy; for instance, the Council ‘consider ’ what a management board put in front of it. But, in any case, the RSPB claims to pursue the interests of ‘nature’, not the changeable interests of its supporters. That the RSPB can adequately be referred to as a protest business in 2008 is simply because it was so in the early 1900s. The National Trust (NT) The ‘National Trust for Places of Historic Interest and Natural Beauty’ was registered under the Companies Act in January 1895. It was the product of the initiative of three philanthropists – Octavia Hill, Sir Robert Hunter and Canon Hardwicke Rawnsley – who were concerned about the impact of development and industrialization and were keen to preserve coastline, countryside and buildings. The term ‘trust’ was deliberately chosen in order to reflect the benevolent as opposed to commercial nature of the organization (Fedden 1968, 6). Octavia Hill was insistent upon this point, as she felt that were it to be called a trust rather than a company, people would be more likely to forgive it of any mistakes (Weideger 1994, 27–8). Soon after formation, the NT was reconstituted as a statutory body. The 1907 National Trust Act stated: ‘The National Trust shall be established for the purposes of promoting preservation for the benefit of the nation of lands and tenements (including buildings) of beauty or historic interest and as regards lands for the preservation (so far as practicable) of their natural aspect features and animal and plant life’ (Waterson 1994, 52). In practice, the main activity of the Trust was (and is) the acquisition of buildings and land, often by virtue of bequest or gift (but sometimes outright purchase), in order to preserve them for future

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generations – but of course to be enjoyed by the general public (present and future). Of course, the discharge of this duty involves it in many contentious policy issues. The 1907 Act essentially restated the initial objectives of the Trust at its registration; but with two important additions. It was able to declare properties ‘inalienable’, which meant it could keep hold of properties unless Local Authorities or government departments went to Parliament (Jenkins and James 1994, 31). And secondly, it was able to govern its properties as it saw fit, including having the right to charge admission fees, build cafés and sell refreshments (Weideger 1994, 40). The latter point effectively backtracked on Octavia Hill’s concern that the Trust not be viewed as a business. It had established a model for sustaining itself that involved making money from ‘attractions’, by charging entrance fees and selling food on site. Since this change, its charitable work, as a Trust for the preservation of landscape and built environment, and its role as a commercial entity making money by managing attractions have been interlinked (see Weideger 1994, 28). Again, its ‘business’ identity emerged quite early. Unlike the RSPB or Oxfam, the NT was not born as a masssupportership undertaking. Fedden’s account observes that the early NT was run and funded by ‘Octavia Hill and a handful of friends’, and that for the initial thirty years of its existence the ‘membership numbered less that a thousand’ (1974, 31). The initial model was one of a small number of very generous member-donors. In its early days the Trust welcomed members, but undertook no serious attempts to expand membership or recruit. In fact, there was a ‘reluctance to resort to marketing methods’ (Fedden 1974, 36). The NT was at first a reluctant convert to a protest business form. This all changed in 1928 with the establishment of a Propaganda Committee and the implementation, for the first time, of a positive policy to increase membership (Fedden 1968, 139). Soon after, announcements about the work of the Trust appeared in the national press: so frequent were they in The Times that other regional papers complained about ‘bias’ and the loss of business (Fedden 1974, 155). Fedden, a former Deputy Director-General of the Trust, draws a direct link between this ‘decision’ and the contemporary form of Trust: ‘from the decision of 1928 the present publicity and

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public relations organization of the Trust derives’ (1974, 36). This track was further reinforced by the 1946 appointment of a public relations officer and the establishment of a ‘publicity and recruitment department’ (1974, 155). The late start to recruitment reflected an internal debate over the ‘quality’ of members. Fedden has argued that early on the quality of members was deemed more important than the quantity (1968, 139). Members ought to have a strong connection with the aims of the Trust or not join. Princess Louise was one prominent figure who was of this view. Appointed President of the Trust in 1902, she believed that members recruited by ‘propaganda’ would join for what they could gain as opposed to what they could give and would not have the same dedication as existing members. She reacted strongly in opposition to publicity and propaganda. The decision to explicitly pursue a broader membership – and potentially to disregard concern for the cause as a key attribute of supporters – was driven by a lack of funds. The state gave the Trust statutory status, but no money with which to achieve its aims. In fact, the Trust at that time had decided no longer to accept properties unless they also came to be self-supporting or with an endowment for their upkeep (Trevelyan 1929, 12). This limited the number of properties the Trust could acquire. So the Trust settled upon a massmembership-driven model, with supporters gaining access to properties and other services as a reward for joining. Fedden suggests that growth was particularly rapid in the 1970s – he cites figures of 23,000 (1950), 97,000 (1960) and 400,000 (1974). Contrasted with the 1971 figure of 270,000 (in Table 8.1), this suggests marked progress over this period. But this owed to the tweaking of extant marketing techniques, and not a new business-like phase. While the Trust pursued a path of mass supportership, there was, at the very top, a concern to retain elite – and staff – control. The Trust was never going to become a group controlled by its supporters. The former Deputy DirectorGeneral, Robin Fedden, commenting in the 1970s, remarks that ‘a membership which will soon attain half a million could conceivably have its dangers. The tail has been known to wag the dog’ (1974, 153). His concern was that members might exert pressures on the standards of the Trust. He was firm in his belief that the policies pursued – mostly in respect

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of the choice over which buildings or property to preserve – should not be decided by the members. In observing that ‘Few of the campaigns that the Trust has undertaken immediately commanded wide support’ and that only ‘Time has revealed their justification’, Fedden effectively enunciates the guiding principle of the Trust: the interests of future generations are pursued by an elite, funded by the generosity of large donors and, increasingly, the support of a mass public (who are often effectively customers of their properties7). This legacy of a passive mass supportership is still evident today; the role of ‘members’ in making decisions is at best remote. The turnout, and level of voting, at the last few AGMs are presented in Table 8.3. Of its 3.5 million members, 0.02 per cent attended the 2007 AGM, and 1.3 per cent voted in elections or on AGM motions at the 2007 meeting.

Table 8.3 The National Trust, AGM attendance and voting (2004–7) AGM (year) Newcastle (2004) Brighton (2005) Cheltenham (2006) London (2007)

Attendance

Voting

650 700 650 650

unknown unknown 25,000 45,000

Source: Pers. comm., NT Secretariat, 2008

Members are able to put motions to the conference, but this has not evolved into a forum for a line-by-line debate over NT policy. The number of motions put to resolutions at an AGM is entirely dependent on the members as it is they who submit them each year. At the time of writing, the 2008 conference had just three resolutions on the agenda, other than constitutional ones such as adopting the annual report and accounts for the last financial year and the reappointment of auditors. That the Council, the governing body of the Trust, is made up in significant number by expert member bodies – such as museums, galleries and learned societies – also fetters the influence of ‘lay’ members. The above figures could lead to the interpretation from today’s standpoint that the Trust is a ‘hollowed out’ group – but the historical record establishes consistency with – and not a

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departure from – a track of passive mass membership established since the 1920s. Perhaps the most important decisions made by the National Trust – decisions with respect to what properties or historic places to acquire and preserve – are made independent of members. Members do not take part in such decisions. Key steps include gathering ‘expert views on [the place’s] merit (it usually needs to be of national importance for its historic interest and natural beauty), the threats it is facing and the potential benefit to people that ownership by the Trust could bring’. Other key actors are the ‘Trust’s Acquisitions Group’, which comprises the Trust’s key directors, for example the Finance Director, Conservation Director, Supporter Services Director and Operations Director (NT, unpublished guidance). Supporters, and elected office holders, have very little input in this type of process. The National Trust is perhaps the least likely of the three examples cited to engage in campaigning with its supporters. An interviewee from the NT stated ‘We are not a campaign organisation in the sense that we do not ask our members to write letters to MPs or the like.’ Instead, ‘Involvement is mostly at the property level and through events.’ A senior staffer explained at interview that members ‘will understand and connect with one issue, but on others not understand what we are on about; we need to communicate and help members understand the agenda’. This is not a shortcoming, it is a by-product of the protest business model. Supporters are asked to buy into an existing cause and related strategies. As a protest business account would anticipate, the Trust has always targeted those best able to afford its membership offers. Although Fedden (1968, 40) maintains that membership has always cut across any distinction of class and money, membership in the National Trust typically consists of well-meaning middle- or lower-middle-class ramblers, country house buffs and hobby naturalists (Lamb 1996, 19). Interestingly, Fedden notes the remarkable longevity of membership, noting that the average membership lasts twenty-five to thirty years (1968, 141). So while an increase in modern membership marketing techniques has no impact on participation – there has always been little – it does create a more ephemeral support base. Today the modern membership marketing allows for more churn.

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The National Trust is the UK group with the largest mass membership. It conforms to Jordan and Maloney’s definition of a protest business very well. The membership is largely silent, although they can engage in AGMs (and even elect council members) and in local volunteer groupings. For the most part, members are recruited by remote mail-shot or other proposition, and supporters largely never meet one another face to face. Volunteers may join local groups to help run properties, but this is not democratic enfranchisement in strategic decision making. The Trust is run largely by staff and its policy advocacy only by staff. But these features have almost always been part and parcel of the Trust. Very early on the argument over quantity versus quality of membership was had and won in favour of quantity. The shortage of cash refocused efforts on expansion of that membership. The techniques of recruitment have changed: direct debit, cold canvassing and mail-shots are the contemporary norm, undertaken by sub-contractors. The trust has a sophisticated web-based presence and marketing/communications strategy. But the fact remains that the National Trust has used the tools of the day to fulfil the same essential strategy: to build a mass-member organization sufficient to fund its activities. It was impossible for the Trust of the mid-1950s to engage in telemarketing or advanced database management. Yet, it did use the equivalent of the day – media advertisements and national newspaper campaigns.

Other cases There is evidence to suggest that the early adoption of cutting-edge (for their time) marketing techniques was not limited to the well-known groups. The Royal National Institute of the Blind (RNIB) – reviewed in more detail in Chapter 9 – has uncanny parallels with the growth of what are today major groups like the RSPB, Oxfam and the National Trust. In the 1910s, a new leader, by the name of Pearson, initiated a novel way of gaining income. He operated on three basic, but for their time, novel maxims: that increased revenue required up-front investment in terms of labour; that the blind themselves were the best fundraisers; and that small donations from the working class were an

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untapped but lucrative resource (Phillips 2004, 376). He employed blind staff to do fundraising, and the former reliance upon consumer literature, public meetings and genteel social occasions was largely superseded by face-toface and door-to-door appeals.

Table 8.4 RNIB Fundraising account data, selected years Year

Total income (£)

Collections and donations

Expenditure on staff (£)

11,911 190,078 181,377

4,708 119,546 136,039

5,126 29,659 41,131

1914 1918 1925–6

Source: Phillips 2004, Table 1

Perhaps more radically, Pearson recognized the enormous potential value of accumulating small charitable donations from the working class; a community that was conveniently gathered in large manufacturing establishments, and was readily accessible. This created a foothold for a new type of fundraising and put the NIB on a more solid financial footing. The step-change in financial revenues arising from Pearson’s policies was astounding, as Table 8.4 demonstrates.

Conclusions In the UK literature, the ‘protest business’ tag has become a by-word for groups with lots of supporters but little member participation or democratic engagement. It serves the same function as US labels like ‘mass-membership’ and ‘tertiary’ groups (Putnam 2000) or ‘new movements’ (Skocpol 1999). This chapter has sought to address the implication – not directly made by Jordan and Maloney themselves, but suggested in the work of Putnam and Skocpol – that protest businesses are a contemporary phenomenon: that they are the ‘hollowed out’ evolutionary end point among formerly participatory and democratic groups. By selecting a number of groups that were identified by Jordan and Maloney as prime examples of contemporary protest businesses, this

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chapter has set out to scrutinize these claims. The aim here is not to explain the increase in growth, but when the model of pursuing growth was chosen. This chapter confirms, consistent with Jordan and Maloney, that there are indeed a cohort of high-profile and large-scale groups whose organizational form reflects the key characteristics of the protest business ideal type. While Oxfam or the National Trust have supporters or volunteers that run charity shops or greet visitors at a castle, they are not enfranchised to set group policy direction. In that respect, all these groups reflect the practices of a solidarity group. And this is not unreasonable, given that only Oxfam could potentially enfranchise those it seeks to advocate for – but as mentioned above it decided long ago that such a process of representational conversion would jeopardize its viability – why would UK citizens ever financially support a group that simply enfranchised the citizens of the global ‘south’, without any clear agenda? It decided to constitute itself along the lines of a group aiming to pursue solidarity with the cause of the poor and those in poverty, and victims of disasters. The ‘general public’ became the source of funds for its good work, not its political constituency. The original ‘protest business’ finding was based on rapid growth in supportership among these groups during the 1990s. And Jordan and Maloney rightly pointed out that such growth owed much to the deployment of professional staff and of sophisticated marketing techniques. These groups were good at seeking out the pre-disposed and getting their subscriptions or financial support. But was this a new development? Or were these groups always protest businesses? There is a certain attraction to the idea that these groups have been converted to protest businesses. This would fit with Skocpol and with Putnam’s diagnosis that modern societal conditions are not conducive to association. More generally, it fits with the Michel-Weber argument that political organizations drift away from participative control of the rank-and-file and are taken over by professional elites. It also reflects the broad social movement discourse that talks of institutionalization: groups are born loose and disorganized but slowly succumb to a depoliticized form of organizational survival. From these dominant perspectives, the UK groups

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that Jordan and Maloney identified would be the result of these types of institutionalizing processes acting to hollow out what started as democratic and participatory movements. But was this ever so? The chapter has demonstrated that Oxfam, the NT and the RSPB were imprinted with the logic of a protest business almost from birth. They deployed member marketing approaches, dispensed with supporter enfranchisement or intense participatory models, used mass public appeals (albeit supported by evidence and science where possible), and employed or relied upon expertise (often of a ‘business’ nature) quite early on (at least well before the 1990s – and well before the 1960s as the US scholarship suggests was the end of the ‘golden era’). These groups today are still protest businesses; it is just that in the 1990s when Jordan and Maloney studied them, they were more efficient protest businesses than they had been before. The flush of new members noted by Jordan and Maloney in that period reflects the latest in a series of impressive supportership waves brought about by innovations in member marketing and fundraising. As the Oxfam case exemplifies, the early 1960s marked its first high-water mark of popular support – its door-to-door approach to obtaining ‘pledged gifts’ saw its member base rise to 300,000. The point here is that protest businesses are not best identified by the use of a particular technology – say direct debit or online advertising – as these are period contingent. If direct debits or web propositioning were available in the 1960s, then a group like Oxfam would have used them to good effect. The equivalent of their day (national newspaper advertisements, and door-to-door recruitment) had been used almost from the beginning. The salient point is that they used (or innovated) the cutting-edge of marketing practice of the day. The core attribute of a protest business is, then, that they had adopted the organizational logic of a protest business; they looked to the same disciplines of business and marketing, and they measured success by the same increments as a protest business from almost their very beginnings. The overall conclusion from the case studies with respect to democratic representation is that we should be less concerned with the deployment of membership marketing

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and its contribution to the magnitude of joining in the RSPB or the National Trust, than in say the FSB or NFF (see Chapter 6). The latter arguably changed the nature of the enfranchisement offered to their members; the political representation and participatory opportunities they offered changed as part and parcel of the deployment of more professionalized and depoliticized political tactics. But the National Trust or Oxfam never suggested its members were anything other than supporters. In fact, Oxfam took several decades to state that its role was a ‘voice for ’ those in poverty or suffering as a result of disasters. And even then its supporter or volunteer base was never enfranchised to ‘decide’ which causes to pursue. If there is a single point for concern arising from this argument, it is more about the crowding effects of overly dominant groups that are too efficient at fundraising. While elsewhere findings of a group ‘explosion’ suggest plenty of room for new causes, identities or views – there is more, not less plurality – the diversity of effective and resource-laden groups may be threatened (as the Oxfam case pointed to). The argument here is complementary, not antithetical to, that provided by Jordan and Maloney (1997). It is agreed that supply-side issues matter and that marketing and management philosophies – and not outright surges in the size of ‘attentive publics’ – better explain relative growth in supporter levels of these groups. It is also agreed that such groups do not set out to enfranchise supporters in respect of setting direction or democratic representation. As this book makes clear, why would groups that follow the logic of solidarity do so? But, in agreeing, there is value in clarifying trajectory. These groups are protest businesses, but they were born as such – or at the very least made sizeable steps in that direction much earlier than the most recent 1990s surge in support. It is undeniable that the large and rapid growth in the size of the membership of these groups in the UK is best explained by the application, specifically post-1990s, of marketing techniques and the professionalization (and even outsourcing) of key recruitment tasks. But the deployment of these techniques, and the appointment of recruitment professionals to design and discharge them, are, it is argued, an extension of a longer-standing commitment to build a mass-membership group. Equivalent – albeit relatively less

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effective – techniques had been deployed far earlier, in the early and mid-1900s. The conclusion is that the protest business argument applies to a ‘choice’ made by groups to pursue a particular model of organizational development. Therefore, the argument should not be ingested more broadly in the literature as evidence of a period-based ‘process’ of hollowing out. As hinted at by McCarthy (2005), that we can identify contemporary protest businesses does not mean that we are witnessing a modern trend away from democratically constituted groups practising membership style affiliations. The historical argument may, of course, be more accurate with respect to other types of groups. For instance, social change has undoubtedly led to the decrease of very local social groups, committees and clubs. But these are mostly relevant to democratic life in social capital terms. As Jordan and Maloney would no doubt argue, there are plenty of groups that do not pursue a campaign business model. For instance, fine-grained analysis of other environment groups, like the UK’s CPRE, reveals a much higher degree of explicit engagement with members (Lowe et al. 2001). A different model is at play. The argument here is simply that those high-profile and much-discussed protest businesses are not the result of a backtracking on democratic models of organization, they are a continuation.

Notes * Thanks to Danielle Arthur, a graduate student at RGU, for initial assistance in locating official histories and scholarly accounts of these groups. 1 The issue of whether enfranchising affiliates of these groups is actually normatively necessary for democratic representation and legitimacy, as discussed in Chapters 3–5, is left to one side here. 2 It changed its name formally in 1965 to Oxfam. But it had been referred to as Oxfam in the press and popular discourse for some time beforehand (Black 1992, 91). 3 www.oxfam.org.uk/oxfam_in_action/history/index.html (accessed May 2008). 4 In 1958 it became a registered non-profit-making company, losing its temporary sounding ‘war charity’ label (Black 1992, 56). It changed its name to Oxfam in 1965. 5 Sea Birds Protection Act of 1869 and the Wild Bird Protection Act of 1880.

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6 ‘Annexure to Five Year Plan 6th October 1971’, RSPB Archives, Sandy. 7 The importance of paid visitors – facilitated by the provision in the first Act of 1907 – has long been important. In fact Fedden (1974, 50) notes the impact of the Second World War on the Trust via a reduction in paid visits to properties – thus reducing income.

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9 Democratic transformation: fulfilling the promise of representation*

Introduction One of the areas of greatest controversy and debate with respect to the democratic expectations made about groups is how to assess those groups that could constitute themselves as representation groups, yet fail to do so. These are groups that advocate for a constituency that has the possibility for presence and voice – they could be organized, affiliated and enfranchised within the democratic structures of a group – but the group chooses not to do so. Instead, they operate as though they were a solidarity group. The group affiliates or seeks support from benevolent individuals who act in solidarity with the human constituency. As established in Chapter 5, perhaps the biggest, in terms of the numbers of cases in a given population of groups, single type of democratic underperformance arises from groups that do not internally enfranchise individuals from the human constituencies that they advocate for. This chapter pursues the story of the transformation of democratic practices within a group capable of representation. In unpacking the evolution of the Royal National Institute of Blind Persons (RNIB), it shows that groups can, over time, come to fulfil their promise of representation.

The authenticity deficit The situation where a group advocates for the interests of a human constituency, but without any democratic accountability to or authorization from individuals belonging to that same constituency has been referred to as lacking

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‘authenticity’. The groups that engage in such a pattern of advocacy lack authenticity. In the same way as we speak of a lack of democratic legitimacy by political institutions as a democratic deficit, we can speak of the absence of authenticity as an ‘authenticity deficit’. This is a problematic state of affairs which offends one of the most basic principles of democratically legitimating advocacy; namely, that constituencies should speak with their own voice. The issue of ‘representing’ the under-organized or those absent from the political process – or at least the interest group system – is a well-discussed theme. It is accepted that this scenario is resolved, in practice, by various mechanisms. Lowery and Gray (2004) talk about the ‘ghosts’ that represent interest sets in the absence of any group pressure: for example civil servants ‘assume’ the mantle of advocates for client groups. Schlozman and Tierney (1986, 401) talk of ‘secondary advocacy’ and ‘vicarious representation’ to capture this type of dynamic. They say ‘broad public and the disadvantaged sometimes achieve vicarious representation in our political system, benefiting from the efforts of narrower interests working on their own behalf in the political process’. They use the example of social welfare group staff ‘promoting the interests of beneficiaries at the same time they protect their own jobs’. They also point to ‘the interests that broad public share in economic growth’ being pursued by ‘narrower interests seeking their own political goals’; for instance business groups seeking lower regulation. It is well accepted that this practice does go on. But there is a strong thread that suggests this state of affairs is far from ideal. Schlozman and Tierney conclude ‘those who are less well represented sometimes benefit from the organized interest activity of the kinds of interests that predominate in pressure politics. However such secondary advocacy is usually an imperfect substitute for direct participation in politics’ (Schlozman and Tierney 1986, 401; italics added). They elaborate further that ‘while self-interested efforts of organizations acting on behalf can ameliorate inequalities in representation, they do not overcome such inequalities’ (1986, 402). What we might call ‘serendipitous’ representation is a unreliable manner in which to have one’s interests advocated for; and, with ‘vicarious’ representation, it shares the status of being a second-rate solution. This posi-

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tion is echoed in Wyn Grant’s analysis of the malaise affecting British public policy. One of his concerns is that there are some ‘sections of society or causes that are less well represented’. Examples Grant provides here include ‘the elderly; tenants of social housing; the mentally ill; the homeless; lone parents, prisoners; refugees and asylum seekers’ (Grant 2001, 346). He says that whilst this deficiency is in practice addressed by other groups, who have the resources, speaking for these excluded groups, he argues, ‘however wellintentioned they are, they are not the authentic voice of the excluded groups themselves’ (2001, 346; italics added). Thus, a key factor in assessing the democratic contribution of groups is whether this authenticity gap can be bridged. The representation versus solidarity distinction elaborated earlier (see Chapter 4), suggests that authenticity deficits are only relevant for groups advocating for human constituencies. And, as reflected on in Chapter 5, and as Grant observes, many groups that under-perform are engaged in advocating for the marginalized or the under-privileged. At least in part this reliance on vicarious ‘representation’ arises because of material and resource deficiencies. For instance, homeless persons are, by definition, without financial resources. They may be contactable at their temporary accommodation – at least those in receipt of assistance from government – however for a group like Shelter in the UK, for example, there are real challenges in thinking through how they could enfranchise the homeless. The unemployed is another group under-represented. In the UK, Whiteley and Winyard (1987, 21) observed that ‘Despite the rapid growth in the number of unemployed in the 1970s, by the end of the decade there were only two organizations which specifically represented this groups: the National Federation of Claimants Union (NFCU) and Youthaid.’ In trying to account for the difficulties in organizing the unemployed they noted the high turnover in unemployed persons which made maintaining a group difficult, and the fact that many other lobby groups have some involvement in the unemployment issue (it was a heavily populated niche) (Whiteley and Winyard 1987, 22–3). In other cases, the identity of the constituency is in and of itself a barrier to direct collective organization and enfranchisement. For those suffering terminal illness, social and physical barriers hinder affiliation

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and enfranchisement. For some the social stigma of publicly acknowledging one’s status as suffering a disease prevents group formation and joining. On a very practical basis, patients may not be able to leave the home or may have a short time to live hence wishing to focus on battling a disease or spending time with family and friends (see Baggot et al. 2005). But it must be recognized that this ‘choice’ for groups to organize as if they were a solidarity group is to some extent a by-product of historical and social conditions. The virtue of benevolent philanthropy was well ingrained into nineteenthcentury British and North American cultural life. Those who were well off supported charitable endeavour for those less fortunate.1 And, in the case of some patient groups, this was accompanied by the prevailing view of sufferers as incapable of knowing their best interests. These types of factors can be found in the different styles of group form we witness today. Talking of patient groups in the UK, Baggot et al. say, ‘Many groups established in recent years were likely to have been formed by people who had lived with a condition, while groups that emerged in earlier periods tended to be established for philanthropic reasons or to extend the social rights of vulnerable people’ (2005, 284). It is also important to recognize that solidarity style solutions to advocating for the marginalized, or those deemed unable or lacking the capacity to know their own interests, has a broader legitimacy in social practice. For example, it is commonplace, and broadly accepted, that parents speak for their children. The best interests of young people are accepted as those stated for them by their parents; or else an adult legal guardian. While this accommodation was not inevitable or irresistible, it was, and is, a common solution to voicing the (perceived) interests of the less powerful or marginal in society. Older groups may have their origins in such a modus operandi, but the question is whether they can update themselves as times change. Some are optimistic. Baggot et al. (2005, 121) highlight the shift in group structures to involve health-service ‘users’, noting ‘Increasingly, longstanding groups formed in the altruistic tradition of providing services for users, now work with users.’ But the ‘working with’ could take many forms. A stronger formulation is the demand for enfranchisement by

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constituencies directly in the groups that advocate for them. Similarly, Lomas has noted, ‘More demand is being made for societies to devolve power to the people, to the service users, but it is difficult for something that was “for” to become something that is “of”’ (Lomas 2000, 97). The conversion of solidarity groups to representation groups is not a straightforward process, but it is possible. Such a conversion may seem ‘common sense’ to specialists in the disability rights or patient groups. But it is not anticipated in the broad literature on political organizations and that on groups specifically. The application or borrowing of broader theories of political organization, such as the Michels-Weber model of institutionalization, suggest the democratic hollowing out of groups over time; in addition to associated bureaucratization and professionalization. These images may well fit some cases, particularly trade unions and peak business groups with which most scholars deploying these concepts have been working. Although the previous two chapters show that such processes are not ‘natural’ or ‘inevitable’ even among economic groups, they must be made to happen by committed or unwitting group leaders. As such, it is worth dwelling, through nuanced historical evolution, on how such unanticipated conversions can and do occur. This chapter unpacks the apparent contemporary transformation of the Royal National Institute of Blind People (RNIB). The RNIB is a UK group that pursues the interests of the blind and partially sighted. As described briefly in Chapter 5, in 2002 the RNIB decided to affiliate the blind into membership and to give the blind a majority of seats on its governing council. In so doing, the RNIB had changed from a group operating in benevolent solidarity with the blind to a group organizing the blind to advocate for themselves. It would be easy to account for the RNIB case by assigning it to part of such a general trend among like-groups converting or modernizing from philanthropic origins (Baggot et al. 2005). But, as will become evident, the RNIB was explicitly established as a group of blind persons. Its oscillation from a representation group to a benevolent solidarity group and back to a representation group offers a valuable insight into the process of group (democratic) evolution. Viewed from a contemporary perspective it can easily slot in as part of a broad trend. But the legacy of its

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representative origins is perhaps crucial in explaining how and why the RNIB could change (where others have not). It provides some clues as to the limits on this type of democratic conversion. While just one case, it does suggest a relatively optimistic note about the prospects for more democratic practice among groups with an authenticity deficit.

RNIB origins: the blind doing it for themselves! The British and Foreign Society for Improving the Embossed Literature of the Blind was formed in 1868 by Dr Thomas Armitage. He was in his late forties and had retired as a medical doctor due to the onset of blindness. Armitage was a man of means and education, so upon giving up his practice he turned himself to the cause of the blind. He is quoted as saying, ‘I cannot . . . conceive any occupation so congenial to a blind man of education and leisure as the attempt to advance the education and improve the condition of his fellow-sufferers’ (Thomas 1957, 12; italics added). In establishing the Society, he was joined by three blind men – James Gale, W. Fenn and Daniel Connelly – all similarly well educated. This step by Armitage and his blind colleagues was not itself novel. It is important to appreciate that blind persons, compared to other disabled groups in society, had attracted the support of the establishment. The Indigent Blind Visiting Society was founded by Lord Shaftesbury and Lord Edbury in 1834 and the rather peripheral sounding Forfarshire Mission of the Blind had three earls among its vice-presidents (Oliphant 2006, 56). But it was also blind people themselves who took the initiative of developing facilities to ease the position of others in the same situation (Abel 2008, 2). For instance, Elizabeth Gilbert, herself blind, founded the Association for Promoting the General Welfare of the Blind in 1856 (Lees and Ralph 2004, 150). So Armitage was following an established path. The length, descriptive accuracy and clumsiness of the group’s initial title underlines its rather narrow early aim; to ‘secure the adoption of a uniform system of embossed type to be used throughout the country’ (Thomas 1957, 13). But this should not be misunderstood as a lack of ambition. The title

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was shortened soon after to the British and Foreign Blind Association (BFBA)2 and the articles submitted at its incorporation under the Companies Act in 1902 were more ambitiously framed to include blind welfare more generally (Wilson 1945, 66). This reflected Armitage’s view that help given to the blind should be targeted at economic selfsufficiency rather than ‘maintenance’ or ‘protection’ (Phillips 2004, 216). The initial group of well-educated and wealthy blind men met in and worked from Armitage’s house in Hyde Park, London. The new body had an Executive Council which was to ‘be confined to persons so blind as to be unable to read print’; in addition to having knowledge of at least three embossed characters and no ‘pecuniary interests’ in any system (Thomas 1957, 13; italics added). A General Council was also formed, to include both blind persons and the general public; both of whom ‘subscribed not less than half a guinea to the funds’ (1957, 14). Very early on, in 1870, the fledgling group settled upon Braille as the preferred embossed type (1957, 15).3 According to the RNIB’s history of Armitage, the initial group was guided by the maxim that ‘the relative merits of the various methods of education through the sense of touch should be decided by those, and only those, who have to rely on this sense’.4 The group was established as a group of the blind helping the blind. But in 1887, the rule requiring Executive Council members to be blind was rescinded, with seeing individuals accepted into membership.5 The Annual Report for that year states: It has for some time been difficult to find a sufficient number of suitable blind gentlemen to act in the Executive Council especially as to be of any use they must be resident in London. This has induced a departure from the original rule, that all members of the Executive Council should be blind. This rule was most necessary when the questions to be decided were the best system of reading and writing, the best arrangement of maps, arithmetic boards, etc., all of which points had to be determined by touch; but now that the methods of education, recommended by the Council, have been generally adopted, it seems unnecessary that it should continue to consist exclusively of blind or partially blind persons. (BFBA Annual Report, 1887, 5)

While the decision, it appears, was taken because of a lack of

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blind ‘talent’ it was no doubt also legitimated by the fact that the organization had decided its next step was to go into the printing of Braille and this no longer required the direct involvement of exclusively blind persons. Being blind was not deemed important in pursuing the broader issues of social inclusion. This innocuous-looking change was to establish a long legacy for subsequent, and more substantial, group evolution. As will become clear, this was a highly significant change. It is salient that improving the condition of blind persons at the time did not (as Baggot et al. 2005 suggest), in and of itself, seem to recommend a particular type of organizational form or democratic practices (solidarity or representation). Radically, at least for its time, the National League of the Blind and Disabled (NLBD) – established soon after the BFBA in 1899 – was a trade union for blind and disabled persons only (associate membership for partially sighted workers). Blind persons were being employed in sheltered workshops and the League organized and represented them (see Phillips 2004, 306; Danieli and Wheeler 2006, 491). Much later, in the late 1940s, the National Federation of the Blind of the United Kingdom (the ‘Federation’) was formed as a direct membership organization for the blind and deaf-blind. It was popular among blind people who worked in white-collar and professional roles, for whom the League’s industrial role did not seem relevant. Like the League it has a strong face-to-face branch structure, with branches in control of funds they raise directly, and then donations passed on to the central body. Both the League and the Federation were constructed, from birth, as representative organizations of the blind for the blind.6 And both organizations were strongly opposed to the preponderance of sighted persons on bodies governing their welfare, believing they could not be as committed as the blind themselves (Nightingale 1973, 330). Against this backdrop, the RNIB’s ‘choice’ of form looks more puzzling. But the social status of Dr Armitage and his colleagues was no doubt significant in their pursuit of a philanthropic or benevolent organizing model.

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After the founder: the death of Armitage Quite rightly, group scholars emphasize the important role of ‘entrepreneurs’ who found groups (Salisbury 1969). Beyond the ‘mere’ act of making formation possible, they also are important in shaping the form in which the group is born. But, in groups with any degree of longevity, initial founding entrepreneurs rarely last. As the ‘founding entrepreneur ’ gives way to new leaders, new phases of group life unfold and beget new challenges and opportunities. The Armitage family was effectively the benefactor for the early organization through its first decade and a half. But Dr Armitage passed away in 1890, after which his wife took over; but she too died, in 1901. This had quite significant implications. Prior to her death, Mrs Armitage was paying all the costs of the association, including salaries and rents (Thomas 1957, 26). These funds were no longer available after her death; moreover, the group could no longer use the Armitage home as its headquarters. Over the next decade it moved to purpose-built offices, and steered by a new Director, Mr C.A. Pearson, it expanded and professionalized its fundraising processes (1957, 32). As referred to in the previous chapter, Pearson operated according to three basic maxims: that increased revenue required upfront investment in terms of labour; that the blind themselves were the best fundraisers; and that small donations from the working class were an untapped but lucrative resource (Phillips 2004, 376). This created a foothold for a new type of fundraising and put the NIB on a more solid financial footing. This has uncanny parallels with the growth of what are today major groups like Oxfam and the National Trust (see Chapter 8). This is as much as to confirm the early BFBA as a group conceiving of itself as a solidarity by practice group – soliciting mass support for the provision of services and advocacy of blind persons (albeit some blind persons were key actors within the group). In 1914 the association took on its new name – the National Institute for the Blind – and its new HQ was opened by the King and Queen. Pearson was made President of the NIB as recognition of his work in pushing the Association to its next level post-Armitage (Thomas 1957, 34). While the NIB had local branches, much like in the RSPB, their work

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was ‘to arouse public interest in national and local work for the blind, and to raise funds to carry on and extend that work’ (NIB 1913 Annual Report, 4). In the same time period, the NIB negotiated agreements with local voluntary agencies also working with the blind to share national donations. The NIB reported: ‘Under this scheme, a sum of approximately £293,000 has, since 1915, been allocated by the Institute to local agencies throughout England and Wales’ (NIB 1926 Report of the Exec. Council, 6).

An umbrella group for the blind? The roots of the contemporary reforms to the RNIB regarding blind representation can be traced back to the developments of 1925/6, 1931 and 1937. These successive and tightly bound waves of reform radically altered the composition and, thus, the internal politics of governing the NIB. Thomas notes, ‘For nearly sixty years, 1868 to 1926, the Institute’s Executive had been a relatively small group of men (and later of men and women) beginning with the founder and four or five finger readers, and later varying in numbers from about twelve to nineteen’ (1957, 44). This was about to change. For some time the NIB had been funding local voluntary associations in their service provision through centrally directed fundraising. This culminated in the establishment of the Greater London Fund for the Blind in 1920, which combined appeals from the national and local bodies and agreed on a distribution of the proceeds. However, the Blind Persons Act (1920) gave responsibility for many services to local authorities7 – some of which – such as home teaching and poverty relief for the blind – had been hitherto supplied by the NIB (NIB 1930–1 Annual Report, 7). Thus, coordination of funding and of service provision among the National Institute, local voluntary agencies, and local authorities became an acute and controversial issue. Against this backdrop, the Union of Counties Associations for the Blind pursued a Decentralization Scheme: which would mean fundraising conducted locally would be spent locally. The NIB rejected the decentralization plan of the local bodies. But, in negotiations with the Ministry of Health, it struck a compromise whereby the

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NIB’s Executive Council would be enlarged to accommodate representatives of these local and regional bodies, but collections and distribution would remain national. Any disagreements over allocations were to be resolved by the Ministry. It was against this backdrop that in 1924 an agreement, drafted by a Committee of the National and Local associations, was signed formalizing arrangements for the distribution of funding and creating a mechanism for the coordination of services. Most significantly for our present purposes, the agreement created constitutional changes within the NIB which incorporated some of these local bodies into its governance structure via seats on the Council. As the agreement records: In order that a proper understanding as to the needs and importance of both national and local services may be fostered, the agreement states that the Council of the National Institute is to be reconstituted on a more representative basis. Accordingly, the 19 existing members of the Council are to appoint 17 additional members, representing local voluntary agencies for the blind and local authorities concerned in the administration of the Blind Persons Act, thus bringing the council up to the full strength of 36 members. (NIB 1926 Report of Exec. Council, 8)

This was quite a radical reorganization. In 1931, this initial reform was extended in a similar direction when the Council adopted a new Constitution which increased its size to 62 and adopted a structure that made it ‘predominantly a representative body directly elected by organisations for and of the blind throughout the country’ (NIB 1930–1 Annual Report, 8). To achieve this ‘representation’, the NIB Council was constituted by five broad groups: Group A (representatives of the Counties Associations for the Blind); Group B (representatives of national bodies); Group C (representatives of public authorities); Group D (national members); and Group E (representatives of workshops and other voluntary organizations). Groups of the blind were a sub-category of Group B. The NIB constitution at the time stated that of the 24 ‘national members’ (Group D), not less that one-third should be blind. That would mean a minimum of 8 out of 62 seats in the Council would be guaranteed for the blind. This was a small figure, but it established two important principles: (i) that the presence of blind persons in the NIB could be regulated by the (re)allocation of

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seats between groups on the Council, and (ii) that blind persons should be given special status within the NIB. This move was reinforced further in the mid-1930s when debate again centered on the co-ordination of services for the blind. Again, the County Councils Association lobbied the government with respect to the lack of co-ordination in provision of services for the blind. It proposed a National Body be established to achieve co-ordination, and it suggested the NIB take over this mantle. But in return it wanted further representation on the NIB Executive. In anticipation of government action, the NIB acted unilaterally, by expanding its Council size to 97 and reorganizing the way it was constituted (Thomas 1957, 46). But, again, blind persons were granted another important change. Amidst a reshuffling of group labels and allocations, in 1937 ‘Group D’ was recast as ‘organizations of blind persons’. The groupings – but not the specific allocations/entitlements – established in 1937 were later recorded in the Royal Charter (1949), and remained in place until 2001. The structure set out in the Royal Charter is for an Executive Council as governing body, which consists of quotas for five broad groupings (different to those set out a decade earlier) (see Table 9.1). Table 9.1 RNIB Executive Council composition, as at 1949 Groups A B C D E Total

Details Regional bodies Local government bodies Agencies for the blind and national bodies Organizations of blind persons National group

No. of reps 31 20 12 12 21 96

Source: Royal Charter (Privy Council Office) Groups A–D were appointed by organizations outside of the RNIB. Group E was appointed by members of groups A–D.

The preamble to the Royal Charter (1949) records this set of early reforms as follows: That the Institute took steps in agreement with the Minister of Health in 1926 and 1931 to add to its Executive Council a

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number of persons representing other interests in blind welfare and that in 1937 it accepted in so far as it affected itself a scheme of reorganisation adopted by County Councils Association and the Association of Municipal Organisations whereby it was recommended that the Institute should be the National Body therein referred to subject to its being suitably reorganised in particular by further extension of representation of other interests in blind welfare on its Executive Council . . .

At the time, consolidation was viewed as an important step to protect the role of voluntarism versus welfare state assistance to the blind. The leaders of the NIB at the time said this integration ‘should strengthen and consolidate voluntarism in work for the blind at a time when municipalisation is much in the foreground’ (NIB 1930–1 Annual Report). Arguably, the contemporary changes of the RNIB can be traced to this series of reforms. The reforms also changed the complexion of the RNIB, which shaped the dynamics of subsequent change in two important ways. First, the inclusion of ‘organizations of blind persons’ into the RNIB made blind persons’ rights an issue. But, secondly, the effort to obtain direct membership of the RNIB by blind persons was held up by these same organizations – this would undo their separate role and identity as organizations of the blind (increase competition).

The 1970s reforms: the resurgence of the ‘authenticity’ issue The roots of the RNIB were in an organization explicitly organizing the blind, albeit the genteel end of the social curve. All Council members in Armitage’s group had to be blind. This was relaxed soon after, to increase the pool of eligible trustees and to reflect a broader mission. But successive reforms in the 1920s and 1930s had transformed the RNIB into a structure of member associations or organizations, each allocated seats on the Executive Council and with the power to elect additional co-opted members. Since the Royal Charter in 1949, the composition of the Council has varied. Amendments were made to enlarge the size, and the names of the member groups changed as some fell by the wayside and others became more prominent.

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Moreover, actual sitting numbers changed as some seats went unfilled and lay vacant. But, as Table 9.2 confirms, the overall number of blind persons sitting on the Council has increased since the 1960s. This reflects two broad developments. Firstly, the reforms in the 1970s that raised substantially the number of seats for Group D (organizations of the blind). And secondly, the practice of filling seats in other Groups A–C and Group E – seats not constitutionally required to be filled by blind persons – with blind persons.

Table 9.2 Composition of Executive Council of RNIB 1966–2001, selected yearsa Group A B C D E Total % blindb

Details Regional bodies Local government bodies Agencies for the blind and national bodies Organizations of blind persons National group

1966 1971 1975 1980 1986 1996 2001 35 23

34 21

30 20

30 18

20 10

10 8

10 8

14

14

15

14

10

28

30

6 22 100 20

12 24 105 26

30 25 120 40

30 23 115 45

30 23 93 58

44 21 111 65

48 21 117 65

Source: Author’s own calculations based on Annual Reports a These figures do not include Honorary Officers and Standing Committee Chairmen which seems to be a category intermittently reported, thus omitted. b All trustees who are blind, across groups.

The details for 1975, compared to 1971, show a large jump in the percentage of blind persons in the RNIB, which can be attributed directly to the reforms that increased the number of Group D places from 12 to 30. Two points are salient. Firstly, the creation of Group D in 1937, even with a very small allocation of seats, established the practice of allocating dedicated places for groups of the blind in governance structures. Actors within the NIB were thus able to argue for an increase in numbers, rather than reassert the general principle of having groups of the blind present. But almost four decades had passed since the establishment of Group D, and the allocation had hardly budged. Thus, secondly, this was the start of a conscious campaign for blind presence in the RNIB. This change is the starting point for the ‘new’ reforms heralded in the early and mid-2000s. But how did this come about?

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Internal politics: winning the argument for majority blind representation Ian Bruce, a long-serving Director of the RNIB, provides a useful insight into the internal politics of change in the RNIB at that time (forthcoming).8 The key point here is that two representative organizations of the Blind – the National Federation of the Blind (Federation) and the National League of the Blind and Disabled (League) – were active in launching a campaign for 50 per cent representation of blind persons on the RNIB Council. Both bodies had gained representation on the Council in the 1960s, largely because of the legitimacy garnered by their direct membership of the blind. Their initial representation (two seats each) was low, so they sought to create a public debate – and a public relations crisis for the RNIB – to push their case for more. According to a Trustee at the time, the key to change was the League and Federation agreeing to combine forces – they had a longstanding tension.9 Their campaign succeeded – with coverage by The Times highlighting the lack of blind representation proving decisive. Bruce (forthcoming) reports that the RNIB leadership were sympathetic to the argument, yet they were stuck because any gain by Group D had to be agreed by the Council which was dominated by Groups A–C and E. Any push for a big gain in places had to be tempered by the politics of a non-blind dominated Council. Initial agreement on expanding Group D to 20 by redistributing from Groups A–C was rejected by the League and Federation who insisted on 50 per cent. The RNIB ultimately responded using the same formula as in 1920s and 30s: they recast the allocation of seats to Group D by raising the size of the Council. There was no commitment to a 50 per cent level in principle; this came much later in 2001. Nevertheless, these 30 blind members represented an important force within the RNIB. Ian Bruce (forthcoming) reports that by the time he was installed as Executive Director in 1983 the 30 Group D members ‘were a whipped group of 30 voting as a block with regular support of many of the individual blind council members, and it effectively controlled the trustee Council on the majority of issues’. And, as Table 9.2 demonstrates, the general increase in other groups of blind persons meant that a decade later blind

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persons were a majority on the Council. This apparent ‘win’ was not universally greeted that way by the broader Federation and League membership, as Bruce (forthcoming) observes. Thus, the thirst for reform remained. And the reformers awaited further opportunities – first by trying to formalize voting blocks across ‘Groups’ and then by pushing for reforms that took nearly a further two more decades to achieve. Of course the Group D reforms were also emboldened by the general social conditions that started to question the legitimacy of benevolent charity offered by non-blind persons to the blind. The general disability movement actively campaigned for representation within groups advocating their interests – and even blind persons on the RNIB Council were ostracized as being conservative within the broader movement.10 By mobilizing this broad mood, the Federation and League were able to modernize the RNIB to some extent, and get the ball of reform rolling. In winning their internal arguments, they were able to mobilize arguments that drew on the founding principles of the RNIB – namely Armitage’s insistence on a group of blind persons. While his initial innocuous decision had ‘let the non-blind in’, so to speak, his initial legacy was deployed to reinstate a group authentically representing the blind.

Expansion to political campaigning and blind persons’ rights The early 1980s marked something of a turning point in the RNIB’s approach to policy work. A more overt political strategy was developed. Direct service provision for the blind was maintained, but this was combined with a campaigning emphasis around the rights of blind persons. This necessitated renewed attention to the involvement of blind persons in the organization. Personnel were crucial to the change. A new Director, Ian Bruce, brought an approach combining marketing and campaigning to the group. As will become evident, this ‘campaigning turn’ arguably accelerated the desire to achieve some form of representative status for the RNIB more quickly. Engaging in campaigning, as opposed to simply delivering services, left the RNIB vulnerable to the

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criticism that it lacked authenticity. And democratic representative legitimacy – or at least the aura of it – is something that policy makers at the time started to inherently value. Representative groups of the blind – namely the Federation and the League – ended up with large proportions of nominees on the assembly because of internal lobbying within the RNIB in the period 1968–74. But in the 1980s an effort was made to be seen to engage with blind persons more generally. Initially, this appears to have been achieved through the frame of ‘customers’. In the 1979/80 Annual Report, mention is made of ‘RNIB’s Consumers’ Subcommittee, whose members are all blind, [and which] tries out a variety of goods for blind people’ (RNIB 1979/80 Annual Report). The former Chief Executive of the RNIB explained that as early as the 1980s, the ‘majority of the RNIB executive council and its main standing committees comprised blind and partially sighted people . . . and the majority of these were elected representatives of organizations of blind and partially sighted people’ (Bruce 2005, 125). At this stage he was able to confidently conclude that ‘the RNIB’s end beneficiaries decided who represented them, and they helped propose policy and monitor implementation’ (2005, 125). But this was not yet formalized within the RNIB constitution. By the 1990s, Group D came into the ascendancy. Along with blind Group E members – combined with the poor attendance of many Group A–C members – they were effectively in control of the Trustee body. Thus, the issue of blind majority and becoming a membership body were put back on the agenda. Group D ascendancy was aided by the decline in conflict between the League and Federation (the current RNIB Chairman was a former Federation leader and a Group D delegate). But in terms of creating a membership group – that is, direct blind persons joining as individuals – reformers faced an initial difficulty in the form of Group D organizations themselves. According to Bruce, there was a concern that a mass membership would create an alternative – and perhaps more legitimate – voice for the blind within the RNIB. It might divide the blind, rather than enhance their hand. But this was an argument that defied the principle of having the blind run their own affairs; a principle that was crucial in assisting Group D organizations during the 1970s reforms that gained them an increase in Executive seats.

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They could hardly undermine that principle, particularly given that it was also to be used to formalize the majority of blind persons in Trustee bodies within the RNIB constitution. As it turns out, the main challenge was not to agree the principle of broad-based individual blind membership, but to actually get the details organized. A big concern was whether members would get privileged access to services – some were not happy with that. Would services be constructed as an Olsonian style selective incentive? So in Ian Bruce’s time, several proposals for a membership programme failed. But as is explained below, the reform did go through, but with members getting modest benefits like a magazine, and services remaining available to all-comers.

Present day: the 2001–7 reforms As outlined at the outset of this chapter, in 2001a set of radical reforms were unveiled as the RNIB ‘transformed itself from being an organization “for” blind people into a membership organization “of” blind people’ (Bruce 2005, 288). Its 2006 ‘Governance for the Future’ report outlined the three main changes: (i) a reform of the composition of Trustee bodies to ensure a blind majority; (ii) the establishment of direct membership for blind persons in the RNIB; and (iii) a change of name. A blind majority The major outcome of this reform process was a constitutional guarantee that governance structures would have a blind majority. The agitators of the 1970s had finally achieved their goal of a constitutional guarantee of a majority of blind persons in the RNIB decision making structures. The large trustee body, the Executive Council, was replaced by a small RNIB Board comprising 24 trustees. The Board’s composition is a change from the old Council – it now consists of a mix of expert, country and organization nominees. At face value this may seem to undo the basic umbrella structure of the RNIB. But, the Board is elected by the Assembly which, in turn, is put together in a way not dissimilar to the old Council (see Table 9.3). The RNIB says ‘The

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historic link between RNIB’s governing body and the range of organizations “of” and “for” the blind and partially sighted people will therefore be maintained.’ But, importantly, a majority of the Board – the supreme decision making body and the body of Trustees for the RNIB – must be blind or partially sighted. The board is majority elected by the Assembly (18 of 24 places), and with several additional places for co-opted members. In the event that the Assembly elected a non-blind majority, a majority would be achieved by the Board itself filling its quota of 6 co-opted members from among blind people. A similar approach is taken to ensuring a majority in the Assembly. Here, a majority was to be achieved in practice by ensuring that Group D ‘National Members’ are elected from among blind and partially sighted candidates first, until the 51% quota in the Assembly is reached. To give an indication of the change, the 2002 reforms delivered an Assembly (renamed Executive Council) with 36 representatives of organizations ‘of ’ the blind; three times as many as was in place at the Royal Charter of 1949. But the most important change was the undertaking, in by-laws, to ensure a majority of members are at any time blind or partially sighted. Table 9.3 Executive Council/Assembly composition, post-2001 Groups Group Group Group Group Group Total a

A B C D E

Details Representatives ‘for ’ the blinda Representatives ‘of ’ the blinda Members representing Scotland, Wales and NI National membersb Honorary officers –

Quota 18 36 15 18 3 90

Organizations eligible to nominate representatives are yet to be decided.

b

Elected by broader individuals who are direct members of RNIB (more places filled as membership grows).

Direct blind membership Secondly, the RNIB established – or more accurately reactivated – a membership programme whereby blind and partially sighted persons were asked to join directly as members. The 2001 Annual Report stated: ‘We have

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introduced an RNIB membership scheme to offer people with sight problems, their families, friends and carers, closer contact with us and more say in how we are run.’ These ‘members’ were granted the right to directly elect up to 18 members to the Assembly, and up to three members on the Board. This was significant because it signalled the start to yet another thread of organizational evolution: the recasting of the RNIB from a confederation of blind organizations to a mass-membership group of the blind (as the League and Federation had been for some time). This move is significant because it potentially creates two seats of power for the blind voice in the RNIB – massmember-elected representatives and the representatives of organizations of the blind. With falling member levels in the Federation and the League (the two main representationbased organizations of blind persons within the RNIB), the legitimacy of the organizations of the blind may be increasingly questioned. Ironically, in a decade’s time, the innocuous introduction of a small number of directly elected blind members and a membership scheme may constitute the start of a conversion to a mass-membership group and the end of dominance by representatives of groups of the blind in the RNIB. But they needn’t worry yet. As it turns out, the mass membership has not yet materialized. Elections for massmembership seats on the Assembly were first undertaken in 2003. But no nominations were received until 2006. And in 2008 only two of the 18 places for National Members were occupied by blind individuals elected in this manner (the balance was elected by the Assembly from a list of blind candidates). In the case of the modern RNIB it is finding mass-membership mobilization very hard to achieve. Change of name To reflect these two changes, thirdly, the RNIB changed its name to Royal National Institute of the Blind. In 2007, the name changed further to Royal National Institute of Blind People. The logo and strapline changed to ‘Supporting blind and partially sighted people’. Summary: achieving change The reasons for the 2000 reforms centre on the question of external legitimacy. Bruce elaborates that such a move

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confirms the principle that ‘blind people should be in charge of their own affairs’. Moreover, it enhanced ‘RNIB’s legitimacy as a campaigner and pressure group’ and ‘its legitimacy as a representative service provider ’ (Bruce 2005, 288). By its own account, ‘The new structure means that RNIB will become an organization “of” the blind and partially sighted people, i.e. one whose constitution ensures that a majority of its governing body, and a majority of any membership, are blind or partially sighted’ (RNIB 2001 Annual Report). Bruce explains that ‘it also made it [RNIB] distinct from other disability service charities within the visual impairment field’ (2005, 288). So there is value in being one of the first ‘big players’ to reflect a more representative identity. The lack of authenticity was becoming too costly to the RNIB’s external image, and change had to be stepped up. But several challenges remain under this ‘new’ RNIB structure. The new governance structures reflect the objective of a blind majority: however it has yet to iron out how to allocate spaces in the Assembly for the ‘organizations of ’ and ‘organizations for ’ that were the backbone of the RNIB for decades. The declining memberships of both the League and the Federation – the two main ‘groups of ’ – may help ease the job of reform-minded leaders. The membership scheme had ambitious goals. Initially a target of 12,000 was set by the RNIB strategic plan. After the first year they reported ‘Our Membership scheme has been a fantastic success during 2002/03. Our 4000 current members influence what we do and are a part of our governance structure. We aim to reach 50,000 members by 2006’ (RNIB 2002/3 Annual Report). Yet, they report 8,000 members at March 2007 (RNIB 2006 Annual Report, 4). As it turns out, what is most remarkable about groups ‘of ’ the blind is how poorly supported they are. The estimate is 350,000 registered blind persons in the UK, and more than 2 million with undiagnosed sight loss. Yet the RNIB has 8,000 members; the Federation has less than 1,000! A core claim about the new structure is that it actively involves members directly in guiding the growing campaigning identity of the RNIB. It says ‘A growing number of members are playing a crucial role in influencing RNIB’s direction and development’ (RNIB 2003/4 Annual Report). And further, ‘Working more closely with blind and partially

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sighted people will make us more successful. For example, RNIB members decided on the priorities for change in RNIB’s General Election manifesto 2005 and demanded that choice is central to how blind and partially sighted people live their lives’ (RNIB 2004/5 Annual Report). And further, ‘RNIB members have helped us choose just what we campaign for – demanding that choice is central to how blind and partially sighted people live their lives.’ (RNIB 2004/5 Annual Report). A new strategic direction document for 2005–2009 reveals a further elaboration of the membership-based identity. It says emphatically, ‘RNIB wants its focus to be bringing about positive change for blind and partially sighted people. It wants to lead this change by having a strong membership.’ These aspirations and statements about a new memberdriven representative identity are clear and heartfelt. But, this active participation is still mostly achieved as a byproduct of representatives from ‘organizations of ’ the blind. For now, at least, the blind still have their voice heard through the representative legitimacy of the ‘organizations of ’ and indirectly through ‘unaffiliated’ blind persons appointed to the Assembly and Council. The membership organization agenda is interesting, because the RNIB has always been, at least constitutionally, a membership group. The history written by Thomas (1957) mentions the ‘members’ of the BFBA and their fees. Moreover, the early charters and by-laws make mention of members and member fees, as do Annual Reports. However, as a former Trustee explained, this membership approach was not well used.11 The members of the Executive Council were then automatically members of the RNIB. Beyond that, the by-laws stated that for a small fee anyone could join as a member. Thus, the former Trustee explained that after the General Council meeting, an ‘annual meeting of the Institute’ would take place, where members could turn up and hear the year ’s events: ‘Three or four people would trundle in, we would repeat the business for them, and they trundled out.’ So achieving the ‘new’ membership organization was more a task of better utilizing or reactivating existing constitutional mechanisms as opposed to reengineering the organization. According to a former Director, the membership approach had a substantial lag time. Ian Bruce explains that the strategy to have ‘blind members’ was

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first mooted at Council in 1994. It was not implemented until 2002. This is perhaps explained by the substantial internal debate and argument required to push forward a membership model. And, as such, it underscores the importance of group-specific internal dynamics in the way environmental changes are ‘ingested’ and adapted to. The same environmental changes at the same time may produce different organizational responses.

Conclusion The literature, whether rooted in a social movement, NGO or interest group tradition, seems to anticipate the hollowing out of groups born representative. But, as has been discussed previously, many groups are not born representative at all. For some, this is simply because the constituency they seek to advocate for cannot have voice or be organized. They could not adequately operationalize representation. Yet this is also the case for groups that theoretically ought to be conceived as representative endeavours. Group scholarship tends to emphasize and study groups with unmistakable political ambitions. This is correct, and also explicitly called for in the literature. Indeed, the definition used in this volume suggests that interest groups ought to have an explicit political agenda and affiliate individuals (Jordan et al. 2004). However, in the case of groups advocating for marginalized groups, the philanthropic tradition has been for groups providing services to also, over time, come to voice the interests of those whom they serve. One of the important and salient forces for democratic rejuvenation within the group system is, thus, in the area of conversion of philanthropic groups – formed with a solidarity style mission in mind – into representation style groups. That is, for groups to fulfil their democratic representative promise and potential. This chapter has concentrated on the disability arena, which has been part of a broader trend towards fulfilling representative promise; to address the authenticity deficit. The ‘rights’ agenda of the 1960s was one broad sea-change that swept society and (de)legitimated many practices of solidarity substituting for representation. Instances of

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organizations advocating for – but not organizing, affiliating or democratically accountable to – groups like patients, the disabled, mentally ill, young persons, migrant and ethnic minorities or women were criticized as lacking legitimacy. Reformers were active in seeking to launch new groups on a representation model. Beresford and Campbell observe that, ‘Disabled people’s and service user organisations . . . have clearly given considerable thought to democracy, both in their own organisations and in society more generally, not least because we are so used to living in a culture where other people speak for us or we are asked to speak for ourselves only as individuals’ (Beresford and Campbell 1994, 323). They highlight how some groups have had to constantly reorganize to meet increased expectations of direct member involvement, citing the case of the BCODP [British Council of Organisations of Disabled Peoples] which they say ‘has changed its structure three times to make it more democratic and to include more people’ (1994, 321). While ‘hollowing out’ may be a population-wide trend, it is also the case that groups can be democratized too. Why and how are, nevertheless, key questions. This chapter has established that democratic conversion is possible, but also some of the limits on change. It has sought to emphasize that while social forces may legitimate a representational model for group conduct, this is only part of the story of change. Groups cannot – and do not – simply ‘snap’ into conformance with what the community or policy makers determine are legitimate forms of conduct. Internal processes – and political processes – are a key part of the pace, rate and direction of change. Changes to the RNIB – specifically the shift towards the inclusion of more blind persons and groups of the blind – have been achieved (and can be mapped) through (a) reorganizing the groups, and, thereafter, (b) shifting council quotas across these broad groupings. The final transformation – some may say reinstatement – of the RNIB as a membership-based representation group of the blind in the 2000 reforms owes much to the way in which reforms in the 1930s progressed. For a start, the establishment of Group D in 1937 created a clear precedent that blind persons should have dedicated presence on the Council. Thus, subsequent reforms in that direction did not have to win the battle over the legitimacy of

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such an argument again, but simply argue for an increase in numbers. As Bruce (forthcoming) reminds us, ‘the objective was “simply” the expansion of an existing category rather than establishing the legitimacy of the category’. Two other mechanisms were crucial, an open and semi-independent magazine that carried criticism of prevailing representational policies (the New Beacon) and a democratic process which enabled all stakeholders some space to air views and resolve differences. Through these venues, voice was enabled without exit. Perceptively, Ian Bruce (forthcoming) observes that the RNIB provided would-be reformers within the group ‘historical traditions and institutional capacities to be exploited’. The potential for this pattern of democratic conversion to occur – from solidarity to representation practices – is not something innate to such groups. While the mood for change is there, many – perhaps most – such groups retain their philanthropic solidarity style form. This may be for various reasons. It may be that they retain a strong – and probably locally based – focus on service delivery to vulnerable persons. They are very intermittently, and only indirectly and informally, engaged in policy advocacy. For instance, they may help contribute to ‘needs’ analysis for a local authority or determine who is more deserving of assistance. But they do not have policy officers, nor engage in campaigns. Alternatively, it may be that mobilizing the constituency is impossible, or at least still very problematic. For the RNIB, it would seem that a longstanding legacy of representation – dating back to its formation – was sufficient to make it an issue of internal political contention. Moreover, its campaigning turn in the 1980s combined with a vociferous disability movement, and an articulate and well-educated cohort of blind agitators, served to carry the conversion process along. This conversion process was not inevitable. Just as hollowing out is not necessarily a natural path for economic representation groups to tread, neither is it the case that philanthropic solidarity groups are destined to convert to representation when confronted with powerful social and political norms to do so. Of course, the outstanding question here is what is to be done where this ‘transformation’ does not occur among similar groups? What is to be done about authenticity

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deficits? As outlined in Chapter 3, one solution proposed in the literature is to exclude groups from political processes on the grounds that they lack authenticity. There is every reason to have sympathy with the point, and to concur with the normative case. However, this implies a conflict between two important imperatives. On the one hand, the desire to have those capable of it to speak in their own voice – to be organized and enfranchised in the groups that claim to advocate for them. There is the imperative to insist on authentic representation where that is possible. On the other hand there is the aim of political inclusion. Such groups often operate as an admittedly second best option: leaders accept they should enfranchise their constituencies but such a process is impractical. They often look to other processes of involvement or accountability, albeit short of affiliation, to beef up legitimacy. But, if such groups were removed, then the risk is that their message is lost altogether, and a constituency’s voice is silenced. This volume errs on the side of supplementary representation through a solidarity form of group rather than the alternative of removal from the process. As Small and Rhodes explain, the issue of ‘representation’ has already come to be crucial in allowing user groups policy access. They say: For many users’ groups, the alternative of sending delegates with democratic mandate to represent members’ views is often an unrealistic option. Few organisations of service users have the resources or infrastructure to canvass members’ views. Resource and organisational constraints are most severe when people are geographically scattered and have problems of communication and mobility. Such people are most likely to be excluded from both user involvement initiatives and exercises in general public participation. Issues of representation, whether in terms of statistically representative samples or democratic representation, are even more challenging and unlikely to be fulfilled. For these groups, in particular, the quest for true representation is an elusive goal which inhibits rather than enhances efforts to involve people. (Small and Rhodes 2000, 51; italics added)

This trend is vitally important in relation to democratic governance. More broadly, having people speaking for themselves enhances the authenticity of the representative process (Grant 2001; Phillips 2001). As has been argued in Chapter 4, groups ought to practise representation – characterized by

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democratic means of accountability and authorization between a constituency and those advocating on their behalf – where such a form of organization is indeed possible. And clearly, in the case of the blind, the criteria of presence and voice are certainly evident. The force of these arguments in bringing about change within groups cannot be easily dismissed. In fact institutional variants of organizational sociology emphasize the role of legitimate norms and constructs in shaping organizational forms deployed (DiMaggio and Powell 1991; Greenwood and Hinings 1996). But equally, groups – and institutions or organizations more generally – do not simply ‘snap’ into conformance with dominant social constructs of how they ‘should’ or ‘ought’ to be organized. Multiple logics of appropriateness (legitimate archetypes, configurations or standard operating procedures) exist within a formal organization at any one time, and changes (incremental or radical) in dominant logics are mostly contested; moreover, losers typically stay and lurk around to fight another day (see DiMaggio 1991; Thelen 2003). Variation in form within populations of like groups attests to the thesis that there is no optimal model for groups to follow in reaction to challenges (see for example Minkoff 1999). In sum, we should be wary of arguments that imply groups follow some pre-ordained cycle of evolution (age arguments) or adhere loyally to changing times (period arguments), and take a more contingent view of group careers.

Notes *

I would like to acknowledge the research assistance of Danielle Arthur who managed to unearth an insightful historical literature on the organization and representation of the blind. Also thanks to RNIB staff, particularly Ms Lucie Dutton, and its former Director Ian Bruce, for being generous with their time and in responding to my numerous requests for information. 1 This was often accompanied with a moral tone: the ‘deserving poor ’ were often targeted: those who had the right attitude, albeit thwarted by situations not of their own choosing. 2 The name seems to appear in 1885. 3 It is important to recognize that this choice was controversial, and they also continued producing moon (embossed lettering) for older blind workers (see Thomas 1957).

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4 www.rnib.org.uk/xpedio/groups/public/documents/PublicWebsite/ public_armitage (accessed 19 May 2008). 5 Thomas reports that in 1932 there was a reform of the Council. It was expanded to 62 persons, half national and the balance from other organizations. The rule was that 24 of the 31 national persons had to be blind. 6 Latterly, in the 1920s, both these organizations became constituent members of the RNIB, with entitlements to appoint delegates to the RNIB Assembly. Together, they constitute the overwhelming majority of delegates for ‘of the blind’ organizations. Their incorporation became the first mechanism to make the RNIB more accountable to a mass of blind persons. 7 British local government. 8 This section also draws on interviews with Ian Bruce (former Executive Director) and John Wall (a blind person at that time on the Executive Council in Group E). 9 Telephone interview with former Trustee, 2008. 10 Interview Ian Bruce, London, May 2008. 11 Telephone interview, May 2008.

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10 Between promise and practice

Optimism or pessimism: what are the lessons? This volume has not set out to unearth some crushing blow to those that are either optimistic or pessimistic about the role of groups as democratic agents. Rather, the intention has been to address some of the key ‘orthodoxies’ that, having gained momentum, may support unwarranted optimism or pessimism. Overall the aim has been to restore some balance to claims made about groups, representation and democracy. And, in so doing, to gain some more traction on areas where scholarly impasse seems more in evidence. The first message of this book is that the political science interest group literature would benefit from a broader empirical scope when it comes to pondering democratic contribution. Shifting our scholarly gaze beyond groups advocating for business and the professions, or the analysis of trade unions, offers up empirical cases that help demonstrate the diversity of democratic practice. Through the process of compiling this book, it has become apparent that pockets of practice exist in splendid isolation from one another. Scholars study a group like Greenpeace or Oxfam as ‘global civil society’ under the presumption that groups are representing the voice of global citizenry. At the same time, the same groups are studied by interest group scholars as ‘protest businesses’ where they are assumed to be efficient vehicles for fundraising – democratic contribution seems very remote. Social movement scholars will aggregate such groups into human rights or environmental ‘movements’. The international NGO literature is also growing rapidly, and is worthy of more engagement by group scholarship.

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Considerations like how to legitimate action in the global south by groups funded from the west is a peculiar quandary for such groups, but surely such analyses can assist work on more conventional groups? In relation to examining whether groups fulfil representational promises with internal democratic practices, the most contested areas turns out to be: (a) groups drawing funding from the global north but working for humans in the global south; (b) domestic, and often local, groups who advocate for marginalized, disenfranchised and/or underprivileged sections of the community who are hard to organize or lack time or resources for effective organization; and (c) groups that pursue causes based on a claim to speak for the ‘general public’ where it is hard to determine who they do advocate for. These diverse cases constitute the epicenter of the debate about democratic representation, but they are at the margins of empirical attention for political science. If nothing else, the book has sought to foster the utility of a common scholarly endeavour called ‘group scholarship’. The second core message has been that a representation focus has been harmful to efforts at gaining traction on the question of the democratic potential of groups. At its core, this book has sought to disentangle elements of the debate over the democratic promises groups make. This is principally a normative debate, but it has important implications for the sorts of expectations scholars have about group practices. The key target has been the implicit adoption of a representation frame to calibrate promises, and from there to assess practices, among groups. It has been argued that representation is an appropriate frame – but not the only appropriate frame. Many groups are only capable of solidarity. The volume has set out a framework to assist scholars in calibrating which expectations ought to apply to which set of groups. Here, the type of constituency a group advocates for is deemed as crucial in setting out scholarly expectations about internal democratic practices. This conceptual difference need not be recognized by group leaders themselves to be a useful heuristic device. In fact, as demonstrated in Chapter 5, many do not see themselves in those terms; they do not pursue a representative identity or group self-image. The core question this framework alerts scholars to is not whether groups actually do

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practice internal democratic enfranchisement of their affiliates – it does not explain why they do (or do not) manifest such practices. Rather, it establishes whether such practices are necessary to democratically legitimate their advocacy – it establishes whether they are able to engage in democratic representation at all. The value of this distinction for the ongoing debate over the value of groups as democratic agents is that it provides a tool to calibrate expectations. Constituencies without the ability to speak in their own voice or be present cannot authorize or hold to account representatives (both necessary prerequisites for democratic representation): ipso facto, they cannot be democratically represented at all. Instead, people can advocate in solidarity with these constituencies, deploying various – mostly epistemic but also experiential – means to legitimate such advocacy. With this distinction in mind, the implication is that the advocacy of groups who are by definition – by virtue of advocating the interests of non-human constituencies – engaged in solidarity need not democratically enfranchise their supporters. They may, in practice, wish to act as if they were ‘representing’ such constituencies, and enfranchise supporters. While this may play towards an image of groups as ‘schools for democracy’ – it may, for instance, still add to social capital type outcomes – it does not assist in democratically legitimating the advocacy of such groups. But the flip side is that groups advocating for human constituencies are, by definition, in the representation game. This conceptual distinction, therefore, narrows in on the sub-set of groups whose practices ought to include enfranchisement of their constituency. It turns out that only a smaller sub-set of the group population are actually democratic under-achievers by not affiliating the constituencies they advocate for. The real quandary, then, is how to treat this smaller set of serial democratic under-achievers. Thirdly, this volume has not only contested the assumption that a democratic representational metric is appropriate for all groups; it has also challenged the unnecessarily pessimistic tone that accounts of group democratic and organizational development strike. Common to all group literatures – whether political science ‘interest groups’, sociology ‘social movements’ or global politics ‘global civil

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society organizations’ – is the shadow of Michels-Weber. Put bluntly, this approach fosters a basic expectation that when groups hollow out they are simply following a pre-ordained life-cycle. A similar tone is struck with the period-related arguments that suggest modern conditions drive groups to ‘hollow out’. It is suggested that leaders – ‘association builders’ – simply construct groups that fit the environment’s demand for low intensity subcontracted representation. The last four empirical chapters have in essence concluded that it is more appropriate to talk about ‘careers’ rather than periodor age-inspired arguments about how groups inevitably evolve. This book has provided evidence that suggests pessimism is unwarranted on these age and period accounts. Moreover, it suggests a far more sensible approach is to look not for across-the-board lock-step degeneration of internal group democratic practices but to the specific careers of individual groups, or small sets of closely related groups. The practice of democracy by groups is far more embedded in the particulars of a specific group than these broad brush life-cycle style arguments suggest. The evidence for this is in the finer details of the arguments put by Skocpol and Putnam; it is just that these get lost in the banner headline that says ‘groups hollow out over time’. A fourth, and related, finding is that the key deficiencies for representation by promise groups is not the absence of ‘constitutional’ internal democracies, but that they do not put these into effective practice. The proposition by MichelsWeber casts a very long shadow over the empirical work of group scholars. Whether the study is of social movements or interest groups, the expectation is that groups, as they get older, lose their participatory dimension and come to be professionalized and bureaucratized. While the evidence in this volume supports the view that groups capable of representation tend towards the limited democratic practice that Weber-Michels suggests, it is argued that this is not an irresistible drift. It is not intrinsic to group life. Rather, the groups we examined – see Chapter 6 – show that democratic ‘hollowing out’ is part and parcel of a broader strategy to grow the group, and linked to political aspirations for a credible and research-based advocacy. That this advocacy style is resource-intensive and requires leader autonomy shapes the

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decision by groups to grow a larger, but rather less engaged, membership. This argument suggests that the overly deterministic and teleological life-cycle style frameworks that shape the expectations of group scholars should be revised to reflect the fact that groups are also agents of their own destiny. Informal hollowing out of internal democratic processes is a choice and not a result simply of demand-side citizen apathy. This book has, fifthly, sought to promote a supply-side focus to examining democratic life within groups. As has been established, the approach to the democratic practices of groups has been heavily demand-side focused. More empirically minded scholars, particularly political sociologists, pointed to the lack of demand for direct participation and the preference for ‘cheque-book’ memberships as an explanation for the absence of ‘old-fashioned’ chapter-based groups. Leaders then simply adapt to these conditions by forming hollowed out groups. Within the interest group scholarship of political science proper, a similar approach is supported by the dominance of Olsonian-inspired accounts of the collective action problem. Accounts of group ‘maintenance’ lead scholars to assume from the start that group democracy will atrophy over time – as leaders need to transform the initial flush of policy-orientated interest among individuals into a long-term organizational proposition they create a suite of selective incentives. But this volume has sought to amplify those existing voices that argue for more attention to be paid to supply-side influences. The account of why groups ‘choose’ to hollow out (Chapter 6) challenges the idea that they cannot sustain themselves without selective incentives and passive membership, while the discussion of how Olson is made to work (Chapter 7) establishes the importance of leaders’ worldviews in shaping practice. Leaders are in a good position to shape attitudes. Groups come to view – and encourage the view – that the interests of their constituency are in fact objectively accessible. Thus, members come to see their main interests in straightforward objective terms: return on investment, pay rates, etc. This suggests scholars pay attention not only to the way leaders construct and frame policy issues, but also to the way group ‘membership’ is to be experienced. Sixthly, the book has set out to establish that so-called

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‘protest businesses’ are not a modern development. A point of some concern to scholars has been the apparent rise of groups that have a mass of supporters who are only very weakly affiliated to the group. They do not meet directly, and they are not centrally involved in the internal decision making and political agenda setting of the group. There are clearly many well-known groups that have sizeable member bases – often far higher that the major political parties – yet involve them to a very minimal extent (if at all) in setting group direction. As has rightly been noted by some, these groups are really in the ‘business’ of attracting donations to pursue a pre-determined campaign agenda. The contentious point is whether this is a new phenomenon – and thus can be deployed as a key piece of evidence in claims that modern group life is but a shadow of its former, more democratic, self. While Jordan and Maloney (1997) did not themselves set out to establish a broad degradation of the democratic and participatory character of group life, their protest business line may be interpreted as lending more weight to such a conclusion. The North American mood, as illustrated by Putnam and Skocpol, is clearly to see findings in such a light. It is undeniable that the rapid growth in numbers of supporters among the already large UK groups surveyed by Jordan and Maloney is due to marketing techniques – to supply-side innovations and techniques. But the broader question is whether this growth came as a result and is linked to a diminution in the participatory or democratic representation offered by such groups. Remember, this was the finding with respect to various UK business groups in Chapter 6. It has been demonstrated in this volume that the so-called ‘protest business’ organizational form is not a new phenomenon. This in and of itself should soften claims about the slide of modern associative life into the undemocratic abyss. The evidence suggests that some groups choose very early on – influenced very significantly by the presence of a predisposed leader – to adopt a group organizational model that includes the deployment of cutting-edge business techniques to attract and sustain a large mass-supporter base. Our analysis suggests that contemporary ‘large-n’ groups have long been imbued with the characteristics of protest businesses. The contemporary growth of these groups is due to recent (1990s) innovations in membership marketing and the

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further professionalization of groups. However, compared to their peers, these groups had always had relatively high levels of support. They had typically never offered any direct participatory opportunities or face-to-face meetings among supporters. In these groups key leaders emerged from nongroup and business or marketing backgrounds. And, from a very early stage in their evolution, these groups had shaped supply-side techniques that share the same DNA as contemporary membership marketing. Yet what it does confirm is that scholars have been right to play down the implications of this growth in supporters in terms of a revolution in political ‘participation’. These groups may have the most impressive supporter lists – but they do so because of their model of growth, which does not emphasize participation beyond a small annual fee (and perhaps local volunteering); and most certainly does not involve members in setting group policy. An additional important finding is that some groups can undergo a democratic conversion of sorts. The case of the RNIB shows how, over time, groups can fulfil their promise as representative groups. But the RNIB story also hints at why all groups may not easily achieve the same. Blind persons have a strong sense of identity; this is less so for other patient groups. For example, the case of the UK National Kidney Foundation demonstrates the difficulty in making enfranchisement work for those in acute pain and for whom recovery means leaving behind former ‘fellow’ sufferers. There are multiple reasons why identifying as a kidney patient is not an attractive proposition – socially and psychologically – and as such, these impinge on the capacity for leaders to realize representational practice. A similar difficulty is evident in other areas where no real representative group exists. Take the case of anti-poverty groups. As May (1999) observes in Australia, there have been movements for indigenous persons, women and lesbian and gay persons, but notably not for the poor. There are plenty of ‘proxy’ organizations that advocate for the interests of the poor, but no organization enfranchising the poor. Why should that be, given that such a large number of individuals are living in poverty? The same could be said for the unemployed. For May, the core problem is a lack of collective identification with one another – they do not wish to see

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themselves as belonging to ‘the poor ’. And this is understandable, when the poor are stigmatized as largely non-deserving of assistance – they are authors of their own fate (May 1999, 263). Resources also play a part, the poor lack financial and political resources: who would want to expend their political capital on the cause of those who are undeserving?

Emerging dilemmas? While they cannot be resolved here, several dilemmas, which may serve to stimulate future work, have been brought to the surface by this book. Is the participatory cart before the democratic horse? One emerging dilemma is whether to steer the debate about groups and democracy towards the normative benefits of the democratic enfranchisement of constituencies or the participation of affiliates. On this score, some may view the argument of this book – that some groups need not involve their affiliates in the democratic life of the group – with considerable concern. It is correct that a general lack of concern for participation – as opposed to opportunities for democratic enfranchisement – permeates the book. This is not an oversight, but has been deliberate and is for good reason. This volume is not concerned with the extent of participatory opportunities for those affiliated by groups. This would be the major focus were the primary interest in questions of social capital, or citizenship or civic-mindedness more generally. But, instead, the focus is on which groups ought to affiliate and democratically enfranchise those they claim to advocate for (their political constituency) within the group. Thus, for some groups, what we call solidarity by promise groups, we see no normative democratic representative reason why they should enfranchise their affiliates. But social capital theorists could mount an argument which says enfranchising them is good for levels of trust in a society, for example. However this is not the focus for this book: it makes no assertions about the value of high levels of social capital to a democratic society or polity.

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In this connection it is also worth making explicit that when focusing on social capital questions the solidarity versus representation distinction loses its purchase. For instance, some solidarity by definition groups – those with non-human or future generations as a constituency – do have members and grant a representative form of enfranchisement to those members. But their members are not those whose interests are being advocated for. Their supporters are enfranchised, but the constituency being advocated for is not. A blanket concern with whether groups have internal democratic practices is unhelpful in adjudging the democratic legitimacy of a group. But it may, however, be useful for scholars interested in groups as schools of democracy or for those concerned with the role of groups in enhancing social capital. In those cases, the core issue is whether groups promote face-to-face meeting – and many solidarity by promise and practice groups do just that. But, as set out in earlier chapters, it is argued here that a solidarity group’s democratic representative legitimacy does not hinge on whether it has an internal democracy and enfranchises supporters, as it cannot actually enfranchise the constituency for which it advocates. It is perhaps also worth noting here that some may see the emphasis on group internal democracy as unwarranted for other reasons. For instance, the emphasis on so-called output-legitimacy, particularly among EU studies scholars, would be more concerned with the capacity for groups to help the European Commission’s legitimacy through assisting it to make (and implement) effective policy that satisfies European citizens (see Scharpf 1999). This is, of course, one way in which to interpret the role of groups in public policy. But, in this volume, the concern has been with the capacity of groups to offer a representative democratic link to governing processes, which cannot be simply reduced to a group capacity to assist policy effectiveness. As the sub-title to Scharpf ’s book implies – ‘Effective or Democratic?’ – these are different questions. Prioritize authenticity or political inclusion? As discussed at the outset of this volume, one of the contentious debates among group scholars – almost irrespective of which sub-literature or arena is considered – relates to

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whether groups that are not democratically accountable to their constituencies should have their access to policy processes fettered. The question arises of whether groups that do not conform to the representation they are able to achieve, in principle, ought to be excluded from policy fora. This debate has a strong practical dimension, not least because formal political institutions are seriously debating how to manage their engagement with groups in a way that enhances their own democratic legitimacy. Talk of regulations, codes of practice and registration systems permeates governmental practice at the level of the nation state and globally. The modest contribution of this book has been to demonstrate that not all groups actually can deliver on representation – they are in the solidarity business. The residual question is what to do with those groups capable of representation but not delivering it in practice? The issue of ‘representing’ the under-organized or those absent from the political process – or at least the interest group system – is a well-discussed theme. And the general tenor is that individuals should speak in their own voice, and hold those that claim to represent them accountable democratically. Earlier chapters identified the tendency for group theory in political science to focus its gaze on producer groups, trade associations, professional groups, trade unions, and collective business organizations. These all have in common relatively straightforward lines of accountability. The constituency comes readily defined and bounded, and such organizations almost certainly (at least when formed and studied) engaged this constituency and affiliated them to organizational membership. It is a rare case indeed where a group of this nature does not – at least formally – adhere to a representative democratic model. This is less the case when one directs attention to the voluntary sector and NGO literatures, and onto global civil society. Here the lines of accountability are messier. Speaking in the context of patient consumer groups in the UK, Baggot et al. (2005, 79–80) talk of ‘stakeholder ambiguity’, highlighting that a group ‘may have multiple stakeholders – trustees, board members, paid staff, clients, service users, volunteers, members – and a public that is, actually or potentially, perceived to be in need of services’. Groups may claim to be democratic – in fact they may manifest processes that

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enfranchise those they affiliate into intensive processes of democratic decision making. The problem is not just whether they enfranchise their affiliates – but whether these affiliates are the constituency they advocate for. The issue of engagement with the constituency a group claims to advocate for is heavily discussed in the case of health consumer groups. Small and Rhodes (2000, 66) observe that the movement for disabled persons has managed to gain momentum for its distinction between what we call groups operating on the basis of solidarity and those of representation. They say, ‘A distinction is frequently made between organizations run on behalf of disabled people, where non-disabled people presume the right to speak in their interests, and organizations run by and for disabled people themselves.’ Rogers and Pilgrim (1991, 140) distinguish between ‘self-advocacy’ and ‘advocacy’; pointing out that within the ‘mental health users’ movement’ in the UK, organizations existed that pursued both models. Similarly, Baggott et al. (2005, 84) contrast ‘groups by’ with ‘groups for ’, saying, ‘Groups formed by people with particular conditions, rather than for people with those conditions, give a voice to new and previously marginalized constituencies.’ As we have seen in the RNIB case, there is ample evidence that some such groups can change. It is precisely at this point that ambitions for political inclusion rub up against arguments for representative democratic legitimacy. For many, groups are valuable precisely because they compensate for the flaws in majoritarian democracy – the views of the electorally unpalatable and marginalized are unheard or unrepresented. But the difficulty is that many groups that would play such a role are themselves not democratic practitioners, which prompts some to argue that they are less legitimate political actors. If a hard line were taken, then the advocates for marginalized constituencies would be excluded. Would that assist the legitimacy of political systems as a whole? This book has suggested that internal democracies – even if they could be established – are less important for legitimating the advocacy of groups pursuing the interests of non-humans and future generations than groups pursuing the interests of humans. These groups can only pursue solidarity with constituencies – not their representation. Their

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affiliates’ views are not helpful in legitimating the advocacy in representative democratic terms (although such internal democratic arrangements may exist and serve other valuable functions). From this perspective, excluding or downgrading the advocacy of some groups on the basis of absent or poor internal democracies would be problematic. It would lead to the many groups advocating for future generations and the environment being excluded from formal politics. The book accepts the theoretical argument around ‘authenticity’: that attached interests ought to be represented by those to which the interests are attached. Yet it constrains this argument only to groups capable of representation. But groups that could at least in principle draw their constituency into membership, but do not, would be excluded under the more narrow definition of representation defined above. This would put projects of political exclusion at cross purposes with projects for democratization. Many politically marginalized and unpopular social groups lack the resources to effectively mobilize collectively. While there is rightly some caution over ‘benevolent advocacy’ on their behalf, insisting on internal democracy and participation as a prerequisite to access would simply remove a large number of groups from formalized political forums. Balancing the political inclusion and voice for the marginalized and less powerful in society with concerns over ‘authenticity’ seems a core debate for group scholars. But perhaps representation and direct democratic enfranchisement is just too ‘middle-class’ a set of concepts to be useful here? It seems almost ridiculous to recount the argument for insisting that kidney patients hold leaders of the National Kidney Foundation to account, or that the poor are enfranchised by Oxfam, when kidney patients may have months to live and the poor may be focused upon job prospects and accessing social welfare. Immediate concerns with accessing services and information to merely survive are eminently understandable. But it seems defensible to insist on enfranchisement – in practice – for groups like farmers, professionals and businesses. Is democratic practice a ‘by-product’ of surviving? It is easy for scholars interested in the democratic contribution of groups to be lulled into the belief that whether to

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engage in internal democratic practice is a core – perhaps even the core – consideration or preoccupation for such organizations. This book has focused upon the democratic practices of groups, but this should not be read as a presumption that groups are necessarily, or mostly, preoccupied with concerns about democracy. In fact, a more accurate assumption is that, as James Q. Wilson (1995) noted, the decision to enfranchise affiliates – and the manner and extent of that enfranchisement – is likely to be a by-product of other considerations. If nothing else, groups need to gather resources to survive. The orthodox interest group theory pursues group survival as a question of maintenance. Democratic practices flow as a by-product of a group’s desire to secure its basic survival. Thus, most group scholars are rather pessimistic about the likelihood of democratic practices emerging. This is, however, a logical argument that flows from a rather simple – but not altogether convincing – assumption that groups are held together by selective incentives. While democratic practices can be one such incentive, it is evident from this volume that practices are in fact shaped by other less instrumental considerations. Leaders may not be able to undo democratic practices even if they think they are damaging to group survival prospects. The approach developed herein sets out variations in democratic potential. Individual groups may vary their democratic practices over time in either direction; a finding which strongly suggests a need for group case study analysis which is both historical and organizational in focus. Emphasis is perhaps more productively put on groups as changing over time as opposed to assumptions of stasis; and on emphasizing group agency in addition to the ‘shaping’ role attributed to environmental changes implied in ‘hollowing out’ narratives. There are several factors that seem to be particularly important in terms of shaping democratic practices. (a) Legacy While it is not suggested that the time period in which a group was born decides its organizational form and practices, the origins of a group are nevertheless significant in shaping its contemporary form. The practices and procedures laid down during formation phases of group ‘careers’

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are legacies that shape subsequent evolution (see Stinchcombe 1965). Moreover, in the case of advocating for human constituencies, the decision around ‘who’ to enfranchise is a partial reflection of the times. For instance, in the 1900s in the UK, it was common for individuals with certain physical or mental disabilities to be viewed as incapable of knowing their own will; it made sense for groups advocating for such persons deliberately not to enfranchise them directly. The prevailing view at one point in time about ‘patients’ constituted them as a rather helpless constituency that needed the solidarity of other well meaning and sympathetic individuals. Had a different view been taken of the capacities of such patients, some early groups might have taken a different approach to enfranchisement. So the era in which groups were born does have an influence, but as the RNIB case suggests, it does not determine it. It also works in the sense that groups with roots in quasiscientific or scientific bodies – such as the Australian Conservation Foundation (ACF), where the views of members mattered (they literally formed group positions by internal deliberation) – commonly persist with democratic and member norms. (b) Organizational type The type of organization, as distinguished by broad function, is also a relevant factor in shaping democratic practices. The case of blind persons’ organizations in the UK establishes the general point. At the end of the nineteenth century, the RNIB formed as a group of wealthy blind men. Its original purpose was to assist blind persons into a fuller role in society, and to this end it soon allowed membership from the non-blind and sought donations from the broader general public. But at precisely the same time, the National League of the Blind and Disabled (NLBD) was established as a trade union for blind and disabled persons only: an organization that enfranchised blind persons. As a trade union organization, it took on a form that included local workplace branches and enfranchised blind workers. This illustrates the impact that type had on the ‘choice’ of practices. Indeed, the survey data from Scotland (reviewed in Chapter 4) shows, for instance, that all trade unions have formal internal democracies. A similar approach seems evident for professional bodies. In such cases

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where a form of self-regulation (sometimes delegated by the state) is administered by the group, it is almost unthinkable for the group not to enfranchise the members of the profession. In some cases, accreditation to a profession leads hand-in-hand with membership to a professional group. But this is far from an iron rule; it is simply a force that shapes group form. For instance the two groups probably preeminent in the human rights field, Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch, have remarkably different structures. While it is true that neither enfranchises political prisoners directly, the former does enfranchise members to a limited extent. The latter has no members whatsoever and is instead funded by large donors. (c) General purpose (importance of political advocacy) The importance of advocacy to a group’s mission may also have a strong role to play in the necessity to enfranchise the constituency being advocated for. While the initial definition deployed in the book was that groups ought to be engaged policy actors, many groups start (and often remain) as only the most sporadic of political actors. Their main reason for being is, for example, to deliver services to a section of society. They are often local endeavours, and the extent of their advocacy work occurs when they give advice to local government in relation to social need of ‘client groups’. Such groups are perhaps most like not-for-profit businesses and tend to structure themselves on that basis. Therefore, they often do not democratically enfranchise those who use their services. Despite the definition, such groups can hardly be excluded from discussion of groups – indeed seminal works, like that of James Q. Wilson on ‘Political Organizations’, refer to such groups (e.g. the YMCA). The reason why is that some – but by no means the majority – develop into large-scale groups where (i) they solicit regular mass public donations and (ii) they engage in broad and continuous policy advocacy. The evolution of a mass-‘member ’ strategy (as recounted in Chapter 8) creates an organizational footprint that at first blush seems akin to trade unions and professional groups. A similar dynamic is triggered when volunteers are brought on board: the volunteers and supporters, at face value, could be mistaken for a group’s constituency. This is further

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developed when a group comes to see the political advocacy of their ‘service users’’ interests as the logical progression of the initial straightforward service provision role. This conjures up a ‘family resemblance’ to other types of group. In combination, these two developments are critical in catalysing a need to deal with democratic legitimacy issues. And, as has been evident, the usual approach is to use trustees as the ciphers for the interests of service users – except, say, in the case of the RNIB and similar groups where a democratic conversion takes place. In sum, legacy effects – the impact of institutions, such as traditions and ‘standard operating procedures’ laid down and crystallized in the formative period of a group’s life – are no doubt important in shaping democratic practice. The group’s identity is a key factor here. As Heaney (2004) has noted, group identities are a core part of survival strategies for groups. For some groups, representation is a core part of the group identity – it is a unique selling point to policy makers and would-be members. It distinguishes them from other groups in the policy area. But for other groups, expertise or service delivery capacity may be more important dimensions of a group identity: and in such cases representation may not play a part at all.

The paradox of representation This concluding section reflects on a core theme in this book: democratic representation, and the disjuncture between promise and practice. A key focus has been on exploring the interface between what scholarly frameworks (like that of solidarity/representation) suggest groups could and ought to practise in terms of democratic representation, and what they actually practise. Great care has been taken to explain that this framework is by no means a claim that groups will, in practice, conform to these expectations. There are sound reasons for them so doing, and some groups do seem to understand their normative force (as do policy makers); but this is by no means the anticipation. So where does this leave us? The natural impulse here would be to call for groups to ‘close the gap’ between promise and practice; and this has

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indeed guided the analysis in many chapters, such as the RNIB case in Chapter 9. But it is evident that while the gap can be closed, it can never be completely eliminated. This is simply because of the paradox of representation. The paradox of representation lies in a recognition that representative institutions rely on ‘the acceptance of the practice of taking one thing for another ’ (Norton 1988, 5). It means that the interests of a constituency are, by the mere act of being represented, separated from the constituency that holds them. An inevitable ‘disembodiment’ takes place, as individual interests are subsumed by a group or constituency interest. As has long been noted, representation is ‘ingrafted onto democracy’ – the direct presence of citizens to state their case has been set aside in order to enable mass participation in political life (see discussion by Hindess 2000; Phillips 2001). The paradox of representation does create a gap. And this ‘gap’ requires bridging. To be clear, the nub of the debate addressed at the outset of this volume revolves around settling on when this gap is a problem, and how, if at all, it can be resolved. As outlined in Chapter 3, Pitkin’s work on representation highlights the two ‘extreme’ choices available in bridging the gap. At one end of a spectrum a representative acts as a ‘trustee’ or ‘agent’ with complete autonomy from the principal and at the other a representative may act as a delegate under strict control of the principal. But in each case (trustee or delegate) the principal is literally absent (made present only by the representative). In practice, the overwhelming majority of representation is somewhere in between trustee and delegate forms. Indeed, at each extreme it makes almost no sense to speak of representation – a trustee replaces the constituency entirely and a delegate is a mere relay for the constituency. In his post-structural work on representation, Latour refers to representatives as ‘spokespersons’ to ‘mark the uncertainties that trouble any claim to represent’; representation is a process of ‘mediation’ and does not imply a straightforward ‘intermediary’ (see discussion of Latour ’s work by Disch 2008). So, if representation is in fact practised, it will inevitably sit somewhere in between delegate and agent – in this grey area. Pitkin’s framework talked about the ways in which one could explain or justify the arrangements struck to represent

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persons – what she called attached interests – on the basis of criteria such as the skills of those being represented, the nature of the issue (does it require specialist knowledge), and so on. This volume has added to this scheme, suggesting that for non-humans and future generations this gap cannot be literally bridged – democratic representation can never be achieved. And, rather than simply refer to this as a ‘nondemocratic’ variant of representation (see Rehfeld 2006), it was suggested that this be referred to as solidarity. There is always going to be a problem in legitimating claims to represent the interests of these non-human constituencies. They lack the capacity for presence and voice that would enable representatives to be held to account and authorized: they are always unattached interests. In sum, the representation gap, for these constituencies, can never be spanned by democratic means. Instead, recourse must necessarily be to nondemocratic measures, such as epistemic claims. Of course, some say they can be democratically represented; and some groups seem to repeat the assertion by claiming they actually represent the environment by affiliating and internally enfranchising the general public. Returning to human constituencies – capable of democratic representation – there is some relevant work that may help to refocus on how practices are set: or, indeed, could be set. The work of Phillips (1994) reflects Pitkin’s claim that the ‘objectivity’ of interests being advocated is crucial to shaping how the representation ‘gap’ is bridged. But for Phillips, the objectivity of interests is something that is (a) contextually shaped, and (b) linked to the nature of the constituency. Her core dilemma is to what extent the interests or perspectives of a constituency or group can be separated – she says ‘detached’ – from that constituency. Put bluntly, she wonders to what extent it is acceptable to have a representative advocate for a group to which they do not belong or have democratic authorization from or accountability to. For Phillips, as with Pitkin, interests are embodied in the experiences of a group or constituency. Logically, the paradox of representation – the ‘gap’ – renders all representation suspicious. There is inevitably some form of disembodiment as interests are aggregated from across the experiences of a group of individuals. Suspicions are raised especially if one accepts – as we do – that group identities do not rest on

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‘essentialism’: for example, belonging to a group identity of a farmer, woman or student does not mean experiences and thus interests of all such persons are identical. The experiences, and hence interests, of members of a group are not interchangeable. As O’Neill argues, ‘That someone shares an identity with me under some description, that does not entail they can legitimately represent me in the absence of . . . authorisation’ (2001, 490). Further, ‘The very descriptions used in these contexts by the social analyst [or any other entity such as policy makers] force a representative status on participants which may be contested even by those individuals themselves. The contestation is proper. Simply being a member of a particular group does not entail that one is a representative of that group’ (2001, 493). But, of course, groups advocating for humans do, in fact, achieve this passive enrolment of individuals (i.e. without authorization) into group representation all the time. Given that some interest groups represent a substantive proportion of a given constituency (potential and current members), the non-members are effectively represented without giving authorization. It was this dynamic that Jordan and Richardson highlighted when arguing that the NVLA aspired to be a ‘group of ’ listeners, but could only ever be a ‘group for ’ listeners because it lacked sufficient membership density of the viewing and listening public. Groups accrue members from a bounded constituency until a tipping point is reached beyond which more members do not in practice contribute towards representational legitimacy – the non-members are effectively assumed to be represented too. In a sense membership is the authorization but exit does not ‘unauthorize’ unless it occurs in large enough numbers. This state of affairs is supported by the practice among policy makers, and by both scholars and the media, to refer to particular groups by the constituency label. For instance, the Confederation of British Industry is ‘business’, the National Farmers’ Union are ‘farmers’, and the Royal National Institute of Blind Persons are ‘the blind’. Shorthand references between constituency and interest group underline the paradox of representation: the process of taking something for what it is not. What this all points out is that the act of representation itself involves the construction of a viable and plausible

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constituency and set of attached interests – they do not come ready made. So, the ‘authenticity’ of any act of representation – democratic or otherwise – is likely to be contested. But perhaps the most salient point for our purposes is Phillips’s exploration, in the context of democratic representation, of how detachable interests really are from the experiences of constituencies that hold such interests. Phillips recognizes that there is a strong argument that says ‘no one can better express the distinctive perspectives of a group than someone who is a group member, and that no one else is likely to be a better judge of group interests’ (1999, 26). The idea that, where possible, individuals should speak for themselves – to define their interests for themselves – resonates with most conceptions of democratic life. As Schlozman and Tierney (1986, 17) say, ‘To suggest that each of us is not the best judge of his [sic] own interest, then, is not merely condescending but potentially undemocratic.’ As they point out – and Pitkin (1967) reveals – the degree to which one accepts that interests are objectively accessible to others (as opposed to defined by individual subjective preferences) is a strong influence on the legitimate role of representatives. This is the core of any argument about the lack of authenticity in representation. But, Phillips argues, ‘Some experiences are more detachable than others, and while in some cases there seems no substitute for lived experience, in others it is plausible enough to talk of representation by individuals who are not directly exposed.’ She suggests the adoption of a more flexible approach to the question of whether representing human interests in a detached manner is legitimate or not. The broader question is how one is to know when an interest is legitimately detachable. Phillips surmises, ‘I find it more plausible, for example, to think of a well-informed agricultural expert as representing the interests of farmers than to think of a well-informed (male) expert on gender as representing the perspectives of women; one of the reasons for this is that “the farming interest” is more transparent and more accessible to those who do not directly share it than “the perspectives of women”’ (1999, 26). For Phillips, this is partly a matter of what is ‘appropriate’: she says, for instance, that ‘Where there has been a long history of subordination, exclusion, or denial, it is particularly

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inappropriate to look to individuals without such experience as spokespeople for the group in question: not because such individuals can never be knowledgeable or never be trusted, but because, failing the direct involvement of those with relevant experiences, the policy process will be inherently paternalistic and policy outcomes certainly skewed’ (1999, 26; italics added). But appropriateness, as Philips recognizes, is a subjective and shifting judgement. And of course, the question is appropriateness ‘adjudged by whom’? It is important to recognize that democratic practices are likely to be shaped by considerations of ‘appropriateness’. This emphasis on social processes underpinning what is accepted as representation is supported by Rehfeld. He argues that, ‘Political representation … results from an audience’s judgement that some individual, rather than some other, stands in for a group in order to perform a specific function’ (2006, 2; italics in original). This judgement is arrived at by ‘rules of recognition’, but these rules may not conform to democratic norms of legitimacy. When democratic rules are used (such as voting, or other mechanisms of democratic accountability) then cases of democratic representation occur. By contrast non-democratic forms of representation occur when non-democratic rules are used to recognize a representative. Rehfeld is insistent that it is the audience’s acceptance that relevant rules have been followed in appointing a representative that matter – and not whether an observer, such as a scholar recounting a sequence of ‘facts’, believes it to be so. He states, ‘representation depends only upon the Audience’s judgement of the case [for recognition of a representative] and not the purported case itself independent of the Audience’ (2006, 14). Rehfeld’s point is that real decisions to accept a representative are as important as scholarly debates over whether someone is representative or not. The shape of the form of ‘representation’ that a group delivers, then, is a question of contextual legitimacy. That is, legitimacy is achieved by the acceptance by key audiences of a particular group as a ‘representative’. Thus it is performative – key audiences accept some set of representative arrangements as legitimate. This does not mean that the expressed views of a representative map directly onto the constituency’s views: as Latour suggests, this would be to rule out representation entirely (Disch 2008). Rather, it

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simply means that the ‘gap’ between the represented and their views, and the representative’s advocacy, is tolerated. Groups engage with at least two key audiences: policy makers and affiliates.1 Thus, at the least, both policy makers

and the ‘represented’ need to accept the representation on offer as legitimate. This can be achieved in many ways. In some cases, this ‘evidence’ may be projected. That is to say, groups could use large membership levels as evidence of representation to policy makers, while satisfying members with feedback on ‘wins’ and ‘progress’. In other cases, it may be demonstrated through internal democratic accountability. Because affiliates cannot directly scrutinize the actual advocacy work of group elites, and policy makers directly scrutinize their claims of representativeness, indirect assessments are often used. In both cases, the leaders of groups are in a strong position to shape perceptions by managing the supply of evidence. The conclusion here is that the practices struck by groups are shaped by a concern with conforming to accepted parameters of appropriateness (and changes therein). Rehfeld explains that, ‘In democratic regimes they usually use rules that correspond closely, if not perfectly, to some normative account of legitimacy’ (2006, 15). But this need not be the case. And, as has been reviewed already, many are concerned that there is an increasing acceptance of rather unorthodox, narrow, radical and undemocratic forms of advocacy in modern western democracies. While theoretical abstract scholarly accounts do not literally determine practice, they are nevertheless important in shaping the contours of what practices are deemed legitimate or appropriate – which does, in turn, influence practice. While groups often seem to appreciate (or at least recognize) the logic of matching promises for representation or solidarity models with practice, they do not always do so. This concluding chapter argues that the ‘matching’ of promise with practice is not merely a black and white question of settling upon normative criteria. The paradox of representation is that there is an inevitable ‘gap’; it implies – indeed it claims – that a representative be taken for something that they are not. Thus, the dilemma for scholars, governments, and the groups themselves, is in settling on what ‘gap’ is appropriate and acceptable. When is it no longer

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tolerable to accept a spokesperson’s voice as a substitute for a constituency? The practical principles around ‘detachability’ of interests, pursued by Phillips, is one helpful way of pursuing an even more nuanced debate over what mechanisms are required to legitimate democratic representation in modern political life. The solidarity versus representation framework provides one point of reference for the boundaries of detachability, and emphasizes the importance of constituency as a relevant consideration in assessing appropriateness.

Note 1 Both of these are in turn embedded in broader socio-cultural contexts.

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accountability 12, 13, 17, 20, 21, 22, 23, 29, 53, 58, 60, 68, 70, 71, 74, 75, 76, 77, 87, 89, 94, 98, 100, 115, 120, 122, 129, 135, 152, 196, 215, 239, 264, 276, external 79–80 ACF See Australian Conservation Foundation AI See Amnesty International Aldrich, H. 83 Amnesty International 120, 123, 281 Anheier, H. 43–5, 52 Australian Conservation Foundation 123, 280 authenticity 17–9, 82, 85, 121–3,239–41, 251, 255, 286 authorisation 17, 89, 92, 94, 105, 285 Baumgartner, F. 1,37, 54, 70, 108–9, 169, Beer, S. 5, 15, 205 Bell, S. 2, 145, 154, Bentley, A. 61 Berry, J. 17, 209

BFBA See British and Foreign Blind Association Blyth, M. 7 British and Foreign Blind Association 245 Campaign for the Protection of Rural England 143, 165, 237 Cigler, A. 70 Civil society organization 10, 23, 35, 36–7, 45–7 class 5–6, 17, 155, 175, 208, 216, 219, 231–2, 247, 278 Clemens, E. 209 Colás, A. 20–1, 59–60 CPRE See Campaign for the Protection of Rural England CSO See Civil society organization Dalton, R. 6–8, 15, 203 della Porta, D. 48–50, 87 democratic deficit 9, 11–13, 18, 22, 30, 37, 39, 53, 59, 77, 134, 240

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Diani, M. 48–50, 54, 87 DiMaggio, P. 265 Dobson, A. 69, 95 Dunleavy, P. 69, 101, 174 Eckersley, R. 92, 95, 99 European Union 20, 68, 109 exit 21, 34, 59, 79, 100, 115, 142, 206, 215, 224, 263

Harman, G. 167, 197 Hay, C. 176–8, 192, 199 Heaney, M. 131, 141, 200, 282 Heinrich, V.F. 45–7, 52 Heinz, J.P. 32

Giugni, M. 96–7 Glasius, M. 13, 59, 60 Global civil society xi, 12–3, 20–1, 59–60, 78–9, 111, 267, 276 Global social movement 35 Goodin, R. 92, 117, 133 Grant, W. 15–16, 19, 32, 35, 58–9, 67, 69, 121, 135, 149, 164, 205, 241, 264 Gray, V. 16, 33, 72, 240 GSM See Global social movement

identity 38, 49, 89, 97, 100, 131, 200, 211, 219, 228, 241, 251, 259, 268, 273, 282, 285 IGO See International governmental organization INGO See International non-governmental organization institutionalization 51, 63, 139, 209, 234, 243 interest group definition of 23, 31, 32–34 public 49, 50, 75, 118, 175 internal democracy of groups 22, 59, 67, 71, 81, 87, 99, 102, 121, 178, 202, 203, 207, 275, 278 International governmental organization 12–3 International non-governmental organization 12–3, 59–60, 78

Habermas, J. 3 Hall, P. 14, 79 Halpin, D. 23, 31, 33, 36, 68, 72, 102, 118, 142, 151–3, 186

Jenkins, J. 194 Jordan, G. 1, 9, 17, 19, 21, 23, 28,3,1 33–6, 48, 53, 70, 72, 86, 103, 105, 107–8, 117, 120, 141,

Falk, R. 12 Fedden, R. 227–30 Federation of Small Businesses (UK) 118, 154–63 Finer, S. 60 framing 170, 176, 178, 193 FSB See Federation of Small Businesses (UK)

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172–5, 203–4, 206–210, 272 Kendall, J. 37, 44–5 Kimber, R. 33, 169 Knoke, D. 32, 172 Laumann, E.O. 32 Lawson, K. 6–8 Leech, B. 1, 31, 37, 48, 169 legitimacy 60, 67, 68, 71, 73, 74, 75, 76, 78, 79, 80, 87, 89, 93, 98, 99, 102, 107, 111, 113, 116, 130, 132, 136, 165, 218, 240, 242, 253, 255, 258, 260, 263, 275, 276, 285, 287–8 Lowery, D. 16, 33, 72, 240 Lyons, M. 18, 37, 42, 60, 121 Maloney, W. 17, 19, 23, 35, 70, 73, 120, 141–2, 161, 169, 172–5, 203, 206–10, 216, 233, 237, 272 Marsh, D. 169 Marsh, I. 2, 9, 11, McCarthy, J. 140, 204–5, 237 Michels-Weber thesis 26, 62–3, 75, 166, 209, 243, 270 Minkoff, D. 209, 265 Moe, T. 39, 62, 173, 193 National Farmers’ Federation (Australia) 144–54 National Farmers’ Union Scotland 113–4 National Federation of the

Self-Employed (UK) 154–8 National Institute for the Blind 247–50 National Trust 119, 211–2, 227–32 National Trust for Scotland 119, 127, 135 New South Wales Farmers’ Association 144–54 NFF See National Farmers’ Federation (Australia) NFSE See National Federation of the Self-Employed (UK) NFUS See National Farmers’ Union Scotland NGO See Non-governmental organization NIB See National Institute for the Blind Non-governmental organization 19, 23, 35, 40–42, 52, 67 Non-profit organizations 40, 42–5 Nownes, A. 73 NPO See Non-profit organizations NSWFA See New South Wales Farmers’ Association NT See National Trust Olson, M. 2, 39, 61–2, 162, 165, 169–75, 178, 198, 256, 271 O’Neill, J. 88–96 organizational form evolution 142, 154, 208, 265, 279 groups 64, 77, 140, 142,

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145–7, 166, 173, 208, 216, 223, 234, 246, 272, 279 parties 7, 9 parties failures of 6–8 Pattie, C. 9, 203 Phillips, A. 121, 264, 283–4, 286 Pitkin, H. 88–93, 100, 115, 193, 283–4 presence 10, 32, 38, 89, 92, 105, 120–1, 164239, 249, 252, 265, 283, 284 professionalization 147, 160, 236, 243, 273 protest business 206–210 Putnam, R. 14, 20, 24, 64–5, 204, 233, 272 Rehfeld, A. 82, 94, 129, 133–4 representation account of groups 69–71 theories of 88–94 Rhodes, M. 2 Rhodes, R. 2 Richardson, J. 1, 19, 33, 70, 103, 106–8, 125, 285 Risse, T. 12, 21, 78–9 RNIB See Royal National Institute of Blind People Rootes, C. 36 Rose, R. 7 Rossteutscher, S. 3, 21, 38, 53, 57, 69, 87 Royal National Institute of Blind People 118, 122–3, 244–61 Royal Society for the

Protection of Birds 211, 219–27 RSPB See Royal Society for the Protection of Birds Rucht, D. 18, 63, 209 Salamon, L. 43–45, 54 Salisbury, R. 32, 33, 34, 39, 62, 86, 247 Scharpf, F. 80, 275 Schlozman, K. 1, 16, 32, 240, 286 Schmitter, P. 2, 141 Scholte, J.A. 12–3, 17, 20, 35, 47–8, 54 SFO See State farm organization (Australia) Sikkink, K. 12–3, 22, 75, 79, 134 Skocpol, T. 20, 24, 65–6, 204, 233, 270 SMO See Social movement organization social capital 3, 14, 38, 44, 53, 79, 111, 237, 269, 290 Social movement organization 23, 35, 40, 47–51, 61 solidarity 94–6, 98–100, 102, 105 State farm organization (Australia) 144, 147, 180, 184 Stinchcombe, A. 280 Streeck, W. 141 United Nations 13–4, 36, 68 Van Rooy, A. 12–3, 21, 46, 74, 76–7, 79–82, 99, 131

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voice 96, 98, 101, 102, 109, 111, 114, 115, 121, 122, 123, 127, 139, 142, 164, 165, 179, 218, 236, 239, 240, 241, 255, 258, 260, 261, 263, 264, 265, 267, 269, 276, 277, 278, 284, 289 Voluntary sector organization 35, 52 VSO See Voluntary sector organization Walker, J. 64, 70 Warhurst, J. 123, 146–7 Warleigh, A. 17, 20, 21, 59, 67, 135

Warren, M. 3, 4, 14 Whiteley, P. 106, 108, 241 Wilson, J. Q. 2, 33, 63, 139, 140, 143, 151, 163, 172, 279 Willetts, P. 36, 41, 49, 52, 54 World Trade Organization 14 World Wide Fund for Nature 36, 97, 115–7, 135 WTO See World Trade Organization WWF See World Wide Fund for Nature Zald, M. 63